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Several of the world's poorest countries are dependent on sales of a
single agricultural commodity, among them Burundi (the livelihood of 55%
of the population is tied to coffee) and Malawi (tobacco
represents over 70% of export revenue). It is hard to imagine
nowadays, but Taiwan was once in a similar situation.
Just before and
for years after World War II, sugar was the mainstay of its economy. Sugarcane, a species of grass that reaches about two meters in height
and slightly resembles bamboo, has been grown in Taiwan for at least as
long as Han Chinese have been present on the island. The Japanese, who
ruled Taiwan as a colony between 1895 and 1945, nurtured the local sugar
industry. By the late 1930s, sugar plantations covered almost 170,000 ha, a fifth of Taiwan's farmland. Cane was grown from Linkou in
the north to Hengchun at the southern tip, on the east coast as well as
throughout the western lowlands. One in seven Taiwan households had some
connection to the industry.
At its peak in 1950, sugar accounted for 73.6% of the ROC's exports by value. But since the 1970s, due to competition from Brazil and other producers, Taiwan's sugar industry has been in unstoppable decline. The number of active refineries has fallen from 49 to just three.
The growing, transportation, and processing of sugar have left a lasting physical imprint in almost every part of Taiwan, however. More than a dozen shuttered mills are still extant, and hundreds of kilometers of railway tracks laid by sugar companies remain in place...
This is the first of three articles I wrote for this year's Travel & Culture Special, published by the American Chamber of Commerce in Taipei. To read the whole piece, go here.
The blowtorch failed to ignite the sheaves of spirit money, so the
master of ceremonies splashed kerosene over the sodden pile, then
touched his cigarette to it. Flames leapt up briefly, but the heavy
spring rain soon quenched the fire. Unconcerned, the man turned his
attention to another stack of the square yellow papers Taiwanese burn to
show respect to their gods, and to ensure their ancestors have enough
cash to sustain them in the afterlife.
Behind him a shirtless, sword-wielding spirit medium lurched like a
drunk from one steaming heap of spirit money to the next. Only the
medium's colorful apron, embroidered with supernatural symbols, marked
him out as a deity's go-between, not a lunatic running amok. Each time
the tang-ki (as such men are called in Taiwanese) halted, he applied
the blade to his back, scalp and forehead. Blood trickled down onto his
shoulders before disappearing in rivulets of rainwater. Ardent
adherents of Taiwanese folk religion believe that such men are
possessed, and protected from injury, by members of the religion's vast
pantheon (36,000-plus divine personalities, according to one tally).
In his trance-like state, the tang-ki seemed oblivious to pain,
weather and noise. Strings of firecrackers criss-crossing the tarmac
went off, adding yet more smoke to the damp haze. I put my hands over my
ears each time a bundle exploded, but it was the constant amplified
drumming which made me fear for my hearing. The drum was three meters
across and mounted on the back of a truck. Four young women dressed in
mustard tracksuits thrashed away; their thunderous beating was constant
and practiced. Taiwanese pilgrims often resemble teams of athletes, and
train just as hard.
A steward ran back and forth among the spectators, his face reddened
by the effort needed to make his whistle audible above the din. He was
trying, with little success, to keep onlookers a safe distance from the
spirit medium. Despite smoldering ash underfoot and a dangerous weapon
swinging in random arcs about our heads, we all seemed compelled to move
closer to the tang-ki...
This article appears in the July issue of PerceptiveTravel.com. To read the entire piece, start here. For an anthropological opinion on tang-ki, look at this interview.
