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Crowds in Taiwan breath like a school of fish. There is a lubricated nonaggression that informs the way people manage to negotiate the precious resource of space. Here on the mainland, it is all corners and elbows. Broken movement gives rise to a wobble of continual missteps; a constant cold sore like irritation of blockage and avoidance.
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It is as if there is a bass note mantra that beats from the brainstem; “I’m ahead of you, I’m ahead of you, I’m ahead of you, I’m ahead of you…”

Perhaps it is the Chinese version of driving a Hummer, the Chinese way of declaring oneself important and above. It might simply be that population density and scarcity breed a particularly acidic aggression. Or that the forces of capitalism and the free market banging up against faux-socialist belief that leads to a different kind of Cultural Revolution. The current rate of growth, as evidenced by a battleground of demolition and rebuild creates a feeling of rootlessness,  as the wheels of commerce churn out consumer lust and dreams of keeping up with Chen’s. It leaves one with  the metallic taste of aggression, careless disregard and the feeling that life is a commodity to be parceled and bargained.

Taiwanese temples effuse a perfume of smoky dreams and wishes. Its guardians, gods and psychedelically carved ceilings smoked black by prayers and burnt fragrance. In China you know a temple is close by when the cigarette shops give way to those hawking over-sized incense and ghost money. Unlike the yellow and gold currency used in Taiwan, here they burn fake American $1000 bills. Should you wish to enter the temple itself, there is a fee.

There is always a fee.
The divine is accessible; on a pay per view basis.

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For some reason, the temples here remind me of refrigerators with abandoned food that is neither spoiled, nor eatable. There is a complete lack of nourishment, and an emptiness incapable of being filled.

Temples in Taiwan are as common as bus stops. They can take up entire city blocks, or the corner of a thin alley. They all radiate cathode light, an incense of burnt wishes and the hope that questions will have acceptable answers; that problems will have familiar solutions or that one’s dreams and hopes are not too far out of line with the vision of the gods.
Unlike the solemn and whisper of western religious sanctuaries, Taiwanese temples are unfettered, flip-flop casual and without holy pretense. Still lives of fruit, flowers, boxed snacks and cans of liquid refreshment adorn tables that offer to the Chinese pantheon of gods a snack while they consider the mortal requests of those who are still learning how to craft our own destiny.
Taiwanese temples offer DIY fortune telling.
 We all have questions, spoken or not. We all have answers, touched upon or not.

It works like this:

Fire up the incense; face out toward the world and feel the invitation of divine intervention. Let it creep up your spine and wiggle into the interstitial spaces between the flesh; drop three sticks of incense into the cauldron outside the temple.
Then face inward, to the pantheon of gods, deities and local heroes, recognize they are all in you in the first place. Drop another three sticks of incense in the alter cauldron; reach inward and ask the proper question. Then pull one black patina’ed bamboo stick from amongst the tribe of bamboo slivers in the unpolished brass can. Chose an intention, a path, a belief, choose a commitment to unfold life on a path of our own creation. We all walk into the temple looking for a little guidance, a wink, a nudge; we want a nod from the future that we are choosing wisely.

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We all know that fooling ourselves is fiendishly easy. 
But, fooling the gods is another matter.

There are no fortune cookies in Taiwan, but in every temple, next to the brass canister of inscribed bamboo are a pair of wooden crescent moons that easily cup in the hand. They look like petrified fortune cookies, but they are the oracle’s way of confirming the honesty of your inquiry. Should they fall one face up and the other face down, the chosen stick will give an insight into your question. Otherwise, try another question.

There is a book that holds the explanations of all the sticks. No one really understands old Chinese. It actually gives me an odd sense of satisfaction that most people in Taiwan, like me, need to read the explanatory text to understand how to dream more deeply into the path at hand.
Really though, in Taiwan, if you read English there are oracles all around that whisper and remind, point and nudge, to the path held in one’s heart.

I am not at all saying that it is childish here, but that there is an unvarnished sense of playfulness. Nine year olds know how to play, they are experts at it. At the same time they know there is a larger wider world, and some of their ideas just might make a difference too; if the adults would listen.

Nine year olds believe in good ghosts, have secret hideouts, ride on two wheels with expertise and abandon. They hold their friends close, argue freely, and are always on the outlook for a tasty snack and fun time. How else could you explain night markets, and streetside silver carts brimming with treats, scooter culture and fist fights in the legislature?

As evidenced by the bing lang sirened lights, overwhelming collage of placards splashed with neon and photoflash, and buildings dressed in a dance of zig-zag, floodlit bath or slow stream of liquid color, the Chinese love affair with illumination touches that place in all of us that wonders at the magic of light.

Sure, there are gangs and mafia, like any playground with its cliques and bullies. Sometimes it is hard to take them seriously with the perm’ed hair and Hello Kitty motorcycle helmets. But, then the gangsters of the west cannot seem to keep their pants on their hips. Perhaps all outlaws need a black hat badge of some sort.

Here too are the closer connections of family. We cultivate independence in the West; Taiwan grows a tangle of interdependent tendrils of connection and support. While there is as much theft and corruption as any other human community; the former president is currently behind bars for having his hands on tainted money. The US could take a page from that playbook, and the one for healthcare as well which provides easy and affordable access to skilled providers; it includes dental and Chinese medicine. Even foreigners who work here and contribute to the common welfare are included.
While some of the largest chip foundries in the world hail from here, the real strength of the country comes from the free wheeling lemonade stand capitalism; Taiwanese do business like morning glory grows vines. People dig in here and DIY.

Taiwan is a unique gem. More traditional than their mainland cousins, modern in a way that would seem like science fiction to the West; tinted with the scent and habit from its crossroad connections with Asia and the West, Taiwan has a fractal like attraction and depth.
Pause for a moment and you can end up mesmerized and entranced for a lifetime.

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The air is a few grades denser in Taiwan; if fog felt like it looks, it would feel just like this.

It is familiar as the smell of warm baked bread, or salt ocean spray, except it contains the oily residue of life and the vibrancy that comes naturally when an abundance of it is compressed into a small space.

Overstuffed upholstered chairs, like Japanese Manga marshmallows, absorb the sway and jostle of the bus as it wheels a grey snake of concrete highway that winds through hillside emerald. Hills invaded by explosive drapings of flora and trees. It is wildly jungleously green. Achingly green, as only humidity and heat produce. Layered highways lead to a desert camouflage of grey, rose, beige and yellow tiled structures, the boxes, alleys, and neighborhoods upon which the life and blood of Taipei thrive.

The twitchy, hyper-vigilance that is the required body armor of the mainland begins to melt away. It is like being able to converse deeply in your mother-tongue.

Trust your feelings. 
It is often good advice that cuts to the quick of a dilemma, or moment of emergency. But, is completely useless when scooting a motorcycle along the left side of the road when your well worn synapses cascade an inky constriction of fear and a magnetic pull to the other side of the road, as the vehicular bio-survival circuitry laid down for a right side of the road world tappity-taps adrenaline into the blood.

A constant mantra cycle of reassurance and the flashbacks of learning Taipei ruled traffic provides enough incentive to stay on the road long enough for the eyes to adapt to scanning direction and velocity as if looking through a mirror. There are times when feelings are nothing more habituated responses; responses in immediate need of an upgrade.

Motorcycles were a big no-no in my family. They were considered a surefire prescription for trouble and medical bills. That has not kept me off them. Nor does the lingering whisper of disaster keep me from pushing off in directions of two wheeled exploration. The illusion of security offered by staying off a twist and go scooter, has none of the vitality of that comes from going places best accessed on two wheels.

I suspect that much of what passes in our lives as feelings of security or safety are in fact simply habits ingrained from our experience, or the concerns of others whispered and believed. What we do in service of a sense of security may in the long run have little to do with it, especially if inaction and an unexamined clinging to the status quo masquerades as safety. The illusion that things are not changing is perhaps the greatest danger of all; it blinds us to what new opportunities are unfolding before our very eyes.

There are times when what feels wrong, is nothing more than a misplaced or antiquated habit leaking neurotransmitters, epinephrine and misplaced belief. They are frequently disguised as sensibility or undeniable truth.
There is a difference between habituated response and genuine feeling.
How to untangle habits from feeling? The methods are endless. With one being, to spend a few hours on a motorcycle in a country where they drive on the other side of the road.

New habits are quickly formed in the presence of oncoming traffic.

Brilliant and inspiring!

Sukhumviet road hosts six lanes of congested traffic, an elevated skytrain, tables of tourist goods, pimps, hookers and a mosaic of peoples and language. The lanes, which branch off, are home to tailors and travel agents, massage salons and hotels, sidewalks congested with tables and stainless steel carted street food, and off of Soi 11, near the Nana skytrain station; the Suk 11 guesthouse.

What could have been another featureless concrete block of rooms has been transformed into an appealing wood and brick maze of guesthouse delight. In 2003 reservations were as required as a wool sweater. They have build steadily on their appeal to the traveler who is not interested in the foreigner ghetto of Koh San road. If affordable accommodations that allow for the opportunity to rub elbows with fellow travelers from all over the globe is your cup of tea, the Suk 11 is for you. It is one of the few hotels that has an expressed policy of no sex tourists. They will toss you out without a refund should you use their cozy operation as a landing pad for amorous amusement by the hour. Smoking in your room, or general unruly behavior is also grounds for dismissal. Increasingly, Chinese is one of the common languages that wafts amongst the jasmine and mosquitoes.

I’m familiar with the voluminous punch of an argument in Chinese. This one steamrollers through the usually lively, but polite buzz of Suk 11’s teak and brick lobby. Shortly afterwards two anger and adrenaline soaked Beijing girls seek out my Chinese-English skills.

They think there is a language miscommunication. They are wrong. It is a cultural divide that they have failed to navigate.

They are not untypical of the modern young Beijing professional. These two are accustomed to a diet of privilege and favoritism that their jobs at one of the government television stations affords them.
 They think their rules apply.

There is indeed a misunderstanding about the amount of time they had agreed to stay, but when one of the girls sharpens her Beijing tongue on the owner, the previously option of more time in this quiet corner of Bangkok vanishes like protesters do from Tiananmen Square.
I really thought it was useless to act as their go-between, but I’ve received lots of help in my time in China; repaying debts of kindness greases the wheels of karma.

“Boss, these girls are afraid that perhaps their English is lacking, and as a result you misunderstood what they where trying to say.” The owner, now well seasoned from years of dealing with unruly guests is quite clear, “I understood them well enough, their English is fine. The problem is not their language. It is their attitude.”
“Sorry girls, you are out of here.”

They start to windup the buzzsaw of entitlement.
“Forget it, forget it!”
It is the Chinese word salve that means game over; walk away.

In the ensuring postmortem they are insistent there simply must be a way to talk the boss into letting them stay. “Girls, you are not in China, you are not in Beijing.”

In China no way can mean “I can not do that”, “I don’t know how to do that“, ”you need to bribe me”, or “you need to ask someone else.” No way usually means there is another way. It is quite different from “that’s inconvenient”. When you hear that, you know you are fucked.

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Eventually the girls figure out that language and culture are not the same thing. Wearing their Beijinger worldview eyes they had translated “no way” into the belief that were was an opportunity, and that their aggressive Beijing stance would abracadabra open a not yet seen door.

After these past four months of dealing with PMPH’s pretend HR department, it is now my turn to observe angry foreigners, as these Beijinger’s bite down on the “I don’t think we are in Kansas anymore” taste of cultural frustration. They have no idea how well I can relate.

There was something in the insistence of the ticket seller that there was no longer a one-way river taxi ticket to the National Palace that conjured up the feeling of memory. Something akin to the flavor of years ago getting detoured by a commission seeking tuk-tuk driver who insisted that I go to visit the temple of the Black Buddha as Wat Po was closed for a Buddhist holiday. He then took the scenic route through several jewelry stores and tailor shops hoping for a spiff, before ditching this Bangkok greenhorn for a fresh mark.
In Chinese, they say 吃一塹， 長一智, sometimes you have to learn things the hard way.
When unsure what to do, it is best to watch and see what the locals do, then fall in line with them.

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The delight of travel is that unless there is a train, bus or plane that defines your day, there is nothing that must be done. There is something deeply healing in being able to follow the rhythm of the moment, move slow enough to notice what catches your interest and let that open the next door.
Wat Po is on the way to Palace; its ceramic dot-matrix of green and blue is like the waft lime and smoke. Today there are no obstructing tuk-tuk drivers, we follow the crowd that trickles through the side gate.
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It is a curious mix. Mirror and ceramic Thai temples, white walled with roofs carpeted in green and orange tile, Buddhas in gold, and statues and gates that speak of a connection to China.

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Wat Po is considered a temple of healing; the art of Thai massage is taught there. Not surprisingly, the medicine of Asia includes channels and points. The images painted are foreign, but not unfamiliar.
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One gates leads to another, leads to a Buddha, leads to an altar, another gate, incense, a cloister of more buddhas, spires and stupa. Like walking a labyrinth, time folds into a non-linear dimension; the inside and outside lose their boundaries as the National Palace falls into the agenda of another day.

Beijing, while full of embassies, and various foreign businesses chiseling inroads into the market of 1.3 billion people, while it has the traffic and subways of a developed city, while it sprawls unrestrained by six ring roads, it has nothing of Bangkok’s international flavor.

Bangkok is textured with a collage of languages, cultures, skin color, and habits. Signage in Thai, Chinese, French, Arabic, and English. Germans in shorts, Muslim women wrapped in black, tourists in tee shirts, Thai’s in pressed white shirts. Traffic counterflows using the British standard. Hello kitty pink taxis, a neon rainbow of scooters, buses that roll slow motion through stops, skytrains and subways, river taxis and tuk-tuks create the circulation through a city dense with humidity and humanity.

Bangkok’s heat and humidity unlocks Beijing cold from the skin. It is nourishing in a way that only nature can arrange. The authentic cuisine from around the world finds its way into every nook and cranny, as if there are wormholes that connect all the cultures of the world. Bangkok is not only one of the major transfer stations for air travel throughout the world. It is a crossroad of culture that reminds us of how different, and how similar we all are.

It is an antidote to the regionalism and single vision mindedness that naturally grows out of being completely surrounded by your own kind.

Southern China has no heat. But, it does have ginger and dates.

Old Mother Ginger tea is a popular winter drink in Taiwan as well. Spicy like over fizzy cola, it is made from the root of winter harvested ginger, combined with red dates, brown sugar and slow cooked into a thick syrupy delight. It has an incredible ability to chase cold out of one’s body, as it improves the circulation, warms the internal fire and will burn that damp from the bones.

Here in Guangzhou at the beginning of the Chinese new year, with a dampness like that of Taipei and a temperature just 20 degrees above Beijing’s high for the day, a warm bowl of ginger, red date and brown sugar soup makes all the difference in the world.

As for the “common cold,” taking this at the very first sign of the shivers, and then bundling up to get a light sweat can save one a few miserable days in bed.