Pear-shaped

Something about this sculpture from Thailand being just a few body parts feels apropos

Content note: this post contains some descriptions of a health issue and its treatment. If such things make you uneasy, you may not want to read ahead. 

“In Taiwan this would have been resolved by now,” I huffed. “Fixed in less than a day. Ouch…ew!”

Brendan mumbled in agreement but did not look; only parents of sick young children and trained medical professionals should have to witness the drama playing out on my right thumb. We were in Portland, Oregon, at the dining room table of our friend’s mother-in-law, and I was doing some very gross things with my miniature medical mis-en-place. 

During the Las Vegas segment of our Great West Coast Tour (to New Englanders like us, Vegas counts as “West Coast”) I developed what appeared to be a mild case of paronychia. An infection around the nail. By the day of my brother-in-law’s wedding it was clearly not resolving itself. I bandaged it for our trip to the Grand Canyon because it hurt to touch anything without warning. 

When we reached Portland, the side of my thumb had puffed from pink to a furious red. My basic travel medical kit didn’t have the means to deal with this; I needed antibiotics.

“I just really don’t want to deal with the American medical system,” I said, even though we had travel medical insurance. 

We flew to Portland to visit old college friends. Someone produced Epsom salts; I submerged my thumb as Brendan cut up a dinner salad, my friends and I complained about politics and we all kept an eye on the kids. 

When I lifted my thumb out of the hot Epsom mug, my thumb had puffed up to sci-fi proportions. My finger had quite literally gone pear-shaped. A little white bulb of pus had gathered under the skin next to the nail.

My friend’s recommended urgent care clinic didn’t seem to be covered by our travel insurance. I called the insurer for a recommendation and was given a code to use for another one; it didn’t work. The provider tried to help, but ultimately sent us back to the insurance company, who confirmed that it never actually works and we’d have to pay out of pocket and submit a claim. We weren’t looking at huge sums of money, but I didn’t really want to submit something after the fact when it might get rejected. We tried another in-network provider and set up an online appointment for the next day, but then once again found that they couldn’t actually locate our provider information. At that point I was desperate — I could barely type. 

The whole affair took an entire evening, just to find a provider and make an appointment.  

The online consultation was fairly straightforward: I clearly had a paronychia, and I needed antibiotics. The nurse practitioner prescribed some and recommended I either come in to have it lanced, or I do it myself at home. 

“What does it cost to come in?” I asked. 

“It starts at $99,” she said. On top of the hundred bucks I paid for the consultation. 

 

That’s how I found myself at a dining room table laying out alcohol wipes, cotton pads and needles on a bed of tissues. I sterilized a needle and gently lanced the white bit. It didn’t hurt, which was probably a bad sign. 

The pus came out in fat yellow drops, staining the cotton pads a freaky green color. The pharmacy wouldn’t open until 11am, giving me plenty of time to relieve as much pressure as possible on my poor pear-shaped thumb. The result felt weirdly hollow, like a drained blister, but deeper under the skin. 

With our friend’s husband working the next day, we couldn’t fit into her car with the two children’s car seats. So we took an Uber to CVS while she drove the kids to a nearby cafe with big couches, with plans to meet there once I’d procured the antibiotics. 

Total time spent: six days from when I would have seen a doctor in Taiwan to when I actually saw one in the US. As I write this, the infection has not completely cleared; I feel like I have a shrinking cystic zit under my thumb pad. 

Total money spent: $140 US dollars, including the online consultation, two Uber rides and antibiotics. That’s on top of an insurance premium for three weeks of coverage that cost four times what we pay in Taiwan each month for National Health Insurance, and their actually covering it is not yet assured. 

Here’s how it would have gone in Taiwan: the same day I realized the infection wasn’t resolving itself as expected, I would have likely seen a doctor within walking distance or a short ride away on public transportation. In a hurry, I might have taken taxis for a total of about US$10. I would have immediately been given antibiotics and the doctor likely would have done a better job lancing it than I had. 

There would have been no question of National Health Insurance covering it. That’s why it exists. The appointment and the antibiotics would have cost about US$5. 

In the US we were lucky to be staying with friends for most of our trip (which is, of course, how we could afford it). We thus had immediate access to basic medical supplies. However, there should have been no need to wait that long to decide medical attention was necessary — letting the infection get a little out of control — spend that much time finding a provider, spend that much money and then lance it myself. 

In Taiwan it would have been a non-issue.

The mundanity of all this is the point: I’m telling you this gross little story exactly because it’s so banal. My only personal experience with the American medical system in 18 years was, in fact, not terrible. I needed medical care and got it, and the cost was something I could afford. That’s frankly unusual, and I was extremely lucky. 

But here’s the thing — even a not-terrible, incredibly boring (yet pus-filled) outcome was still worse in the US than it would have been in Taiwan. It’s easy to point to medical horror stories in the US and compare them to the rest of the developed world: impossible bills, long emergency room waits, avoiding ambulances because you can’t afford them, drugs you break the bank to pay for, long appointment lead times. 

Comparing a fairly good US outcome to Taiwan and still seeing the US come up short? I think that says something. Even when the American medical system basically works, it can’t compete with a small island nation that only recently developed and democratized. You don’t need a horror story to prove this. What is so thoroughly wrong with the US that it can’t even treat a simple paronychia without undue expense and stress?

We were ultimately charged for the consultation, and now have to figure out whatever complicated procedure is required to submit a claim, which may or may not be rejected. 

This should not happen, and in Taiwan it would not happen.

The US delivered a thoroughly acceptable treatment for my messed-up hand, and it was still more expensive, time-consuming and complicated than the same thing would have been in Taiwan. Frankly, that looks really bad for the US. 

It's OK to not love China

     Flame me if you want, but I will never add an "I love China, but" to any of my opinions

I have to get something off my chest. A dark confession, the opposite of what I feel is expected of me. You see, as much as I feel expected to say otherwise, I don't love China. 

When favorably discussing Taiwanese independence, sovereignty or identity, or saying anything negative about the CCP, it seems as though so many people feel the need to insert a little "I love China, but..." or "I deeply love the people and culture of China, however..." Sometimes this is a single sentence header; sometimes it stretches out to cover an entire paragraph detailing some positive experience or perspective on China as a country, to emphasize the differentiation of the nation and people from the government. 

Here are just a few random examples from a quick search:

That's all fine, if you truly "love China" no one should stop you from saying so, but I don't love China. 

I certainly understand this, however. I've even engaged in it. One doesn't want to imply dislike or hatred of a group of people, or aim derision at an entire nation in all its complexities. Of course, engaging in "Screw China!" rhetoric is fundamentally racist, when China is a vast, complex nation full of everyday people who don't deserve to be lumped in with their genocidal government. 

Nobody actively insists this is a necessary addition to what one really wants to say, but I see it so often and feel compelled to include it. The consequence is often being labeled a "China-hater" (China as in the country, not the government) or worse, of perpetuating anti-Asian hate. Of course, tankies, aggressive Han supremacist trolls and CCP shills (both paid and unpaid) will accuse pro-Taiwan advocates and CCP critics of all of this anyway, but it feels like a necessary preliminary step to defend oneself.

But here's the thing. 

I truly don't love China. 

I've felt unspoken pressure to preface pro-Taiwan advocacy or criticism of the brutal, genocidal, authoritarian CCP with exhortations that are simply not sincere. And there's a strong likelihood that I'll attract criticism for simply being honest about this. 

Let's be clear: I don't hate China, either. I certainly don't hate Chinese citizens.  It's ridiculous to hate a whole nation -- no place, especially not one so large, complex and diverse in cultures, languages and history, could possibly deserve an opinion so simplistic and dismissive.

As someone who has lived in China and returned several times since, I simply have no specific affection for the country. Although I can never know what it's like to be Chinese or be a PRC citizen, I've experienced some version of life in China, and not in the big east coast cities (I've visited those, but my actual life there was in Guizhou). That experience resulted in mixed feelings.

Chinese histories -- the many histories of the regions now considered China -- are fascinating. The many cultures of China are, too. I've fallen out of love with the Mandarin language, but am enthusiastic about learning Taiwanese. Clearly Sinitic languages are of great interest to me. There are plenty of astounding things to see in China. I've seen them and been astounded. To touch on more everyday matters, the food is great (usually -- it's not always prepared well, as in any country) and the people are generally pretty nice. Daily life, at least for an expat, was fairly safe when I lived there.

But you know what else I experienced in China? Horrendous misogyny, aimed not at me but at Chinese women I knew. Their stories aren't really mine to tell, but I am pretty sure this attitude isn't anecdotal. 

I may have felt safe enough on the streets, .but I didn't feel the same way expressing any kind of opinion. That included fairly anodyne ones like "I think Taiwanese should get to decide if they want to be part of the PRC", which isn't even close to the pro-independence diehard that I am today. In contrast to Taiwan where one can freely discuss 228 or the White Terror, I never mentioned Tiananmen Square, because I knew I couldn't. Mail sometimes arrived pre-opened. People occasionally told me controversial opinions, such as "I was at Tiananmen Square so I know how fucked up things are", "We're not allowed to fully practice Uyghur culture, they are our oppressors" and "I'd like to protest the government but they'd just kill us." 

I kept those confessions to myself while in China -- what other choice was there?

That's not even getting into how sick the pollution made me, multiple times, nor the trouble of accessing actual international news. 

There were so many reasons why I chose to leave at the end of my year in China, but stuck around in Taiwan. My first six months in Taiwan were rough, but I felt a budding affection for the country which only grew. In China, that feeling never came.

In fact, the part of China I liked most was East Turkestan (known to some as Xinjiang), where people don't like the CCP, aren't Chinese and don't seem to really want to be part of China. I feel nothing but grief for what has happened there since my visit so many years ago. 

I've lived in four countries in my life -- the United States, China, India and Taiwan. I feel affection for India despite its flaws, and actually do love Taiwan. I chose to settle here, after all. My feelings about the US are more positive than about China, but I wouldn't say I "love" it. I can't say why China was my least favorite place to live, or why it didn't capture my affection in the same way as other places I've intentionally moved to. India is hardly perfect, and Taiwan has its negatives. But China just didn't do it for me.

Life there wasn't all all awful. There was good and bad, and those bad experiences above were balanced somewhat by positive ones. I made friends, began learning Mandarin, ate some amazing food, saw some stupendous scenic, cultural and historic sites. Very few experiences are all bad. And that's how I feel about China: good and bad.  

Honestly, regardless of what I think about any given government, I feel fairly neutral towards most countries. At best, I've enjoyed traveling in them and learning about them, but I wouldn't describe my emotions towards them as "love". I went to Sri Lanka and enjoyed it immensely, but that's about it. I went to Myanmar and had many positive experiences, but I wouldn't say I felt "love". Our honeymoon was a bus trip from Panama to Guatemala. It was amazing, and each country fascinating in its own way. But do I "love" Nicaragua? I wouldn't say so. I do care about people, but feel no clear need to love a country absent some specific yet ineffable catalyst.

Countries are countries -- they all have their good and bad points, some have more good than bad, and most have intractable problems but also things to like. People are also just people: most are good, many are nice, a few are rotten. That's true anywhere in the world you go. Even general safety is linked not to how "good" people are, but more to economic factors. 

So why, exactly, should I "love" China? What does it matter that I lived there? What does it matter that I live in Taiwan now? And what does it matter that I'm pro-Taiwan? I still don't have to "love" China in order to criticize it, and I'm sick of feeling tacit pressure to say I do. 

It feels like pre-emptive self-defense, as though one needs to justify supporting for Taiwan, Tibet or East Turkestan. As though one needs  a caveat in order to oppose the Uyghur genocide, or criticize the CCP. But I neither want nor need to prove myself, to add an insincere caveat, to speak the truth about other countries like Taiwan, and other cultures like Tibetan and Uyghur.

The case for Taiwan, among others, is just and right all on its own. It's time to stop falling over ourselves to proclaim "love" for China just because CCP shills will twist support for these causes into "anti-Asian hate" or "you're racist against Chinese people!" when that's simply not the case. 

I do hate the CCP: they certainly have no business running a country given all they've done to harm China (and then claim credit when they stop or reverse just some of the harm they themselves inflicted). They should be shunted out of existence. Xi Jinping should face charges before an international court for crimes against humanity and spend the rest of his life not as the dictator of the world's most populous country, but alone in a deep dark hole. I cannot describe the degree to which I loathe that government. 

But there are many governments I don't care for. Many run countries I like quite a bit, or feel neutrally toward! I appreciate Indian democracy but acknowledge the flaws of the Indian government (certainly I'm no fan of the BJP). The US government has some obvious problems. Taiwan has an admirable democracy but the government sometimes makes me feel like bashing my head against a wall. At least they're democracies, though. The CCP -- brutal, non-democratic but ultimately not the only factor in my feelings about China -- is an entirely different thing. 

But you know what? Whatever. I don't love China. I don't love China! It feels so freeing to just be honest about that. Living there had its upsides and drawbacks, but in the end the drawbacks outweigh the upsides, and I have no regrets about choosing never to return. I do miss things like 酸辣米皮 -- Guizhou-style hot and sour flat noodles. It's a shame I will probably never again see places I actually did love, such as East Turkestan, the Miao areas around Kaili, and Hong Kong. But I don't think China is a safe destination for public supporters of Taiwan. Oh well. 

I support Taiwan and Taiwanese independence. Taiwan is a country. Taiwan has a unique history and culture, and most Taiwanese do not identify as Chinese. China has no business claiming Taiwan and is absolutely in the wrong for threatening a bloody, violent war. Period. They are the provocateurs -- the only provocateurs. Not Taiwan, not the United States. 

That same government will tell you that this stance is akin to hating China as a country, which is essentially the same as anti-Asian racism. That is a lie, and I reject it. 

The CCP should fall, though nobody but the people of China can make that happen. I want only good things for Chinese citizens, but don't know how to support them. I wish I did. 

All of that is true, and also, I don't love China. 

Everything I've learned about leaving and returning to Taiwan during a COVID outbreak

I wanna be where the people are...

We've just arrived back in Taiwan after a month in the United States. I'd read a lot about what it would be like to return, and had some idea of what our arrival and quarantine experience would be like. However, most of those posts were written before the big outbreak in Taiwan; coming back now feels fundamentally different than I suspect it would have just a few months ago. So, I thought I'd write about it. 

The rules regarding who can quarantine at home -- which differ between local cases and incoming travelers -- are not particularly clear. Yes, incoming travelers can quarantine at home if they have a residence with no other non-quarantine people, and their residence isn't subdivided into multiple addresses. Brendan and I are quarantining together, so yes, two travelers returning on the same day can stay in the same residence. No, you do not need two separate bathrooms. 

In fact, nobody will even check your apartment. I already kind of knew this from a friend in a position to know these things -- if your apartment meets the "one person per residence" requirements, I was told that "the CECC doesn't care about how many bathrooms you have." Somehow, however, I had this idea in my head that upon arrival or perhaps the day after, someone would come and inspect our quarantine quarters. That didn't happen (and thinking about it now, I don't see how it could have). I'd spent a lot of time fretting about this, when it amounted to nothing at all. 

But let's rewind a bit and talk about the requirements both to leave and return. Many people insisted that to board the plane in either direction you'd need a PCR test, which would be a considerable financial outlay. That turned out not to be true: to leave, you need whatever the airline and arrival country require. For us, that was a rapid antigen test done at a lab. We did this at minimal cost at Taiwan Adventist Hospital, which we chose for proximity as well as ease of registration (of all hospitals offering tests, theirs was the only one with a website that made sense.) It was also one of the few offering antigen tests, not just PCRs, and didn't extort foreigners (Tzu Chi, I'm looking at you -- your discriminatory fees should be illegal and I'm thinking of filing a complaint.)  Choose something nearby as you'll have to return for your results. 

We also thought travel insurance would be smart. Unfortunately, affordable Taiwan-based plans require you to pay up-front and then make a claim, which I didn't want to deal with. US-based plans are based on residency, not citizenship, so aren't available to us as they only cover international trips out of the United States and back. I called Allianz to ask about this and got horrible customer service ("well, I think we have an office in China," they told me. "But I don't live in China," I said. "It's the Republic of China!" You can guess how I replied.) Other plans like World Nomads would cover us but were far too expensive. We ended up going with IMG as they have a network in the US, offer COVID coverage and trip+health insurance, and had the lowest prices. 

You'll need the antigen test results and a travel declaration (generally available through your airline's website) to fly out, as well as proof of vaccination. Leaving Taiwan turned out to be the only time we had to prove our vaccination status; I'm still happy I obtained an international yellow card at Taipei Medical University Hospital. The digital certificate also works and is free (the WHO-issued yellow card costs about NT$900), but what can I say? I'm analog. Again, hospitals have very unclear procedures for registering for this service. At Taipei Medical, in theory you can register online for "family medicine". In practice, none of the doctors on the menu seem to have any availability -- it's better to call (no, the receptionist won't necessarily speak English.)

Arriving in the US is nothing at all -- there's no quarantine, nobody checks who you are or where you're going, you're just released into the country as though there is no pandemic. Returning to Taiwan, of course, is a different story. 

We ended our visit in New York City, where in theory you can get a free PCR test. However, there's a bit of an outbreak there now, and results are not guaranteed within the required 48-hour window. You might get lucky, but if you don't, you'll need a last-minute appointment and that'll cost you (the place we booked was charging $389 for same-day results). We made appointments in advance for next-day results at $175 -- the test itself is still free, but the guaranteed turnaround will cost you. Fortunately, we were able to cancel our quarantine hotel, and the returned deposits on our rooms more than covered the cost of the tests. The results will generally be emailed to you, and showing the document on your phone is fine.

          

Nick Kembel has an excellent post which discusses the Quarantine Entry Form, so I won't go into too much detail. The automatic screenshot system didn't work for me (it kept blipping out), but it turns out the only thing anyone will look at is that first page saying you've submitted it with a bar code. A few of the questions on the form are confusing, however. Here's a quick redux:

1.) For "purpose of coming to Taiwan", we selected "back home" even though we're not Taiwanese, as none of the other options applied. 

2.) Even though we were quarantining together, we each selected quarantining at home with "one person per residence". At no point does the form clarify that two people on the same flight can choose this. 

3.) For the test results, as we were coming from the US, we selected that we did want the saliva test, and did want the results. 

4.) On my phone, the field for my APRC number kept reverting to my passport number, so check that before you hit "next". The form also kept switching my day of birth to the 1st, even though I wasn't born on the first of the month. Fortunately, you can go back and edit the form before you submit. 

5. When noting transportation from the airport to your quarantine location, the two options are not very clear. Choose the one that is not "arrange your own vehicle". 

6.) When you're done, the system's screenshot may or may not work (it worked for Brendan but not for me). Make sure you have your own screenshot too. You can do it on your phone -- a process I found frustrating as it kept blipping out -- or on your computer, if you send yourself screenshots.

You can complete this form once you have a quarantine location and negative test result. We did ours the night before.

Upon checking in for our flight, we learned that if you don't have a Taiwanese passport, you can't do it in advance as you need to show proof of a visa (yes, APRCs obviously count). The automatic check-in machines at the airport also stop you at this point, and it took awhile for us to flag a clerk and get all of our documents approved -- negative test result, quarantine entry form submission screenshot, APRCs. This delay caused us to be in the last boarding group, which was somewhat annoying as flights are no longer as empty as they once were. 

Even with far stricter entry requirements, Taoyuan airport offered a smoother, better-organized process than Newark (or any US airport, really). Generally speaking, all you have to do is follow everyone else. I strongly recommend using the bathroom as soon as possible, if you need it, as it may be awhile before you can use one again. 

On arrival, there are two lines: one for those who received a confirmation text from the MOHW that their quarantine form was approved (check your texts when you arrive!), and one for those who have no confirmation and need it manually checked. If you have the text, click the link to open your approval page and screenshot that. 

You'll be handed your spit cup and a piece of paper with your information on it; hold onto this. You don't actually do the spit test until you exit the airport. This is slightly annoying as it means you have to carry it through baggage claim, but the process is now much faster -- you no longer have to wait at the airport for your results. 

For the first time in years, we had to actually go to an immigration counter to be let in the country, and received a passport stamp. This part was fairly easy, though I could imagine the lines getting quite long. 

At that point you'll pass through customs and follow the lines to the spit test location. Nobody will ask you if you need to use an ATM, so if you need one, speak up (I ended up having to run back into the terminal, which was allowed). I didn't need a SIM card, but it seemed like those who did were in for a long-ish wait at Chunghwa Telecom. Notably, none of the other providers' booths were still open when we arrived. That was irritating for me as I had to pay my phone bill after being away for a month, but I was able to ask a friend to do it for me. 

At some point in this process you'll be handed a sticker to wear that indicates you're transferring to quarantine, and two home test kits -- one to take on your last day of quarantine, and one to be used if you experience symptoms.

Once you leave the terminal you are sent outside to do your spit test. There's a video on how to do this set to adorable guitar music on Youtube, and instructions in the booth. You don't actually need to stand there for a full minute -- you just need to be sure you have sufficient saliva in your mouth. 

Finally, you'll be sent to the quarantine taxi line. They'll take a photo of your health declaration certificate on your phone (that's the approval text you get from the MOHW on arrival and use the last six digits of your passport number to open, or have done manually if you don't have a text message approval -- not a new document). By the time you get to the front, you'll have been sprayed down in a bit of hygiene theater, and be put into a taxi which already knows your destination. 

The next day, we each got calls from the CECC. (No visit and no snacks unfortunately. I'd been looking forward to the snacks.) They asked us if we needed help with food, water or garbage disposal during our quarantine, and let us know that we'd receive a daily text about our health -- "press 1 if you feel fine, press 2 if you don't". Nobody asked us to take our daily temperature, but of course we're keeping an eye on it anyway. This seems like a smart way to handle thinly-spread resources: someone is keeping an eye on us, but it's not as intense or scrutinizing as I'd imagined from reports of quarantining people back when Taiwan had few or no cases. 

We were lucky enough to have one of our cat sitters fill our fridge with fresh groceries using money we'd left behind, so quarantine for us is mostly just chillin' at home. Here's one thing I hadn't realized, though: I get over jet lag much faster when I can go outside, or have things to do and places to be. Without that -- especially without direct access to sunlight -- I'm feeling the effects much more strongly. I've fallen asleep both afternoons that we've been back, and just felt generally discombobulated in my new time zone. For the first time ever, I got over jet lag in the US faster than I am managing it in Taiwan; usually it's the opposite. My sleep cycle is a straight-up mess right now. We have good natural light in our living room, but I need sun. I might stick my head out the window for awhile tomorrow.

This morning we received our test results and got our first text. Otherwise, honestly, quarantine is just like chilling at home. 

All in all, despite the recent outbreak, my impression is that the government is doing a solid job allocating its resources well. The quarantine entry form is still confusing, but the arrival process is pretty smooth, and they seem to have streamlined their focus on inbound travel quarantiners. 

Anxiety, COVID, and Me

The National Museum of Prehistory, Tainan

I haven't been blogging as much as usual for two reasons: the first is that we're about to leave for a necessary trip to the US in less than a week. While I'm excited to see friends and family after years away, it's stressful to plan a pandemic trip, and the timing isn't our choice: there are some things that require our personal presence in the country of our citizenship.

On top of that I had two writing deadlines for Taipei Quarterly. Expect a post about that in the upcoming months; I think it'd be relevant to Lao Ren Cha to do a rundown of all the restored heritage buildings they've been having me visit. 

The second reason is plain old anxiety. COVID has finally hit Taiwan for real, and handed an outbreak that probably can't be reduced to zero anytime soon, the government has abandoned COVID Zero and taken up a mitigation strategy. In my anecdotal experience, the populace seems fine with this.

Perhaps they're tired of the looming threat of lockdowns, or perhaps they've been watching the unfolding disaster in China and don't want their country to go down the same path (which I doubt would happen regardless). Perhaps they feel safer as most Taiwanese are now vaccinated. Nobody really wants all restaurants and cafes to close again, though I haven't actually been to a restaurant or cafe in weeks.

I have seen more caution -- stricter mask wearing, more use of hand sanitizing stations -- but there's one area that has me deeply uncomfortable: the lack of a return to working from home wherever possible. Sure, some offices are re-adopting those policies or offering flexible work-from-home options, but it just doesn't seem to be the imperative that it was when we had case numbers in the hundreds, before crushing that outbreak. Now we're above 10,000 a day, and people who don't need to go to the office are still going.

Few seem as worried about this as I am, and I acknowledge that my opinion is both out of step with about half of public opinion and fueled in part by personal anxiety. I have a trip coming up for which my presence is crucial in two states at two different times, at the risk of some serious setbacks. I can't get sick. If I do, I can't go. If I get sick in the US, I can't travel, but have no good isolation options (and miss the things that really need to happen). If I get sick towards the end of the trip, I can't come back. Anyone would be anxious about this. 

While I've been telling myself the worries will ease once the trip is done, that certainty slips by the day. 

If everyone is fine with face-to-face work, that means a lot of the work I'm offered will be in-person as well. I don't particularly want to say yes to in-person training (my English teaching work is all online; only teacher training is in person), but I may not be given a choice. And while we're not broke, I can't exactly choose to turn down work and play housewife until it's all over. 

In other words, if everyone else is fine to continuing in-person work, I feel pressured into accepting it, too. I don't have enough of a financial cushion to say no forever. Yet I don't want to do it. I want the option of going online, of being able to say I'm not comfortable with this and still have work.

There is no good reason for this attitude on the part of employers. It seems that most just don't particularly feel like making remote work the norm until this outbreak begins its hopefully inevitable decline. It's not very scientific, and it's not rational. Nobody wants a full lockdown -- I don't support that either -- but it's just not logical to go out often and spend lots of time indoors with other people's germs in the middle of a major outbreak, if one does not absolutely have to. 

There are employees who don't mind going to the office, of course. One of my students pointed out that she likes her coworkers, plus there's always free coffee, drinks and snacks (it's true, that particular office is very strong on all-you-can-consume snacks and beverages). But mostly, I want to know why employers seem more accepting of an outbreak at their office. 

I don't love it. I don't support it. I don't want it. I am deeply uncomfortable with it. And there isn't much I can do about it. Cue the anxiety. 

So I haven't been writing much, because I just don't know what to say when all I can think of is don't get sick don't get sick don't get sick don't get sick. 

There's a lot I want to talk about, too. From an upcoming post on restored Taipei heritage buildings to an exploration of the way the KMT is trying to replace Taiwanese democracy activism with ROC stories from China to the utter preposterousness of the notion that "the US funds Taiwan independence separatists", I have things to say. Just no will right now to say them.

Maybe I'll find my mojo again -- get my groove back or whatever -- when I return from this trip. Or maybe I'll become a weird hermit who stores her pee in jars. Who knows?

Perhaps it's normal for bloggers to just take breaks, and I need one now. Maybe that's fine too. In the meantime, I guess you'll find me behind an N95 as I travel the northeast corridor of the United States, or at home dusting my pee jars.

Kaohsiung's Dashe (大社) and an aborted trip to the Maolin and Duona scenic area

The Huang family compound in Dashe

Before the coronavirus outbreak in Taiwan, work took me to southern Taiwan quite often. Since I have lots of friends down south, this has given me the opportunity to head in some unexpected directions.

On my last trip, I met up with a friend who lives in Dashe (大社), a compact town north of Kaohsiung City. Like a lot of less commonly explored towns, Dashe offers a fair amount of historic architecture that you'll mostly have to yourself, and perhaps a few locals. A lot of this architecture consists of beautiful old farmhouses, which tend to still be privately owned (and occupied). That's great, although there's a downside: it can be difficult to actually get a look.

The nearest MRT station is Metropolitan Park, although it's surprisingly possible to take a bus there from HSR Zuoying Station. The R60B heads in that direction, but there are other options: Google Maps can show you how without much problem. 

I was lucky to have car access, however. Our plan for the day was to drive up to Maolin 茂林 and Duona 多納, and take advantage of the dry, sunny weather to hike up to the Lovers' Waterfall at Maolin and the gorge and suspension bridge at Duona. The area is mainly Rukai Indigenous, and there's also good food to be had up there. Duona's mountain views and traditional stacked slate houses draw tourists, which means stone slab barbecue, coffeeshops, millet wine, fig jelly (愛玉 -- the area is famous for it) and maqaw (馬告, a citrusy-flavored peppercorn-like seasoning used in Indigenous cuisine). 

Well, we did make it to Duona, but we ended up not doing anything else on our itinerary except barbecue and coffee, so this isn't a blog post about a trip to the mountains. However, the best possible overview of the area can be found in Richard Saunders' Taiwan 101 travel guide. 

How did we get so far off track? It's not a very interesting story, but I will tell you at the end. Our first diversion was my friend's hometown itself. It turns out that Dashe is far more interesting than it seems! The town is absolutely bursting with old houses in various states of repair. Some are fairly unadorned three-sided farmhouses (三合院) that have survived into the 21st century, but some are truly noteworthy.

We spent a morning driving around looking at these old houses before heading for the hills, and still didn't manage to visit every one. 

Let's start with the Wu family (巫家), whose ancestral hall and family home are along Minsheng Road 民生路. The ancestral hall is open to the public during the day and is located at #2, Lane 43 (the lane is really just a concrete lot). It's on Google Maps as the Taisha Old House Witch House (大社巫厝古宅) but there's no "witch" involved; that's just a weird translation of the Wu surname, which uses a less common character. 

Much of this hall was torn down and replaced with newer buildings, but the central three courtyards remain. According to local blogs, the original hall was so massive that it was called the "thousand gates", because it...had a lot of gates. Apparently the 'servants' would cry every night at the thought of shutting all of them, and each one had a distinctive latch. 






















The ancestral hall is notable for its use of wood imported from Fujian, with high-quality carving work, now mostly blackened with age. It's typical of Zhangzhou-style houses because it is one. 

The style of the arches and gables made me think this hall was older than most, perhaps late 18th or early 19th century (in comparison, most still-standing historic homes seem to be from the mid-19th century). I asked a guy hanging out nearby -- he may have been there in some sort of official ancestral hall capacity but as usual, it's hard to tell -- who said it was about 200 years old, and the Wu family has been in Dashe for as long as anyone can remember. 

Me: "So, 1820s?"

Him: "No, earlier than that. Maybe 300 years."

So I Googled it: the hall was built in 1803. 

I'm not a Qing-era architecture expert, just a very good guesser who has seen a lot of old houses. 

Further down Minsheng Road, at #109, is another Wu family mansion. This one can't be visited so easily. The Wu house is a private residence, and is maintained well enough that someone certainly stays or visits part time. The gate was locked when we stopped by, but it's possible to peer in a bit through the lattices on the brick wall.  These two heritage buildings are close enough that I suspect the entire stretch between them had once been the Wu family compound and farm. It might still be, but with newer -- and uglier -- buildings. 









And there are a few other interesting old buildings around here in various states of picturesque decay: 







Not far from here, a few more old farmhouses can be found on or near Minsheng Road. The Ni Family House (大社倪厝古宅 on Google) is in a lane just before you reach Lane 131. Blogs say it was "completed in 1950", but that the family built it in a traditional style. That's certainly evident. The large-and-small red brick pattern. Similar to the construction style of Longshan Temple in Taipei, the bricks themselves are hollow or filled with dirt, and take on an attractive golden red color in the late afternoon. The lower half of the building is made of decorated cement in a geometric pattern, which is the only clue that this is a mid-century house rather than something much older.

If you're curious, the various roof arches one can find on older buildings are said to represent the five elements. The smooth rounded curve of the Ni Family Mansion arches apparently represents "gold". Narrower, tall arches represent "wood", an arch with two waves one each side is "water", the spiky style often seen in Matsu Island architecture is "fire" and the flat-topped kind are "earth". There are also some interesting design features, including a carved "fu" (富) over a drainage canal and an interesting patio.

How do I know all this? There's a book about it, in addition to just reading the blogs of Taiwanese old house buffs. There's always someone who's been there before if you just Google it. You can find the book at The Taiwan Store (台灣个店) in a lane off Xinsheng South Road in Taipei. 

There's another set of old brick buildings nearby, as well. They're laid out in a row, and certainly not farmhouses.

A few more of these houses dot Minsheng Road as you continue, but they don't have any other notable features. It's worth taking a look, however, if you're wandering down this way. Many are still inhabited, so be careful to be respectful of private property and not trespass uninvited. An easy way to find these in general is to key up the satellite version of Google Maps and look for orange roofs laid out in the three-sided farmhouse shape, but not all will be notable enough to visit, and others may not be accessible.

Downtown, we stopped at Biyun Temple (碧雲宮) at the intersection of Sanmin Road 三民路, Guangming Street 光明街 and Cuiping Road 翠屏路. 














The temple itself is on the 2nd floor of a market area, accessible via elevator or stairs. The lanes around here have some interesting old architecture too.

While the decor screams "mid-century" -- I'd date the pebble-tile steps and terrazzo floors at the 1950s or '60s  --  this is a renovation. According to my friend, the temple itself is much older, from the Qing dynasty. You can get a pleasant view of the street from here, including some of the Japanese-era buildings at this intersection. The temple itself isn't particularly noteworthy beyond the vintage flooring, but you can make a wish here. The wishing plaques hang attractively along an elevated corridor overlooking the town. 

The Japanese-era buildings here have facades worth a moment of your time to admire, but unfortunately there are no period interiors to explore. One houses a shoe store and pharmacy: I asked the shoe store owner if she knew anything about the building, but she was merely renting the space and had nothing to share. Another building houses a fruit stand, and another was locked up tight when I passed through.








In a lane off Cuiping Road, there is a gorgeous old house that my friend called a "secret garden" because it's not visible from the street, but absolutely stunning inside. Apparently it's blocked by another building, and you have to cut across a private yard to get there. She opined that the owners might not want it "discovered", but I've got news for them: it has been.

My friend didn't know quite where it was, however, and we never did find it. I came across these blog posts later. 

The Hsu Family House (許家古厝）was built in 1910 and was the home of Hsu Chuan-hsing, a director of the Dashe Peasants' Association (not sure how else to translate that). The tilework alone makes it worth doing what this blogger says is necessary: trespassing across private property. Apparently the Majolica tiles aren't the only attraction, the scrolls, brick carvings and Kochi pottery (a traditional Taiwanese art form) were all done by Chang Chiao, the father of Chang Decheng, a famous shadow puppet artist. Chang Chiao himself was a talented artist who did much of the work around Dashe, although a great deal of it has been demolished.

This blog offers a more precise address, though I can't figure out on Google Maps where exactly it's supposed to be. Next time. 

Our final stop was another family shrine, this time for the Huangs. They were (and probably are) quite rich, as there's a local saying that the Huang family didn't need to pass through anyone else's land to reach Guanyin Mountain. (Guanyin Mountain itself has some lovely easy hiking trails, a weekend market, a 'chaste widow' arch and a small park at the base, and is also worth a visit.)

We didn't get to see the whole house as we really were trying to get up to the mountains, but the shrine is open to all. The house, however, has a set of flagpole stones, a preserved sedan chair, some beautiful brick carving, claywork and plaques which may be the work of Chang Chiao, and I'll be returning to try to check it out. One plaque indicates that the shrine was likely built in "the fourth year of Taisho", which would have been 1916.

The shrine itself is mostly cement work, with some lovely cyan-colored window frames and grilles.

Across the street, there's a car wash with a funky retro cafe kiosk that reminds me of a hamburger.

By then it was getting close to lunchtime and we hadn't even left Dashe, so we hit the road. In the end, we didn't do any hiking, not only because it was too hot by the time we hit Maolin, but because we foolishly tried to get there with Google Maps, which sent us into a dusty quarry road full of cement trucks somewhere outside of Meinong, where the river widens. We even had to stop to wash off the windshield! Once we got to Maolin and had lunch the locals laughed at us -- never use Google Maps to get to the mountains, it has no idea what the best routes are. 

That is quite true.

However, please enjoy photos from the mountain drive we did manage to take, including the swimming hole where we hung out for awhile as the hiking just wasn't working out, and a young girl where we stopped for an early dinner who kept "stealing" things from the table, including my phone and sunglasses (not really stealing, she was just playing games). 

As these were taken when Taiwan was still wracked with drought, the mountains look a little dry and sad. I'm sure they've recovered by now.