A Potato Sharing Tradition - Now it's Your Turn

“So they let anyone on their potato fields to pick what’s left over?” I asked a Taiwanese co-teacher. She answered, “yes.” She thought momentarily, then added, “it’s been a tradition since I was a kid.”  Then tilted her head a degree sideways, continuing, “I think it’s only in Taichung county, but I’m not sure.”   

 

On the Sunday before, about 50 farm workers, several tractors, and one substantial flatbed truck rolled up to the potato fields beside my apartment. The two acres swarmed with activity.   

  

Compact Kubota tractors turned over rows of puffy white potatoes. Then farm workers, primarily grandma-aged women, nimbly filled 24kg cardboard boxes. Ton after ton of boxes layered the flatbed truck. Soon, the acres were swept clean, and the team moved on. 

 

Clearing a field quickly

Now comes the interesting part. In Taiwan, okay, at least in Taichung county, once a potato field is harvested, anyone can come on the field and collect what’s left over. The farmers are only after the large potatoes. The smaller ping-pong size potatoes are left behind, just the right size for roasting. Often, larger potatoes with a nick or slight blemish are discarded. They’re fine if used relatively quickly. 

 

Families, neighbours, or passersby can stroll the freshly tilled fields and collect the remnants. I’d heard about this free potato bonanza before, so I joined the amateur harvesters with my plastic supermarket bag.

 

I turned over potato greens, picked the tiny tubers and studied the larger cast-offs for damage. Several softball-size giants required only slight trimming or surgery. They’d be fine.

 

But what stuck in my mind was why. Why do farmers let strangers wander their fields? Farmers will even post harvest times on community bulletin boards or local farm co-ops so people can prepare. I kept filling my bag and wondering.

 

Back at school, I asked another Taiwanese teacher, an agricultural college grad, that question at the elevator.

 

The out-of-right-field question took Safena a few seconds to register and answer. “Well, potatoes aren’t their main crop.”  I gawked, “what?” She continued, “Those farmers make their living growing rice. Potatoes are something extra.” I gawked again. Safena, in her best teacher voice, slowly explained, “farmers make most of their money growing rice. Potatoes are extra, something to grow between their main crop. And potatoes help fix nitrogen in the soil.”

 

It dawned on me. Generosity. Rice has already covered the bills, so why not share the bounty? It’s true the underground vegetables turn into potato chips and French fries and still make cash, but why not pass around a few Russets?

 

Back in the field, a father, son, and daughter scour the rows. The kids check their potato bags like Halloween trick-or-treaters checking their candy haul. A neighbouring farmer arrives barefoot with his wife and a hand cultivator rake ready for business. I can’t recall the last time I stood in sun-warmed soil shoeless but I had the urge to take off my Nikes.

 

More people arrive and dig. Groups compare harvests, laugh, and help each other identify yet checked areas. 

 

And I imagine the satisfaction the farmer must feel. He is sharing his good fortune with his friends and neighbours. It’s another form of kindness – unselfishness. And I realize it’s something I’ve seen practised in different ways worldwide. Here in Taichung county, it takes the form of tiny potatoes.   

My potato haul

 

From Home and Here – Cast Net Fishing Taiwan’s Canals

An dome of netting arches above the water surface. The lead weights splash, and the circular net sinks to the river bed. It’s Sunday afternoon, and three Thai factory workers are cast net fishing. It’s their day off, and they’re concentrating on a finned dinner.

 

Snug against Taichung’s high-speed rail station, a long raindrop-shaped section of farmland sits between the city’s southwest end and the Dadu Plateau. Irrigation canals wind through the green squares. It’s roughly 1,000 acres, including farmhouses, orchards, and small factories.

 

I’m cycling the tidy paved paths rolling through the fields and come across the fishermen I’ve seen before.They’re fishing a larger canal, slowly moving upstream towards the confluence of two smaller canals.

 

I spin up to the low steel fence along the canal, lean against it, and say hello. The fishermen grin and say hi. Two are above supervising, and the third is in the water. He can’t see the schools of fish and depends on his friends for directions. They are laughing, teasing, and barking orders. Their energy is infectious. I’m grinning too.

 

I admire them. They are thousands of kilometres from home, work long hours, and live in crowded dormitories. Many stay in Taiwan for years. Many support families in Thailand or save for a home, property, or business. 

 

Still, four hundred metres from their tool factory, they’ve found something exciting and enjoyable. And through their discovery have created a Sunday celebration for others too.  Perhaps it’s a variation on an activity from back home.

 

Back down in the canal, the only hard worker organizes his net. He arranges the net like the neat pleats of a curtain in his right hand. The handline is carefully coiled in his left hand. His friends above are pointing to a small school of tilapia just ahead.

 

Tilapia were introduced during the Japanese colonial period to help control waterway vegetation. They have expanded, hybridized and live in rivers and canals at lower elevations. Tilapia are hardy, nearly indestructible, and delicious.

 

The three stand still, ready. I’m motionless too. With skill, the fisherman launches his monofilament bundle. It blooms open, glistens in the sun, hits the water, and settles. The operator gently pulls the handline. The lead weights converge. The net is handed up to the supervisors and spread out on the narrow paved road. Smaller fish are tossed back.

 

One fish spotter opens a worn burlap bag to reveal the catch: a half-dozen large tilapia and a thick 16-inch carp. Three or four more grilling-size tilapia get tossed into the bag.

 

The three fishermen aren’t the only ones enjoying this activity. Under the factory’s covered parking lot, dozens of the trios’ coworkers prepare charcoal barbeques for the feast. They’re sitting on old plastic chairs and stools - fanning the coals. Low tables and crates are filled with other dishes.

 

Resting against the canal railing, I realize people do this wherever they go. We travel, live and learn in new places. We find everyday activities and discover new ones. The Thai fishermen have created a Sunday dinner event that includes their whole community.

 

For me, cycling is a carryover from Canada. Now I cycle with a group year-round and learn more about Taiwan. I’ve discovered birdwatching in Taiwan and enjoy living in a world class birding destination. Hiking is the same, a continuation of something I enjoyed in Canada.  

 

Actually, I think something comes with us everywhere we trek, and something new is discovered. No matter if the journey is weeks or years. Each of us carries home and finds home wherever we go. 

 

 

photo credit: The Healthy Fish

 

Cobras in the Kitchen and Playground

My first full-time elementary teaching job was at a newly constructed private school. Weeks before the new semester, we swept construction dust and pulled protective plastic off new cabinets, window frames and chalkboard eraser vacuums. Student desks and chairs shone. Not a dent or chip on any of the freshly painted legs. 

The four-story, U-shaped school shone bright white. The owners spared no cost. Transplanted mature trees threw shade across the playground, and fresh rolls of green sod snugly carpeted the lawns. Aesthetically pleasing boulders, timber pagodas, raised boardwalks, and a wood bridge filled a pond and wooded space on the campus’s east side.

                                                                 ***

You could feel the new school was at an ecotone, that boundary between two environments. To the west and south, empty lots, fields and remnant farmland sat waiting. Development was coming. Still, the whiff of rural life lingered. It hadn’t been long since farm machinery rolled through rice fields and open agricultural space filled the neighbourhood. In a sense, the school grounds, woods and pond were recreations of that recent rural landscape. 

On the school’s first-floor bulletin board, a bright Ministry of Education poster was flanked by upcoming student events and smiling pictures. It described Taiwan’s six most common venomous snakes in shiny brilliant colour. I blinked. I read. My introduction to some of what slithers in Taiwan. I was shocked but fascinated. Only 150 metres north of the school, a busy four-lane city road bustled with cars, buildings and people.

Eastern Canada had no school posters warning of dangerous garter snakes. But this poster must have been standard in thousands of rural and mountain schools across Taiwan. I was transfixed. My nose close to the pictures and descriptions. The snakes were beautiful and exotic. The stuff of Nation Geographic or nature documentaries. It swirled in my head, a combination of fascination and fear.

                                                                 ***

That afternoon, forcing a neutral voice, I casually mentioned the poster to the assistant dean, Anita. Nonchalantly, I wanted to gauge her response. Was this real, common, or likely? Would they slink through our campus? Would I walk the campus at recess in Kevlar hip waders armed with a pitchfork?

Anita lightly pondered the question as if curious about the day’s cafeteria lunch or if it would rain later. She sighed, “Taiwan has these snakes, but it’s unlikely we’ll see them here.”

For the record,  the gardener did discover a harmless five-foot Chinese rat snake forging in a school dumpster. The fire department was called to remove the dumpster diver per standard protocol. Fire departments across Taiwan are responsible for snake wrangling and removal.  

                                                                 ***

My second school was a different story. Closer towards the hills, it sat flush against the green agrarian zone. A farm, fields and an overgrown cemetery with an accompanying forest surrounded three of the campus’s four sides.

One year, yellow Daihatsu excavators cleared trees and brush a 100 metres east of the campus, sending critters darting in every direction, including through the cemetery’s forest towards the playground. Most turned away at the school’s solid surrounding wall, but a few nonvenomous snakes and one baby cobra skedaddled through a small chain link section. Making it partially across the manicured lawn, the tiny cobra was captured and sent back into the cemetery.

After one typhoon, a waterlogged cobra did make its way down into a dry basement cafeteria cupboard.  The kitchen aunt’s shrieks curdled our blood, perhaps including the cobra’s. It was removed without incident. 

                                                                 ***

Snake and human interactions occur, and bites happen, but each doesn’t search for confrontation, and each goes out of their way to avoid it. Beauty and exoticism aside, snakes are graced with common sense. People are large, unpredictable, and have shrill screams at eardrum-busting decibels.

My interest and appreciation in snakes continue, but my alarm about venomous snakes is tempered now. Like animals and humans worldwide, each generally keeps to their own. It’s perhaps similar to the millions of surfers sharing waves with Great White sharks yearly with relatively few incidences.

 

Now, I walk the playground, hike and cycle farmland and mountains unconcerned. I’m aware, but long ago returned the farmer his pitchfork. I try and practice some snake common sense. 

Cabbage Leaf Freedom

Drying cabbage plants draped over riverside railings and orange pylon stantions. Plate-size cabbage leaves cover a section of sidewalk to dehydrate; mini limp green quilts are drying after a spring cleaning. Scooters whiz by. City trees add their own leaves. 

                                                                

drying by the river

 

hanging over pylon stantions

watching the scooters fly by

 

What is this, and what are they making? First, the mindset and spirit.

 

The Taiwanese take the initiative. People make or create something in any space and with what’s available. The floppy leaves could represent a personal or commercial venture. Equally important, no one interferes - other people or city officials. The entrepreneurial spirit is alive and well. These drying cabbage plants and leaves typify the character that helped transform Taiwan. 

 

                                                                   ***

What’s going on here?

 

Farmers and gardeners are making food - Lucky Vegetable (Fu Cai), to be exact. Lucky because the preserved cabbage can be kept and used for months. Fu Cai is a Taiwanese Hakka dish used throughout Taiwan. The Hakka are a Han Chinese subgroup and one of many integrated into modern Taiwanese society.

                                                                

                                                                   ***

 

I’ve written before about grandmas, grandpas or anyone borrowing a tiny parcel of public land to create a garden. City bureaucrats turn a common sense blind eye to official regulations. No city official comes to ticket or destroy someone’s gumption.  Free-range cabbage-capitalism? Government hands-off vegetable democracy?

 

To a certain degree, you can do what you want in Taiwan as long as you don’t harm anything or anyone. And how can an industrious little garden or food preparation enterprise disturb anything? It’s something I admire about Taiwan - an individual’s ability to undertake something with independence and not drown in bureaucracy. 

 

                                                                   ***

Vegetable politics aside, here are the nitty-gritty cabbage details.

The cabbage is harvested, washed, and the drying process begins. There are a few preparation methods. Different Taiwanese foods use specific cabbage parts.  Chopped cabbage stalks and leaves are used in beef noodle soups and braised pork dishes, while the dried crumbly leaf edges become a topping for rice congee.  

Plants are washed and then layered in containers with salt for several days. The salt draws water out and shrivels the plants. The most common method involves a straight-up salt soak and drying.

 

One procedure uses salt and seasonings for seven days. This method and its added ingredients and drying times change the flavour. After soaking, these plants are rinsed and hung in the sun.  Weather conditions and personal preference dictate how long the cabbages blow in the breeze. The shrinking leaves are collected, rinsed, and returned to sunbathing spots.                                                                

Cabbage leaves for home and retail use are stored and sold in two ways: first, some plants marinate in brine and are stored at home in containers or sold in markets from large bins. Other plants are dried and folded tightly together, like rolls of laundered socks. The dried bundles need soaking and rinsing before cooking to remove the salt. 

 

                                                                   ***

I’m at my local beef noodle soup restaurant for dinner heaping cured cabbage into my bowl. I get to enjoy the fruits of someone’s unfettered industry.  The plant is crunchy with a tangy taste and a hint of salt. It’s the perfect condiment for noodles and thick beef slices. 

Munching away, I ponder the cabbage’s origin. Is it from the canal railing or the pylon drying rack? I hope the street tree leaves were removed if this cabbage leaf dried on the sidewalk. But that thought doesn’t slow me down. 

 

Mostly, I tuck in and enjoy, thankful for laissez-faire government involvement in what the average Taiwanese can do with their cabbages.

 

cabbage with my beef noodles - delicious!

Something a Little Different - Bat Poems - Taiwan inspired

In front of my first Taiwan apartment, a shallow but wide canal flowed slowly to the Strait of Taiwan. Hundreds of dipping and diving bats filled the air each night above the canal. Those tiny bats dropped down from their bridge-bottom roosts at sunset and searched for insect suppers. Those bats’ echolocation locked on midges, moths, mayflies, and anything with mini-wings.

I was intrigued. I’d only seen one or two bats together at once before in Canada, never a cauldron of these creatures. One of my Taiwanese coworkers nonchalantly commented, “yeah, the city’s canals have thousands of bats, and they’re good luck.” Standing still for a few seconds, I responded, “What’d you mean, good luck?” My coworker replied, “bats are good luck in Chinese culture.”  

I started goggling. The Chinese sound for bat (fu) sounds the same as the word for good fortune. Bats are a significant symbol of luck, happiness, long life and prosperity.  I began noticing bats in temples, pictures, and carved wood panels. People wore bat amulets to bring luck, and bats have been admired since ancient times.

Taiwan has 38 bat species, and there are over 1,400 species worldwide. They also eat more than bugs. Fish are on the menu too. Once while driving my scooter next to the canal, a bat flew into me, bounced off my chest and kept flying. My Taiwanese coworkers grinned and said that’s good luck.

Some of these poems are for kids, while others are for adults. Some I’ve used in my ESL classes. Some are a bit wacky, but all are inspired by those dipping and diving canal bats. 

 

Spectacles

 

What's out a twilight,

      in a navy-blue sky?

 

Wings flap from blackness,

     I can't see what flies.

 

I'm sure they're bats. What else can they be?

I squint, scrunch and this is what I see:

       Jumping fuzzy popcorn, bouncing high for bugs.

       Furry wallets flapping open and shut.

 

       Whiskered winged kiwi fruit out for mosquitoes.

       Flying squeaky mice, looking for insect burritos.

 

       Velvet hiccups burping every which-way.

       Bushy soap bubbles blowing away.

 

       Leathery change purses click shut for gnats,

       snapping open for flies, but not for cash.

 

That's what I saw, but I'd better check,

tomorrow night I'll bring my specs.

                                                                     

                                                                         Fisherman Bats

 

                                                                         Stream flows smooth as pouring paint.

                                                                                                                      Can't wait. 

                                                                                                     Wings whisper quiet.

                                                                                                                   Suede silent.

                                                                        Tiny fish fin sliver.

                                                                        Smudge in the river.

                                                                        Swoop, scoop with big feet.

                                                                        Voila! Sushi for me!

    Surfers

    Chasing insect waves under streetlights.

    We're bat surfers at midnight.

                 Fruit fly whitecaps.

                 Seasick bats. 

    Bug swells are to blame.

    I'm unwell, a belly hurricane.

                 But flying ants and crunchy gnats settle the stomach storm.

                 Keep us surfing 'till dawn.

                                                                     

                         

                                                                    Hattie's Hair

 

                                                                    Hattie had skyscraper hair.

                                                                    Coiffured and stacked high.

                                                                    Pancakes tilting to one side.

 

                                                                    A high-rise buckwheat beehive.

                                                                    A Vidal Sassoon cotton-candy balloon.

                                                                    Maple syrup shampoo. Sweet hairdo.

 

                                                                    Bugs landed for lunch.

                                                                    Bats for beetle-brunch.

                                                                    But disaster!

                                                                    On Hattie's bouffant we were plastered!

 

                                                                    Stuck and glued, couldn't move.

                                                                    We were buzzing and squeaking.

                                                                    Poor Hattie was screaming.

 

                                                                    Only one choice.

                                                                    We'd thought of them all.

                                                                    Back to the beauty salon - now Hattie is bald! 

 

                                                                     

 

Dusty Supper

 

Moths again?

Every night the same.  

 

Dusty wings, antennae like string.

Mouth full of flour, baby powder.

 

How about a barbecue?

 

    Caterpillar cheese burgers.

    Roasted slug hors d'oeuvres.

    Inch worm hotdogs.

    June bug shish kabobs.  

Okay, Tuesday it's cockroach fondue!

                                                                        Toilets

                                                                        Bat council meeting. Mom finally agreeing.

                                                                        She sighed, "Alright, we'll try."

                                                                        Twelve new latrines.

                                                                        But cave toilet calamity.

                                                                        Bathroom bowl tragedy.

                                                                        Tons of toilet paper clogs.

                                                                        Plungers to unstuck the muck.

                                                                        Dynamite to clear the blocks.

                                                                        Explosions, cruddy pools of ooze.

                                                                        Green methane gas blast.

                                                                        Floods and stinky bubbling lagoons.

                                                                        Finally Mom said, "No toilets for us,

                                                                        they always combust! Like before,

                                                                        we'll use the floor."

                                                                        Now we snooze, never worry about pooh.

                                                                        but if you visit, remember your rubber boots.

Bat Bed

An upside-down hammock.

                 Built in blankets.

Sleep swinging from a tree, cave or rafter,

                 doesn't matter.

No quilt or bed linen.

                 Just cross my arms and I'm tucked in.

                                                                        Attic Ice

                                                                        Cool attic winter roost.

                                                                        Minus twenty-two.

                                                                        Woolly toques.

 

                                                                        A pipe creaks, cracks, then leaks.

                                                                        It breaks, water cascades.

                                                                        Starts to freeze.

 

                                                                        Get your skates!

 

                                                                        Now we jump trunks.

                                                                        Bounce hockey pucks.

                                                                        Spin on figure skates.

 

                                                                        But Dad's turning blue.

                                                                        Don't worry, by spring we'll have a pool!

 

 

 

Beauty Queen

In fact,

Mom's the prettiest bat.

Voted Miss Attic two years running, back to back.

Piranha fangs.

Funnel nose.

Frizzy bangs.

Curly claw toes.

And a prickly tongue.

I hope I grow up just like Mom!

Tent-making Bats

We hike light.

Set-up our tent with campsite bites.

    We don't pack axes, hatchets or hammers,

                 tractors, matches or ladders. 

     No backhoes, rope or bulldozers,

                toasters, gizmos or snow blowers.

     Just teeth, to tweak banana leaves.

                chew bamboo lean-tos.

                Bend rhododendron fronds,

                curl coconut palms.

 

     When we're done, 

     we close our tool box of teeth and drift off to sleep.

              

                                                                     

  

                                                                Attic

 

                                                                An attic crack

                                                                No bigger than a scratch

 

                                                                A bat pops between two shingles.

                                                                A sunset squeak, the signal.

 

                                                                Fuzzy water drops pour from a wall spout,

                                                                too many to count, wings sprout.

 

                                                                Buffet of flying ants and gnats.

                                                                But don't eat too many, it's a tight squeeze back.

 

                                                                

 

Bat Dreams

 

We bats dream in smithereens.

Picture clips. bug bits.

 

Upside-down, dreams sneak out.

 

Vamoose, rattle loose.

 

            In chandeliers, dreams roll out our ears.

            On ladder rungs, they jump off tongues.

 

            Attic beams. They squeak out between teeth.

            A hiker's hostel? They squeeze out our nostrils.

 

It's got to stop!

Tonight, I'll try a hammock. 

 

 

 

Storm

 

Whirling at sundown. 

          A twirling tornado. 

 

Mayflies for dinner! We're darting and dropping,

          an erupting volcano.

 

Paper thin wings, skipping rope quick.

Shaggy boomerangs, come back with a flick.

          

         Cootie juice for dessert? yes, I'll have a sip! 

 

 

 

                                                                     Orchard

 

                                                                     Cave orchard.

                                                                     Roof dangling with drowsy fruit.

                                                                     Day-cave sleepers, fuzzy brown peaches.

 

                                                                     Underground greenhouse.

                                                                     Snoring, mumbling woolly plums.

                                                                     Bristly olives cough, apricots nod off.

 

                                                                     But at night dangling cherries open their eyes.

                                                                     Nighttime risers, velvet grape flyers.