(A fiction to connect with my childhood memories of Hsinchu, Taiwan)
The rain gently pitter-patters on the gritty alleyway. I’m not exactly sure what time it is, but the sun is nowhere to be seen, shrouded by a thick layer of nimbus clouds. “Méiyǚjì,” as we call it in Taiwan, is the subtropical spring monsoon season. It brings with it drenching rains that blanket Ilha Formosa, from the shores of Kenting to the northern city of Keelung. On this warm spring day, something feels different. Hsinchu City buzzes with life outside the thousands of compact apartment windows. It's a town filled with decades of modernization and a reputation for semiconductor chips, yet steeped with tradition. I make my way to the sidewalk, dodging a large puddle left behind by the storm last night. Up ahead, I can see the old east city gate, dripping wet but glinting in the morning light. It stands solemnly, a reminder of Hsinchu’s history and heritage. Aromas of egg crepes and soy milk waft from every which way, the shouts of haggling vendors carried along with the wind. Ahead, a mother ushers her kids in school uniforms to the bus station, and an elderly ah-ma hangs up laundry in an apartment high above me. Today, I am lost trying to rendezvous with the rest of my family at a hot pot restaurant. I round a corner and find myself faced with a dead end. “Strange,” I think. Taiwan may not have been where I spent most of my time growing up, but it is home for my family. “Perhaps my memory of these familiar alleys has begun to wear off,” I lament. Just as I turn around to walk back into the main city square and ask for directions, I come face to face with a dog.
Hackles raised, eyes wide, it prowls toward me. Up ahead, the hustle and bustle of Datong Street seems years away. The dog emits a low growl, refusing to get out of my path. Taiwan has plenty of stray dogs, but I had never seen any as ferocious as this one. Its black shiny fur coat and slender profile marked it as a Taiwanese mountain dog, itself an aboriginal of the island. Just as Taiwan was exploited continually in years past by likes of both European and Asian imperialists, this dog clearly hated outsiders. Wait. I am an outsider, a Taiwanese American from Los Angeles. Uh-oh. As if it were assessing my weak defenses and appraising its next meal, the dog eyes me head to toe. I notice its red-rimmed, beady brown eyes piercing through my mantle. Maybe it didn’t get enough sleep in the rain. Maybe it mistook me, a friendly passerby, as an intruder on its fiefdom. Before I had any time to ponder these questions, the dog was a blur. Flying through the air, its jaws contorting into a terrible gaping void, I barely prop open my big blue umbrella, a family “heirloom” that had been protecting my family since…oh well…the start of this return to Taiwan. I close my eyes, and feel the dog’s massive shape butt into the blue fabric. Silence. There is no tearing of fangs, no brush of fur. Opening my eyes, I am pleasantly relieved to discover that the umbrella holds.
As a strategic island in the Pacific, Taiwan has been the subject of many sieges. I am naturally surprised, being besieged by the dog, that my stalwart walls (i.e. my big blue umbrella) stand against the onslaught. Using the umbrella as a shield, I advance on the dog, calling for help all the while. Would my cries be heard, or would the dog crush my resistance? Every new leap the dog committed against my shield was deflected, and I continued to push my way out of the alley. I could no longer see the dog and its red-rimmed eyes, and my whole attention fixated onto getting back to the city square, where other people would witness my plight. With victory in sight, I decided to take the initiative and seize the day. Suddenly, the umbrella buckled. Crick! Crack! Ploof! While it hadn’t completely broken, the dog had chewed through the fabric and its muzzle stuck through the umbrella like a gray island dotting a blue ocean. “Give up,” the dog seemed to whisper. Just as all was lost, a melody engrained deep in my memory began to play. Drawing closer and closer, I recognized the music as the one playing on all garbage trucks in Taiwan. Hearing the music as well, the dog started to back off and whimpered quietly. The tune, true to its name of “Maiden’s Prayer,” began evoking lost memories of childhood in Taiwan that I never experienced. Slowly, I noticed the red craze in the dog’s eyes fade, being replaced with friendly brown irises. Barking happily, it bounded over to the asphalt, clambering into the cab of the garbage truck. I watch as the truck driver smiles and pats the dog gently on the head, the dog licking his face all the while.
The driver shouts to me in Mandarin, “Sorry sir! My assistant just wanted to have some fun!” Peering out the window, the dog sticks out its tongue as if to say goodbye. With that, the truck and dog disappear from view, with the “Maiden’s Prayer” gradually fading into the distance, blending in with the rumble of motorcycles. Heart full, belly still empty, I walked out of the alleyway and continued on my heritage-seeking journey.
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