Memories of Taiwan, 1976

By
Connie Tupper

We had been thoroughly briefed about our trip to Taiwan, down to what we thought was the last detail: bring your own towels, as those provided by the YWCA hotel in Taipei, were thin and non-absorbent. No one had told us, however, of an essential one must not be without--calling cards. Everyone to whom we were introduced, handed us a small white square with his name and address in Chinese on one side and the English translation on the other. We collected pounds of them, and it became a game each day to sort them out and try to put names and faces together. Some among them: Fu, Hu, Ju Au, Kao, Yao, Chao, Liang, Lin, Long, and Liaou, stood out, and two of them were the Liang twins.

We were visiting on a "cultural mission," a varied group of twenty people. Exchange of ideas in the field of art between East and West was the reason for our visit; consequentially, we were treated to many banquets, speeches, and presentations by various artists and art-related groups, schools, colleges and museums.

The Chinese on Taiwan do not entertain in their own homes, but we were feted in every conceivable style of Chinese cooking from peppery Szechwan to the better known Cantonese, from delicious yellow fish served with every grinning tooth in place to hot sweet soup, sugared water with what we took to be transparent ruffled surgical glove floating in it, but which turned out to be a tree fungus, highly prized.

Our luncheons and dinners lasted from an hour to over two hours. Each host, it seemed, vied with the others to see how many courses he could provide. Each course consisted of four or five different dishes. We learned early in our trip to eat sparingly of each course. It wasn't always easy, though. We always sat at a round table with a large lazy susan revolving hypnotically in the middle. If you missed a dish intentionally, you were apt to find it on your plate anyway, placed there by a solicitous Chinese friend as it spun past. "Try, try--Good!" he would cry. "Hueng hao--very good!" "Hsheh, Hsheh--Thank you," you murmured and shoved a fat dumpling filled with lotus blossom paste into your mouth with your chopsticks. It was a breach of etiquette to refuse. The same applied to the harsh rice wine. It was served in small glasses at your place and refilled constantly by the host. The rule at these banquets was that one must not drink alone. Every sip must be accompanied by an acknowledgement to some one at the table, who then is obliged to lift his glass to you. We found out later that a prudent host is apt to substitute tea in his own glass, since he collects a great many toasts.

One banquet, in particular, stands out in my memory. Our host was Professor Chang, the head of The National Normal University, and many of the artists we had met at other exhibits, schools and banquets were present. What set this banquet apart was the fact that our host, thinking that perhaps we were tiring of Chinese fare, had ordered an "American" style dinner. We were seated, not at our round tables, but at several rectangular tables pushed together to form a long board. Before each plate, set with knife, fork and spoon, was a dish of potato salad, a selection of cold cuts, and a long thin hot dog. In addition, ketchup bottles and Worcestershire sauce, were set out at intervals, as well as rolls, butter and jam. I thought to myself, "What an unusual banquet." It turned out, however, that this was only the appetizer. The main course was a choice of fried chicken, fried fish or fried pork chop, served with tomato and lettuce salad. A dessert of ice cream or watermelon topped our typical Chinese "American" dinner, or perhaps I should say an American dinner, Chinese style.

My husband and I sat opposite a pair of artist twins. They were in their 60's, short, balding and solidly built. They twinkled together as they contemplated us. They were Mr. Liang Chung Ming, an expert on the painting of water buffaloes, and Mr. Liang Ya Ming, whose specialty was ships. He was wearing a wildly flowered Hawaiian style shirt, such as Harry S. Truman had sported.

That afternoon, before our dinner, my husband had escaped the rounds of demonstrations and presentations, and gone shopping. He had bought himself a sky blue shirt, Chinese style, with frogging and white piping, and had decided to wear it to the banquet. The brothers Liang were intrigued with his appearance, and began to discuss it in Chinese, interspersed with giggles behind their hands.

"I wore my Chinese shirt," said Lamonte, "in honor of our Chinese friends." This was duly translated to the brothers who replied with equal courtesy in Chinese that Liang Ya Ming had worn his American shirt in honor of their esteemed American guests. They then proceeded to explode into laughter.

"What's funny?" we asked. There was a crackle of Chinese and our interpreter explained:

"The shirt you are wearing is a Kung Fu shirt and the twins say that you are too gentle looking to be a Kung Fu expert."

For some reason this incongruity tickled their risibilities, and they returned to it many times during the festivities, looking pointedly at Lamonte's shirt and laughing uproariously. We did not tell them that Harry Truman had not been our president for twenty-five years.

©2003 Connie Tupper

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