Day Nine: On my own in Taiwan

I woke this morning with double trepidation. Sat was leaving for the States. He was my translator of words and culture. How would I understand the people? The entire time we’d been in Taiwan I’d seen perhaps six Caucasians. Surely, there were more Caucasians in Tapei but I never saw them. Because Sat was with me, I felt very much at ease. But now, as a harbinger of what could go wrong, there was a sign posted last night on the bulletin board of the Artists Village:

All occupants asked to vacate building from 7:30 to 10:30 PM.

Building will be exterminated with strong chemicals. 

If the chemicals were that strong, I wasn’t sure I wanted to spend the night in the building. But where was I to go? Who could I spend the night with?

That afternoon while I was trying to buy lunch in the government building across the street, explaining I didn't want dumplings but just rice, one of the government employees translated for me. This woman then approached my table. She introduced herself. She was a high echelon employee. She wondered what I, a westerner, was doing by myself. When I explained, she immediately invited me to spend the night at her house. She had an empty bedroom and was a widow. Not knowing her, yet trusting her, I accepted. She was going to a Buddhist meeting after work but would pick me up at the hotel across the street at 10:00 PM. When I told Sat about Rosa’s invitation, he suggested I call Rainbow so that one person in the world would know where I was. I meant to call Rainbow but I needed to pack and get my suitcase ready before Sat left and I forgot.

At our last meal, Sat asked me, “Are you happy with the trip?”

“Very happy,” I said. “I received more than I could have dreamed. Are you happy?”

“Oh yes, very happy. I saw many movements that I can use and I can remember them. And,the trip connected me to my roots. With my karma and your never-ending questions and open heart, we accomplished an enormous amount in a week. It could have taken other people months to make the connections we made. You’re a foreigner, so you can get away with questions that a Chinese person can’t ask. The Taiwanese appreciate and respect you because your heart is so open. I think we should come back and perform Journey to the West in Taiwan. The masters we met gave so freely. Let them sit in the front seats and then let them receive the acclaim they deserve. We need to return what we received. Let’s commit ourselves to performing Journey to the West in Taiwan within the next three years.” (Sat and Diane at the Artists Village Cafe.)

I loved his idea. I had not expected to fall in love with Taiwan or the Taiwanese. When I went to China in 2002, I also felt at home with the people. But here, the people were warmer, more generous. Mr. Lin had said that in a past life I’d been Chinese. People who spoke about past lives used to seem like quacks to me, but this sense of being at home with the Chinese is not so easily understandable. As a teenager I’d read Herman Hesse’s Siddhartha and then suddenly In the seventies without any apparent reason I began to buy statues of Buddha. I had three on my desk at home. I still do. I was drawn to Buddhism and to the tao.  Journey to the West describes the Taoist priest Subhuti as “empty, spontaneous, ever changing.” He harmonizes Buddhism, Taoism and the Confucius way in such a manner that a golden lotus springs from the ground.

I walked Sat to the bus stop next to the Sheraton Hotel. We waited for the bus. A very large bus pulled up and Sat was off, onto another journey.

I returned to the Sheraton Hotel where I’d left my suitcase. Rosa said she’d pick me up between 9:30 and 10:00 PM. It was seven thirty. I had two hours to wait. What I wanted, what I’d been wanting since the day we arrived but there had not been time, was a massage. The official at the front desk shook his head. You need to be a registered guest to have a massage at our hotel. Whoo. That ignited my Monkey spirit. No guard kept Monkey King out of a cave or palace or temple that he wianted to enter.

An hour later I was in the spa with many Chinese women and had a fine massage. I lingered in the water until 9:15. When I came into the lobby, a young cheerful girl ran up to me. “Diana? It is you!”

“Yes. And you?”

“I am Emily, Rosa’s daughter. She called me. She was afraid she might be late and you would be frightened since you’re all alone. I’ve come to take you to our house.” On the way to her house, I asked Emily what appealed to her about Monkey King. She answered, “I read the story for the first time in third grade. I still remember what I thought. People cannot make themselves too big; there is always something greater than you are. If you have a big ego, you destroy yourself. Monkey has to learn. The five fingered mountain teaches him.”

Rosa arrived about an hour after we did. Although the sheets that Emily had put on my bed were clean, the pillow case and sheets didn’t match. Rosa insisted on changing the pillow cases. Emily, 17 years old, made a face. I understood them both.