A month or so after I arrived in Taiwan, a friend asked me why I used the phrase ‘confusing culture’ in the subheading of my blog. ‘What confuses you so much?’ she asked with a wrinkled brow. She was genuinely puzzled about my puzzlement; she had lived here all here life and Taiwan made perfect sense to her.
My confusion is generally derived from the apparent contradictions that I see in Taiwan. I told my friend that confusion is a good thing: a predictable place, rather like a consistent personality, is boring. And if my experiences in Taiwan were similar to those in the UK, then I don’t have much material for a book. What’s more, I said, history has shown that confusion precedes enlightenment. Well, that’s the theory.
I leave Taiwan tomorrow, five months to the day that I arrived, and although some aspects of the country do make sense, many do not. Of course, I have looked at Taiwan through western eyes and I’ve inevitably compared the place to the UK. I tried not to do this judgementally but I confess that I find some things about the country frustrating. On the flip side, in some respects I wish the UK was more like Taiwan.
Prior to writing this entry I jotted a list of twenty phenomena that, to varying degrees, bemuse me. Some are rather trivial, some are amusing, but others go to the core of Taiwanese culture.
I will start with the trivial. For instance, I don’t understand why some scooter riders wear their jackets backwards, with the zipper undone. Maybe this is to get protection from the wind (and to keep insects off the clothes) but to give ventilation. Whatever the reason, it looks bizarre and I am surprised that an entrepreneur hasn’t designed a more stylish solution.
Talking of style, the Taiwanese sense of fashion is truly appalling. Many times I have said to myself as I see a particularly garishly-dressed woman: ‘What is she wearing?’ The men are not quite as misguided and there are exceptions, of course, but they are very rare and it appears that many Taiwanese young adults randomly choose their outfits in the dark and without the aid of a mirror.
Colour co-ordination is non-existent and there is an extreme lack of stylistic synergy between, for example, shoes, skirts and tops. For my first week in Taipei, I was so shocked by the lack of style that there were times I wondered if people were going to a fancy dress party. I could give examples but, to see what I mean, just walk down any Taipei street. Even the British dress well in comparison. Yes, that’s how bad it is in Taiwan.
Maybe the garish colours and the lack of congruence is merely an attempt at individualism. The pressure to conform is very pronounced in Taiwanese culture and perhaps the lack of a recognisable style is the people’s way of saying ‘I am me.’
But unlike the nihilism of the late 1970s punk era in the UK – when teenagers eschewed everything, including good taste and convention in an attempt to be different – there is a distinct lack of anarchy on the streets of Taipei. People have a limitless choice of colours and styles and they combine them in an infinite number of ways, but they are still buying mass-produced fashion.
For instance, slogan T-shirts are very popular here – as they are in Europe – but I find it hard to believe that the wearers really follow the doctrine of their shirts. Is the clean cut teenage boy with carefully style hair, carrying his girlfriend’s handbag really as rebellious as the words on his T-shirt? (“Shut the fuck up!)
I also wonder if the yellow, tightly fitting T-shirt with glittery letters that I saw a in a shop in Ximending will be bought by a woman who really ‘Will fuck for coke.’
Maybe the seemingly random use of English words on T-shirts is just further evidence of a pre-occupation with, but a lack of understanding of, all things western. This can also be seen in the names of products. My personal favourites are two cigarette brands, Gentle and Long Life, and a women’s clothes shop called Wanko.
I must confess that Taiwanese women confuse me too. As I noted in a previous blog, there are countless attractive women in Taipei. The ‘average’ (if there is such a thing) young woman has thick, shiny black hair; a slender figure; full lips; and silky, clear skin. Many women wear short skirts – or very short shorts – and heels. One can see why western men think they have found paradise when they arrive in Taiwan; when women dress this way back home, they are often making a statement of intent. But all is not what it seems.
According to a straw poll of Taiwanese women friends, they tend to wear very little for practical reasons. Bearing legs and arms is reflection of the hot climate, not the (sexual) hotness of the wearer. And heels are prevalent because many Taiwanese women want to be taller. There is no correlation between the length of skirt and the height of heels and the availability or the level of desire of the woman.
What’s more, I have noticed a distinct lack of pheremones in Taiwan. I have seen thousands of pretty women in Taipei but only a small handful of women that I would classify as sexy. A western female friend echoed my sentiments the other week when she said she likes to go to Carnegie’s (a famous Taipei bar, frequented by expat single men), and I quote, ‘just to see some hairy arms.’
Taipei is the polar opposite to Paris in this respect. In the French capital, women – of all ages – exude sex appeal. They do not have to wear heels, revealing clothes, flash their lingerie or even be pretty; they just have that confident, verging on the arrogant, attitude, that says ‘I am great in bed. And, no, I am not interested in you.’
The word ‘sexy’ in Taiwan is far removed from what it means in the UK or elsewhere in Europe. Here, women use it to describe, what we in the UK would call, ‘tartiness,’ in other words, very revealing outfits and thick make-up. This, in my mind, is miles away from sexy.
While there is a lack of genuine sexiness and individualism on the streets of Taipei, hard work is evident everywhere, to a level rarely seen in the UK. Taipei is the only city I’ve ever visited where you can find a cab within a few minutes of deciding you need one. On several occasions, a cabbie has stopped next to me and raised his eyebrows before I have even raised my arm. The drivers seem to have a sixth sense.
Fares are extremely low and the meters show the elapsed time as well as the cost. I have never been cheated by a cabbie and it still amazes me how they earn enough to have even a modest income. I can only assume that they, like everyone other Taiwanese person, works horrendously long hours.
This applies to ‘professional’ occupations as much as the more humble workers. Working into the evening is normal and many people go into the office at weekends too. It is also standard practice to have zero holidays (apart from public holidays) in the first year. If one performs well, seven days vacation time is the going rate for the second year. When I tell Taiwanese friends that 20 days is the legal minimum in the UK, they are genuinely shocked. But tellingly, few think it is a good thing.
Because of my odd sleeping patterns, I have walked through my neighbourhood at all times of day and night. I have seen the local shopkeepers and restaurateurs at work early in the morning, at lunchtimes and late at night. Twelve hour days seem to be standard.
I still believe that genetic differences between Asians and Westerners are superficial and the idea that the former are inherently better workers sits uneasily in my egalitarian heart. We all deserve and need time off, to recuperate, recreate and rest. And yet there is definitely a different work ethic in Taiwan; work comes first and the rest can wait.
Even so, the Taiwanese are rather adept at taking it easy, even if for just a few minutes. On MRT trains, it is very common to see people taking forty winks in between stations. Shop-keepers and security guards will close their eyes and nap if the coast is clear. And, much to my eternal frustration, sleepwalking seems to be a national past-time.
Of all the cities I have visited, Taipei has the slowest pedestrians. Even in tourist destinations like Barcelona and Rome – where the climate, mood and a surfeit of sights decelerate life - people walk at a reasonable pace. But here, the general speed is close to stationary. Even if there are no crowds, people move with such lethargy that I sometimes wonder if they are walking on the spot.
But these criticisms are rather mean when I look back on my five months in Taiwan. Apart from the energy-sapping climate, the country has plenty of appeal and I can see why so many Westerners live and work here. In comparison to British cities, crime is extremely low. This has been cited by all of my expat friends as a plus point for Taiwan. The women are happy to walk home alone at night and the men never get approached by drunken morons looking for a fight.
And on one of my first days in Taipei, I was amazed to see two women idly chatting on an MRT train, handbags over their shoulders with the zips undone and their purses in full view. In London, the purses would be ‘liberated’ and emptied within seconds.
Taiwanese people are generally very friendly. And apart from a female scooter rider who called me ‘da pizi’ (big nose) because I shouted at her for nearly killing me, everyone has been warm, welcoming and tolerant of my lack of language skills.
However, the country still confuses me. I don’t understand why so few people wear sunglasses when the summer sun is blindingly bright. I don’t understand why in such a densely populated country, in which you are millimetres away from strangers, the Taiwanese don’t seem to hug, kiss or shake hands when they meet their friends and family.
And I don’t understand why, in such a humid climate, I am the only person who seems to sweat. It appears that Taiwanese perspiration is something of a rarity because it is pretty hard to find deodorant.
I could go on, but I won’t. Sleep beckons and so does my departure. The clock is ticking and in around 12 hours’ time, I will be on a ship bound for Hong Kong. I don’t profess to understand Taiwan but I have enjoyed trying to make sense of some of the apparent contradictions.
Perhaps the most ironic aspect of my time here is that it has prompted me, for the first time, to look at the UK in a more critical light. Now that I have seen an alternative culture close up, the one I am most familiar with doesn’t seem so coherent after all. This is something to ponder between now and November 14, the date that I pass through British passport control and have my first decent pint of beer for almost six months.
Sunday, 26 October 2008
Wednesday, 22 October 2008
The Taiwanderer Returns
I have just set up a new blog for my return journey and postings will appear from Tuesday 28 October onwards. You can find it at http://moretrainsandboats.blogspot.com/ As you can see, when it came to the title, inspiration deserted me...
As with my outward journey, I will be spending most of the trip on internet-free trains, so blog updates will be sporadic. And when they do appear, they will tend to be voluminous.
However, I hope to post updates in Hong Kong, Beijing, Helsinki and Copenhagen.
Here's my travel schedule...
October
26th - leave Taipei by train... arrive in Kaohsiung
27th - leave Kaohsiung by ship
28th - arrive in Hong Kong
(Four nights in Hong Kong and Macau)
November
1st - leave Hong Kong by train
2nd - arrive in Beijing
(Three nights in Beijing)
5th - leave Beijing by train
(Five nights on the Trans-Mongolian Express)
10th - arrive in Moscow... leave Moscow by train
11th - arrive in Helsinki... leave Helsinki by ship
12th - arrive in Stockholm... train to Copenhagen
(One night in Copenhagen)
13th - leave Copenhagen... train to Esbjerg... leave Esbjerg by ship
14th - arrive in Harwich... train to London... train to Cardiff
So I make that eight trains and three boats (although it could be five boats if I spend a day or two in Macau.)
There will be two more posts on this blog, Taiwandering, before the new one takes over. As always, comments are welcome.
As with my outward journey, I will be spending most of the trip on internet-free trains, so blog updates will be sporadic. And when they do appear, they will tend to be voluminous.
However, I hope to post updates in Hong Kong, Beijing, Helsinki and Copenhagen.
Here's my travel schedule...
October
26th - leave Taipei by train... arrive in Kaohsiung
27th - leave Kaohsiung by ship
28th - arrive in Hong Kong
(Four nights in Hong Kong and Macau)
November
1st - leave Hong Kong by train
2nd - arrive in Beijing
(Three nights in Beijing)
5th - leave Beijing by train
(Five nights on the Trans-Mongolian Express)
10th - arrive in Moscow... leave Moscow by train
11th - arrive in Helsinki... leave Helsinki by ship
12th - arrive in Stockholm... train to Copenhagen
(One night in Copenhagen)
13th - leave Copenhagen... train to Esbjerg... leave Esbjerg by ship
14th - arrive in Harwich... train to London... train to Cardiff
So I make that eight trains and three boats (although it could be five boats if I spend a day or two in Macau.)
There will be two more posts on this blog, Taiwandering, before the new one takes over. As always, comments are welcome.
Thursday, 2 October 2008
Tell it like it is…. sometimes
People have often told me that the Taiwanese are very indirect. Apparently, the Taiwanese prefer to avoid saying what they really think, they don’t like to ask challenging questions and they tend to avoid getting to the point. This modus operandi is in stark contrast to the Western approach, people say. But, in my experience, the truth is somewhat more subtle.
Conversely, Americans are famous for their directness. Some British people think that Americans are direct to the point of rudeness. For example, many Americans have received icy glares when they visit a British pub and said to the bartender: ‘Gimme a beer!’ This is perfectly acceptable in the States but a Brit would say: ‘Can I have a pint of beer, please?’
Hence, Americans think the British are rather quaint and apologetic. True, we do tend to wrap our statements in pleasantries and some Brits are polite to the extreme. For example, in crowded pub it is not unusual for the person who receives an accidental nudge to apologise to the person who did the nudging.
But Americans can be extremely evasive and their language is, at times, deceptive. I saw many examples of this during the lowest period of my professional career when I was working for UK subsidiaries of American technology companies.
Senior marketing people would cross the Atlantic once or twice a year and tell us about new ‘unique’ products that represented a ‘paradigm shift’ and that ‘redefined the market’ in the process. Using flashy PowerPoint presentations and hyperbole, the marketing folk would extol the virtues of the new offerings and then ask the British sales and marketing people what we thought.
They encouraged us to be honest, so we were. If the product had flaws, we would say so. The Americans would say ‘thanks for sharing your thoughts’ but their forced smiles belied their true feelings. We were expected to be as unflinchingly enthusiastic as they were and our directness and honesty shocked them.
On one occasion, an American manager told my boss to fire one of our colleagues because his numerous questions in a marketing meeting showed that he was ‘too negative.’ Although the questions were valid, my lily-livered boss complied with the order.
‘Corporate speak’ has transcended national boundaries and now, excessive positivism and gushing superlatives are evident in TV adverts, billboards, glossy magazines, government press releases, and depressingly, in journalism. But what about the real world?
Unfortunately, every-day language shows signs of infection, too. The word ‘cool’, for example, is used so often and in so many contexts that it has lost its potency. Ditto ‘love’, ‘great, ‘amazing,’ and countless other words which have become near-meaningless. By using inappropriate words, we are devaluing the language; we are not saying what we really mean.
Although my knowledge of Chinese has barely advanced in my four months in Taiwan, I don’t know if the language is following the same trajectory. I have learned, however, that the language tends to have far fewer airs and graces than English. This is very refreshing.
For example, visit a British friend’s home and she would probably ask you: ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I simply answer: ‘Yes, please’ or ‘No, thanks.’ But I know several people who habitually say: ‘Are you sure?’ or ‘Only if you’re having one…’, or ‘If it’s not too much trouble.’ I find such excessive politeness annoying.
A Taiwanese host, however, would be much more direct and would simply ask: ‘You want tea?’ The guest would answer: ‘Want’ or ‘Not want.’ (It amazes Europeans that the Chinese language doesn’t have generic words that are the equivalent of ‘yes’ and ‘no.’)
So, in this respect, Chinese is very direct; the wordy padding of British English doesn’t exist in Chinese. What’s more, the meaning of Chinese nouns tends to be very literal. For instance, the British call their flag the Union Jack and the Americans have the Stars and Stripes. The Chinese eschew vagueness and call theirs 'Five Star Flag' because, well, it has five stars and it’s a flag.
And then there are capital cities. London is derived from a name used by the Romans (though historians are unsure of the origins of the name Londinium) and Washington was named after America’s first President. Beijing simply means ‘northern capital.’
You can also see this no-nonsense approach on the streets of Taipei. Restaurants and pubs in the UK often have names that evoke a vague connection with a place, a person or style of cuisine. They can be rather poetic or even surreal at times.
Taiwanese eating places, on the other hand, are much more descriptive. A few weeks ago I went to a place that specialises in beef noodle soup. And sure enough, the bold red letters on the yellow sign translated as ‘Beef Noodle Soup.’ And the seafood restaurant opposite the local gym is simply called ‘The Fish House.’
Chinese directness is evident in animal names, too. Some names of animals in English are derived from Greek, Latin or, in the case of creatures from the tropical world, from indigenous languages. In contrast, the Chinese language just describes what it sees.
At times, Chinese animal names can be rather amusing when literally translated into English. For instance, a panda is a ‘bear cat’; an owl is a ‘cat-faced eagle’, and a crow is a ‘black duck.’
I have a theory about this naming convention. Many years ago in China, there was a man who had the job of giving animals their names. Mr Chen had poor eyesight, was not particularly educated, nor creative, nor did he enjoy his job. And on Friday afternoons, just as he was about to finish work for the week and go home to his family, his boss would routinely arrive with a stack of pictures of newly-discovered animals.
‘Here you go, Chen. Give these animals Chinese names before you go home,’ his boss would say. With a sigh, Chen would flick through the pictures and, with one eye on the clock, he would write down the first thing that came to mind.
So when he saw the picture of a koala, which showed a bear-like creature with no tail, Chen quickly wrote: ‘No tail bear.’ Next, a four legged African animal with an elongated neck. ‘What the heck!’ said Chen, ‘That’s a long-necked deer.’
Then, a hefty grey animal, also from Africa, with a brutal horn on its nose. ‘Errm… is that a type of cow?’ said Chen as he squinted at the picture. ‘And that horn looks pretty sharp. That’s it! Sharp-horned cow!’
And finally, a picture of an Australian animal that hops on its back legs, with a long tail and carries its young in a pocket. ‘Jeez!’ said Chen. ‘What the hell is that?!’ The picture gave no indication of scale so, as the clock ticked towards five o’clock, he said: ‘Let’s call it a pouch mouse. Right! Home time! I’m outta here!’
I’m not sure if this theory would stand up to close scrutiny but animal naming in Chinese shows that the language is very direct. (It is also not particularly accurate at times. A koala, for instance, is not a bear. And a crow is not a duck. And a crocodile is a reptile and not, as the Chinese call it, a ‘bad fish.’)
But what about the way in which language is used? Are Taiwanese people really as hesitant to ask direct questions and say what they think? Well, this is the general perception but my experience suggests not.
For example, I bumped into two of my neighbours on the stairs a few weeks ago: Mr Liu and Mrs Huang. Mr Liu speaks pretty good English and the three of us introduced ourselves and exchanged pleasantries as any nationalities would.
Then Mrs Huang, via Mr Liu, became more inquisitive. In quick succession, she asked how long I’d been in Taiwan; how much longer I'm staying; what I do for a living; how old I am; am I married; and if I have children. I answered ‘no’ to the last two questions and then she promptly asked: ‘why not?’
I told a Taiwanese friend about this and she said that such questions are typical during an initial conversation. I found the questions about age, marital status and offspring very personal and I certainly wouldn’t ask a British person these questions within minutes of meeting them.
So the issue of directness is nowhere near as clear-cut as some people think. There is certainly no league table based on nationality. Despite a perceived tendency to dress up questions, Britons can be much more honest with their words than the supposedly-blunt Americans. And the Taiwanese – thanks in part to their no-nonsense language – can be painfully direct.
Mrs Huang proved this and now I purposefully try to avoid her, just in case she wants know the contents of my bank account. If she knew the truth, she might be tempted to give me the name ‘bald, poor foreigner.’
Conversely, Americans are famous for their directness. Some British people think that Americans are direct to the point of rudeness. For example, many Americans have received icy glares when they visit a British pub and said to the bartender: ‘Gimme a beer!’ This is perfectly acceptable in the States but a Brit would say: ‘Can I have a pint of beer, please?’
Hence, Americans think the British are rather quaint and apologetic. True, we do tend to wrap our statements in pleasantries and some Brits are polite to the extreme. For example, in crowded pub it is not unusual for the person who receives an accidental nudge to apologise to the person who did the nudging.
But Americans can be extremely evasive and their language is, at times, deceptive. I saw many examples of this during the lowest period of my professional career when I was working for UK subsidiaries of American technology companies.
Senior marketing people would cross the Atlantic once or twice a year and tell us about new ‘unique’ products that represented a ‘paradigm shift’ and that ‘redefined the market’ in the process. Using flashy PowerPoint presentations and hyperbole, the marketing folk would extol the virtues of the new offerings and then ask the British sales and marketing people what we thought.
They encouraged us to be honest, so we were. If the product had flaws, we would say so. The Americans would say ‘thanks for sharing your thoughts’ but their forced smiles belied their true feelings. We were expected to be as unflinchingly enthusiastic as they were and our directness and honesty shocked them.
On one occasion, an American manager told my boss to fire one of our colleagues because his numerous questions in a marketing meeting showed that he was ‘too negative.’ Although the questions were valid, my lily-livered boss complied with the order.
‘Corporate speak’ has transcended national boundaries and now, excessive positivism and gushing superlatives are evident in TV adverts, billboards, glossy magazines, government press releases, and depressingly, in journalism. But what about the real world?
Unfortunately, every-day language shows signs of infection, too. The word ‘cool’, for example, is used so often and in so many contexts that it has lost its potency. Ditto ‘love’, ‘great, ‘amazing,’ and countless other words which have become near-meaningless. By using inappropriate words, we are devaluing the language; we are not saying what we really mean.
Although my knowledge of Chinese has barely advanced in my four months in Taiwan, I don’t know if the language is following the same trajectory. I have learned, however, that the language tends to have far fewer airs and graces than English. This is very refreshing.
For example, visit a British friend’s home and she would probably ask you: ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I simply answer: ‘Yes, please’ or ‘No, thanks.’ But I know several people who habitually say: ‘Are you sure?’ or ‘Only if you’re having one…’, or ‘If it’s not too much trouble.’ I find such excessive politeness annoying.
A Taiwanese host, however, would be much more direct and would simply ask: ‘You want tea?’ The guest would answer: ‘Want’ or ‘Not want.’ (It amazes Europeans that the Chinese language doesn’t have generic words that are the equivalent of ‘yes’ and ‘no.’)
So, in this respect, Chinese is very direct; the wordy padding of British English doesn’t exist in Chinese. What’s more, the meaning of Chinese nouns tends to be very literal. For instance, the British call their flag the Union Jack and the Americans have the Stars and Stripes. The Chinese eschew vagueness and call theirs 'Five Star Flag' because, well, it has five stars and it’s a flag.
And then there are capital cities. London is derived from a name used by the Romans (though historians are unsure of the origins of the name Londinium) and Washington was named after America’s first President. Beijing simply means ‘northern capital.’
You can also see this no-nonsense approach on the streets of Taipei. Restaurants and pubs in the UK often have names that evoke a vague connection with a place, a person or style of cuisine. They can be rather poetic or even surreal at times.
Taiwanese eating places, on the other hand, are much more descriptive. A few weeks ago I went to a place that specialises in beef noodle soup. And sure enough, the bold red letters on the yellow sign translated as ‘Beef Noodle Soup.’ And the seafood restaurant opposite the local gym is simply called ‘The Fish House.’
Chinese directness is evident in animal names, too. Some names of animals in English are derived from Greek, Latin or, in the case of creatures from the tropical world, from indigenous languages. In contrast, the Chinese language just describes what it sees.
At times, Chinese animal names can be rather amusing when literally translated into English. For instance, a panda is a ‘bear cat’; an owl is a ‘cat-faced eagle’, and a crow is a ‘black duck.’
I have a theory about this naming convention. Many years ago in China, there was a man who had the job of giving animals their names. Mr Chen had poor eyesight, was not particularly educated, nor creative, nor did he enjoy his job. And on Friday afternoons, just as he was about to finish work for the week and go home to his family, his boss would routinely arrive with a stack of pictures of newly-discovered animals.
‘Here you go, Chen. Give these animals Chinese names before you go home,’ his boss would say. With a sigh, Chen would flick through the pictures and, with one eye on the clock, he would write down the first thing that came to mind.
So when he saw the picture of a koala, which showed a bear-like creature with no tail, Chen quickly wrote: ‘No tail bear.’ Next, a four legged African animal with an elongated neck. ‘What the heck!’ said Chen, ‘That’s a long-necked deer.’
Then, a hefty grey animal, also from Africa, with a brutal horn on its nose. ‘Errm… is that a type of cow?’ said Chen as he squinted at the picture. ‘And that horn looks pretty sharp. That’s it! Sharp-horned cow!’
And finally, a picture of an Australian animal that hops on its back legs, with a long tail and carries its young in a pocket. ‘Jeez!’ said Chen. ‘What the hell is that?!’ The picture gave no indication of scale so, as the clock ticked towards five o’clock, he said: ‘Let’s call it a pouch mouse. Right! Home time! I’m outta here!’
I’m not sure if this theory would stand up to close scrutiny but animal naming in Chinese shows that the language is very direct. (It is also not particularly accurate at times. A koala, for instance, is not a bear. And a crow is not a duck. And a crocodile is a reptile and not, as the Chinese call it, a ‘bad fish.’)
But what about the way in which language is used? Are Taiwanese people really as hesitant to ask direct questions and say what they think? Well, this is the general perception but my experience suggests not.
For example, I bumped into two of my neighbours on the stairs a few weeks ago: Mr Liu and Mrs Huang. Mr Liu speaks pretty good English and the three of us introduced ourselves and exchanged pleasantries as any nationalities would.
Then Mrs Huang, via Mr Liu, became more inquisitive. In quick succession, she asked how long I’d been in Taiwan; how much longer I'm staying; what I do for a living; how old I am; am I married; and if I have children. I answered ‘no’ to the last two questions and then she promptly asked: ‘why not?’
I told a Taiwanese friend about this and she said that such questions are typical during an initial conversation. I found the questions about age, marital status and offspring very personal and I certainly wouldn’t ask a British person these questions within minutes of meeting them.
So the issue of directness is nowhere near as clear-cut as some people think. There is certainly no league table based on nationality. Despite a perceived tendency to dress up questions, Britons can be much more honest with their words than the supposedly-blunt Americans. And the Taiwanese – thanks in part to their no-nonsense language – can be painfully direct.
Mrs Huang proved this and now I purposefully try to avoid her, just in case she wants know the contents of my bank account. If she knew the truth, she might be tempted to give me the name ‘bald, poor foreigner.’
Tuesday, 16 September 2008
The sweet taste of competition
‘You mean you actually cook?’ My Canadian neighbour Chris was open-mouthed with amazement when he saw saucepans and a chopping board in my apartment. Chris said he might occasionally pour some hot water on instant noodles but beyond that, everything he eats is made by someone else.
In the UK I cooked every day, using fresh ingredients, because it was the only way to eat healthily. For the same reason I avoided processed, ready-made meals from supermarkets because they are packed with chemicals and sugar. So when I arrived in Taiwan, my habits endured and I still cooked. But in the last month or so, I have begun to take the expat route.
One of my concerns was that I would pile on the kilos if I didn’t determine the contents of my own plate. But this hasn’t happened; in fact, I have lost weight and body fat. I was 96 kilos when I left the UK in early May and now I am five kilos lighter and my jeans are noticeably looser.
I am not sure what I’m not eating to make me lose weight. I rarely ate potatoes or wheat back home and, ironically, I tend to eat more of the latter here. Also white, sticky rice and noodles are ubiquitous in Taiwan. And both of these are frowned upon by my nutritional muse in Wales (the infinitely sagacious Emma Jones) because they lack roughage and are deemed to be ‘bad carbohydrates.’
My consumption of the real dietary evils – beer and junk food – is pretty much the same as in the UK. So, although my weight loss is welcome it’s a bit of a mystery, especially as I am now following Chris’s advice to eat in restaurants and have takeaways.
His logic is hard to dispute: Taipei has hundreds, possibly thousands, of places to eat; the variety of food is enormous; the quality is high; and the cost of eating out is amazingly low. And you don’t have to search far and wide to find the delights of Taipei food. In the UK, even in large cities, you need a guidebook or local knowledge to find a good meal. Here, you just need to walk out of your front door.
My neighbourhood is typical for central Taipei. It’s not a tourist area and there are few signs of western influence. The streets are lined with small shops selling everyday items on the ground floor, and low-rise apartments above.
There are also numerous restaurants and take-aways. But unlike the UK, the eating places are not outposts of mega-corporations. They are used daily by locals, they are typically family-owned, they have no airs and graces, and there is no attempt at branding or gimmicks. The restaurants and food stalls simply cook and serve good quality, cheap food.
A classic example is a restaurant about 100 metres from my place. It has no sign and it doesn’t even have a name, but it’s always busy. The restaurant is open to the street, the tables have no tablecloths and diners sit on low metal stools.
Passers-by can see into the narrow kitchen where the chefs, dressed in shorts, stained singlets and flip-flops, sweat and curse over roaring gas rings. Often they smoke as they cook and, with space at such a premium and with such an onerous workload, they balance over-flowing bowls of food on top of each other on the wet floor.
I have eaten twice at this place and both times the food was as good as anything I have experienced in the past. Last Saturday, as Typhoon Sinlaku dumped several million gallons of the Philippine Sea on Taipei, Monica and I found a table in the restaurant and she ordered from the menu on the wall.
The waitress was a short, dumpy woman in a red and white dress. Monica told her what we wanted and the woman bellowed our order, item by item, to the kitchen. Within a minute, the first dish was unceremoniously pushed across the table: a tangled heap of slippery, milky-white udon noodles with slithers of pork.
Then a plate of sashimi arrived: six generous chunks of raw fish served on a bed of grated turnip and radish, and accompanied by a small bowl of soy sauce and wasabi. The final dish was dan bao fan, or rice wrapped in omelette topped, rather incongruously, with a dollop of ketchup.
Our filling and very tasty meal for two cost 300 NT (or £5.) In the UK, the same meal – if you could find a place that sold this type of food – would cost three or four times as much.
It is a similar story for food that you can find in the UK. For example, dishes at Sushi Express in Taipei are 30 NT (50p) each. In British sushi restaurants, you will pay around six times more for essentially the same food.
So what explains these huge differences in cost? Well, given that the prices of many basic foodstuffs are determined in the international commodity markets, it is not simply a case of the raw materials being cheaper in Taiwan. The reasons are, I suspect, a little more subtle.
For instance, in the UK, restaurants and cafes spend a fortune on décor, furniture, lighting and staff uniforms. This has to be paid for and, ultimately, it is the customer who foots the bill.
I cannot think of a single restaurant or café in the UK that – like the ‘restaurant with no name’ and countless others in Taipei - serves great food in a modest environment. To attract customers in the UK, it seems that you have ‘wrap’ the food in stylish surroundings, give the diners an ‘experience’ and the food often takes a poor second place.
The British tend to associate pleasant surroundings with good quality food. But of course, this is a nonsense argument. Many ‘nice’ restaurants in the UK serve very average food. In contrast, however, the Taiwanese focus on the quality of the food and the ambience of the restaurant is of secondary, or no, importance.
In addition, Taiwan has – like other Asian countries – a social culture which revolves around food. If friends meet in Taipei, the most likely venue is a restaurant. In the UK would probably be a pub with maybe food to follow, just to soak up the beer. Food is simply not as highly valued in the UK. I know many British people who would gladly spend £20 (1200 NT) on alcohol in a single night but would baulk at paying even half as much on a meal.
There is a virtuous cycle at work in Taiwan that is missing in the UK. Here, food is a top priority and restaurant owners know that customers appreciate quality, choice and value for money. So there is intense competition to ensure that these discerning customers come back. If the quality slips or prices increase, then diners have an infinite choice of alternatives. In the UK, people tend to tolerate poor food, so there is little incentive for restaurateurs to improve.
The restaurant market in Taipei is pretty close to what economists call ‘perfect competition.’ This is ironic when you consider that the western mega-chains – McDonalds, TGI Fridays, Subway, Domino Pizza, KFC, et al. – are regarded as the epitome of modernism in Taiwan. In reality, these chains merely represent style over substance, branding over quality, and convenience over choice. Their prevalence in the UK is testimony to British ambivalence to and our acceptance of mediocre food. It would be a national tragedy if they became equally as popular in Taiwan.
It is virtually impossible to find family-owned restaurants and take aways in the UK that sell reasonably priced and wholesome food. If someone were brave enough to set one up, they would really struggle in the face of the corporate might of the chains. They would also need to spend thousands on marketing and décor, just to get people through the door.
Another consideration is rules and regulations. Restaurateurs in the UK have to deal with onerous food safety and hygiene laws that seem to be absent here. It is ironic that kitchens in Taiwanese restaurants are filthy in comparison to the UK and yet I have had plenty of stomach upsets back home as a result of eating out. I have not had a single digestive problem in my four months in Asia.
I suspect another reason why Taiwanese eating places are so cheap is because the owners’ attitude to work. The work rate of the Taiwanese caterers is incredible and I cannot imagine that many Brits would be prepared to toil for so many hours for such little financial reward.
Maybe this is why the vast majority of family-owned restaurants in the UK are operated by immigrants – mainly Bangladeshis, Turks, Hong Kong Chinese, Italians, Thais and Greeks. The so-called ‘indigenous British’ are equally ambivalent about their food consumption as they are about turning it into a business. There are exceptions, of course, but if you want good food in the UK, the best place to start looking is in a restaurant operated by immigrants.
Food is undoubtedly one of the highlights of Taipei. Whether I am eating steamed rice cake soaked in pig’s blood at the night market; baby squid from the barbeque stall around the corner; or beef noodle soup in a humble restaurant, I am constantly reminded that the city is an exceptional culinary destination.
However, Taipei is not perfect. I still miss roast dinners, parsnips, bacon, baked beans and chunky soups. Even if I could get the ingredients here, I doubt if they would taste the same; I can wait until I get back to the UK. And in the meantime, I will see if I can sell my saucepans and chopping board.
Postscript
Sept. 26 - I walked past the 'restaurant with no name' one afternoon this week. It was not open for business but one door was open and the bleary-eyed chefs were milling around. I looked through the door and saw bags of food (onions, noodles, carrots, etc.) on the floor waiting to be prepared for the evening. There was no sign of any meat, apart from a well-fed, black rat hopping across the floor. I don't know if I will be eating there again.
In the UK I cooked every day, using fresh ingredients, because it was the only way to eat healthily. For the same reason I avoided processed, ready-made meals from supermarkets because they are packed with chemicals and sugar. So when I arrived in Taiwan, my habits endured and I still cooked. But in the last month or so, I have begun to take the expat route.
One of my concerns was that I would pile on the kilos if I didn’t determine the contents of my own plate. But this hasn’t happened; in fact, I have lost weight and body fat. I was 96 kilos when I left the UK in early May and now I am five kilos lighter and my jeans are noticeably looser.
I am not sure what I’m not eating to make me lose weight. I rarely ate potatoes or wheat back home and, ironically, I tend to eat more of the latter here. Also white, sticky rice and noodles are ubiquitous in Taiwan. And both of these are frowned upon by my nutritional muse in Wales (the infinitely sagacious Emma Jones) because they lack roughage and are deemed to be ‘bad carbohydrates.’
My consumption of the real dietary evils – beer and junk food – is pretty much the same as in the UK. So, although my weight loss is welcome it’s a bit of a mystery, especially as I am now following Chris’s advice to eat in restaurants and have takeaways.
His logic is hard to dispute: Taipei has hundreds, possibly thousands, of places to eat; the variety of food is enormous; the quality is high; and the cost of eating out is amazingly low. And you don’t have to search far and wide to find the delights of Taipei food. In the UK, even in large cities, you need a guidebook or local knowledge to find a good meal. Here, you just need to walk out of your front door.
My neighbourhood is typical for central Taipei. It’s not a tourist area and there are few signs of western influence. The streets are lined with small shops selling everyday items on the ground floor, and low-rise apartments above.
There are also numerous restaurants and take-aways. But unlike the UK, the eating places are not outposts of mega-corporations. They are used daily by locals, they are typically family-owned, they have no airs and graces, and there is no attempt at branding or gimmicks. The restaurants and food stalls simply cook and serve good quality, cheap food.
A classic example is a restaurant about 100 metres from my place. It has no sign and it doesn’t even have a name, but it’s always busy. The restaurant is open to the street, the tables have no tablecloths and diners sit on low metal stools.
Passers-by can see into the narrow kitchen where the chefs, dressed in shorts, stained singlets and flip-flops, sweat and curse over roaring gas rings. Often they smoke as they cook and, with space at such a premium and with such an onerous workload, they balance over-flowing bowls of food on top of each other on the wet floor.
I have eaten twice at this place and both times the food was as good as anything I have experienced in the past. Last Saturday, as Typhoon Sinlaku dumped several million gallons of the Philippine Sea on Taipei, Monica and I found a table in the restaurant and she ordered from the menu on the wall.
The waitress was a short, dumpy woman in a red and white dress. Monica told her what we wanted and the woman bellowed our order, item by item, to the kitchen. Within a minute, the first dish was unceremoniously pushed across the table: a tangled heap of slippery, milky-white udon noodles with slithers of pork.
Then a plate of sashimi arrived: six generous chunks of raw fish served on a bed of grated turnip and radish, and accompanied by a small bowl of soy sauce and wasabi. The final dish was dan bao fan, or rice wrapped in omelette topped, rather incongruously, with a dollop of ketchup.
Our filling and very tasty meal for two cost 300 NT (or £5.) In the UK, the same meal – if you could find a place that sold this type of food – would cost three or four times as much.
It is a similar story for food that you can find in the UK. For example, dishes at Sushi Express in Taipei are 30 NT (50p) each. In British sushi restaurants, you will pay around six times more for essentially the same food.
So what explains these huge differences in cost? Well, given that the prices of many basic foodstuffs are determined in the international commodity markets, it is not simply a case of the raw materials being cheaper in Taiwan. The reasons are, I suspect, a little more subtle.
For instance, in the UK, restaurants and cafes spend a fortune on décor, furniture, lighting and staff uniforms. This has to be paid for and, ultimately, it is the customer who foots the bill.
I cannot think of a single restaurant or café in the UK that – like the ‘restaurant with no name’ and countless others in Taipei - serves great food in a modest environment. To attract customers in the UK, it seems that you have ‘wrap’ the food in stylish surroundings, give the diners an ‘experience’ and the food often takes a poor second place.
The British tend to associate pleasant surroundings with good quality food. But of course, this is a nonsense argument. Many ‘nice’ restaurants in the UK serve very average food. In contrast, however, the Taiwanese focus on the quality of the food and the ambience of the restaurant is of secondary, or no, importance.
In addition, Taiwan has – like other Asian countries – a social culture which revolves around food. If friends meet in Taipei, the most likely venue is a restaurant. In the UK would probably be a pub with maybe food to follow, just to soak up the beer. Food is simply not as highly valued in the UK. I know many British people who would gladly spend £20 (1200 NT) on alcohol in a single night but would baulk at paying even half as much on a meal.
There is a virtuous cycle at work in Taiwan that is missing in the UK. Here, food is a top priority and restaurant owners know that customers appreciate quality, choice and value for money. So there is intense competition to ensure that these discerning customers come back. If the quality slips or prices increase, then diners have an infinite choice of alternatives. In the UK, people tend to tolerate poor food, so there is little incentive for restaurateurs to improve.
The restaurant market in Taipei is pretty close to what economists call ‘perfect competition.’ This is ironic when you consider that the western mega-chains – McDonalds, TGI Fridays, Subway, Domino Pizza, KFC, et al. – are regarded as the epitome of modernism in Taiwan. In reality, these chains merely represent style over substance, branding over quality, and convenience over choice. Their prevalence in the UK is testimony to British ambivalence to and our acceptance of mediocre food. It would be a national tragedy if they became equally as popular in Taiwan.
It is virtually impossible to find family-owned restaurants and take aways in the UK that sell reasonably priced and wholesome food. If someone were brave enough to set one up, they would really struggle in the face of the corporate might of the chains. They would also need to spend thousands on marketing and décor, just to get people through the door.
Another consideration is rules and regulations. Restaurateurs in the UK have to deal with onerous food safety and hygiene laws that seem to be absent here. It is ironic that kitchens in Taiwanese restaurants are filthy in comparison to the UK and yet I have had plenty of stomach upsets back home as a result of eating out. I have not had a single digestive problem in my four months in Asia.
I suspect another reason why Taiwanese eating places are so cheap is because the owners’ attitude to work. The work rate of the Taiwanese caterers is incredible and I cannot imagine that many Brits would be prepared to toil for so many hours for such little financial reward.
Maybe this is why the vast majority of family-owned restaurants in the UK are operated by immigrants – mainly Bangladeshis, Turks, Hong Kong Chinese, Italians, Thais and Greeks. The so-called ‘indigenous British’ are equally ambivalent about their food consumption as they are about turning it into a business. There are exceptions, of course, but if you want good food in the UK, the best place to start looking is in a restaurant operated by immigrants.
Food is undoubtedly one of the highlights of Taipei. Whether I am eating steamed rice cake soaked in pig’s blood at the night market; baby squid from the barbeque stall around the corner; or beef noodle soup in a humble restaurant, I am constantly reminded that the city is an exceptional culinary destination.
However, Taipei is not perfect. I still miss roast dinners, parsnips, bacon, baked beans and chunky soups. Even if I could get the ingredients here, I doubt if they would taste the same; I can wait until I get back to the UK. And in the meantime, I will see if I can sell my saucepans and chopping board.
Postscript
Sept. 26 - I walked past the 'restaurant with no name' one afternoon this week. It was not open for business but one door was open and the bleary-eyed chefs were milling around. I looked through the door and saw bags of food (onions, noodles, carrots, etc.) on the floor waiting to be prepared for the evening. There was no sign of any meat, apart from a well-fed, black rat hopping across the floor. I don't know if I will be eating there again.
Monday, 8 September 2008
Words of ignorance
If a person who speaks three languages is called trilingual, and someone who speaks two is bilingual, then what do you call a person who speaks one language? The answer is, of course, British.
This is a rather lame joke but it resonates with truth. The reason is historic rather than genetic. In the glory days of the British Empire, English was the official language of over a quarter of the planet. With a huge array of tenses, masses of irregular verbs and baffling use of prepositions, English is not an easy language to learn. But my forefathers had a big navy, plenty of guns and lived in forts, so there was little argument.
Although Britain's power has diminished, America's has grown. Because English is the international language of business, it is possible to live pretty much anywhere in the world as a monolingual Briton. Even so I think it is polite to at least try to speak the local language.
My command of German and French is good enough to interact with the natives about the important things in life: order food, buy beer, discuss football, etc. But my attempts often go unnoticed because people invariably skip over my stumbling and talk to me in English instead. This happened throughout my travels and, in particular, in Taiwan.
Every week my attempts to speak Chinese are ignored. For instance, a young man at the local Family Mart smiles broadly whenever I walk in, wishes me ‘Good morning!’ and then asks me if I want my usual Winston Red cigarettes. When I try to speak Chinese, he just talks in English.
And last week, after a trip to the gym, I tried to order a drink from a street vendor. I thought I had pieced together the appropriate sentence in Chinese but the man asked me: ‘Do you want mango milk or mango juice?’ It was the same story at the barbeque stall on Thursday; the woman asked if I wanted chilli sauce on my baby squid in English.
Sometimes, people just appear out of nowhere and speak English. A few weeks ago, a man on the MRT prodded my arm and said: ‘May I suggest you try tai chi? It is good for your blood vessels.’ Before I could answer, he’d grabbed his bag and jumped off the train at the next station.
And on Friday night, while waiting on the platform of the Chiang Kai Shek Memorial Hall MRT station, a family of four Taiwanese people were looking at me with big smiles. The mother leaned down to her young daughter and then pointed at me. ‘Ha-llo’, said mum slowly to the girl, ‘Say ha-llo.’ The girl blushed and waved to me before turning shyly back to mum. I waved back and said: ‘Hello! How are you?’
The mother introduced herself as Mary and she told me that she’s hoping that her daughter will become proficient in English as soon as possible. I looked at the girl, still clinging to mum’s leg, and guessed that she was about four years’ old. She didn’t want to talk but mum did. ‘It is important that children learn English,’ Mary said. ‘It is good for her career.’
This statement sums up the prevailing this country’s attitude to education. In Taiwan – and, from my experiences of teaching international MA students, in the rest of East Asia – education is seen as the foundation of wealth and, hence, happiness. It is never too early to learn, you can never do too much schoolwork and you can never have too many qualifications.
In the UK, education is often seen by children (and, depressingly, by some parents too) as a chore. Of course, some British parents are eager for their children to be schooled as soon as they can stand up, but they are in the minority when compared to their Taiwanese counterparts.
For Taiwanese parents, learning English is as important as mastering Chinese and arithmetic. Some Taipei kindergartens are bi-lingual and some teach in English only. English is compulsory from elementary school all the way to the end of high school. And if eleven years of formal teaching is not enough, many parents pay for their children to attend cram schools where they learn in small classes in the evening and at weekends.
In the UK, only rich or particularly ambitious parents would pay for their kids to get so much exposure to another language. In Taiwan, such investment is commonplace and English education seems to be one of the island’s largest industries. There are hundreds of cram schools and thousands of Westerners are employed as teachers.
But despite this near obsession with learning English, the Taiwanese approach is flawed. For example, the demand for English teachers is so great that cram schools will employ virtually anyone. So long as the applicant has a bachelor’s degree – whether it is business, engineering or underwater basket weaving - and speaks English as a first language, he or she will get a job.
As a former university teacher, I know that imparting knowledge is part technique and part natural aptitude. Some of my ex-colleagues were very accomplished academics (with MAs, PhDs and extensive publication lists) but they were wholly incapable of enlightening a class of students. Some couldn’t even explain how to change a light-bulb.
Reading the forums on Tealit (a website that helps teachers find jobs in Taiwan) it is clear that the standard of English is very low among the people who are entrusted to educate Taiwanese children. Some messages include horrendous spelling and grammatical errors and it makes me wonder how these people could explain even the simplest rules of English. And yet, somehow, these people are employed as English teachers.
Some cram schools specify that they will only accept North American accents, which is understandable to a point because most business is done with US companies. Others say – proudly – that they will consider teachers with any accent. This is incredibly naïve.
I have met English teachers in Taiwan with regional British accents that are so strong that I have trouble understanding them. South African, Caribbean and Antipodean accents can be even more impenetrable. I have also met Eastern Europeans who work as English teachers. Their command of the language is pretty good but they are not native speakers and inevitably, their accents are very challenging.
Conversely, I also know Taiwanese people who, despite their excellent English and experience, have been unable to get jobs at cram schools because they are not Westerners. This is impossible to prove, of course, because it would be racial discrimination. But it is significant that cram schools ask for photographs with job applications.
So if you are white, speak English and have a degree, you are pretty much guaranteed a well paid job at a Taiwanese cram school. You don’t need an understanding of the language, teaching experience, nor aptitude; you simply need to look and speak right.
Another flaw in the Taiwanese approach to learning English is the umbilical dependence on text books. As any linguist will confirm, the best way to learn a language is to hear and speak it on a daily basis. OK, you may need to refer to books to understand grammar and the ‘theory’ of language, but this is no substitute for exposure and practice.
When I was in Japan en route to Taiwan, I met with some ex-students for dinner in Tokyo. I was chatting to one of my former students, Jinmi, and I was suddenly struck by how much her English had improved since I’d last seen her.
She said that she barely spoke English at work and she wondered if the reason for her near-perfect pronunciation and immense vocabulary was that she had habitually listened to the BBC World Service every day since she left the UK two years earlier.
I mentioned Jinmi’s example to Taiwanese friends who are eager to improve their English. They were amazed and dismayed in equal measure: amazed because it offers a new and magical route to bilingualism; dismayed because the technique is so divorced from the Asian way of learning.
Like mastering a musical instrument or a sport, practice is the key to learning a language. This is the reason that I am still monolingual and, for that matter, an average guitarist and a unfulfilled sportsman; I am too lazy too practice.
And to practice effectively, one must also inevitably make mistakes. This is another concept which seems to grate with Taiwanese people.
When I was teaching, it was noticeable that Chinese, Taiwanese, Korean and Japanese students would very rarely ask questions in class. They much preferred to send me an email afterwards or see me in my office. I heard two explanations for this phenomenon. Some students said that East Asian culture is very respectful of authority and to challenge a teacher in public would be very rude.
But the second explanation makes much more sense. Parents (and teachers) in this part of the world put immense pressure on children to be perfect. To make an error is a sign of stupidity, and to do so in public is shameful.
One Chinese student told me that she had lots of questions about my lessons but she would never ask them in class because people might laugh if she made grammatical error. Furthermore, she said, simply by asking a question, she was showing that she didn’t understand and, hence, her peers would think she was an idiot.
Despite the erratic quality of teaching at cram schools and the questionable effectiveness of learning from text books, I genuinely admire Taiwanese parents who recognise the value of their children learning English from an early age. Very few of their British (or American) equivalents would even contemplate sending their offspring to foreign language classes.
This is painfully ironic when you consider that China is on course to be the world’s largest economy within 20 years and already, one quarter of the world’s population has Chinese as a first language.
Much of the English-speaking world hangs on to the arrogant belief that the rest of the planet should be bilingual and that there is no need to speak another language. As my own painful experience demonstrates, Chinese is a frustrating language to learn but, just as the 19th and 20th centuries were dominated by English-speaking nations, the history of the 21st will be written in Mandarin.
This is a rather lame joke but it resonates with truth. The reason is historic rather than genetic. In the glory days of the British Empire, English was the official language of over a quarter of the planet. With a huge array of tenses, masses of irregular verbs and baffling use of prepositions, English is not an easy language to learn. But my forefathers had a big navy, plenty of guns and lived in forts, so there was little argument.
Although Britain's power has diminished, America's has grown. Because English is the international language of business, it is possible to live pretty much anywhere in the world as a monolingual Briton. Even so I think it is polite to at least try to speak the local language.
My command of German and French is good enough to interact with the natives about the important things in life: order food, buy beer, discuss football, etc. But my attempts often go unnoticed because people invariably skip over my stumbling and talk to me in English instead. This happened throughout my travels and, in particular, in Taiwan.
Every week my attempts to speak Chinese are ignored. For instance, a young man at the local Family Mart smiles broadly whenever I walk in, wishes me ‘Good morning!’ and then asks me if I want my usual Winston Red cigarettes. When I try to speak Chinese, he just talks in English.
And last week, after a trip to the gym, I tried to order a drink from a street vendor. I thought I had pieced together the appropriate sentence in Chinese but the man asked me: ‘Do you want mango milk or mango juice?’ It was the same story at the barbeque stall on Thursday; the woman asked if I wanted chilli sauce on my baby squid in English.
Sometimes, people just appear out of nowhere and speak English. A few weeks ago, a man on the MRT prodded my arm and said: ‘May I suggest you try tai chi? It is good for your blood vessels.’ Before I could answer, he’d grabbed his bag and jumped off the train at the next station.
And on Friday night, while waiting on the platform of the Chiang Kai Shek Memorial Hall MRT station, a family of four Taiwanese people were looking at me with big smiles. The mother leaned down to her young daughter and then pointed at me. ‘Ha-llo’, said mum slowly to the girl, ‘Say ha-llo.’ The girl blushed and waved to me before turning shyly back to mum. I waved back and said: ‘Hello! How are you?’
The mother introduced herself as Mary and she told me that she’s hoping that her daughter will become proficient in English as soon as possible. I looked at the girl, still clinging to mum’s leg, and guessed that she was about four years’ old. She didn’t want to talk but mum did. ‘It is important that children learn English,’ Mary said. ‘It is good for her career.’
This statement sums up the prevailing this country’s attitude to education. In Taiwan – and, from my experiences of teaching international MA students, in the rest of East Asia – education is seen as the foundation of wealth and, hence, happiness. It is never too early to learn, you can never do too much schoolwork and you can never have too many qualifications.
In the UK, education is often seen by children (and, depressingly, by some parents too) as a chore. Of course, some British parents are eager for their children to be schooled as soon as they can stand up, but they are in the minority when compared to their Taiwanese counterparts.
For Taiwanese parents, learning English is as important as mastering Chinese and arithmetic. Some Taipei kindergartens are bi-lingual and some teach in English only. English is compulsory from elementary school all the way to the end of high school. And if eleven years of formal teaching is not enough, many parents pay for their children to attend cram schools where they learn in small classes in the evening and at weekends.
In the UK, only rich or particularly ambitious parents would pay for their kids to get so much exposure to another language. In Taiwan, such investment is commonplace and English education seems to be one of the island’s largest industries. There are hundreds of cram schools and thousands of Westerners are employed as teachers.
But despite this near obsession with learning English, the Taiwanese approach is flawed. For example, the demand for English teachers is so great that cram schools will employ virtually anyone. So long as the applicant has a bachelor’s degree – whether it is business, engineering or underwater basket weaving - and speaks English as a first language, he or she will get a job.
As a former university teacher, I know that imparting knowledge is part technique and part natural aptitude. Some of my ex-colleagues were very accomplished academics (with MAs, PhDs and extensive publication lists) but they were wholly incapable of enlightening a class of students. Some couldn’t even explain how to change a light-bulb.
Reading the forums on Tealit (a website that helps teachers find jobs in Taiwan) it is clear that the standard of English is very low among the people who are entrusted to educate Taiwanese children. Some messages include horrendous spelling and grammatical errors and it makes me wonder how these people could explain even the simplest rules of English. And yet, somehow, these people are employed as English teachers.
Some cram schools specify that they will only accept North American accents, which is understandable to a point because most business is done with US companies. Others say – proudly – that they will consider teachers with any accent. This is incredibly naïve.
I have met English teachers in Taiwan with regional British accents that are so strong that I have trouble understanding them. South African, Caribbean and Antipodean accents can be even more impenetrable. I have also met Eastern Europeans who work as English teachers. Their command of the language is pretty good but they are not native speakers and inevitably, their accents are very challenging.
Conversely, I also know Taiwanese people who, despite their excellent English and experience, have been unable to get jobs at cram schools because they are not Westerners. This is impossible to prove, of course, because it would be racial discrimination. But it is significant that cram schools ask for photographs with job applications.
So if you are white, speak English and have a degree, you are pretty much guaranteed a well paid job at a Taiwanese cram school. You don’t need an understanding of the language, teaching experience, nor aptitude; you simply need to look and speak right.
Another flaw in the Taiwanese approach to learning English is the umbilical dependence on text books. As any linguist will confirm, the best way to learn a language is to hear and speak it on a daily basis. OK, you may need to refer to books to understand grammar and the ‘theory’ of language, but this is no substitute for exposure and practice.
When I was in Japan en route to Taiwan, I met with some ex-students for dinner in Tokyo. I was chatting to one of my former students, Jinmi, and I was suddenly struck by how much her English had improved since I’d last seen her.
She said that she barely spoke English at work and she wondered if the reason for her near-perfect pronunciation and immense vocabulary was that she had habitually listened to the BBC World Service every day since she left the UK two years earlier.
I mentioned Jinmi’s example to Taiwanese friends who are eager to improve their English. They were amazed and dismayed in equal measure: amazed because it offers a new and magical route to bilingualism; dismayed because the technique is so divorced from the Asian way of learning.
Like mastering a musical instrument or a sport, practice is the key to learning a language. This is the reason that I am still monolingual and, for that matter, an average guitarist and a unfulfilled sportsman; I am too lazy too practice.
And to practice effectively, one must also inevitably make mistakes. This is another concept which seems to grate with Taiwanese people.
When I was teaching, it was noticeable that Chinese, Taiwanese, Korean and Japanese students would very rarely ask questions in class. They much preferred to send me an email afterwards or see me in my office. I heard two explanations for this phenomenon. Some students said that East Asian culture is very respectful of authority and to challenge a teacher in public would be very rude.
But the second explanation makes much more sense. Parents (and teachers) in this part of the world put immense pressure on children to be perfect. To make an error is a sign of stupidity, and to do so in public is shameful.
One Chinese student told me that she had lots of questions about my lessons but she would never ask them in class because people might laugh if she made grammatical error. Furthermore, she said, simply by asking a question, she was showing that she didn’t understand and, hence, her peers would think she was an idiot.
Despite the erratic quality of teaching at cram schools and the questionable effectiveness of learning from text books, I genuinely admire Taiwanese parents who recognise the value of their children learning English from an early age. Very few of their British (or American) equivalents would even contemplate sending their offspring to foreign language classes.
This is painfully ironic when you consider that China is on course to be the world’s largest economy within 20 years and already, one quarter of the world’s population has Chinese as a first language.
Much of the English-speaking world hangs on to the arrogant belief that the rest of the planet should be bilingual and that there is no need to speak another language. As my own painful experience demonstrates, Chinese is a frustrating language to learn but, just as the 19th and 20th centuries were dominated by English-speaking nations, the history of the 21st will be written in Mandarin.
Thursday, 4 September 2008
The definitive man
Let me start with a confession. Over the course of my life, I have seen hundreds of naked men. Not on TV but in real life, in very close proximity. This may be a surprising revelation from a heterosexual but it’s true.
Since I’ve been in Taiwan, I have also seen many naked Asian men. As a result of my extensive research, I think I’m now in a position to make some comments on masculinity across different continents.
The reason that I have witnessed so much raw masculinity is thirty or more years of sport. As a footballer, cricketer, tennis player, and gym-goer I have shared changing rooms and showers with countless other males. Although I’ve never overtly checked out guys’ bodies, one cannot help noticing.
From my experiences in the changing room of Taipei’s California Gym, the most obvious difference between Western and Asian men is body hair. Apart from my head, I am pretty hirsute. Taiwanese men, on the other hand, are not. Their only noticeable body hair is on the legs and, to a lesser extent, on their arms.
It is not unusual for Taiwanese guys to stare at me in the changing room. This could be for a number of reasons. Maybe it is because I am the only Westerner in the room. Maybe it is because they’ve never seen a hairy chest before. Maybe it’s because I am a bigger build than the Taiwanese. Maybe, as suggested by a Taiwanese friend, it’s because the gym is a magnet for the gay community.
I’m not sure about this. Perhaps there’s another reason. In UK changing rooms, men tend to be rather unabashed about nakedness. During my football ‘career’, my team-mates would get changed, shower and dry themselves with no embarrassment about their bare bodies.
In Taipei, however, the men tend to cover their groins with towels when getting dressed, undressed and on the way to the shower. Maybe the Taiwanese men stare at me because, unlike them, I am totally comfortable being naked in front of others.
I suspect this is another symptom of Asian modesty. Indeed, the showers at the gym are individual cubicles. In every gym and changing room I’ve used in the UK, showers are communal and it is normal to have two football teams washing dirt from their naked bodies in a pretty small room. This difference is rather ironic when you consider that Taipei is a very densely populated city and it is very difficult to find personal space.
The sauna at the Taipei gym is unisex and people either wear shorts or wrap a towel around their waist. Many UK saunas are mixed and in the men-only saunas, nakedness is common. The protocol is even more liberal in Holland; a few years ago, I used a sauna in Amsterdam and was surprised to see naked men and women perfectly at ease with each other’s undressed company. There was no flirting, no embarrassment and, as far as I know, no erections.
In the gym itself, Taiwanese men behave pretty much like their Western counterparts. There are overweight guys who sweat profusely as soon as they start walking on the running machine. There are skinny men who do a few reps and then sit motionless on the machine, staring into space, waiting for the muscles to bulge. And then there are the gym-monkeys, who pump their bodies into swollen caricatures, unable to walk past a mirror without admiring their triceps.
But it is outside the hormone-rich confines of the gym that Taiwanese masculinity shows its key differences. With slight builds, lack of stubble, smooth skin and carefully styled hair, Taiwanese men are rather androgynous. They also lack the swaggering attitude that many UK men have. During my three months in Taiwan, I am yet to see a local man who makes me want to cross the road just in case he wants to prove something with his fists.
This is, of course, no bad thing. The towns and cities of the UK are crawling with groups of men who would happily get involved in a fight, given even a slight provocation. Part of the reason is the prevalence of alcohol in young British men’s diet but belligerence seems to be part of our national DNA.
Taiwanese men seem much more placid. No doubt they have the same amount of testosterone as Westerners but it is hidden. This is evident when you see Taiwanese men walking with their girlfriends; their demeanour is extremely subdued and it appears that the woman has him well under control.
For instance, last week I saw two couples hand-in-hand wearing complimentary outfits. The guy was wearing a white T-shirt with the letters ‘LO’ printed boldly on the front, and the girl had the letters ‘VE.’ I guess they were publically demonstrating their affection for each other, but there is a chance – depending on who stood on which side - that they were promoting bicycles to French speakers.
One could argue that this is sweet and innocent. But this couple were in their mid-twenties and I cannot imagine even a love-struck British teenage boy agreeing to wear such a T-shirt. It is just too ‘soppy.’
Another way that Taiwanese men are expected to show their love is by carrying his partner’s handbag. I heard about this from several people but I didn’t believe it until I saw a Taiwanese man with a tiny, pink designer handbag over his shoulder, walking meekly, arm-in-arm with his girlfriend.
I have seen this phenomenon many times in the last few weeks and every time I shake my head in disbelief. This would never happen in the UK. OK, maybe if the woman was carrying a heavy bag of shopping, the man might offer to take it. But many British women would refuse because they would see it as the man trying to assert his physical superiority.
But if a British woman asked a British man to carry her handbag, the guy would immediately feel that his masculinity was being threatened. And other men would laugh their nuts off.
Masculinity is a universal concept but it manifests itself in different ways. No doubt a Taiwanese man would argue that carrying his girlfriend’s Louis Vuitton or wearing a T-shirt printed with ‘LO’ (or ‘VE’ for that matter) does not threaten his masculinity. But to me, as a Westerner who was raised on beer, football and bar room banter, there are much better ways to show one’s devotion to the woman and retaining the integrity of one’s hormones in the process.
I have yet to have an in-depth conversation with a Taiwanese man about how what masculinity means to them but last weekend I had an experience that raised some worrying questions.
I was wandering around a part of Taipei that is commonly known as the Computer Market; a concentration of shops that sell technology products. Down one of the alleys I saw a sign that said ‘DVDs – AV.’ I wanted to buy some cheap movies so I took a closer look.
The shop sold pornographic DVDs only. Normally, I would keep walking but the inquisitive journalist took over and I entered the shop. As an infinite liberal, I don’t have a problem with porn (so long, of course, that the stars participate of their own freewill) but the films in this shop really shocked me.
From the packaging it appeared that the vast majority of movies featured extremely young women with very girlish figures. In many cases, they were dressed in school uniforms. The male participants were much older and, like any other porn film, much less attractive. The films were very cheap (70NT, just over £1) and the shop had plenty of customers.
According to a Taiwanese female friend, porn films with very young female stars are popular with Taiwanese men. In the West, such films would be considered very close to paedophilia and seeing them on sale made me feel uneasy. Maybe, I thought, this is how Taiwanese men assert their masculinity – by fantasising about sex with teenage girls.
Masculinity – and for that matter, femininity – is a very complex issue and academics have debated it for decades. Personally, I am torn between my intellectual, civilised self (who sees women as equals to men) and my inner animal (which is drawn to – some – women for more basic reasons.) It is not easy being a man.
Despite my belief in feminism, men and women are different. And my experiences in Taiwan suggest that masculinity here is very different to masculinity in the West. This is not to say that I am comfortable with the swaggering aggression and chauvinism of many British men. But equally, the handbag-carrying, matching T-shirt-wearing, juvenile porn-watching characteristics of some men in Taiwan fills me with despair.
Postscript
If anyone was expecting my changing room research to reveal details about the relative ‘size’ of Asian men, then I apologise. Discretion prevents me from commenting. I can, however, quote the following from the book Red China Blues by Jan Wong. Ms Wong interviewed a member of a UN Task Force who told her that the ‘standard sized condom in North America and Europe has a circumference of 104 mm… and 98 mm in China.’
Since I’ve been in Taiwan, I have also seen many naked Asian men. As a result of my extensive research, I think I’m now in a position to make some comments on masculinity across different continents.
The reason that I have witnessed so much raw masculinity is thirty or more years of sport. As a footballer, cricketer, tennis player, and gym-goer I have shared changing rooms and showers with countless other males. Although I’ve never overtly checked out guys’ bodies, one cannot help noticing.
From my experiences in the changing room of Taipei’s California Gym, the most obvious difference between Western and Asian men is body hair. Apart from my head, I am pretty hirsute. Taiwanese men, on the other hand, are not. Their only noticeable body hair is on the legs and, to a lesser extent, on their arms.
It is not unusual for Taiwanese guys to stare at me in the changing room. This could be for a number of reasons. Maybe it is because I am the only Westerner in the room. Maybe it is because they’ve never seen a hairy chest before. Maybe it’s because I am a bigger build than the Taiwanese. Maybe, as suggested by a Taiwanese friend, it’s because the gym is a magnet for the gay community.
I’m not sure about this. Perhaps there’s another reason. In UK changing rooms, men tend to be rather unabashed about nakedness. During my football ‘career’, my team-mates would get changed, shower and dry themselves with no embarrassment about their bare bodies.
In Taipei, however, the men tend to cover their groins with towels when getting dressed, undressed and on the way to the shower. Maybe the Taiwanese men stare at me because, unlike them, I am totally comfortable being naked in front of others.
I suspect this is another symptom of Asian modesty. Indeed, the showers at the gym are individual cubicles. In every gym and changing room I’ve used in the UK, showers are communal and it is normal to have two football teams washing dirt from their naked bodies in a pretty small room. This difference is rather ironic when you consider that Taipei is a very densely populated city and it is very difficult to find personal space.
The sauna at the Taipei gym is unisex and people either wear shorts or wrap a towel around their waist. Many UK saunas are mixed and in the men-only saunas, nakedness is common. The protocol is even more liberal in Holland; a few years ago, I used a sauna in Amsterdam and was surprised to see naked men and women perfectly at ease with each other’s undressed company. There was no flirting, no embarrassment and, as far as I know, no erections.
In the gym itself, Taiwanese men behave pretty much like their Western counterparts. There are overweight guys who sweat profusely as soon as they start walking on the running machine. There are skinny men who do a few reps and then sit motionless on the machine, staring into space, waiting for the muscles to bulge. And then there are the gym-monkeys, who pump their bodies into swollen caricatures, unable to walk past a mirror without admiring their triceps.
But it is outside the hormone-rich confines of the gym that Taiwanese masculinity shows its key differences. With slight builds, lack of stubble, smooth skin and carefully styled hair, Taiwanese men are rather androgynous. They also lack the swaggering attitude that many UK men have. During my three months in Taiwan, I am yet to see a local man who makes me want to cross the road just in case he wants to prove something with his fists.
This is, of course, no bad thing. The towns and cities of the UK are crawling with groups of men who would happily get involved in a fight, given even a slight provocation. Part of the reason is the prevalence of alcohol in young British men’s diet but belligerence seems to be part of our national DNA.
Taiwanese men seem much more placid. No doubt they have the same amount of testosterone as Westerners but it is hidden. This is evident when you see Taiwanese men walking with their girlfriends; their demeanour is extremely subdued and it appears that the woman has him well under control.
For instance, last week I saw two couples hand-in-hand wearing complimentary outfits. The guy was wearing a white T-shirt with the letters ‘LO’ printed boldly on the front, and the girl had the letters ‘VE.’ I guess they were publically demonstrating their affection for each other, but there is a chance – depending on who stood on which side - that they were promoting bicycles to French speakers.
One could argue that this is sweet and innocent. But this couple were in their mid-twenties and I cannot imagine even a love-struck British teenage boy agreeing to wear such a T-shirt. It is just too ‘soppy.’
Another way that Taiwanese men are expected to show their love is by carrying his partner’s handbag. I heard about this from several people but I didn’t believe it until I saw a Taiwanese man with a tiny, pink designer handbag over his shoulder, walking meekly, arm-in-arm with his girlfriend.
I have seen this phenomenon many times in the last few weeks and every time I shake my head in disbelief. This would never happen in the UK. OK, maybe if the woman was carrying a heavy bag of shopping, the man might offer to take it. But many British women would refuse because they would see it as the man trying to assert his physical superiority.
But if a British woman asked a British man to carry her handbag, the guy would immediately feel that his masculinity was being threatened. And other men would laugh their nuts off.
Masculinity is a universal concept but it manifests itself in different ways. No doubt a Taiwanese man would argue that carrying his girlfriend’s Louis Vuitton or wearing a T-shirt printed with ‘LO’ (or ‘VE’ for that matter) does not threaten his masculinity. But to me, as a Westerner who was raised on beer, football and bar room banter, there are much better ways to show one’s devotion to the woman and retaining the integrity of one’s hormones in the process.
I have yet to have an in-depth conversation with a Taiwanese man about how what masculinity means to them but last weekend I had an experience that raised some worrying questions.
I was wandering around a part of Taipei that is commonly known as the Computer Market; a concentration of shops that sell technology products. Down one of the alleys I saw a sign that said ‘DVDs – AV.’ I wanted to buy some cheap movies so I took a closer look.
The shop sold pornographic DVDs only. Normally, I would keep walking but the inquisitive journalist took over and I entered the shop. As an infinite liberal, I don’t have a problem with porn (so long, of course, that the stars participate of their own freewill) but the films in this shop really shocked me.
From the packaging it appeared that the vast majority of movies featured extremely young women with very girlish figures. In many cases, they were dressed in school uniforms. The male participants were much older and, like any other porn film, much less attractive. The films were very cheap (70NT, just over £1) and the shop had plenty of customers.
According to a Taiwanese female friend, porn films with very young female stars are popular with Taiwanese men. In the West, such films would be considered very close to paedophilia and seeing them on sale made me feel uneasy. Maybe, I thought, this is how Taiwanese men assert their masculinity – by fantasising about sex with teenage girls.
Masculinity – and for that matter, femininity – is a very complex issue and academics have debated it for decades. Personally, I am torn between my intellectual, civilised self (who sees women as equals to men) and my inner animal (which is drawn to – some – women for more basic reasons.) It is not easy being a man.
Despite my belief in feminism, men and women are different. And my experiences in Taiwan suggest that masculinity here is very different to masculinity in the West. This is not to say that I am comfortable with the swaggering aggression and chauvinism of many British men. But equally, the handbag-carrying, matching T-shirt-wearing, juvenile porn-watching characteristics of some men in Taiwan fills me with despair.
Postscript
If anyone was expecting my changing room research to reveal details about the relative ‘size’ of Asian men, then I apologise. Discretion prevents me from commenting. I can, however, quote the following from the book Red China Blues by Jan Wong. Ms Wong interviewed a member of a UN Task Force who told her that the ‘standard sized condom in North America and Europe has a circumference of 104 mm… and 98 mm in China.’
Friday, 15 August 2008
Roads, rubbish and incoherence
Two of the most striking differences between the UK and Taiwan are the countries’ attitudes to transport and rubbish (or ‘trash’ for those readers who insist on American ‘English’.) It is not easy to link these two topics but, hopefully, by the end of this article I will have blended them seamlessly into a coherent argument.
The issue of rubbish has baffled me since my first week in Taipei. The reason is that in the UK public rubbish bins (‘trash cans’) are numerous. You don’t have to walk far to find somewhere to sling the detritus of consumerism. And yet British streets are – in comparison to Taipei streets – littered with litter.
So does this mean Taipei has more bins? On the contrary. In Taipei at least, they are rarer than astronaut penguins. Well, not quite. There are at least two rubbish bins – one for general crap and the other for recyclables – at the entrance to every MRT station. But you really struggle to find somewhere to toss your drink can or food wrapper if you are walking through the shopping areas or anywhere else.
One would imagine that the streets would be swimming in junk. But they aren’t, and I still don’t understand what Taipeiers do with their walkabout rubbish.
Even smokers tend not to chuck their butts. In comparison to the UK, gutters are relatively free of ex-cigarettes. On one of my first days in Taipei, I asked a friend and fellow addict – Dean – what he does with his ciggy when he’s had his fix. He demonstrated by extinguishing the glowing embers on the pavement (‘sidewalk’) and then putting the filter in his back pocket for later disposal.
Ditto chewing gum. Local councils in the UK spend tens of thousands of pounds a year steam-blasting the black blobs of spat-out gum from pavements (‘sidewalks’.) Gum is certainly available in Taiwan but there is very little evidence of it on the streets.
And there don’t seem to be any more street sweepers than in UK cities, so I can only assume that Taiwaners are much more dutiful when it comes to rubbish disposal. Perhaps they just hang on to it until they find a rare bin.
I have also seen people give it to the staff at convenience stores – even if the product wasn’t bought there – and the staff happily dispose of it. Try this in the UK and you will get, at best, a cynical sneer.
(Incidentally, public toilets are pretty rare in Taipei too. And again, the convenience stores come to the rescue of bulging bladders. It is quite acceptable to nip into a 7-11 just to use the toilet. In the UK, staff in petrol (‘gas’) stations and pubs get extremely irate if you do this without buying something.)
Anyway, enough about human waste. Maybe Taipeiers carry their rubbish back to their household bin. And domestic waste disposal is another striking difference between Taiwan and the UK.
In the UK, there has been much debate about the end of weekly rubbish collection. Traditionally, a local council truck would visit every house once a week and take away the black plastic bin liners (and, more recently, recyclables) or empty the famous wheelie-bins. But some councils have decided – because it saves money, of course – to only collect rubbish once every two weeks.
In Taipei, residents have five visits a week from the garbage trucks. In my neighbourhood, this means every day except Wednesdays and Sundays. The trucks arrive around the same time every night and their approach is preceded, rather like ice cream vans, by the sound of distinctive – yet tuneless – music from the truck’s loudspeaker.
As the music gets louder, residents grab their rubbish and meet at their street’s collection point. It seems to be something of a social event. People wait, chat to their neighbours and, on my street, a man with a heavy handcart (or in some streets, a cart attached to a clapped out, spluttering motorbike) grabs the plastic bottles, cans and newspaper before the trucks arrive, bantering with the locals in the process. I guess he makes a few NT by selling it in bulk to the recyclers.
Then three trucks arrive: a large yellow wagon for general waste; a smaller flat-bed truck that takes the recyclables; and another flat-bed truck, manned by a guy with a very strong stomach, which collects left-over and post-sell by food in large tubs.
I suppose that the ultra-frequent collections are necessary because of the climate. If rubbish was left in bins for a week, the city would be uninhabitable because of the stink. Rats and other vermin would undoubtedly follow. Whatever the reason, it seems to work; Taipei is a surprisingly clean and odour-free city.
Rubbish also illustrates a broader paradox. Sometimes, Taipeiers – for example, keeping litter off the streets – generally play the game. But in other cases, they act as if there are no rules.
On the MRT, the law is observed to the letter. You can get a 1500 NT (£25) fine if you are caught eating, drinking or even chewing gum on the MRT. I frequently receive disapproving looks if a local sees me masticating a piece of Airwaves on the train and I have never seen a single Taipeier drink, chew or eat on the MRT.
Even though I could be fined, I still chew gum because, well, I think it’s ridiculous to ban it. I can see why drinks and food are outlawed – because of the litter – but gum is a different matter. Just because someone chews gum, it doesn’t mean they will spit it out indiscriminately or leave a trail of gum wrappers in their wake.
On the London Underground passengers can eat and drink but, ironically, there are no bins on the platforms or trains. (They were removed en masse in the 1980s because they offered the IRA an easy option for concealing bombs.)
Taipeiers also follow the rules when it comes to getting on and off the trains. They are even told how to do it. On the platforms, for example, there are lines and arrows that tell the waiting passengers where to stand and written instructions that instruct them to allow people to get off the trains first.
Someone told me that Taipeiers needed directions on what to do and how to do it because the MRT was such a new concept when it opened in 1996. Maybe this is true but does this really apply to urinating as well? In the men’s toilets at MRT stations there are signs on the floor a few metres back from the urinals that say: ‘Wait here.’
To me, it is obvious that if the urinals are being used, one should wait. Ditto, allowing people to get off the train before you get on is common sense. There are no equivalent signs in the UK. We know how to queue, thank you very much!
Taipei pedestrians are also generally sticklers for rules. Even if there is no traffic visible, people wait patiently for the green light at crossings. In the UK, people will walk across the road if it is clear – irrespective of the colour of the light – and often, people will cross the street even of there is no official crossing. Whenever I do this in Taipei, I receive frowns or, sometimes looks of total astonishment.
But give a Taipeier a set of wheels, and it’s another story. Drivers, scooter riders and cyclists have a different mindset to MRT users and pedestrians.
The basic principles of driving etiquette and the rules of the road are widely ignored. The use of indicators is random; people overtake (‘pass’) on either side; changing lanes can happen at any time and without warning; and pedestrians need to watch out for cars and scooters even if they are crossing the street on a green light.
Traffic in the UK – even in London, a city four times as large as Taipei – is nowhere near as chaotic. British road users generally adhere to the written – and unwritten – highway code.
The scooter riders of Taipei are the most anarchic. On-street parking is at a premium so they park and ride on the pavements with little regard for pedestrians. Bicyclists are equally impervious. This is really annoying and I am so tempted to push people off their bikes when they ride toward me. In the UK, pavements are sacred places and cyclists invade at their peril. But if I did take action, I suspect I would be lynched.
Taipeiers seem pretty relaxed about scooters and bikes on the pavements. And motorists don’t seem particularly annoyed by the antics of other road users; there are few honking horns or screeches of tires. And taxi drivers – notorious in the UK for hurling abuse at inconsiderate drivers – are incredibly docile.
Indeed, Taiwanese people seem pretty relaxed in general. The only animated person I have experienced is my neighbour, Mrs Huang, who told me off last week for using her clothes-drying pole in the stair well. And I am yet to see a public row. These are very common sights in the UK, with alcohol often playing a supporting role.
So put all this together – the lack of public rubbish bins but the relative cleanliness of Taipei streets; the dutiful observance of the laws of the MRT; pedestrians’ subservience to road crossing; and motorists disregard for the highway code; and the respective differences with the UK – and what is the conclusion? Simple. I am no closer to understanding Taiwan, nor indeed the UK.
The issue of rubbish has baffled me since my first week in Taipei. The reason is that in the UK public rubbish bins (‘trash cans’) are numerous. You don’t have to walk far to find somewhere to sling the detritus of consumerism. And yet British streets are – in comparison to Taipei streets – littered with litter.
So does this mean Taipei has more bins? On the contrary. In Taipei at least, they are rarer than astronaut penguins. Well, not quite. There are at least two rubbish bins – one for general crap and the other for recyclables – at the entrance to every MRT station. But you really struggle to find somewhere to toss your drink can or food wrapper if you are walking through the shopping areas or anywhere else.
One would imagine that the streets would be swimming in junk. But they aren’t, and I still don’t understand what Taipeiers do with their walkabout rubbish.
Even smokers tend not to chuck their butts. In comparison to the UK, gutters are relatively free of ex-cigarettes. On one of my first days in Taipei, I asked a friend and fellow addict – Dean – what he does with his ciggy when he’s had his fix. He demonstrated by extinguishing the glowing embers on the pavement (‘sidewalk’) and then putting the filter in his back pocket for later disposal.
Ditto chewing gum. Local councils in the UK spend tens of thousands of pounds a year steam-blasting the black blobs of spat-out gum from pavements (‘sidewalks’.) Gum is certainly available in Taiwan but there is very little evidence of it on the streets.
And there don’t seem to be any more street sweepers than in UK cities, so I can only assume that Taiwaners are much more dutiful when it comes to rubbish disposal. Perhaps they just hang on to it until they find a rare bin.
I have also seen people give it to the staff at convenience stores – even if the product wasn’t bought there – and the staff happily dispose of it. Try this in the UK and you will get, at best, a cynical sneer.
(Incidentally, public toilets are pretty rare in Taipei too. And again, the convenience stores come to the rescue of bulging bladders. It is quite acceptable to nip into a 7-11 just to use the toilet. In the UK, staff in petrol (‘gas’) stations and pubs get extremely irate if you do this without buying something.)
Anyway, enough about human waste. Maybe Taipeiers carry their rubbish back to their household bin. And domestic waste disposal is another striking difference between Taiwan and the UK.
In the UK, there has been much debate about the end of weekly rubbish collection. Traditionally, a local council truck would visit every house once a week and take away the black plastic bin liners (and, more recently, recyclables) or empty the famous wheelie-bins. But some councils have decided – because it saves money, of course – to only collect rubbish once every two weeks.
In Taipei, residents have five visits a week from the garbage trucks. In my neighbourhood, this means every day except Wednesdays and Sundays. The trucks arrive around the same time every night and their approach is preceded, rather like ice cream vans, by the sound of distinctive – yet tuneless – music from the truck’s loudspeaker.
As the music gets louder, residents grab their rubbish and meet at their street’s collection point. It seems to be something of a social event. People wait, chat to their neighbours and, on my street, a man with a heavy handcart (or in some streets, a cart attached to a clapped out, spluttering motorbike) grabs the plastic bottles, cans and newspaper before the trucks arrive, bantering with the locals in the process. I guess he makes a few NT by selling it in bulk to the recyclers.
Then three trucks arrive: a large yellow wagon for general waste; a smaller flat-bed truck that takes the recyclables; and another flat-bed truck, manned by a guy with a very strong stomach, which collects left-over and post-sell by food in large tubs.
I suppose that the ultra-frequent collections are necessary because of the climate. If rubbish was left in bins for a week, the city would be uninhabitable because of the stink. Rats and other vermin would undoubtedly follow. Whatever the reason, it seems to work; Taipei is a surprisingly clean and odour-free city.
Rubbish also illustrates a broader paradox. Sometimes, Taipeiers – for example, keeping litter off the streets – generally play the game. But in other cases, they act as if there are no rules.
On the MRT, the law is observed to the letter. You can get a 1500 NT (£25) fine if you are caught eating, drinking or even chewing gum on the MRT. I frequently receive disapproving looks if a local sees me masticating a piece of Airwaves on the train and I have never seen a single Taipeier drink, chew or eat on the MRT.
Even though I could be fined, I still chew gum because, well, I think it’s ridiculous to ban it. I can see why drinks and food are outlawed – because of the litter – but gum is a different matter. Just because someone chews gum, it doesn’t mean they will spit it out indiscriminately or leave a trail of gum wrappers in their wake.
On the London Underground passengers can eat and drink but, ironically, there are no bins on the platforms or trains. (They were removed en masse in the 1980s because they offered the IRA an easy option for concealing bombs.)
Taipeiers also follow the rules when it comes to getting on and off the trains. They are even told how to do it. On the platforms, for example, there are lines and arrows that tell the waiting passengers where to stand and written instructions that instruct them to allow people to get off the trains first.
Someone told me that Taipeiers needed directions on what to do and how to do it because the MRT was such a new concept when it opened in 1996. Maybe this is true but does this really apply to urinating as well? In the men’s toilets at MRT stations there are signs on the floor a few metres back from the urinals that say: ‘Wait here.’
To me, it is obvious that if the urinals are being used, one should wait. Ditto, allowing people to get off the train before you get on is common sense. There are no equivalent signs in the UK. We know how to queue, thank you very much!
Taipei pedestrians are also generally sticklers for rules. Even if there is no traffic visible, people wait patiently for the green light at crossings. In the UK, people will walk across the road if it is clear – irrespective of the colour of the light – and often, people will cross the street even of there is no official crossing. Whenever I do this in Taipei, I receive frowns or, sometimes looks of total astonishment.
But give a Taipeier a set of wheels, and it’s another story. Drivers, scooter riders and cyclists have a different mindset to MRT users and pedestrians.
The basic principles of driving etiquette and the rules of the road are widely ignored. The use of indicators is random; people overtake (‘pass’) on either side; changing lanes can happen at any time and without warning; and pedestrians need to watch out for cars and scooters even if they are crossing the street on a green light.
Traffic in the UK – even in London, a city four times as large as Taipei – is nowhere near as chaotic. British road users generally adhere to the written – and unwritten – highway code.
The scooter riders of Taipei are the most anarchic. On-street parking is at a premium so they park and ride on the pavements with little regard for pedestrians. Bicyclists are equally impervious. This is really annoying and I am so tempted to push people off their bikes when they ride toward me. In the UK, pavements are sacred places and cyclists invade at their peril. But if I did take action, I suspect I would be lynched.
Taipeiers seem pretty relaxed about scooters and bikes on the pavements. And motorists don’t seem particularly annoyed by the antics of other road users; there are few honking horns or screeches of tires. And taxi drivers – notorious in the UK for hurling abuse at inconsiderate drivers – are incredibly docile.
Indeed, Taiwanese people seem pretty relaxed in general. The only animated person I have experienced is my neighbour, Mrs Huang, who told me off last week for using her clothes-drying pole in the stair well. And I am yet to see a public row. These are very common sights in the UK, with alcohol often playing a supporting role.
So put all this together – the lack of public rubbish bins but the relative cleanliness of Taipei streets; the dutiful observance of the laws of the MRT; pedestrians’ subservience to road crossing; and motorists disregard for the highway code; and the respective differences with the UK – and what is the conclusion? Simple. I am no closer to understanding Taiwan, nor indeed the UK.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
