2011, Kaoshiung, Elevators

February 2011, Kaoshiung
Elevators

As I write this, I sit in a wheel chair at the famous and elegant E Dah hospital with a broken ankle. The B1 floor is a mini-mall with shops, fashion, cosmetics, beauty aids, restaurants, Subway sandwich shop and a 7 – 11. I go out with my wheel chair for a stroll, or roll, 3 times a day. The hallways are wide, marble and granite from the 4 corners of the globe. In the middle of the 1st floor lobby is a performance stage, with an automated self-playing baby grand piano monotonously rolling out renditions of fur Elise, Moonlight Sonata, and selections from Richard Clayderman. Placards on all sides invite people to listen but not to touch.

The elevators talk to you in 4 languages. Each wing on each floor has a “lighting room” with theater seating, large screen cable TV, ultra fast wifi, and spacious windows. This place was very well thought. I can imagine some people actually WANTING to be sick just so they could come here. It is a 5 Star hotel with nurses, also 5 star, I may add.

But one thing about class, it cannot be taught. The hospital is located far from the city on a cross roads of industrial and rural suburbs. The patients are mostly ruddy skinned farm and factory workers in stained, disheveled clothes. Paul Fussel, in his book “CLASS” presents a 5 part definition of class which includes personal wealth, intelligence, social connections, opportunity and last but by no means least, social consciousness.

I was waiting for the elevator with 4 or 5 other people. The door opened and the people barely waited for the others to disembark before elbowing each other to get on, not even yielding for an injured man in a wheel chair and a shriveled old woman on crutches.

While I waited for the next elevator, I recalled an event from years ago. I had a 4 bedroom apartment on Hoping Road in Kaohsiung in 1988. I shared the rooms with local people, hoping to have opportunity to build relationships and to understand more about the local culture, customs, language. One man interviewed for a room. He picked me up to have lunch. On the way out of his parking space, he knocked over an old woman on a bicycle spilling the contents of her basket. I waited a few seconds to see what he would do. He remained in the car and waited for her to get up. I opened the car door to help her. He motioned for me to stay in place and said,” Never mind. She is OK.”
“I'm going to help her.” I replied.
“I will,” he parried, with a sigh of resignation as he reluctantly got out of the car. How absolutely medieval, I thought. If I get out of the car and help her, I contribute to his loosing face. I will assume the posture of a Taiwanese and try to be concerned for his face.
He perfunctorily picked up her things and thrust them into the basket, “How-lah, how – lah. Mei-guan-hsi, mei-guan-hsi.” Never mind, never mind. He was completely without remorse about her bent basket, skinned knee and twisted handlebars and battered groceries.
Getting back in the car, he turned to me and said, “ Dwei buh chi,” I'm sorry. “Why do you apologize to me? You did not apologize to her. I have never seen anything so thoughtless, inconsiderate in a civilized country.“
I got out of the car.
“Where are you going?”
“The room is taken. It would be impossible for me to live under the same roof you. Good bye.”
“Why? What? “
“You have...no class.”
“Dzemme i suh?” What does that mean?
“Ni mei-yo-swei-dzun.” a Chinese language expression which carries the full connotation of a cold slap in the face.


ack in the hospital, the elevator door opened, I began to push my wheelchair into the elevator. The door began to close on my injured leg as the elevator announced in meticulous Japanese,” Doa ga tojite iru.” The door is closing. The thickness of the wall prevented me from reaching the elevator call button. So, I shifted my seat to thrust my hand in to activate the automatic stop. The door opened. I shifted my position to push the chair in. The door closed again. Again I thrust my hand into the door jam. The door opened. I positioned my self once again. I went through this cycle 4 times before a passersby held the call button for me.
"Thanks kindly."


Funny, I laughed, how after 22 years and billions of dollars of 21st century technology we have learned to program elevators to be just as inconsiderate as people.

Ping An 平安 ( Peace ) 1988 Jien Gwo Road sec 3, Kaohsiung 7 pm

Ping An 平安 ( Peace )

Summer, 1988 Jien Gwo Road Sec 3, Kaohsiung 7:30 pm

The sky was just blushing over the after dinner traffic. I was unsure that I was at the right bus stop, if the bus would stop, where it would go. Jio Ru Road, sec 3 runs pretty much - east west. To my right the last colors of sunset had just coalesced into the neon of the night. To my left, the promise of a full moon began to bleach the denim horizon.

All day the island breeze blows onshore, as the land is warmer than the sea. At night the island exhales. But this hour is the Sandhya, the yogic pause of breath between. The anabatic pause traps us in the residual heat, when Taiwan holds her breath in anticipation of the night.

Bus travel afforded me a chance to practice my Chinese. Motored traffic seemed so antisocial. It had been a long tiresome day of teaching English to local kids in Fengsan, an industrial and agrarian suburb of Kaohsiung. The traffic was backed up on the 2 lane road because of road work, construction and undoubtedly, an accident up ahead. In a classic display of “Might is Right” cars commandeered the motorcycle lane. Motorcycles dominated the sidewalk. Construction was everywhere. Freight trucks blended with farm vehicles and mothers on their scooters with their precious bundles of future inheritance bustling them off to supplementary school through the dust and diesel smoke.

Neon lights diffused by the smog offered sanctuary in temples dedicated to fashion, steak, seafood, alcohol, karaoke, betelnut,...

A solid crash of metal on metal brought me swiftly out of my CO2 induced meditation. A blue truck farmer smacked the back of a welder's light pickup truck. The vehicles locked together, bumper to grill work. The drivers exploded from their vehicles, both in their early thirties, half dressed and half drunk.

The road dirt clung to our gritty necks, sweat poured down their faces. Not a breeze blew but for the horns of the traffic. The stolid air wrapped round them like chain mail. Street lights glistened on their smooth hairless swarthy torsos as if pink body armor. As hostilities escalated farmer grabbed a pitch fork, welder leaped on his truck and came back with a long iron rod and they chased each other around. In an act of chivalry the women stood before to protect and behind to pull back their husbands. The jostling about of their combined weight was sufficient to loose the vehicles.

I heard all of the popular Taiwanese expletives peppered with sprays of red betel nut juice saliva. The stench of battle was rife in the air, only meters from my suburban gaze.

Amidst the clang – banging of farm implements, I can only guess what the wives are saying, from the direction of the pointing, gestures, intonation. “Get back in the car. Let's get out of here.”

“You bastard! Can't you drive?”

“ F--- your mother”

“You can't talk to my man that way!”

The trigger incident was long forgotten and they were all driven by the need to save face. The damage to the vehicles was minor, a headlight, a taillight. But the damage to the honor was was getting deeper with every blow.

Usually this sort of thing attracts a crowd who take sides until the larger crowd wins the argument - a sort of spontaneous people's court.

But these 2 were unapproachable. Like the Dance of Demons on Lantern Festival, they swung their weapons and flung invectives. Nobody dared to approach them with persuasive words.

I failed to find an experiential 'slot' to put this into. Why can't we just do rock, paper scissors and go home. Maybe this is the adult version of the game. There was nothing in my Occidental, Judeo-Christian background that lent a shred of understanding. I asked myself, ”What would Jesus do?”

I knew what Charlie Chaplain would do. I put on my most beatific face, timing my stride with their blows, I sidled into the fray, my road map before me like a shield. In broken Chinese I asked,”Excuse me, can you show me the way to the train station?”

One of the farmers turned politely to me, looked at my map and muttered incomprehensibly. Still I grunted, in agreement, while the other fellow mumbled aggressively amidst which I could make out 2 or 3 words, “ foreigner”...“we're busy”...

Seeing that the tempers had relaxed a bit, I thanked them both, and chose my parting salutation as an opportunity to pronounce a blessing on them, “Ping An” - peace.

Their women coaxed them back into their vehicles and they drove away into the night, leaving me to await a bus of which I was unsure. A looming moon smiled down from just above Bei-Da Wu Mountain, sending with it just a whisper of a wind.

Someone saved face tonight.

Swei jyao 1987 Taipei

I walked into a dumpling shop in Taipei, not very attractive, nor very clean, with an Australian mate, Mark and his Ozzie girl friend, Suzie just after the lunch rush. We'd met at the the Perfect Language Institute where I did my 3- 4 lessons of Chinese. 

Mark was notorious for clang associations. How's your mother's knee? For Ni how ma? And that sort of thing. It's real funny coming from an Ozzie. This helped us all to remember words.
Chinese is a tonal language with 4 tones. And, if you get your tones wrong, it changes the meaning, sometimes dramatically. Mark could never get his tones right until dinner at the dumpling shop. 

Round tables, round stools, and a round roll of toilet tissue on each table.

“ I hope that isn't a commentary on the food,” I remarked, lifting a roll for all to see.

“Ominous,” replied Mark.

“Shall we go elsewhere?” Suzie offered.

“Nah, not unless they got the dinner napkins in the crapper. “answered Mark.

“What you want?” the shop keeper asked.

Eager to practice his Chinese, “Lemme get this, mate,” Mark insisted, lightly pulling me aside. He pulled out his notebook and read, “ Wo yao swei jjyao4” using the 4^th tone.

“ Ok, you go cross street, hotel you can sleep all you want,” laughed the proprietor.

“ Ah, no mate, “ with an eating gesture,” swei jyao4.”

“ Ah, swei jyao3” the owner patiently gestured as if drawing a check mark to indicate the 3^rd tone and then mimed eating dumplings. “Swei jyao4” as he gestured with the forth tone, pointing down, miming sleeping.

So, we ordered 50 swei jyao3, and 3 bottles of Taiwan beer. Slowly we savored the conversation, the food and shared war stories, in the classroom, on the streets, between the sheets. Mark popped off to the rest room as we sucked down the last of the delicious swei jyau3.

I paid the  bill with a hearty," Xie, Xie!!" - thank you- to which the owner replied, "You Chinese speak very good."

I  had already  learned the appropriate response to compliments was, " Na -li Na-li, "  which literally translates," Where? Where?" but  figuratively means, " Not really."

Mark returned from the bathroom with a boisterous laugh. “You gotta see this mate, he proffered a hand full of square napkins.” They got the dinner napkins in the crapper.”

Ominous.

Arrived Alive , December 20, 1986

December 20, 1986


Insisting to carry my favorite books, I arrived at CKS with far too much baggage। As instructed by my emissary Mr. No B.S., I pulled out the little scrap of paper he had given me with the names of his college classmates. I dialed a Mr. Lee. He answered the phone and said,” Welcome, welcome, um... you take bus to Taipei station. Call me from Brother hotel.”


I took the shuttle to the Brother Hotel, checked in and called him back.
“OK. We'll be right there.”

An hour later a light knocking at the door, and in came 3 young Taiwanese men.
“What, no babes?” I thought. You don't know Mr. No!

So, how is Mr Lu Bing Xiow?” they asked about their friend, as they all laughed as if asking had triggered memories of some secret event.
“Who,” I ask, forgetting for a moment his Chinese name. “Oh, No B.S. He's just fine. He said to send his regards.“

“He said that you speak Korean very well, you learned Korean very fast, at the stand bars.” We all had a good laugh at that.

“ What brings you to Taiwan?
“ I'm sort of on vacation.”
“ A lot of baggage.”
“Mostly books. It may be a long vacation.

We were waiting for one more friend. To fill the time, I got whimsical Chinese lessons. Jang pointed to the wall, “ How you call this in English?”
I struggled to ignore the grammar, “Wall.”
He pointed to his eye,” And this?”
“ Eye.”
He pointed to his knee, “And this?”
“Knee.”
“OK. Now put it together.”
“Wall, eye, knee.”
“ Good, but no “L” sound.”
“I tried it again, leaving off the “L” at the end of 'wall'.
“Good. That is what you say when you see a pretty girl.”
“OK, and what does it mean? “ I asked, eagerly.
“I love you.” they chimed together and roared.
They gave a few simple phrases which I could use at the restaurant.
“Ching, gay wo...?”Please give me...
“Hsieh, hsieh, “Thank you.
“Bu kuh chi.” You're welcome.

“Well how do I ask for food that is not too hot?”
“Bu yao tai la!”


We took a taxi to a small restaurant and ate slowly while consuming large quantities of Taiwan beer while I practiced my first lessons in Chinese. Every thing was less formal than in Pohang, Korea. Oh, we all had to lift our glasses together, and we had to toast one another, which I thought was endearing. But it was not necessary to use the other hand to hold the imaginary sleeve of the imaginary robe which nobody has worn in a hundred years. People seemed more relaxed and eager to share of themselves. There wasn't any of that, “We Korean people this...We Korean people that...”. There was a lot of, “I think...I like....”. They told me about the history, politics, currency and the most daunting news of all – I have no tech support for my Apple III computer and that I should switch over to pc and Microsoft.
“ Micro-what?” I asked.

We fought to see who will pay the bill. But, unlike Korea in 1986, nobody ended up on the floor. I think I'll like this place.
As we approached the counter Lee said, “No, Mr. Bacchus,” using the Korean corrupted version of my English surname, “ You are our guest.” Hmmm, another land of no “V” sound.

I went home gleefully drunk, comfortable with my new friends, in what may be the vacation of my life.

Two days later, I moved in with Jang and Lee to share their apartment on the 14th floor.


1986年, 12月20日

我帶著過多的行李抵達中正國際機場，只因我堅持帶著我最愛的書。就如我的所交代的，我拿出他給我的那張寫著他大學同學名字的小紙條。我打了通電話給李先生。他接了電話，並且說道＂歡迎、歡迎，嗯...你先搭公車到台北車站。到兄弟大飯店時，打給我＂

我搭上去兄弟大飯店的車子，辦好入住的手續後並打了通電話給他。＂好的，我們馬上到＂

一小時後，一陣房間門上的輕敲聲，來了三個年輕的台灣男生。＂啥，沒有美眉啊？＂我心情想著。你們一定不認識No先生。

＂請問路斌孝先生最近好嗎？＂當他們問起他們朋友的近況，他們似乎想起了過去一些他們之間的密秘而笑了出來。
＂誰＂我問道，突然忘了他的中文名。＂噢，不蓋你先生啊！他好得很，他還請我幫他向大家問好。

他說你們韓語說得很好，也學得很快，由其在酒吧裡。
我們聊這話題都聊到笑翻了。

＂你怎會想來台灣？＂
＂其實我在渡假。＂
＂行李很多唷＂
＂帶的大多是書，這假期可能很長＂我說道。

我們那時在等另一個朋友。中間空檔的節目是我上的一堂奇怪中文課，江兄指著牆說＂這東西英文裡怎麼說？＂

我爭扎著盡量不去理會文法，＂wall"。
他指著他的眼睛說，＂這個呢？＂
＂eye。＂
他指著他的膝蓋，＂這個呢？＂
＂knee＂
＂很好，不過要去掉L的音＂
＂我再試了一次，把wall的L尾音去掉＂
＂很好，這就是你看到漂亮女孩時該說的＂
＂嗯，這是啥意思？＂我迫不及待地問。
＂我愛妳＂他們一起大喊著。
他們順便教了幾具在餐廳可以用的短句。
＂Ching gay wo...". 請給我...
＂hsieh .hsieh." 謝謝。
＂Bu kuh chi" 不客氣。

＂那食物別太辣怎麼說呢？＂
＂Bu Yao tai la!"

我們搭了台計程車到了間小餐廳，我們吃得很慢，倒是喝很多台灣啤酒，在那時我也練習了我剛學習到的中文。所有的事物都比韓國浦項市來得較不拘謹。噢，我們必需一起拿起酒杯，一一地敬酒，這我倒是覺得不錯；但是不需顧及到一些過時舊規矩。人們看起來更放鬆，並且更願意分享自己的生活。但事實確不是如此。＂我們韓國人是這樣，我們韓國人是那樣..＂有太多的＂我想、我喜歡...等等＂他們和我討論歷史、政治、貨幣以及最嚇人的事情...在台灣沒有蘋果電腦的維修服務來支援我的蘋果三號電腦，我必需該跳槽到搭載微軟的PC。＂微＂啥？我問道。

我們等著看誰會埋單。但這邊不像西元1986年的韓國，沒人喝醉。我想我喜歡這地方。當我們接近櫃台時，李兄就以不標準的英文唸著我姓，＂巴克思先生＂，＂你是我們的貴賓＂嗯，又是另一個沒有V音的國度。我心裡想著。
我開心地和我的新朋友一起快樂地喝得濫醉才回家，在這段我人生中的＂假期＂。
兩天後，我搬近江兄和李兄位於14樓的公寓，住在一起。