The old ones took their time, nodding respectfully at the massive black casket before shuffling past. Likely they had seen him in person, perhaps often, while he was still alive. They remembered.
Pushing between the legs of the old ones where the children, curious at first, but then restless and anxious to move on. "Dad, is this all there is to see?" one asked, pulling on his father's sleeve. His father didn't answer.
Tzuhu, which means Lake Kindness, is where the late President Chiang Kai-shek's body is entombed. Chiang's mausoleum attracts thousands of visitors a year, and most Chinese in Taiwan are said to have visited the location. Couples, families and old-timers were all there, evidence that the memory of Chiang's continues to inspire -- or at least intrigue -- people from beyond the grave.
The site is officially regarded as "temporary," a designation that doesn't detract from its beauty The lake is picturesque, with swans paddling quietly and birds singing overhead. Sentries and guides are dotted throughout the grounds. The mausoleum itself is reserved but regal -- all in all a fine final resting place.
Temporary remains the official designation because Chiang is to be returned and buried on the mainland after China is "reunited." I asked a fresh-faced guide whether "reunited" is an echo of the 1950s "retake the mainland" ambitions of the KMT, or a forecast of eventual assimilation of Taiwan into communist China. He didn't say, but instead flinched like a deer caught in headlights, then apologetically darted off to retrieve a tourist handout for me to look at. It didn't say, either.
All I could glean from this was that while the young people of Taiwan may not know much about the past, nearly everyone is clueless about what the future holds. Tzuhu was pretty, but like the lake, its secrets ran deep and were not easily surrendered.
Not far down the road I was enticed by an attraction called Window on China. The destination promised exact miniature models of famous Asian landmarks, such as the Great Wall and the Forbidden City. Arriving at the gate, I noted that the entry fee was the only large-scale component of the exhibit: NT$600 for a full day's visit. Fortunately it was after 3pm and the admission charge dropped to NT$300.
Model attraction
For anyone with an interest in Asian architecture or travel, Window on China holds kitschy appeal. More than 130 miniature models reside within its sprawling campus, all of which are intricate likenesses of their originals, albeit reduced to 1/25 their size.
I hopped on a little sightseeing train at the back of the park, which I assumed skirted the perimeter of the grounds. Instead, the train proceeded on a long straight track through a farmers' field, then popped out in ... America.
Slowly it dawned on me that the entry fee to Window on China also included this recent addition -- a fully fledged Western-style amusement park. And there it was in all its hideous glory: The roller-coaster, the merry-go-round, the same corny games, the overpriced popcorn, the teenagers eating greasy pork sausages on a stick, the parents soothing heartbroken children too short to go on the big rides. Reverse culture shock settled in.
More curious still was the "Pharaoh's Theater," decked out with impressive Egyptian-style motifs, promising "Taiwanese folk performances." All this was topped off by the ubiquitous presence of Window on China's mascot, Lucky Dragon, an icon identical to Mickey Mouse in every way save his ears and nose. I stood in the midst of a theme park with an identity crisis, a bizarre crossroads where miniature Asian buildings share space with some of the most hackneyed elements of Western excess. Savoring the host of comical ironies, I shivered as I boarded the log ride for the second time, wondering if this was what president Chiang would have wanted, or could have even expected.
RSS