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