The Daring Young Man, as promised

Last Sunday, I went to a local temple where they had this annual swinging competition to see who could swing the highest. It was this huge swing set made out of bamboo, probably about 40 to 45 feet high. In the center were these two very long bamboo rods, instead of rope, that led down to a skinny wooden bench. At about head height, standing on the wooden bench, there was a hook to fasten in a safety clip that itself was attached to a suit that the competitors put on before mounting the swing (by way of a ladder). Once on, the young boy or seasoned, red-mouthed champion squatted down upon the seat, holding high on the bamboo with their hands. Two men below, with another long shaft of bamboo (notched at one end), would catch the seat of the swing and then in two attempts swing the individual as high as they could. Then, of course, it’s up to the person on the swing.

I could tell by the first person I watched that it was quite difficult, that much effort could be exerted without having much result. Unlike a cord swing that you can twist in your hands to create swing, the bamboo poles were inflexible and could only be manipulated by the piston like motion of the person on the swing. Flexing up, basically pushing up from the lowest part of the swing, and then falling back down after the pitch. I could also tell, by the second person I saw, that much skill could be involved, because despite the difficulties of the bamboo, the man was able to go almost horizontal, at which point it seemed miraculous that it was happening at all, that the man had broken some fundamental law. At the highest pitch, as if to scorn the world, he kicked up his right leg high, and also leaning back so quickly that I thought he might loose his grasp, and the crowd cheered.

It seemed only a matter of time before an older man grabbed my arm and began motioning to the swing. At first a woman nearby scolded him to leave me alone, but soon I was on the stage anyway where there were judges and a woman announcer, and they were asking where I was from. I don’t know if you’ve ever been taken completely in charge by an older man who you doesn’t necessarily speak your language but who nevertheless knows what’s best for you. It’s one of the more sacred experiences of traveling abroad. I remember one time in Greece when I slipped and almost fell in a food market, an old man abruptly scolded me in Greek. A young butcher, with a cigarette in his mouth, informed me that he said, “if you’re going to fall, why walk around with your hands in your pocket?” Of course, I remember thinking at the time. Obvious.

Getting on the swing was by far one of the more exciting things, especially to look down and see a sea of unfamiliar faces looking up at me. But I let fly—or rather I was set fly by the two men below—and after a good go descended the set. A man came up to me later with a video camera asking questions in Chinese and an organizer who helped me into my suit translated, so I told them, the camera, that I was very happy, that it was very good to be on the swing, and that I was an English teacher in Chiayi, which seemed appropriate. They invited me back next year, and an older man, who performed a near horizontal feat himself (ending with the same victory, death-defying leg salute) told me that he would teach me how to swing, and began demonstrating right there for me the basic moves.

They gave me a large, double-layer stainless steel cooking pot for competing and after watching for a bit I wandered off because I felt awkward standing there with this huge box under my arm. I walked around and it reminded me of the carnival grounds at Stewartstown, but no Skeeball. Of course, here there were many more interesting snacks (are criss-cut fries even interesting?) There were also some local booths, and a used books tent that I looked through as well. Saw an enormous Chinese-English Dictionary, and also a Chinese calligraphy book that I looked through. For several pages, it detailed how to draw one smudge resembling the last digit of your pinky. For the relatively small and inconsequential mark, there were six brush movements. I thought, (sigh) “another day.” And then I thought, “but soon—but soon.”

The Daring Young Man on the Flying Bamboo Swing

More to come later...

Ali San

Finally, I went to the mountains. I followed along a group of three others in a car that left early Saturday morning, that drove up the long ascent to the Ali San park, where it was clear, refreshing, and brilliant. We spent a little time walking around eating before heading to the train station to pre-buy tickets to a further destination, 2oo meters higher to watch the sunrise Sunday morning. As we waited for the tickets one of us noticed something and we all turned around to find this huge wall of mist coming towards us, and soon, the blue sky, the sunlight, all was exchanged for an eerie, deathless, impenetrable mist.

Often when people go to see the Ali San sunrise, they never get to see it because the mists are too intense. But most Taiwanese and Chinese tourists don't seem to mind because half of the journey is being there for the "qi," the rejuvenating natural energy that can be found in the space where the clouds meet the mountains.

That first day we took a little trip to see some very old trees. We saw ruins first of a tree, struck by lightening twice in the fifties and sixties, and that then toppled in the nineties, and which will probably still be rotting peacefully, with little of its petrified shell altered, long after any of our names are spoken. The report of the age of the monster was a cool 3000.

After paying respects and seeing some other natural phenomenon, like a tree growing from a tree growing from a tree, we returned to the lodge and hotel area for dinner and rest (I myself was sick all weekend, unfortunately, so there was a lot of sleeping). 2:30 the next morning we all got up and boarded a train to viewing area at 2500 meters, where we could see the moon's sliver and all the stars beaming neatly in the sky. We waited, alternatively standing or crouching in the mountain nighttime cold, in a crowd of hundreds of people. At about 5 o'clock a man in gruff Taiwanese came on a bullhorn and talked nonstop until the stars disappeared and the sun arose.

We were lucky I guess. The sun came up as clean and clear as could be, while in the valley below bathed a lake of clouds.

Pai Pai: Week Four

This will be the last Pai Pai blog I think. At least, taking a photo of him and submitting each week will be kind of thin now because he's stopped growing. Or at least, he won't look very different at all.

Pai Pai is still growing though, especially in the way that he is accomodating himself to his maturing strength and to his still strange environment. It pleases me best when he runs along the bed or table (surprisingly fast) or else flies several circles about the apartment before landing on a high post or my head. It sort of reminds me of what a miniature batman would be like, leaping off buildings and then performing acrobatics upon whatever he lands. So far, no bad guys, but I'm watchful to see if he ever finds one of those lizards that hang around here...

My bird is also investigating the power of his beak by an everlasting series of uncontroled experiements testing his beak next to any other substance in this apartment, bedsheets, books, tea cups, and even my skin. I'm assuming the part about biting me is because of his deliquincy and that in a future time he will roam the parrot streets of hardluck without a penny or moral in his pocket. Upon my sister's advice, when he bites me, I immediately take him in my hand, bring him up to my face and sternly say, "NO." Then I put him in his cage for a fortnight with only water and stale bread. He's getting the idea; a very intuitive beast, actually.

For summary here are the four photos for the four Tuesdays that I've had him. If we consider him to be one week in the first picture, then the last picture is Pai Pai at one month, each photo in between being taken at exactly one week intervals.