I’m standing in a retirement home somewhere in northern, rural Taiwan next to a Taiwanese grandma. I met her while hitchhiking at a cemetery and now she’s showing me her family members, clad in full-dynasty wear, in a 150-year-old photograph. A lot of the time here in Taiwan, I wonder if my day can get any stranger or more random. And the answer is always: yes it can. There is actually a very logical explanation for all of this.
It all started two months ago during my trip to Green Island. While my friends and I were at the hot spring, a group of old women were singing a song in Mandarin. I instantly recognized it but knew neither the song or artist. Too shy and my Mandarin too shameful at the time to ask them what they were singing, I wrote it off as a pleasant memory and mystery. Fast-forward to last month when I went to karaoke (or KTV as it’s called here) with my friend Channing, her classmates and a few locals. After a few “gang bei”s, a request/challenge/demand to finish the contents of your cup frequently issued by the Taiwanese, I finally mustered enough courage to hum the tune to a local to find out the name of the song and add it to the playlist.
The song was “The Moon represents my heart” (月亮代表我的心) by Teresa Teng (鄧麗君.) Teng is a legendary Taiwanese pop star and who was popular even in non-Chinese speaking Asia. When she died at 42 from an asthma attack that shocked not only Taiwan but the continent. This song is the kind of song I felt like I have always known and could sing along to despite the fact I couldn’t speak Mandarin until recently. Once I could put a name to the music, the Wikipedia search that followed revealed that her grave was in Chi Pao San, a mountain cemetery, in Jin Shan, a town in Taipei county. The article said her grave had a large in-ground keyboard that fans could play by stepping on the keys and I decided I had to go.
So Channing and I set out one hot Taiwanese Saturday afternoon to find Teng’s grave. We took the MRT to Danshui, the final stop on the subway’s red line and boarded a bus for Jin Shan. It took us two-and-a-half hours in total to get to Jin Shan, about an hour longer than I was expecting. When we started asking around for directions to Chi Pao San, we were met with of shock and horror. “It’s too far away to walk,” said the woman whose restaurant we ate at. “No buses go up there. You should take a taxi.” Still she pointed us in the direction. We felt anxious and took a stroll through Jin Shan’s night market before deciding what to do. For no good reason I was compelled to buy a bag of lobster chips.
After walking to the edge of the town, we checked with a security guard who reacted the same way and told us it would take another 40 minutes. Despite the discouragement, we pressed onward through the Taiwanese countryside with the sun blaring down at us. The next woman we met told us it would take an hour and a half. The convenience store owner, who sold us a bottle of water further down the road, told us if we would get heat stroke from going. After starting up the mountain we met a man who told us we were on the right track, but it was going to be another hour and a half.
Two hours after leaving the restaurant, we made it to Chi Pao San. Teng’s grave is at the front of the massive mountainside cemetery. As we approached her grave we could hear her music playing. Appropriately enough, the first song we heard was her rendition of “I’m gonna live forever” from Fame. We were steps away from Teng’s grave a security guard rode up on a scooter and asked if we had walked all the way up. When we confirmed we had walked from Jin Shan, he responded with “pei fu, pei fu” (佩服)–an expression of respect and admiration. We asked if he had any good suggestions on how to get down the mountain that didn’t involve walking. He told us there was an hourly shuttle bus but only for locals. But, he said, if you ask them maybe they’ll let you on.
And so there it was. The in-floor keyboard, a golden statue of Teng, her grave and a small collection of flowers. We had hiked two hours and had reached the promised land. While my mother’s attempt to instill Chinese attitudes and traditions on me has been less than successful, here is the proof it wasn’t completely wasted. You can’t show up to someone’s grave empty handed. You have to bring an offering, usually food. So it only felt right to leave her my lobster chips.
Channing and I were tired from the hike and sat down to wait for the 5 p.m. shuttle down to Jin Shan. Half an hour passed by and there was no sign of it. Darkness was approaching and Jin Shan was still two-and-a-half hours away from Taipei. We made the collective decision to solicit fellow visitors for rides down the mountain. Our first attempt was shot down. We tried to explain our situation to a man who was cleaning off his car while his wife sat inside. He said something in Japanese, which I think amounted to “I don’t speak Mandarin.” On our second try we hit gold. We met Lois, a 30-year-old piano and violin teacher, and her grandma, who only spoke Taiwanese. Lois offered to take us down the hill to Jin Shan but, if we wanted, she was going to go to Taipei after dinner and we were free to join her for the meal and the ride back home. We looked at each other, shrugged and were only too happy to accept.
The ride down the mountain took only about 10 minutes and in another 20 we arrived at Bai Sha Wan, a popular beach nearby. We all sat down for dinner at a restaurant that directly overlooked the Pacific Ocean. Grandma was pretty agitated during the meal because, she said, it was getting dark and she was worried about Lois driving back to Taipei. Channing and I tried to pay for dinner knowing the usual Asian money-shoving match would ensue. We lost and ended up going Dutch. After dinner we drove Grandma back to her retirement home that is run by a convent. Six years ago she decided to move because she was tired of cooking and cleaning and here she could go to church every day. She showed us her five copies of the Bible, each in different languages, that she was learning to read. Grandma hated being in pictures and protested each time Lois suggested it. Still, she always obliged and sometimes even pulled out the peace sign. Lois drove us all the way back to the Shida neighbourhood despite that she lives in Xiandian, on the outskirts of Taipei city.
It’s a little sad when the kindness of strangers is so foreign that it’s actually funny. These encounters always become epic-traveling stories that bring out disbelief in other people. In a way I’ve come to expect this kind of random generosity in Taiwan but I always still feel grateful. Maybe this is just how things work in the friendliest country I have ever been to and this is just another day in the life of a Taiwanese. Or maybe Channing and I are a hilarious story for Grandma to tell to her friends at the home. (It was ridiculous watching Lois introduce us to her friend and at the home. while we stood there like the vagabonds we were.) One thing is for sure, I should just ask more often.
