The Land Where It's Already Tomorrow, Chapter 09: There is Such a Thing as a Free lunch, Biker Gang? New Digs

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I went into Hualien City on Sunday, to meet my colleague Anna for church and lunch. We went to the RC place, and they do indeed offer incentives for conversion. Most of the folk are from the Philippines, so a lot of the singing was in Tagalog. The sound of the music is very Polynesian in nature, and thus very much to my taste. Speaking of taste, there is a lunch laid on afterwards—traditional Filipino home-cooked.

Anna and Allen (her trusty co-teacher) and I could not stay for lunch. He had a busy afternoon planned, and Anna and I met up with Paul Rowe, my new Australian sidekick from the orientation. We sat in a waterfront place in Hualien Harbour (my American readers will please note the correct spelling), and we had lunch while looking between the palm trees at a docked deep-sea freighter named “Miraflores”. It seems to me that I had been doing that, looking at flowers, all day the day before.

Never mind what we had for lunch. I don’t want your tongues hanging out.

After lunch, I took Anna for a spin before we met Paul again for coffee. Possibly, I shortened Anna’s time frame for getting her own motorbike.

Paul wants one too. We discussed the idea of forming a Hualien County biker gang. What should we call ourselves? Bear in mind that it is hard to sound tough while sitting on a little 125 cc hair dryer.

I remember, years ago, there was a biker gang in Vancouver called “The Coffin Cheaters”. Considering that we all have to wear cotton masks, against the black-lung-inducing car and bus and diesel and two-stroke exhaust in the city, maybe we should be “The Coughin’ Cheaters”. That may not be so bright an idea—people might think I started smoking again, and have a girlfriend now. The French priest scolded folk for that in his sermon this morning—talking about (or to) guys working here, with wives back in the Philippines and girlfriends in Hualien. It beats me how a fellow could get away with that—there’s nothing worse than a girlfriend for keeping a guy broke. Surely to Goodness their wives back home would notice the decimal in the wrong place when the money gets wired back.

Maybe, for the wives, the French expression “faut pas penser, faut accepter” is applicable—but I don’t think so. The truth is that whatever a priest or a preacher or a rabbi has to say is going to bite a guy, sooner or later.

In the meantime, my workload is certainly pleasant. I have taught all of my classes once by now. The kids are still excited about having a western teacher, and greet me enthusiastically as I amble about the schoolyard, smiling and nodding like a vicar at a prize giving. Teaching English in an ROC Junior High School has got to be the perfect job, for an amiable harmless old BS’er like myself.

Some years ago, I worked with an Australian fellow who referred to one of his teachers (with more humour than kindness, I think) as “Old Bollock Chops”. God only knows what my lot might be saying about me. I’m sure that there must be some characters, who care more about showing off to the girls than about hurting my feelings. I know all about characters who care more about showing off to the girls than hurting a teacher’s feelings—I used to be such a character myself. God knows the wags have plenty of material. I’m losing weight like crazy. The fat comes off my arms, off my legs, off my fingers, off my earlobes. Everywhere except amidships. I look like a Biafran who swallowed a basketball, and then, to boot, I’m sunburned like Hell from enjoying Esmerelda too much.

The axe fell at the weekly staff meeting. I am advised that I am to tutor a speech-giving group. The Chinese teachers will choose an English proverb, someone will say it in Chinese, and then another group will explain it. “Better late than never”. “A stitch in time saves nine.” I’m to coach the kids on the cultural stuff, and the accent. Please!

It gets worse. I am required to choose two Christmas songs for the season, for the kids to learn. I had better befriend the music teacher, right slippy. It is a difficult assignment—I am a Christian guy, and I refuse to surrender to the secular component that has overpowered our most significant festival. On the other hand, my contract forbids promoting any religion—I guess MOE has had trouble with Bible-thumpers before. I chose “Christmastime in the City” and “Little Drummer Boy”. I will be certain to preface my comments with “this is what Christians believe” when I refer to the Magi. The real reason I picked “Little Drummer Boy” is because even the weakest students can sing ‘ pa rum pa pum”.

As if it can’t get any worse than me--of all people--teaching music, it just did. I am advised that, due to the lack of English teachers to fill all the available positions, many schools are doing without. They want to spread me thin. For the benefit of the principals and the Chinese teachers of English in Hualien County who do not have a native teacher in their schools, I am requested (read required) to do a sample lesson in front of a group of educators from all over Hualien County. Ya gotta love it. It’s like the army. The colonel says, “I’d like to suggest…” when the real meaning is “I intend to dictate…” In any environment, the code words are the code words.

There is Paradise to be found in the East Rift Valley. The government offers a generous salary with no income tax. Mind you, that just means that CRA (Canadian IRS) gets their mitts into you extra.

Free housing. Free airfare. The logic behind the necessity for a motorcycle is so unassailable that even wives are helpless to object. Lao-puo is taking the safety course before she comes over, so that she can enjoy Esmerelda. Even a 125 cc is like sitting on a rocket. I can predict what will happen. My beloved Esmerelda will be appropriated. Why else would I have chosen a colour that I know Suzanne would like? I’ll have to get another bike, for myself. Damn. Why didn’t I think of that? Maybe that nice little five-speed number, with the mag rims and the tachometer and… Lao-ban is just about giving it away.

What’s stopping qualified teachers? You can unload a student loan, or double a pension.

Be warned, however, that “getting marooned on Formosa” is a likely fate for those people who come here. Every year spent in this place decreases the probability of the teacher ever going home.

I had essentially resigned myself to living in the dorm. It’s very nice, but a dorm is a dorm nevertheless. We could have made it into a nice enough little pad, when Lao-puo comes over. Alice, one of the other teachers who speaks a bit of English, asked if I would be interested in renting a townhouse! My previous information is that there was nothing to rent in all Guangfu. I said sure I’d have a look at it, and the next day I met the landlord. I took one look at the joint, and snapped at it like a trout at a fly.

Entertain conjecture of:

1. a 2 ½ level duplex, mostly furnished.
2. white exterior tiles with blue accent—making it look Mediterranean.
3. quiet alley off a quiet street.
4. flowering shrubs in front.
5. covered secured parking for Esmerelda—for two cars, in fact.
6. main floor l/r, d/r, kitchen, 3 piece bath, laundry room, and outdoor covered laundry drying area.
7. hood vent on the two burner stove.
8. adequate (for once) counter-space—and stainless steel for good measure.
9. upstairs to 2 bedrooms and another 3 piece bath. Full sized tub—not just one of those Japanese thalidomide jobs they usually give you.
10. raised wooden floor and tatami doors in the guest bedroom.
11. little deck off the master bedroom.
12. upstairs again to an open-concept office/study/den/ whatever.
13. two more decks upstairs.
14. short walking distance to the ho che (“fire car” = train) station. and the gong-gong qi che (bus) station.

I made a little sound to myself, sort of cross between a gasp and a cough and a chortle, when the landlord quoted the rent. 7000/ month. Not the 7000 US the pad would have cost in Hawaii or Mexico. 7000 New Taiwan Dollars. Just under $240 Canadian dollars. MOE picks it up anyway. You can’t even do strata fees and property taxes for that at home, let alone a mortgage.

The Gods are kind. I say that a lot over here.

The neighbourhood is very nice too. In Taipei, nobody except millionaires can afford to live in detached and semi-detached housing. Barring the fact that a few doors away a family keeps two pigs in a cage in front of their house, it’s actually upscale around where we’ll be living. At first I objected, from a kindness to animals perspective, to the comfort of the penned-up porkers. There is room to turn and stand, a bucket of swill, but no protection from the rain. It then occurred to me that they were fully-grown, and thus unlikely to be enduring discomfort for very much longer.

For some reason, I felt like punishing myself tonight (Thursday). The clouds were rolling over the mountains black as sin, and you could taste and feel and smell and see the rain in the air. I fired up Esmerelda anyhow. 5 km out of town, I was riding into a hailstorm, or at least that’s what it felt like. There was no problem to see my way to pull over—the lightning brightened the highway bright as day. I put on my raincoat and my facemask and my gloves, and carried on in the rain. It was interesting, so hot out that the lashing rain was warm, and it was neither pleasant nor unpleasant. Mind you, the visor on my helmet was taking the pelting rain enough to obscure my vision, so I had to lift it and take the rain right in the chops.

This is the Republic of China on Taiwan. You can get soaked to the skin in a lashing rain, yet not get cold. Bear in mind, however, that this is early September. I may well pipe another tune come December--when you can’t believe how cold you feel while the thermometer lies and tells you it’s not that bad out. Not for nothing is there a pile of thick comforters in my closet—I figured that out right away.

I got a train schedule for Lao-puo. I don’t want her wet and miserable—coming and going from her Chinese class.

Other than the fact that the power failed on Thursday afternoon, and I couldn’t do my multimedia thing, the day progressed uneventfully.

Autumn starts in Taiwan, not with the equinox, but with the rains. How it can rain here! I have never heard or seen such incredible thunder and lightning, either. I bought a really nice raincoat, for eight dollars or so. It has reflective strips, a storm collar, a vinyl patch in the wrist so you call tell the time from a dry watch, snaps, and an offset inside zipper. It is mauve with pink shoulders, but that was the only colour the lady had in XXL. It would be feasible for me to assert that I need to do something to keep my sex appeal under control, but the truth is that I would rather not get run over than look cool. I don’t take XXL anymore, but I chose the big size so I can wear a jacket in the winter. It’s best to wear shorts and plastic sandals in the rain, because you can get really cold through wet socks and pantlegs. Bare is better.

The principal and the academic director joined Joe and me for lunch today, and both expressed alarm at how little I eat. I was too diplomatic to tell them that there is nothing like school cafeteria food to enforce portion control, and anyway the truth is that I just don’t get hungry in this heat and humidity. I had tofu and spinach for lunch, with no rice, and only one piece of that Chinese fatty pork of which I am so fond.

Principal Lin had a new floor-model fan delivered to my desk in the teachers’ office, with instructions that it is for my exclusive use because I am as yet not acclimatized to the heat and humidity. This is in addition to my private air-conditioned office in the back of the language lab. I am advised, through an interpreter, that he wants to take me out to dinner one weekend, but I want to wait until Lao-puo gets here for that. The sooner she gets here the better I’ll like it—I don’t do well on my own.

I had my supper at the BBQ kiosk across the street from the 7-11. This is at the Yates and Douglas, or the Georgia and Granville, or the Bloor and Yonge of Guangfu. Guangfu is such a small town that the lao-ban of the BBQ kiosk is the father of one of my students. Blast. Now the kid knows that I can sustain a simple Chinese conversation, and that news will go like wildfire throughout the school. Until now, I have been pretending to understand nothing—not a difficult pretense for me to maintain.

There is a refreshing innocence about these folk that endears them to me.

I pretend to have an earache if I hear Chinese in class.

Esmerelda needs a tank of gas tomorrow. Sigh. There goes another three Canadian dollars. That’s for higher octane, by the way. Nothing but the best for my sweetie-pie.

Would somebody please explain to me why gas in cheaper in Taiwan ROC (which imports every drop of its petroleum products) than in Canada (which produces its own)?

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Photos

Anna
we will have a lot of good times, once Lao-puo gets here.

Paul
...grew up in Papua New Guinea, and he was a professional motorcycle racer in his younger days.

The Yates and Douglas...
...of beautiful downtown Guangfu.