sounds from a’tolan: vendor trucks

a visitor to taiwan may first be caught off guard or even menaced by the lack of sidewalks in most small towns and many urban districts. i think that their apprehension issues from a definition of the street as a place reserved for vehicular traffic–a definition that actually has a very short history and a specific cultural milieu. on taiwan, this definition of the street has not (yet!) displaced other possibilities, in which the street serves as a medium of display, leisure, performance, or commerce. while taiwanese religious processions express these possibilities of street life most flamboyantly, more humble conveyances of street life give to the street its quotidian values. even the most casual visitor to taiwan’s bustling nightmarkets can get a sense of the pleasures and annoyances of this different set of values; it’s no surprise that street markets thus enter into conflicts over urban space, where questions of noise, quality of life, sanitation, traffic, and convenience provide conflicts that are not easy to adjudicate. in small towns and villages where no central market provisions families, streets become mobile markets. itinerant vendors, who often cover a large area, carry a vast range of necessary goods: some vendors drive fruit trucks; others selling knife sharpening service, chairs, garlic, shoes, pork, vegetables, or snacks circulate along the streets, each with its own route and frequency of visits. those who wish to purchase items can stop the trucks as they meander, and the proprietor will sell goods while the truck idles. as the trucks move through town, one can gauge the distance between one’s position and that of the trucks easily, as the trucks all broadcast music and announcements of their goods on loudspeakers. one can thus wait nearby one’s house–or rush out to meet them. the trucks resemble somewhat ice cream trucks in the united states, but sell a much wider range of goods and cover a wider range of areas. their calls punctuate a day in a taiwanese small town, particularly in the early morning and evening hours. i’d write more, but i hear the a-bai truck coming–got to run out and buy a couple…

here’s a clip in which i present a few of the vendor trucks in action. the section at the end perhaps expresses an ambivalence about the trucks that some who live here might feel. as for me, i love the trucks; but again, i should run and buy those a-bai!

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a demo

one of the perils (but also pleasures!) of ethnographic fieldwork is that one gets caught up in other people’s projects. recently, one of these “other projects” has been the u.s. tour of the malataw theater cooperative, a performing group out of a’tolan, where i currently do research. everyone has seen me around with my mics and so i was conscripted into recording a demo for their performance at the passport to taiwan festival 2012. if you are around NYC on the 13th of may, go and give the festival a listen–and say hi to my friends from a’tolan! here’s one of the clips from the demo (via my soundcloud site):

o pitalaan

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urban planning and popular participation: some thoughts on a recent talk

music–particularly discourses about good versus bad musics–feature in many discussions of urban planning; perhaps this sonic connection to urban planning is more evident in the developing (or in the case of taiwan, just developed) world. take, for example, the national symphony hall in taipei, which externally looks like a northern chinese palace but in fact houses primarily performances of works in the european classical canon and not the music one might expect (peiking opera?) on first glance. the construction of this symphony hall was part of the wider construction of the chiang kai-shek memorial at the center of the city, which filled in land repurposed from military usage. during the time of its construction, arguments about good and bad music had become an issue for city buses and taxis, with the city government even distributing cassette tapes of “good music” to drivers. in some of my work, i’ve been looking at these connections. of course, it’s useful to work through a larger political context. so i was glad to go to a talk at the long yingtai cultural foundation on the 28th, in which joseph allen talked about his new book Taipei: City of Displacements

in his talk, allen argued that taipei’s planning both followed and differed from its precedents, tokyo and paris; while paris is a city of “incisions”–note the broad avenues of the haussmann plan–cutting into and through the city, cutting away sections considered diseased and permitting better circulation, tokyo’s planners, who borrowed from the example of paris and other european cities, never thought of edo as diseased or dangerous and thus practiced the “implant.” to make modern spaces in tokyo, they implanted new types of structures into parts of the city vacated by the decline of traditional nobility (for example, tokyo imperial university campus) or by fires and earthquakes. in taipei, a city that was built by the qing empire as an administrative area between harbours controlled by feuding ethnic factions, japanese planners faced a city that was immature and required filling in. hence their strategies combined qualities of incision and implantation, while also perhaps being “nutritive”

in the discussion that followed, questions about the role of the MRT, taipei’s beautiful and terribly well disciplined subway system predominated; and, predictably, a question about the role of popular movements versus government in planning focused on “identity.” although ethnic division played (and still plays) a role in planning–note that the city was built between two ethnic enclaves on what was then a frontier–i doubt that identity is the best way of asking about the role of popular movements in urban planning during the mid to late 20th century. rather, noise, whether from construction, night markets, temple festivals, karaokes, or music (good or bad), might be a better place to proceed. why? it’s here that one might see more closely the role of quality of life discourses, which created structures of complicity for urban planning to proceed in taipei

surely, identity politics has informed some planning decisions, such as the public multilingualismof the MRT. however, popular involvement in planning in taipei never clearly followed the lines of identity politics (neither did elections, either). it was also stifled for several reasons. i will mention two. first, taipei is a city of migrants who largely view the city as a place of sojourn. second, emotional and structural investment in the city was stymied by KMT disinterest in urban planning and the party’s ideology of native place

sojourn in taipei does feature prominently in the island’s popular culture. panai’s “wandering,” for example, quotes a song widely circulated among taiwanese indigenous communities to establish that the “wandering” of her song is to the capital city; nearly any taiwanese person will at least be able to sing the hook lines of luo ta-yu’s “small town lukang” and lim giong’s “forward!”, two emblematic songs of travail in taipei. the possible conflicts of their nostalgias appear in a film clip that has circulated on youtube–can anyone identify the film?

only recently have these stories of sojourning become part of an articulated civic narrative for taipei. the “open taipei” album, connected to the su chen-chang’s mayoral campaign, for example, presents in both musical form, lyrics, and video a taipei of sojourners and strivers who somehow together build a more beautiful city. shanying’s “write love for the city” traverses the city with a young indigenous man who works as a deliveryman, uncovering the traces of the city’s old, young, and enterprising denizens. “northern city stories” outlines the history of taipei from tidal lake to metropolis, arguing for better care for the city’s historical sites. foregrounding the role of stories rather than personalities, those on the album appear only under pseudonyms which indicate their ethnicity. given the failure of the su campaign, however, one doubts whether this narrative has political traction. thus, the reality of taipei as a city of people from elsewhere seems still to mitigate against civic involvement in planning

as mentioned above, KMT ideology of native place, as well as the party dictatorship, also stood in the way of civic participation. when civic organizations were able to gain a foothold, the relationships of these organizations with the state were not always antagonistic. as shown by robert weller and others (including of course michael hsiao), when popular mobilization succeeded, it did so not through engagements with identity politics–identity politics would become dominant well after the end of martial law–but with issues concerning quality of life, environmental degradation, and consumer protection. because these organizations never confronted the chiang dictatorship or its chinese nationalist ideology directly, they actually formed networks with allies within the KMT party state. thus the articulation of quality of life discourses served as what i have called a “technology of complicity.” a good example of this kind of complicity would be the work of long ying-tai, who upon confronting the noise of itinerant peddlers outside her house, not to mention their threats (all rendered in an embarrassing pidgin taiwanese hoklo in long’s writing), famously asked “chinese people [sic], why aren’t you angry?!” in the mid-1980s many considered her work oppositional; however, a more careful look at government produced quality of life discourses contemporary to long’s work shows that factions of the KMT state had argued for noise abatement, better music, and–here identity politics does enter–removal of taiwanese hoklo from public spaces. moreover, her work was published by china times, hardly an opposition media outlet. in retrospect, it’s true that her work was oppositional but perhaps not in the sense of popular opposition to the state, and certainly not in the sense of identity politics. long has never, and could never, articulate a taiwanese ethnic or national identity. in fact, her prejudices against ethnic taiwanese are apparent in her early writing. if better disguised today, it is because she has moved to promote a “globalized” civic consciousness for the city, of a piece with the MTR, minus the announcements in hoklo and hakka. it is this kind of globally aware civic participation that she has encouraged as the chair of taiwan’s national council for cultural affairs (that said, i must admit that i have always been fond of long’s writing, in spite of its limitations). although multiculturalism has become a dominant discourse on taiwan, then, its connection to urban planning in taipei continues to be limited. or to state this problem differently, one might need to separate articulations of taiwanese multiculturalism from identity, which seem always to appear as push button issues in the island nation’s electoral and distributive politics

on the other hand, i also wonder whether allen gave short shrift to the role of “incision” in taiwan’s urban planning, particularly from the chen mayoral administration onward. however, i am looking forward to reading allen’s book. i’m sure that there will be much to build upon for investigations of sound and urban life in taiwan during the 20th century. it will arrive in taiwanese bookstores soon!

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desire for the other

marc augé has said that the discipline of anthropology actually studies “other anthropologies,” that is, the various ways that other groups of people have talked about what it is to be human, including their notion of human similarity and difference. it’s in this regard that the phrase maeden a samaanen, pinangan no finaiyan (what can be done? it’s the way men are), which appears in song lyrics such as those to lu ching-tse’s “sentiments of a fisherman” (盧靜子“海上捕魚的心情”) as well as ordinary conversation, might give us a clue to an ‘amis anthropology that emerged in the context of the far ocean fishing trade

culture or political-economy?

“hey, caraw, you know that ‘amis were the first indigenous people to settle in the city–both here in kaohsiung and in taipei,” said the owner of a small restaurant and beer hall near the fishing harbour in kaohsiung as he brought a couple bottles of taiwan beer to my table

his friend, a presbyterian minister who brought me to come talk with him, agreed. “back then, we were the only indigenous people working in any trade in kaohsiung. first as fishermen, then in construction. paiwan, rukai, bunun–none of them knew how to do any of that work or tried to come to the city until we ‘amis had been here awhile.” i was surprised by their assertion; after all, in the 1960s and 1970s travel between coastal taitung and kaohsiung was difficult. certainly, paiwan, who live in the mountains surrounding kaohsiung, would have more readily traveled to the city

the restaurant owner explained. unlike paiwan or rukai, who have reservation land and thus could remain in their mountain villages, ‘amis lands fell prey to speculation or other forms of alienation, often as the result of foreclosures on loans or family disputes. without land and ready access to the ocean, ‘amis people could only engage in wage labour, usually in the cities. but in addition to the political-economic reason for migration to kaohsiung, the restaurant owner offered a cultural explanation: migration to kaohsiung or work in the far ocean fishing trade fits pinangan no ‘amis. ‘amis men, he says, always desire to wrestle something from the outside, particularly the ocean! his wife adds that ‘amis can work through just about any hardship. and, she says, they have a taste for seafood. now that ‘amis live all about taiwan, they have mapped out all of the good places for gathering urchins or adipit. that some of these places are very distant from coastal taitung and hualien doesn’t matter: “‘amis men cannot stay away from the ocean long.” their conversation reminds me of my friend who worked construction in taipei during his 20s. on the one day a week he could leave the work site, he would head north to places where he could cast nets or dive. eating the fish wasn’t even the point; it was a need to touch the ocean, which he considered too important a part of his being to neglect

desire for the other

if to the restaurant owner and his minister friend political-economy seems to provide a context for the working out of a potential already suggested by ‘amis masculinity, narratives from the far ocean fishing trade reinterpret an explanation of ‘amis enlistment in the far ocean fishing fleet. the men went on their stints on the boats–some as long as three years–because of a lack of money; however, apart from this desire for cash income or concrete houses, the men often frame this need in terms of another desire for cosmopolitan experience

this framing is implicit in narratives about experience on the boats. these narratives might take two forms: first, they might be narratives of hardship and serve as a moral exemplar for young men: and so, the moral of the story is that one should work hard in one’s youth and not be afraid of setbacks and difficulties; second, the narratives focus on encounters, often intimate, with various others

many men who have worked the boats can relate what i will call the “spanish girlfriend” story. in this narrative, the ‘amis man met the daughter of a man who owned a business connected in some fashion to the harbour. the ‘amis youth impressed the businessman for his diligence, and the businessman welcomed the youth’s attentions to his daughter. the daughter wanted to marry. the businessman also hoped that the ‘amis man would stay. however, he had eventually to return to taitung. avoiding a confrontation, he resolved to leave quietly. the night he left, the ‘amis youth left a few thousand u.s. dollars underneath the woman’s pillow

overall, the narrative is formulaic and has an interesting feature apart from its description of a romance: the man is offered marriage in a distinctly ‘amis way; that is, the businessman wants him to “marry in” to the family as an ‘amis man would among ‘amis, who practice matrilineal kinship. yet, it also seems that marriage into the family would have defeated the purpose of travel, which was to bring something valuable back home to taitung. in effect, for the narrative to work, the romance has to be real but also rejected. because the romance is real and rejected, moreover, it can both describe qualities of the other and perform an erotic depiction of masculinity, which confirms men’s desires for outside goods and experiences. this erotic depiction of masculinity reappears in other narratives of encounters with spanish beggars, singaporean transvestites, or south african women

these narratives, which foreground the men as cosmopolitan, are central in this cohort’s sense of ‘amis masculinity, yet activists in taiwanese pan-indigenous movements often disregard these men’s experiences, viewing them largely as exemplars of “culture loss.” indeed, from the vantage of those working on taiwanese indigenous culture, these narratives seem degrading. anthropologists working with taiwanese indigenous people have largely followed suit. but in response, we might ask how these narratives and their underlying anthropology (that is, their description of men as erotic, traveling creatures) might talk back to anthropology: how might anthropology better incorporate other desires for the other (and not just our own, which we often shamefully deny) within the purview of our discipline? what would it mean to examine these desires as part of a contemporary formation of indigeneity?

maybe just to ruffle some feathers, i would argue that the spanish girlfriend story can actually teach us more about indigeneity than any production of the preservationist crowd

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disenchantment: what’s in a name?

pangangan (naming)

easter sunday in a’tolan showed me that sometimes geertz (and before that, benedict) was right about reoccurring cultural structures. much like other rituals around a’tolan, the easter sunday mass was followed by a meeting with speeches and then a time of play. because i was among the youngest people present, the group of elders at the easter celebration assigned me a typical task for young men, patikid. patikid is the work of serving drinks to everyone assembled around a large circle, but it is also, in keeping with ‘amis bodily aesthetics, a kind of dance: holding the cup in the right hand, one stomps and lunges with the right foot, rotating the hips and bringing the cup close to the ground and then upward toward the person who will drink. depending on the status of the recipient, one might run from a distance and greatly exaggerate the movement or just slightly dip one’s arm. because there is a general shortage of young people around a’tolan, i’m used to performing patikid and other such tasks–and accustomed to the antics of the senior men when they start drinking. the men will often fake a reach for the cup and grab the crotch of the young man performing patikid, it’s a joke that falls somewhere between hazing and teasing. this time, however, one of the men stood up, grabbed my ear, and shouted

o ci caraw kiso! o ci caraw kiso! o ci caraw kiso! does that name sound good to you?

caraw. it’s a common ‘amis man’s name and fits one of the categories of men’s names: it names a kind of wild creature or presence. caraw (or calaw) names a kind of forest gremlin that plays tricks on people who enter the forest; or, i should say that it is a name that closely resembles the name of this creature (saraw) and that is associated with it

enchantment

saraw live in the forest. they may mislead travelers or at times come to visit them when the travelers are about to sleep. just as the travelers are about to close their eyes, the saraw comes and wakes them; in that moment, the saraw might take them on a journey to haunts in the forest. if the traveler is not careful, he will find himself somewhere unfamiliar, with no idea how he arrived. when that happens,one knows that the saraw has played one of its tricks. although it has been many years since anyone has seen a saraw, most people in their sixties and above have experience with them and other forest sprites, such as faronohan. one elderly man even had a running contest with one of them. fortunately, he won. others saw a faronohan resting on the rocks of the stream it lived in, where it waited for children to swim–it would pull them down to the bottom of the stream with its long hair, which spread out on the stream bed around its body. mountain forests, streams, and even every small irrigation channel had its own set of gremlins, sprites, and other creatures that belonged, broadly, to kawas, gods or spirits. subsistence activities, such as fishing or gathering, all required rituals to placate or ask assistance from these presences. however, as a former village headman told me, these spirits have disappeared since the villagers joined one of the three christian churches that came to a’tolan. sometimes, he says, he misses them

disenchantment and distance

interestingly, this process of disenchantment accompanied a transformation in a’tolan from a relatively localized community to a diaspora and the rebuilding of the village into its present form. these transformations, including the introduction of christianity, were ones in which a enchanted landscape, populated with mysterious and powerful forces that required ritual placation, became a relatively utilitarian or disenchanted one. interestingly, one metaphor of this disenchantment is distance: during the time that village elders describe, the travel distance from home to fields or gathering places in the mountains was large, and it was customary to spend entire days or nights in one’s taloan (work shelter) in the fields or mountains; likewise, people would often set nets at night and sleep in a taloan on the beach. thus the house (loma’) contrasted with taloan and other types of dwellings where one worked or rested outside the confines of the village. particularly the paths between houses and places of work were dangerous. in some ways, this danger of the road connects with the notion of the path (lalan) as a spiritual environment. transformations of the village–including other forms of travel and corresponding notions of alterity–led to the gradual disenchantment of these places. besides, one hardly spends the night in a taloan today: one can easily drive or ride a motorcycle back to the village

what does this have to do with men’s names, and perhaps masculinity? men’s names often refer to useful plants or wild creatures with whom ‘amis have interactions; and men, in general, have the task of bringing value from outside the village. relative disenchantment of the landscape surrounding the village did not change this outside orientation as much as it shifted it to other fields of far ocean fishing and construction work. although both of these fields were highly rationalized industrial work, they maintain an outside orientation. and so, some means of working through or displaying alterity remains a male strategy for producing a life history. i’ll post some more about these narratives in subsequent posts. for now, i’ll try not to wonder too much why of all names, the elderly men who know me best chose the name of a forest gremlin. they say it’s because i am clever and work hard. that should be enough

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