I'd been warned about Hsiao Liuchiu. Ot at least people's reactions ?which were at best vague ?when I told them I was going there, warned me not to expect too much. But then that's why I went.
A little island off the southern coast of Taiwan near Kaohsiung, I discovered, happily, that the direst predictions about Hsiao Liuchiu were true. No pubs or cafes. No surf beaches. No mountains to climb. Nothing, in fact, to do ?unless, that is, you count wandering aimlessly around a sunny island, watching the sea slap the rocks, watching fisherman droop their lines into a quiet, empty harbor.
Lacking the beauty of the Penghu islands or the recreational attractions of Kenting or Green Island, Hsiao Liuchiu has been relatively neglected by tourists. It gets some weekend traffic, mostly from Kaohsiung, but is deserted during the week, when the small local population has fishing villages, the sea, the crisp air and the sunshine to themselves.
I stepped off the ferry in Penfu Village, a mostly indifferent fishing community. Fishing, cleaning fish, selling fish and eating fish clearly are the top pursuits of locals. They're obviously not used to foreigners, and they're apparently not too worried about whether anyone stays or goes, spends their money or doesn't. They're friendly enough, though. One man stopped me as I passed, casually offered to find me a hotel room, and signed me into the nearby Fuhsing Hotel, where I was given a room with a balcony overlooking the harbor, and with a view of the lights of Kaohsiung at night.
The next morning, having been woken at 4am by the sound of the fishing boats firing up in the harbor, I rented a scooter. The trip around the island's perimeter road is only about 10 kilometers. Though it's quite hilly, you can walk it in a day. But outside spending the day walking the loop would leave little time for just hanging out and enjoying the views. Instead, you can use the scooter to ride to different spots, and then walk around from there.
Heading counter-clockwise from Penfu Village, I followed the cliffs along the west coast. Hsiao Liuchiu has many secluded coves and tiny beaches where you can pass a few hours or an entire day, and many more scenic overlooks with great views of the coastline and the sea.
I rode from one spot to the next, hopped off, walked around. Like a lizard in the sun, I'd sit on this rock and look this way, sit on that rock and look that way. When the urge struck me, I'd move on to the next spot, repeating the process again and again until I'd made my way around the island and was in a virtual stupor, my brain having been emptied of all its worries. It was perfect, a beautiful day spent practicing the Art of Doing Nothing.
Back in Penfu Village at the end of the day, I picked up a pack of betel nuts and began strolling around. A day of fishing had just ended. In the center of town, just a half block up the hill from the ferry dock, seven women in (pointy hats) lined the sidewalk outside a little hardware store, each crouched on stools or buckets, the day's catch laid out in front of them on trays propped on styrofoam coolers. A couple were busy gutting fish right there.
I pulled out a camera and asked if I could take a picture of the women together. This caused a minor ruckus as they all began chattering away at once. Jolted into self-consciousness, several immediately pulled off their hats and began fussing with their hair while simultaneously waving me away with their free hands. Others just cackled and shook their heads. No pictures were taken.
Moving away from the center of town, down a narrow lane that served as one of its two main arteries, things quieted down abruptly. One scooter passed and left only the crowing of a rooster and then silence. There were signs of people everywhere, but few to be seen as they wrapped up their day and prepared for dinner. On the porches of each of the homes, a dozen or so flip-flops sat scattered around the front door, while scooters lined up nearer the streets and drying laundry hung off to the side. Occasionally a shadow moved inside, or a TV could faintly be heard.
Further along I unintentionally snuck up on a man cleaning his boning knife at an outside faucet. Crouched there in the sun, he thumbed the sharp edge as if deeply contemplating its cutting power, as if he might be preparing to commit some horrible crime, or had just wiped away the remains of one. He became aware of my passing, and looked up, surprised to see anyone at all, then turned back to his thoughts.
Near the edge of the village, I stopped and sat in a chair left at the side of the road. Tired, windblown, a bit dazed from the unusual dose of bright sunlight, I sat looking out over the harbor toward Taiwan, watched the shadows grow around me. Then, in nearly total silence, an ancient man in a preposterously dusty gray suit glided by on an equally ancient black bicycle. As if misplaced there and forgotten, a burning cigarette jutted from between his fingers, which were wrapped around the handle bar. He more or less weaved toward town, in no hurry, done with another day on Hsiao Liuchiu.
The next morning, on the packed ferry back to Tunkang, the squawking of fellow passengers ?where had all these people come from, anyway? ?struck the first blow. Then came thoughts of catching a taxi to the bus station, a bus to the Kaohsiung airport, a flight to Taipei, another taxi, the alarm clock the next morning. By the end of the ferry ride, the quiet calm I'd enjoyed on Hsiao Liuchiu was withering. Reality was ramming its way back into my consciousness, where it was completely unwelcome.
I comforted myself with the thought of having just spent an entire day doing nothing.
In late October of 1873 the government of Japan decided against sending a military expedition to Korea to force that nation to open trade relations. Across the government supporters of the expedition resigned immediately. The spectacle of revolt by disaffected samurai began to loom over Japanese politics. In January of 1874 disaffected samurai attacked a senior minister in Tokyo. A month later, a group of pro-Korea expedition and anti-foreign elements from Saga prefecture in Kyushu revolted, driven in part by high food prices stemming from poor harvests. Their leader, according to Edward Drea’s classic Japan’s Imperial Army, was a samurai
The following three paragraphs are just some of what the local Chinese-language press is reporting on breathlessly and following every twist and turn with the eagerness of a soap opera fan. For many English-language readers, it probably comes across as incomprehensibly opaque, so bear with me briefly dear reader: To the surprise of many, former pop singer and Democratic Progressive Party (DPP) ex-lawmaker Yu Tien (余天) of the Taiwan Normal Country Promotion Association (TNCPA) at the last minute dropped out of the running for committee chair of the DPP’s New Taipei City chapter, paving the way for DPP legislator Su
It’s hard to know where to begin with Mark Tovell’s Taiwan: Roads Above the Clouds. Having published a travelogue myself, as well as having contributed to several guidebooks, at first glance Tovell’s book appears to inhabit a middle ground — the kind of hard-to-sell nowheresville publishers detest. Leaf through the pages and you’ll find them suffuse with the purple prose best associated with travel literature: “When the sun is low on a warm, clear morning, and with the heat already rising, we stand at the riverside bike path leading south from Sanxia’s old cobble streets.” Hardly the stuff of your
April 22 to April 28 The true identity of the mastermind behind the Demon Gang (魔鬼黨) was undoubtedly on the minds of countless schoolchildren in late 1958. In the days leading up to the big reveal, more than 10,000 guesses were sent to Ta Hwa Publishing Co (大華文化社) for a chance to win prizes. The smash success of the comic series Great Battle Against the Demon Gang (大戰魔鬼黨) came as a surprise to author Yeh Hung-chia (葉宏甲), who had long given up on his dream after being jailed for 10 months in 1947 over political cartoons. Protagonist