The Night Market

The night’s air has a soft iridescent glow through the back alleys and meandering streets of Changhua. In this small city enclave, there is not a drop of personal space that is left undisturbed. I sometimes feel that I have to fight for the freedom to breathe, where other times, I feel like I am alive and living hand-in-hand with the vibrancy and gentle hum of a well-tuned machine. This evening, I have just returned from the Friday night market, where mother, father and little children alike flock to sample the week’s tastes, smells and sights.



The night market is something not completely endemic to Taiwanese life. As a reflection of a pan-Asian culture, the night market marks a crescendo for a section of the city’s workforce; a celebration of work completed and a chance to forget a crowded living place’s dullness. There are the grandmas, the grandpas and babies alike, mingling at tables and stands to satisfy their palate. However, each area of residency in the city embodies a different feel to this soirée des goûts.



Sometimes I like to wander over after work, around 10 in the evening, into this pit of chaotic combustion. Eyes will flock towards the one “May Guo Ren,” or American. Short quips of hello and what’s your name are echoed as if from a chorus line of high school boys and girls, however, few will return a greeting, afraid to use socially 10 years of private English instruction. (This is a constant reminder to us foreign English teachers of the timidity of our students when confronted with real world problems that don’t utilize fake world answer grid solutions).



The olfactory delights are intriguing. What smells sweet will usually be some variety of mountain fruit, while the smell of pig’s testacies and chicken intestines, will, well, be Pig testacies and chicken intestines. There are few tricks that Taiwanese dishes play in regards to smell; what you “see” is what you get. However, all is taken in as part of the evening experience.



I am reminded to the innocence of life in Taiwan from watching the children at these markets. They play their simple antique pinball machines on their mother’s lap or carefully watch the lone foreigner attempt his hand at chopsticks. Not remarking or embellishing us in any way, but just observing, as if the most important thing is to gaze, to view, to watch.

One such example of this is a child that I spend about an hour with every week. We rarely speak to each other, but he just sits with me, watching. He is about 4 years old and a boy of perky qualities. He has short black hair that is thin like most young boys in this area of the world. Dark piercing eyes look into mine as I glance at him; eyes that can hold time in their grasp, eyes that seem mysterious in an innocent way. But he just watches, never releasing his hold on what I am doing. I can be preparing a lesson, studying Chinese, or simply eating “gee row chow fan,” fried rice. He will just watch. A careful observer with a trained skill that few can appreciate. The more time that I spend with this child, the more that I envy him.



I have attempted to do more of my own gazing lately. I feel that as life’s pace increases in a busy city, exclusion and emulsion into the world of the self is necessary. This past weekend I cycled up the Nantou Mountain Range for 5 hours into a place called Sun Moon Lake. Once there, I disembarked down to the water’s edge on the other side of this 8-mile long body of water and made camp on the water’s edge. Away from civilization and emboldened by not having to speak Chinese, I watched the sun fall over the cascades nearby and drifted to sleep.



I was awakened by lights shining through my tent. Hearing voices and whispers (along with, in Chinese, phrases such as, “is someone there,” “I don’t know, let’s look”). I figured it an opportune time to get out. I unzipped my one-man and was immediately interrogated by 25 high school students on a nature walk. Not knowing what to do, I sat down with them next to my tent and chatted for about half-an-hour. Amazed that someone would venture out into the woods alone, they tried to warn me that it was dangerous. (Side note, most Taiwanese are afraid of what most people from California would consider something non-fearful, wading in ocean water, surfing, climbing on rocks, or generally being an outdoorsy person). One student even tried to warn me that it gets dark at night. Not being able to hold my laughter in, I quipped that I would keep that in mind the next time the sun went down.



The next morning I was able to watch the sun rise over the misty lake from the vantage point of my sleeping bag. Beautiful, truly beautiful. Feeling refreshed, I packed everything up in my pack and zipped back down the mountain; a 45 mph glide for 2 straight hours of NO PEDDLING!