Kindergarten

“Good morning Teacher Hans!” Although the semi-circle of fidgety little ones seemed intimidating at first, I was encouraged by their genuine enthusiasm and returned their formulaic greeting. Little Ray took the opportunity to poke Shelly and pull her hair while Lucy began to cry for the second day in a row. Junior had green snot slowly trickling towards his upper lip so I quickly reached for the tissues. I managed to take control of the class after the children’s short lapse into pandemonium and was able to establish a rhythm. Rhythm and rhyme, chanting and singing, are all important elements to the kindergarten day. As energetic as I could be, I flitted around the white board, wildly demonstrating actions and exaggerating the ABC’s as only a foreigner could. The fatigue finally set in as we approached lunchtime. “Lunchtime, lunchtime, yum, yum, yum…” the little ones repeated with hands behind their back as they anticipated their meal.

It is both tiring and rewarding, teaching these little adults how to speak English. Already, each one has begun to form his or her distinct personality. There is Victor who is always worried about what others are doing around him and will 

not hesitate to point at others and express concern. “Oh, no!” are his two favorite words which never cease to leave his tiny lips. Then there is Alex. Alex is by far the smartest and zaniest kid of the bunch. When exiting the bathroom after triumphantly washing his hands, he adopts the posture of a dancer and falls flat on his face to impress me. He recently brought a large dinosaur to school that managed to eat several Lego bits during a break time rampage.

In the absence of my roommates who had decided to go south for the weekend, I was invited on my first field trip with the school. As the only Westerner, I felt a little “ganga” (embarrassed), but managed to make some friends on the bus ride. I-pods and photos were exchanged at random, a gateway into our separate worlds. Despite the language barrier, I quickly made friends with the assistant teachers as we made our way towards the dairy farm nestled in the valley. As relationships are the most important element in Asian culture, I benefited greatly from the opportunity to get to know my students’ parents and my fellow workers outside of class.

Patricia, the school’s manager, took me under her wing and accompanied me for most of the day. We converged on the site in orderly fashion, and with the three groups of parents and children, proceeded to follow the trail towards the main dining hall. Here, an educational demonstration commenced explaining the process of making butter, cheese, and everybody's unanimous favorite, ice cream. Several small containers were placed on the table at our disposal and soon adults and children alike were involved in the ice-cream making frenzy. Cameras flashed, smiles were exchanged, and wrists became tired from turning, as the ice cream slowly materialized.

We meandered around the park as I sweat profusely from the oppressive humidity. Sweaty and hairy, they must have thought when they pointed to my soaking t-shirt. From cows to goats to sheep, we made our way through the dairy enjoying the lush grass and blue sky void of the city’s all-too familiar smog. Liam’s mom Jenny, the finance person at our branch, paid for palm-like leaves so we could feed the goats. A tug-of–war quickly ensued between scared children and ravenous goats. I intervened and showed Liam how to properly feed the harmless animals.

The first few weeks have come and gone in a flurry of events and emotions. I have found time to establish a language exchange with one of the Taiwanese teachers from upstairs. She has agreed to teach me Chinese in exchange for me sharing my Spanish knowledge. This has proved to be helpful. The materials I have bought from around town coupled with my language exchange, have helped me make some minor progress in the language.

Typhoons are an unavoidable fact of life in Taiwan. Going outside in not recommended but is sometimes the only remedy to cabin fever, a result of hours and hours spent in a musty apartment with no air circulation. Yesterday, we were hit with the stronger of two typhoons that have struck since our arrival. In preparation for the catastrophe, I set out on a mission to stock up on some local produce and cheap bottles of water. A gust of wind and rain pinned my bike and I to a large lamppost. Not wishing to be caught in the worst of it, I continued down the street as my bike inched slowly forward through the growing puddles. My yellow poncho ballooned out as if to welcome my miserable arrival to the grocery story. The produce aisle looked strangely barren, but I managed to find some potatoes and carrots.

Bored from being imprisoned in a limited living space, we decided to visit Jenny, who lives in the same apartment building, in the afternoon. The wind howled and threatened to tear off her 4th story window as we sat playing an endless game of Chinese checkers while her little son placed pieces on the board at random. Blaring noise from the television provided a soundtrack to our ever-increasing sense of isolation from the outside world. Flipping through the channels provoked a slight pain in my neck. From Japanimation to news to Chinese MTV to Larry King Live with Ahmadinejad, we sat on Jenny’s couch anesthetized by the rotating images. In the end, I took the initiative and pressed the red power button on the remote.

Jenny’s husband finally came home and we were treated to a carefully prepared pot of Taiwanese green tea. He gifted us with a pot from his collection and, in response to my request, showed me how to best place the leaves and cure the vessel. The tea was very therapeutic and provided some calmness under the circumstances. We thanked the family and with teapot and a box of cookies in tow, made our way back to the confines of our apartment.

The storm died down that night. Ready to explore and assess the damage, we took the elevator to the first floor lobby. There, we were greeted by shattered glass and a film of water across the marble floor. One of the large windows looking out into the courtyard had shattered and had sprayed shards of glass across the waiting area. Chairs had been shuttled aside and the glass was swept into several piles. Nature is not only a creative force but a destroying force as well. Luckily, our building suffered no other structural damage and we are alive and well. School was canceled, so at least one benefit came from the torrential downpour.

Fong Yuan Finally

Accompanied by a shy Taiwanese girl instructed to purchase our tickets and send us on our way, we entered into the Taipei main bus station. She herded us like cattle towards the ticket counter as I tried to strike up a conversation with her as best I could. Just like that, we stood bewildered with tickets in hand to await the arrival of the bus that would take us to Taichung. Our guide had disappeared into the sea of constant movement. Our last connection with Taipei and our initial home in Taiwan had been irreversibly severed.

The wait was short lived and we barely managed to buy some bottled water before exiting the station to join our bus. Having disposed of our larger pieces of luggage, the four of us proceeded to commence the assent into our royal carriage. Indeed, the interior of the bus was a sight to behold. Jaws dropped and shouts of exclamation echoed through the cabin as we sank into the plush, green leather seats. A remote control lay dormant by the armrest waiting to disclose its secrets. Each seat came with a retractable metal arm attached to a small TV set that the passenger could manipulate at will. A “stewardess” greeted us and distributed drinks after verifying our tickets. “Hey, check this out”, a friend’s voice came from behind. To our surprise, our luxurious voyage was complete with a back massager built right into the seat.

Local managers and staff greeted us two hours later in Taichung. I was ushered into the car of our branch manger, Patricia, a very kind middle-aged woman who would soon be my new superior. As her husband navigated the streets of the third largest city in Taiwan, we became better acquainted. I expressed my interest in learning Mandarin and Patricia was all too eager to teach me a few new expressions. We also discussed the school and what my duties would soon be. We arrived at a local restaurant and were quickly joined by the rest of our group. I was introduced to Julie

Joe, the person who runs operations for this entire region and who actually wrote the scholastic material, and was honored when she decided to sit with Patricia and I. Although she had grown up in Kansas and had lived in Taiwan for the last 18 years, Julie Joe possessed a very bizarre accent. “It’s probably that I’ve spent too much time around Australians”, she replied. When the waitress came she ordered in flawless Mandarin.

Our agenda for the day consisted of the following: finding a suitable apartment, purchasing some bedding, and looking for a bike that would serve as transportation to and from work. Uncertain that I wanted roommates, I first requested to look at some single bedroom apartments. However, we decided to visit a three-bedroom apartment in which two other Hess teachers live a short distance away from the town center. With a park nearby and a lazy irrigation canal gracing the view, it seemed like an ideal location for someone who prefers a peaceful environment to the constant noise of the city. Ros, a girl from Britain, and Justin, a tall guy from Virginia, greeted us at the door with warm smiles and an immediate invitation for me to stay with them. I mentioned I was still looking and they offered to give me a brief tour. Complete with two fifth-floor balconies, a kitchen, some furniture, and a decent bathroom, the apartment was all I could ask for. Impressed by both the area and my potential roommates, I said I would think about it. Patricia and I stepped out to contact someone who could provide us with other options.

A phone call away, the landlord, a grungy-looking man who looked like he chewed a bit too much beetle nut, met us in an alleyway. He pulled up on his pollution-stained scooter and motioned us towards a large doorway. Swiping a token-size key card to gain access to the building, he led us through the lobby and into a forlorn elevator. Eight stories later, we found ourselves in a dimly lit hallway waiting for the man to open the room. The door swung open to a dingy pastel-colored room that seemed almost as inviting as a small prison cell would be under the same circumstances. My immediate reaction proved to be the most accurate even after a thorough inspection of the rest of the area. Covered and caked in grime, the bathroom floor provided a backdrop to the landlord’s expectant gaze. There was no apparent cooking area to speak of and the place gave off an air of loneliness and despair that certainly didn’t appeal to my weary mind or body. I politely conveyed my refusal and asked if the man had any other apartments available. The next three were merely repetitions of the first and by the time we had scoured the recesses of the town for a suitable apartment, I had made up my mind. Patricia alluded to the fact that she already had guessed at my final decision. Back at the teachers’ spacious apartment we announced the news before heading into town to purchase some much-needed items.

Training, etc.

My mind wandered as I gazed out the fifth story window of the Hess owned building. In the midst of the never-ending hustle and bustle down below, planes made their way to the not-so distant tarmac, like lost sparrows dodging obstacles of skyscrapers, temples, and crowded highways to find their nest once again. The National Palace Museum peaked through the smoggy haze, its colorful dragon statues a landmark to the Western eye. The droning of our trainer’s demonstration provided background noise to my distracted observations. Although training had proved to be useful, I was ready to start teaching as soon as possible. One gains experience by doing, I mused as our Wednesday session came to a close. Take fifteen rambunctious kindergartners who only know Chinese and one foreign teacher who has no clue what he’s doing, and see what happens. What an interesting formula, indeed. 

That afternoon I hopped in one of the many yellow taxis circulating through Taipei, and went with some new found friends to see the world’s tallest building, Taipei 101. Built to resemble a bamboo shoot pointing its way towards the heavens, Taipei 101 dwarfed our small group as we struggled to lift our heads to take in the enormous structures. From a distance, one tends to question the structure’s claim to fame, but from up close it is easy to test it’s validity. Shapely mannequins, serenaded by blaring techno beats, greeted us as we ventured through the automatic doors of the first floor. Here, the rich and wealthy could indulge their gluttonous appetites while squandering their riches on high-end shopping. Marble flooring paved the way from Armani to Prada and beyond. Ignoring images and beckoning lights, we found our way to the elevators and proceeded to rise above the cash-spending frenzy below. Despite our efforts to reach the top, we arrived too late and were told the observation tower was closed. Another time, another visit, we decided.

Outside, we escaped the sterile environment of Taipei 101 and headed towards a well-known night market not too far away. Vendors selling neon colored t-shirts for discount prices marked the sides of the narrow alleyway. Contrary to popular belief, 80’s fashion is not dead but alive and thriving in Taiwan. A collection of fried goose heads and chicken’s claws caught our eye from their perch above a steaming pot of hot oil. Vertical signs, advertising God knows what in Chinese characters, painted the night sky above the market. Our empty stomachs interrupted our meanderings and we entered into a restaurant whose exterior cast an inviting glow from low hung Chinese lanterns. An interesting fusion of cuisine and traditional medicine, the restaurant serves therapeutic dishes consumed to ameliorate energy levels in the body. I chose the ginseng chicken and was shortly welcomed by the bitter, meaty broth.

After enduring numerous hours of demonstrations and instruction from the Hess staff, training final came to a close. Having been informed of a puppet show involving Kung Fu fighting and a tragic love story as only the Chinese know it, we decided to celebrate by attending the event. The obscure pub was moderately full when we arrived. Eerie-looking martial arts puppets measuring an impressive two and a half feet, lined the bare walls as if to protect the institution from unseen invasion. An eccentric man sporting glasses and a thin moustache made introductions as I gazed at my surroundings. A table of German tourists sat drinking beers, enthralled by the puppet master and waiting for the upcoming spectacle. Several Chinese children occupied the front row as they tore into French fries their parents had ordered.

Nobody came away disappointed. With his assistant nearby, the puppet master began his hilarious masterpiece from behind the black-lit stage. With sound effects, miniature swords, and even a burst of fire, the story unfolded. An exaggerated fight between two rival masters followed a choice encounter with a furry and friendly dragon. Reminiscent of the Street Fighter games and their various spin offs, the puppets delivered flying kicks and punches in appropriate fashion. Torn apart by their love for the same woman, the weapon toting puppets settled the score as one payed the ultimate price of death. Not without its bizarre moments where the puppet master attempted to translate parts of the story into English, the event was thoroughly enjoyed by all.

Of course, the puppet show could not be complete without a small workshop where the primarily foreign crowd has an opportunity to put on their own demonstration of sorts. Clearly passionate about his art, the puppet master shared his secrets with us through smiles, gestures, and explanations in broken English. After receiving our own practice marionettes, we were instructed on how to use the life-like figurines. Graduating from the small to the large puppets, we quickly realized how heavy they were and how tiring it must be to hold them up for an extended period of time. Finally, several of us were invited to step behind the curtain and invent our own brief story. My puppet looked menacing with its painted-on eyebrows, long pony tale, and flowing robes.

KTV, also known as Karaoke Television, is mind-blowingly popular in Taiwan. From a young age, Taiwanese children learn to hone their musical skills while singing into a microphone. For parties of any magnitude, Karaoke never fails to be on the list of activities. We were not to be the exception to this unfamiliar past time. Following the puppet show, a group of us went in search of the perfect place to prove our musical inclinations. Nestled in a seemingly dark alley off the main drag lay the holy grail of KTV venues. A comfortable couch greeted us while the waitress brought snacks of fruit and nuts. Our rowdy neighbors quickly made their presence known in slurred Chinese and encouraged us to sing. Laughter and misunderstood Chinese filled the small room as a duel commenced between the American and Taiwanese groups. I eventually found myself singing and dancing with a crazed lady who insisted I knew the English words flashing on the screen. In all reality, I had never heard the melody in my life. Although only a handful of songs were familiar, a good time was had by all. Needless to say, Karaoke has become one of our favorite things to do on a Saturday night.