Previous - Preface: How I Backpacked 300k Through Urban Taiwan on Foot Speaking Only Chinese

With anything I do, people tend to ask me about my experience with it in “my country.” Bouldering, Lindy hop (swing dancing), shuttlecock hackying (毽子) – the answer is generally that I’d never tried any of these things before coming to Taiwan. I’ve been here for over 10 years, since I was 20, after all. And if these things existed in the tiny midwestern town I grew up in, I’d kept to myself too much to know.

Backpacking was no exception. I’d only ever slept in a tent pitched by my parents at family campgrounds in Southern Illinois, and I’d never walked more than 10 miles – something my middle-school best friend and I did once during one of our regular after-school walks on the train tracks. Incidentally, at the time, our dream had been to skip town after high school to go train hopping, and I must have still longed for that freedom in some sense even now.

The Walk

Like then, I wasn’t traveling alone, though just for the day. Xiaoda, a friend I’d met in a Taipei boxing club, wanted to tag along to see how I would fare, and so instead of taking a half-hour train from the city to his wife’s place in the suburbs, he was going to leg it – meaning walking with me in the rain for several hours.

Wanting to make the most of the winter daylight, we’d arranged to meet at 6:00 a.m. on a street corner near my apartment. I brewed some tea, then went to unplug it with the other appliances – burning a 3-inch patch on my forearm before I’d realized my mistake. That did the trick; now I was up.

It was about 60 degrees out when I set off – normal for a Taipei December. I didn’t realize it was drizzling until I stepped out the door, though (my apartment didn’t have a window), and by the time I got to the corner, it was time to abandon my soaked tennis shoes and slip into some off-brand Crocs – or “holey sandals” (洞洞鞋), as we call them.

Xiaoda and I spent the first leg of our journey walking west, crossing the dyke into the the Banqiao (板橋) side of the riverside park. Our goal was to cover a modest 25km (15 miles) and get to the next town over – Taoyuan, home of the international airport (TPE) – where my friend Tian would put me up for the night in her parents’ home.

On one hand, having a warm bed on hold was a luxury. On the other, I was anxious to prove I could find lodging “in the wild,” and it didn’t make me feel any better knowing this would put me that much farther from home before I had.

After following Google Maps southwest for a spell, Xiaoda and I took a bridge over the river to the next district over: Xinzhuang (新莊). Soon, we were on the red brick sidewalk of an area called Temple Street (廟街). True to its name, the narrow corridor was lined with Taoist temples of all sizes and decoration, and we couldn’t take a step without getting a nose full of smoke from the outdoor incense burners. Every once in a while, following Xiaoda’s lead, we stopped at their shrines to bow our heads and say a quick prayer.

Finally, we made our first stop at a traditional majiang noodle (麻醬麵) place for breakfast. The architecture was of carved wood and brick, and looked Japanese-occupation era (at least to my untrained eye). The kitchen was set up outdoors in the front, and the dining hall inside, in front of the owners’ darkened living room. To the right, a TV was playing dated Japanese music videos from a karaoke machine, unattended.

Taoyuan

All in all, the walking part of our journey went smoothly. The rain was off more than it was on; we had no trouble finding gas stations when we needed a free bathroom; and once we got to the highway, we found a no-semi truck route with a decent shoulder to keep us out of the ditch. By noon – much earlier than anticipated – I’d unloaded my gear with Tian’s doorman and Xiaoda had taken a bus away to his wife.

Since Tian was still at work, I found an empty braising joint (滷味店) to eat a very early dinner, where I thought I could pass the hours unharassed.

I was right. I hadn’t, however, anticipated how swiftly loneliness would sink in. It was unsettling – a bad omen. Was this how I was going to feel every minute of every day as long as I was away from home?

Why was I lonely now though? I’d lived on my own, working in solitude as a freelancer, for years. Perhaps I just had a false sense of isolation because I didn’t have my usual imaginary friends talking to me through YouTube, Netflix, and podcasts?

Luckily, those feelings faded when I got a call from Tian saying she was home, and I could pick up my stuff and head up. She asked me if I was allowed to use motor transportation, and I explained that I could as long as it didn’t take me closer to my next stop. She and her friend were going to a temple to see a Jigong channeler, and I was invited.

The God With the Liquor Gourd

Jigong (濟公) is the name of a 12th century Chinese Buddhist monk, who later became deified in the Southern Chinese Taoist-Buddhist folk religion. These two stanzas of a Qing Era poem (which I’ve translated into English) introduce him best:

His face was unwashed; his hair was unkempt;
His drunk eyes bunched, half-open, half-shut.
He appeared dumb; deluded; deranged;
In his frivol, making jokes and having fun;

…

He spoke not the Sutras nor did meditation;
But drank merrily and ate meat instead;
Urging ignorant worldlings toward good,
He shepherds the masses without rest.

Why, you may wonder, would anyone want to talk to such a person in life, much less in death? Because apparently if you give this god a gourd full of alcohol and a mortal coil, he’ll descend from the heavens to share his clairvoyance and offer advice.

An hour later, we were in her friend Sponge’s car (a nickname), pulling up to a metal garage door leading into a downtown Taoyuan flat (透天厝).

Naively, I was surprised to find the interior like any other temple despite the building’s otherwise unassuming appearance (now I know this is just how smaller temples look after they’ve closed up shop). In front of us were all of the usual Taoist and Buddhist idols on their “mandala” and thrones. In the corner, the god channeler – at this moment Jigong himself – was sitting in a coat so thick that I could only assume heating the medium must be part of the ritual.

In an article on temple culture, I recently wrote about moon block fortune telling in Taiwanese media, and the trope of the Jigong channeler is just as familiar. A medium – usually a man – lays sprawled like Diogenes the Cynic, drinking liquor from a gourd and belching like Rick Sanchez from Rick and Morty as he answers questions in a high, playful voice and makes a show of irreverence.

We weren’t the only visitors that night, however, and so as Jigong and his handler (a temple senior, or “師姐”) finished answering the previous patrons’ questions in mild tones, we were given yellow slips of paper to write our names and questions while we waited.

The night seemed to become denser, and I imagined the residents of Taoyuan had mostly retired to their beds by this time, if not to sleep then to scroll on their phones under the covers. Then, the other guests left, and the handler – a smiling, diplomatic older woman – took us to face the god for ourselves.

Contrary to the stereotypes, our medium wasn’t a smelly old ah-bei (阿伯; literally “uncle”), but a young lady in tortoise-frame glasses our age – and in fact, she’d gone to high school with Sponge.

Still, she acted the part, taking a gulp from her gourd and speaking to us in the coarse tone of Taiwanese expected of such a character while the handler translated the main points into Mandarin, as none of the three of us spoke Taiwanese particularly well.

First was Tian, a friend I’d known for years from dancing Lindy hop. Tian was fairly superstitious, often attributing negative feelings to the supernatural, like having been somewhere yin-heavy (i.e. haunted) or the hauntings of karmic spectres (冤親債主 – departed spirits whom one owes karmic debts). Like the Taiwanese culture in general, she’d fitted these disparate elements of Chinese Taoism and Indian Buddhist thought in her psyche apparently seamlessly.

She asked about a guy she was interested in, and Jigong let her down gently, suggesting it wasn’t going anywhere.

Next was Sponge. Though we had only just met, I got the sense she was even more superstitious than Tian, having only just shared a recording of static with us in the car, which she swore was paranormal.

Again, our channeler was even-toned. If anything, Sponge was the irreverent one: speaking to Jigong as though the god himself were her highschool pal, complaining about her boss while the deity buried his face in his palms, giving up on speaking Taiwanese and telling her in Mandarin: Just deal with these things as they come – you don’t need me to give you a retort for everything he might say!

Finally, it was my turn. I can’t say I’m a believer, but I do have a deep interest in and respect for Taiwanese culture and history. Anyway, I thought I was taking the whole thing a lot more seriously than Sponge.

The channeler turned to me: “Tsi̍t ê tuā lâng tuā tsíng ê lâng, siá ê jī nà ê tsiá nī suè?”

A mouthful of Taiwanese. Don’t get me wrong, it was nice, even heart-warming, getting the local treatment. Unfortunately, living in Taipei, I’ve been surrounded by Mandarin for years, and by this point my Taiwanese was probably even worse than when I was “fresh off the boat” in Taichung (where Taiwanese is more common).

Luckily, Tian knew the answer to this one: “Uh, uhm, ugh – he (or she) asked why a big man writes so small!”

I apologized for the bad handwriting on my card and elaborated on the question I’d penned, explaining my plan to backpack around Taiwan on foot and asking for guidance.

Jigong’s advice as a seer only went as far as telling me to watch out for pickpockets in Kaohsiung. His handler, however, had some thoughts about me seeking lodging at temples, and encouraged me to try and meet the people where I wanted to stay, and tell them my story. It was an intimidating prospect – at least for someone fairly introverted – but I thanked her and ended the question at that. Then, Tian asked about my love life, and I was told I was going to get married at 31 and have 3 kids – if that’s what I wanted (I’m 32 now and neither has happened).

We ended the night hanging out with the channeler: checking out her turtle, which lived in a fountain on the balcony, and eating from a bowl of candy offerings to the temple. Sponge relayed the details of her conversation with Ji Gong to her, and whether or not it was true that she hadn’t been aware while possessed, her mortal body, at least, was subjected to Sponge’s obstinance all over again. Still, it was nice, shooting the breeze with new friends, chatting the night away – very much the opposite of how I’d felt at dinner.

Finally, by midnight, I was back at Tian’s house, laying on a stiff, narrow massage chair that she’d set up for me as a make-shift bed. That was one day of walking down. But the real challenge would begin tomorrow, once I had to start looking for free lodging on my own.

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