A walk down Orchard Road shows just how badly the coronavirus pandemic has hit Singapore’s famed shopping strip. Gone are popular restaurants like Modesto’s, which shut last month after 23 years. Also missing are the queues of Chinese tourists outside Chanel and Louis Vuitton. Malls along the 2.4km stretch, once one of Asia’s top shopping meccas, are dotted with empty stores. On a recent midweek afternoon, the number of shop staff idly dusting shelves or playing with their mobile phones rather than greeting customers is notable. “It’s the worst crisis for Singapore and Orchard Road,” said Kiran Assodani, who has run her custom tailor shop in one of the older malls for 35 years. The alterations outlet, which caters to both tourists and locals, has seen sales drop by 90 percent since the virus outbreak. “I don’t know if the shops can weather this storm,” Assodani said. Orchard Road’s malaise is a microcosm of the city-state’s pain. After initial success in containing COVID-19, an outbreak swept through scores of dormitories housing foreign workers, prompting a two-month partial lockdown that’s sending the economy toward its worst-ever recession. Global travel restrictions are robbing Singapore of around US$20 billion in tourism receipts and the domestic market is too small to make up the shortfall. Originally the site of fruit, nutmeg and pepper farms in the early 19th century that gave the strip its name, Orchard Road’s transformation into a glitzy shopping hub — the first department store opened in 1958 — mirrored Singapore’s own growth from a relatively sleepy trading outpost to one of the world’s wealthiest nations. Now, it’s tracing the economy’s decline. Italian restaurant Modesto’s survived the SARS outbreak and the Asian and global financial crises during its more than two decades on Orchard Road, but buckled under the coronavirus. Instead of renewing his lease, owner
Amid the chaos of the pandemic’s early days, doctors who faced the first coronavirus onslaught reached across oceans and language barriers in an unprecedented effort to advise colleagues trying to save lives in the dark. With no playbook to follow and no time to wait for research, YouTube videos describing autopsy findings and X-rays swapped on Twitter and WhatsApp spontaneously filled the gap. When Stephen Donelson arrived at the University of Texas Southwestern Medical Center in mid-March, Kristina Goff was among those who turned to what she called “the stories out of other places that were hit before.” Donelson’s family hadn’t left the house in two weeks after COVID-19 started spreading in Texas, hoping to shield the organ transplant recipient. Yet one night, his wife found him barely breathing, his skin turning blue, and called 911. In New York or Italy, where hospitals were overflowing, Goff thinks Donelson wouldn’t even have qualified for a then-precious ventilator. But in Dallas, “we pretty much threw everything we could at him,” she said. Like doctors everywhere, Goff was at the beginning of a huge and daunting learning curve. “It’s a tsunami. Something that if you don’t experience it directly, you can’t understand,” Italian Pier Giorgio Villani said in a series of Webinars on six straight Tuesday evenings to alert other intensive care units what to expect. They started just two weeks after Italy’s first hospitalized patient arrived in his ICU, and 10 days before Donelson fell ill in Texas. Villani, who works in the northern city of Lodi, described a battle to accommodate the constant flow of people needing breathing tubes. “We had 10, 12, 15 patients to intubate and an ICU with seven patients already intubated,” he said. The video sessions, organized by an Italian association of ICUs, GiViTI, and the non-profit Mario Negri Institute
Aug 3 to Aug 9 Even though his moniker mimicked that of a Buddhist master, Nien Hsi-lin (粘錫麟) was devoted to one religion: the environment. “Environmental Protection Preacher” (環保弘法師) was more than a nickname, though, it was Nien’s actual job title when the full-time activist moonlighted as an environmental writer and speaker for a Buddhist magazine in 1990. Only finding his true calling at the age of 47, Nien liked the title so much that he listed it as his occupation on his national identification card. “I don’t plan on changing the job title,” Nien says in his 2008 biography by Lai Pei-ju (賴珮茹), long after he stopped working for the publication. Nien says that he led a “dispirited and decadent life” before he joined the fight in 1986 to prevent chemical giant Dupont from building a titanium dioxide plant in his hometown of Lukang (鹿港). The success of the anti-Dupont movement was a pivotal moment in Taiwan’s environmental protection history. Just five months after Dupont scrapped its Lukang project, the Executive Yuan upgraded the Department of Health’s Environmental Protection Bureau to an independent Environmental Protection Administration, greatly expanding its scope and responsibilities. The Dupont fight also became a model for future anti-pollution protests, with Nien involved in many of them. “I’m no mighty justice warrior, I just feel the sorrow of the disadvantaged,” he writes in the foreword to his biography. “When faced with authority and corporate tyranny, ordinary people like workers, farmers, women, Aborigines, fishers are Taiwan’s disadvantaged. But at the most disadvantaged is the environment, because the environment cannot speak up for itself … That’s why I have so stubbornly carried on with my mission.” Until his death on Aug. 7, 2013, Nien never stopped preaching and railing against the authorities and big business. At the age of 70, he
France’s coronavirus crisis has sparked a fierce battle in its hallowed champagne industry over this season’s harvest, with producers and growers at loggerheads over how much bubbly should be put into bottles. The main production houses are demanding a sharp reduction in harvest yields as sales plunge amid the COVID-19 pandemic. Growers say this would decimate their revenues. Traditionally, both sides negotiate how many grapes are harvested by the hundreds of champagne growers each year, many of whom sell to merchants including big-name brands like Veuve Clicquot or Pommery. The goal is to limit the risks from poor harvests and drastic price swings that could put many players out of business. But merchants say they are already loaded with stocks and with revenues hit hard by the crisis they cannot afford to produce more bottles than they can sell. “The growers want 8,500kg per hectare and the houses want just 6,000 to 7,000 kilos,” said Bernard Beaulieu, a grower in Mutigny, a village amid rolling vineyards south of Reims, the capital of France’s Champagne region. With the price per kilo expected to remain relatively strong this year at roughly 6.50 euros, the stakes are high. “Not having a deal with harvests just a month away, this hasn’t happened since after World War II,” Beaulieu said. The Union des Maisons de Champagne (UMC) trade body, however, expects to sell 100 million fewer bottles this year, an unheard-of hit that will slash overall sales to 3.3 billion euros (US$3.9 billion) — down 34 percent from 2019. And they say over one billion bottles are currently waiting in champagne cellars, representing several years of potential sales. The UMC’s director general, David Chatillon, said he would not comment on the dispute before an August 18 meeting of the Champagne Committee, which groups both growers and merchants. ‘ROLL OF THE DICE’ Growers are especially furious because this
The coronavirus pandemic might have left many restaurants empty, but one establishment in Tokyo is relying on some model customers to enforce social distancing: life-like mannequins keeping diners from getting too close. Masato Takemine’s Chinese restaurant looks busy even as many businesses in the city deal with a dearth of clientele, with ladies in ornate Chinese-style dresses and a girl in a kimono among those seated at his tables. But the 16 customers are actually mannequins he has placed randomly at tables to keep diners from getting too close. “At first I removed some of the tables to have more space in between, but it then looked so lonely, as if the restaurant was under renovation,” Takemine said. “With these mannequins, the restaurant looks busy from the outside, and I can make sure customers are distancing themselves. “It’s also fun, giving us a jolly feeling,” he giggled. While Japan has avoided the devastating tolls in places hit hardest by the coronavirus, many restaurants shut their doors during a state of emergency and even after it was lifted in May, the industry has seen customers shun eating out. Takemine’s restaurant Kirin Saikan in downtown Tokyo reopened in late May but sees about half the number the customers it did before the virus, he said. Among those returning was 51-year-old Tetsuya Kimura, who said he was startled when he walked through the entrance curtains for the first time after the reopening and saw the mannequins. “These dolls look so real that I need some time to get used to them,” he said, tucking into a bowl of noodles at a table he was sharing with a child mannequin. Takeichi Otomo, 82, another frequent customer at the restaurant, said he struggled to not look too shocked at the beginning. “I still get startled when I come here,” he said with a straight face.
Shuanglianpi (雙連埤) is both a Hakka outpost and a place of great ecological interest. The conjoined body of water from which it gets its name is the centerpiece of the 17.16-hectare Shuanglianpi Wildlife Refuge (雙連埤野生動物保護區). No waterways of significance fill or drain this scenic lake in Yilan County’s Yuanshan Township (員山鄉). During the 1895 to 1945 period of Japanese rule, the colonial authorities — struggling to secure Taiwan’s foothills — encouraged Han people to settle in areas adjacent to indigenous communities. Around 1910, a 49-year-old Hakka pioneer called Tsou Cheng-sheng (鄒成生) from what’s now Taoyuan decided to begin farming at Shuanglianpi. He invited Hakka clans surnamed Kao (高), Wu (吳) and Luo (羅) to join him. Despite attacks by Atayal Aborigines and other setbacks, they managed to establish themselves. The road up to Shuanglianpi has been improved in recent years, and redesignated Provincial Highway 7D (7丁). Cautious drivers won’t have any difficulties with the switchbacks. On clear days, Turtle Island (龜山島) can be seen from a couple of vantage points on the highway. Those who drive past Shuanglianpi and venture deeper into these hills are bound for Fushan Botanical Garden (福山植物園). This hard-to-access facility preserves a fascinating range of plants and other natural wonders. On the day of our visit, much of Yilan County seemed in danger of sinking beneath the weight of daytrippers and weekenders. At Shuanglianpi, however, we found a parking spot with ease. Taking our time to walk all the way around the pond, a distance of almost 3km, we ran into just a few sightseers, a couple of locals and a group of elementary-school students who were learning about the area’s trees and plants. Driving around the lake is feasible, but you’d miss much of what makes this place special. For every human we encountered — on foot
The 22nd Taipei Arts Festival (臺北藝術節) opens tonight with three productions, a slightly scaled-down pandemic version that seeks to keep its tradition of big ideas, challenging programs and international connections alive and moving forward in an increasingly uncertain world. The theme of this year’s festival is “Super@#S%?” — as good a term as any when descriptives and superlatives seem not only inadequate, but somewhat irrelevant in a world where so many people cannot imagine being able to return to theaters, either as performers or audience members — they are too worried about having a job and their health. Technically, however, it is meant represent humans pursuit for the “super” amid the COVID-19 pandemic. For a man whose carefully deliberated festival program went to hell six months ago, and who has three premieres to oversee this weekend, Singaporean Tang Fu-kuen (鄧富權) looked surprisingly relaxed yesterday as we met for a chat in the Fortress Cafe at Taipei’s Zhongshan Hall. “It’s going to be a really crazy weekend, three shows,” he said, as he plotted how he was going to see Dances for Wu-Kang Chen (攏是為著‧陳武康) at the hall, CosmicWander: OnGon+NeZha at the Shuiyuan Theater and Sun Moon Lake is a Concrete Box (日月潭是一個水泥盒) at the Taipei Backstage Pool. PERFECT METAPHOR Considering all the trouble and angst Tang and his team have had to go through to reach this weekend, it seems apt that they — and the performers and audience — have to go through a sewage plant to get to the pool studio for that third program by Taiwanese artist Xia Lin (林亭君), and Canadians Sheryl Cheung (張欣) and Liam Morgan, as well as two later Think Bar (共想吧) productions. “Even though our offices are right above the plant, we had never been there before,” Tang said. The pool area only holds 60 people, and admission is free,
Wild Sparrow (野雀之詩) is simple and extremely slow paced, told through the eyes of Han (Kao Yu-hsia, 高於夏), an introspective, shy grade schooler who lives with his great-grandmother in the verdant countryside. Han has a fascination with sparrows, which are either flying high in the sky or trapped in cages and nets, providing a constant metaphor throughout the film. In the most ironic scene, a man catches the birds just to charge people to set them free again, taking advantage of Buddhists who engage in the ritual of “releasing” animals from captivity. Han takes a badly injured sparrow home and buries it when it dies, and his idyllic and innocent life ends there. Like most rural areas in Taiwan, the bulk of the population has left for work in the cities, leaving old people and children behind. While the scenery is stunning, the lack of human presence is haunting as those who remain do what they can to scrape by. Han is suddenly whisked to the urban jungle of Jhongli (中壢) when his elementary school shuts down — another common phenomenon in rural areas — staying with his young mother Li (Lee Yi-chieh, 李亦捷) who leads a dysfunctional life, bouncing between bad and often abusive relationships, hostess clubs and prostitution to survive. The film was nominated for several awards in last year’s Taipei Film Festival (台北電影節), with Lee winning Best Actress, but it did not make its box office premiere until last week. Lee does a superb job depicting the life of Li, a lost woman who often returns home drunk or with a man while acting erratically toward Han. She is loving and overbearing and resentful toward Han at the same time, delivering a complex and heartfelt performance that is surely worthy of her award. It’s a poignant exploration of people
JEFFREY EPSTEIN: FILTHY RICH (2020) Director: Lisa Bryant Netflix It’s a must-watch because? An ongoing scandal of unchecked power and abuse is explored with emotional urgency. This four-hour inquiry from Netflix, currently lapping its competitors in the non-fiction miniseries department, is surely not the last documentary we’ll see on the late American financier and his horrific history of underage sexual abuse. After all, it’s a story that is still unfolding, with his ex-girlfriend Ghislaine Maxwell recently taken into custody. But there’s power in being the first, and Lisa Bryant’s project — which entered production, securely under wraps, while Epstein was still alive — valuably amplifies the voices of victims who were unheard for too long. After 25 years as a showrunner and producer, Lisa Bryant’s first documentary series as a director was Jeffrey Epstein: Filthy Rich, which premiered on Netflix in May. Originally based on James Patterson’s 2016 book of the same name, the four-parter developed the story of Epstein’s life, his court cases and his death. TG: Why did you decide to make Filthy Rich? LB: To show how our justice system was broken, expose Epstein’s abuse of wealth and power, and most importantly, to give the survivors a platform to get their voices heard. TG: When did you start working on it? LB: Long before Epstein was arrested and dead, when he was still powerful, wealthy and intimidating, in November 2018. TG: What problems did you have getting it made? LB: We had to get a private room locked in our production offices for interviews, and encrypted communications to make sure no one hacked in. We had to protect everything we had, then the story started changing overnight. TG: And it’s still changing. How did you react to Ghislaine Maxwell’s arrest? LB: I hope our documentary played some part in putting pressure on the FBI to act
On the final green of the tournament, Ha Ki-won carefully took his stance and addressed the ball. A gentle strike, and it rolled forward. In front of him it circled the hole, making a rattling sound as it dropped, and Ha raised his fist in triumph, taking victory and a 20 million won (US$17,000) winner’s check by a single shot. The ball, though, was not in a hole, but still on the carpet. This was a professional screen golf tournament in South Korea, which hosts what organizers say is the world’s only such tour. For Ha, 38, screen golf has offered a competitive lifeline: he first wielded a club at the age of 17, and reached the second tier of the professional KPGA tour, but never made a cut in tournament play. In screen golf, though, he now has five victories, and in 2017 he gave up real-life competition altogether, converting fully to simulator action. “Now I feel more at ease in front of the giant screen,” said Ha. Just like on a real course, players compete in several groups simultaneously, each taking shots in turn. But rather than walking in open countryside to reach their next lie, they step in front of a screen measuring 5.8 by 3 meters. Sensors on the floor and ceiling track the trajectory of the ball after impact and project its onward path down the virtual course. The country’s biggest screen golf operator Golfzon — which has more than 1,300 centers across the South — set up the tour in 2012, with seven events a year, culminating in November’s GTour Championship, worth 150 million won to the winner. There were 130 competitors at this month’s tournament in Daejeon, south of Seoul, eight of them first-tier KPGA professionals. The popularity is driven by accessibility: traditional golf is a hugely successful spectator sport in
Joe Henley’s heart-rending, emotionally gripping tale of poverty, despair and soul-breaking abuse will haunt the reader long after they put down the book. While Henley is a Taiwan-based Canadian writer who says he never knew poverty, much less the horrific conditions that migrant workers in Taiwan suffer, he does a convincing job in conveying their suffocating pain, and not given the chance to have any meaningful future. Henley makes it clear in Migrante’s foreword that this is not his story, and that it should ideally be written by one of the workers. But he is certainly qualified to tell the fictional tale of Rizal, an aimless, despondent Filipino youth from the Navota cemetery slums near Manila who ends up working under inhumane conditions on a Taiwanese fishing boat. As a journalist, Henley has spent much time with mistreated migrant workers in Taiwan, as well as residents of the slums in the Philippines, and his experience shows through his vivid descriptions and acute observations. Turning other people’s true experiences (especially those from completely different cultural and socioeconomic backgrounds) into fiction is not an easy task, which can go awry no matter how well-intentioned the writer is. But Henley pulls it off with great sensitivity and compassion. While migrant worker abuse is being increasingly reported on, there definitely needs to be more substantial ways of getting the story out amidst the constant bombardment of information that turns the world’s tragedies into one big blur. The annual Taiwan Literature Award for Migrants has been one of the few avenues for these workers to get creative and put a personal touch to these narratives, but unfortunately the anthologies are only available in their native tongues and Chinese. Last year’s Migrant Workers’ Storybook of Employment Agents by the Migrants Empowerment Network in Taiwan provides a
It has been 26 years since Nicholas Gould hosted his last Issues and Opinions radio show for ICRT a recording studio on Roosevelt Road. He remembers the familiar ‘whoosh’ as the door to the soundproof room closes and recognizes the carpet, but the recording equipment is gone, with half of the space being used for storage. Gould is filled with nostalgia as he greets his guests, two financial writers who are here to discuss Taiwan’s post-COVID-19 economy for his new podcast, Taiwan Matters. Gould had been thinking of revisiting his old career for a while, but being allowed access to his old studio was an unexpected bonus. The lack of audio gear no longer matters. “All I need is in a little bag,” Gould quips. “It was kind of a trip because I hadn’t [conducted an interview] in so long,” Gould adds. “But here I am, doing exactly the same thing. I’m not the same person anymore, yet it felt so natural, so familiar. It was like picking up the beat right where I left off.” Gould has released three episodes of Taiwan Matters, the latest a discussion with Minister Without Portfolio Audrey Tang (唐鳳) and Taiwan AI Labs founder Ethan Tu (杜奕瑾) on how the nation has used technology to combat COVID-19. Dubbed the “bad boy of broadcasting” by Taiwan Today in a 1992 article, Gould was the first reporter to cover local news for ICRT through Issues and Opinions, which ran for 480 episodes between 1985 to 1994. Before him, the station translated Chinese news articles and read wire stories. Martial law was still in effect, but Gould delved into controversial issues such as Taiwanese independence, AIDS, child abuse and, in 1986, arranged the first on-air meeting between a Chinese Nationalist Party (KMT) official and a member of
Eight debut novelists came up against veterans Hilary Mantel and Tsitsi Dangarembga when Britain unveiled a US-dominated longlist of finalists Tuesday for its revered Booker Prize. One of the world’s most celebrated literary competitions tore up the rule book last year by splitting the fiction award between Canada’s Margaret Atwood and Anglo-Nigerian author Bernardine Evaristo. It courted controversy on this occasion by pitting nine Americans or dual-US citizens against just three Britons and Zimbabwe’s Dangarembga. “There are voices from minorities often unheard, stories that are fresh, bold and absorbing,” judges’ panel chair Margaret Busby said. “Unplanned, our final selection encompasses both seasoned favorites and debut talents — a truly satisfying outcome.” ‘YEAR OF SEISMIC CHANGE’ The title of best work of English-language fiction published in the UK and Ireland has launched careers and caused countless arguments since its creation in 1969. Past laureates have ranged from contemporary giants such as Ian McEwan and Julian Barnes to Kazuo Ishiguro and Roddy Doyle. This year’s 13-title longlist — to be whittled down to a shortlist of six on Sept. 15 before the winner is unveiled in November — features nine female authors. “In this year of seismic change, visibility for new books published in the UK has been drastically low,” the Booker Prize Foundation’s literary director Gaby Wood said. “So, however unintended the ratio, it’s especially heartening to know that some authors who have launched their careers in the midst of COVID-19 may now have a chance to reach the readers they deserve.” The five-judge panel picked through 162 novels either published or scheduled for release in the 12 months ending on Sept. 30. Britain was represented by Mantel — nominated for The Mirror & The Light — and debutants Sophie Ward and Gabriel Krauze. Mantel won the Booker in 2009 for Wolf Hall and in 2012 for Bring Up the Bodies. The panel said her
North Korean leader Kim Jong-un was shown surrounded by pistol-toting generals while in the South masked veterans were socially distanced as the two sides yesterday separately marked the armistice that ended Korean War hostilities. The contrasting events marked 67 years since the ceasefire that left the peninsula divided and millions of families split by the Demilitarized Zone. In the North’s capital, Kim handed out commemorative pistols to dozens of generals and senior officers, who pledged their loyalty to him, state media reported. The North reported its first suspected case of novel coronavirus infection at the weekend — after insisting for months it had kept itself free of the disease that has swept the world — but pictures showed the generals all gathered close together for a group photo, none of them wearing masks. In Seoul, scores of veterans — in facial coverings and socially distanced seats — attended a ceremony paying tribute to their efforts, themed “Days of Glory.” On screen, dramatic reconstructions of the war were interspersed with interviews with foreign veterans, and messages of support from current leaders of the countries that sent troops to support the South, among them US President Donald Trump and his French counterpart Emmanuel Macron. Millions of people were killed during the three-year conflict, which began when the Communist North invaded the US-backed South as leader Kim Il-sung — grandfather of the incumbent — sought to reunify by force the peninsula Moscow and Washington had divided at the end of World War II. The Chinese and Soviet-backed North fought to a standstill against the South and a US-led UN coalition. Hostilities ended on July 27, 1953 with a ceasefire that has never been replaced by a peace treaty. The North has subsequently built up a nuclear arsenal that it says it needs to protect itself against a US invasion, and has been
When Jang Hye-yeong was 13 the strain of caring for her disabled sister tore her family apart. Her autistic sibling was placed in a care home for almost two decades, while another sister was sent away to a boarding school, and her mother left the family. The experience turned Jang into a disability campaigner — and singer-songwriter and YouTuber to boot — who was elected to parliament in April as one of South Korea’s youngest MPs, aged just 33. Jang stands out in a legislature where 83 percent of MPs are over 50 and only 19 percent are women — a figure that would place the South at 116th in the latest Inter-Parliamentary Union global ranking. Now she is taking on the country’s deep-seated patriarchy and religious conservatism — including powerful megachurches that condemn homosexuality — by drawing up a new anti-discrimination bill. It would ban favoritism based on sex, race, age, sexual orientation, disability or religion as well as several more unusual criteria such as criminal history, appearance and academic background. However, over the past 13 years six attempts to pass broad anti-discrimination laws in South Korea have all failed. “For a long time, parliament has existed as an institution made up of middle-aged, able-bodied men,” Jang said. ‘VERY NATURAL’ Despite its economic advances, South Korea remains socially conservative and Human Rights Watch says discrimination against women and minorities is widespread. Jang said her family suffered; as well as autism, her sister has an intellectual disability — conditions some blamed when they were growing up on their mother’s supposed “sins.” The mother struggled to cope and received limited help from the government or community, and eventually the disabled sister was placed in an institution where Jang alleges residents were mistreated. Soon afterwards their mother left the family and her father sent Jang to live with her grandparents. “When I realized my
When Jean Franzblau, the founder of Cuddle Sanctuary in Los Angeles, first heard of a contagious virus spreading across the globe in March, she set stringent policies for all participants: wash your hands the moment you arrive to a cuddle; don’t come if you feel ill; if a client appears sick or is coughing, a cuddle session leader may send them home. “We implemented that for two events, a Wednesday and a Saturday. And then we were closed,” said Franzblau, who won’t reopen until a vaccine is made widely available. “It was so quick: here’s our new protocol and then our protocol is we’re closed. It was very intense and very dramatic.” Professional cuddle organizations like Cuddle Sanctuary aim to provide clients with a sense of calm and bliss, thanks in part to the anxiety-reducing hormone oxytocin which is released in response to positive, social touch, like a hug from a friend or a nuzzle from a dog. First popularized in the early 2000s, professional cuddling aimed to fulfill touch needs for a range of clients including survivors of post-traumatic stress disorder and sexual assault and adults on the autistic spectrum. Now, there are dozens of independent professional cuddling organizations, like Portland’s Cuddle Up To Me, and larger networks of professionals like Cuddlist, who have trained hundreds of touch facilitators nationwide. Research has shown that without physical touch, we’re likely to experience loneliness, depression, anxiety disorders and stress. As the pandemic presses on, clients regularly accustomed to getting their touch needs fulfilled by professional cuddlers struggle to find that relief. VIRTUAL CUDDLES But professional cuddlers are finding a way to provide an approximate feelgood sensation from afar. Franzblau and some of Cuddle Sanctuary’s professional cuddlers — those who have completed four online courses, including a 12-day training — are offering virtual cuddle sessions on Zoom. Initially, Franzblau
Although Tsai Fu-yi (蔡復一) left Kinmen as a child in the 1580s, his portrait remained a prized heirloom of the Caicuo (蔡厝) Tsai clan throughout the centuries. This Tsai clan retains to this day much of its ancient ancestral worship rituals, including an offering ceremony every anniversary of Tsai Fu-yi’s death. On Wednesday last week, the Ministry of Culture officially deemed the painting of the Ming Empire politician “the oldest ancestral drawing in Taiwan,” designating it as the nation’s first ever significant national antiquity in an outlying island. In 2016, two art historians concluded that the portrait is even older than a drawing of Ming Dynasty warlord Cheng Cheng-kung (鄭成功) on the list of national treasures. Tsai Fu-yi’s portrait is believed to have been completed around 1625, when Cheng was an infant. Tsai Fu-yi is the best-known member of the Caicuo Tsai clan. His contemporary Tsai Hsien-chen (蔡獻臣) from the nearby Cyonglin (瓊林) Tsai family was also a famous politician, and the two were known as the “Two Tsais of Tongan County” (同安二蔡), which during that time encompassed part of today’s Xiamen and all of Kinmen. Since there’s much more information about the Cyonglin Tsai clan, and Tsai Fu-yi spent most of his life in China proper, this week’s column will focus more on the illustrious and better-recorded history of the Cyonglin Tsai family. CLAN ORIGINS The Caicuo Tsai clan’s progenitor Tsai Yi-lang (蔡一郎) allegedly settled in Kinmen from mainland Fujian Province near the end of the Song Dynasty, which was destroyed by the Mongols in 1279. The Cyonglin Tsai clan, on the other hand, can trace their ancestry in Kinmen back to about 300 years earlier, when a portion of the family moved from Fujian to Kinmen. Around 1100, Tsai Shihchilang (蔡十 七郎) became the first of the Cyonglin
Barbecue talk is usually delivered in an American accent. The land of pit ribs and tattooed barbecue bros has come to dominate how we perceive grilling outdoors. Yet people cook over charcoal and flames all around the world. Looking for fresh barbecue inspiration this summer? It is time to broaden your horizons. THE PHILIPPINES Cooking outdoors is standard in the Philippines. “You’re probably considered middle-class if you have an inside kitchen,” says Rachel Stockley, a chef of Filipino heritage who cooks at Baratxuri in Manchester. “Like Thai food, Filipino is all about hot, sour, sweet, salty flavors,” says Stockley, with sawsawan dipping sauces essential in that. Commercial versions can include a variety of ingredients, even strawberries, but the basic recipe is equal parts white sugar cane vinegar or rice wine vinegar and light soy mixed with finely diced white onion, garlic, chilli, lime juice and fish sauce — “Filipino patis if you can get it.” “That condiment or salsa is used with everything from barbecued pork belly to grilled tilapia,” says Stockley, but building in those four dimensions of flavor can begin much earlier, too. Before it is grilled, explains Mary San Pablo, the owner of London supper club and delivery kitchen Luto, pork or chicken is “half-brined, half-marinated” in an approximate mix of equal parts lemonade (usually 7Up or Sprite), soy sauce and sugar cane vinegar (watered-down cider vinegar, alternatively), with added garlic and pepper and sometimes extra sugar and banana ketchup. Lemongrass is also beaten into the marinade and then used as a brush to baste the meat as it caramelizes on the grill. San Pablo recommends marinating skewers of interspersed fatty pork belly and shoulder overnight. “You want a deep flavor penetration,” San Pablo says. Serve your pork or chicken with grilled corn or barbecued aubergines, scooping out the flesh and topping
First, the bad news. Erren River (二仁溪), which divides Tainan from Kaohsiung, is seriously polluted. An academic paper published in 2018 concluded that, of 14 major waterways in Taiwan, Erren River contained the highest levels of cadmium, chromium, copper and mercury. The study, which averaged data gathered between 2002 and 2016, also found that the concentrations of arsenic and zinc in the river were among the highest in the country, while manganese levels exceeded the limit set by Taiwan’s Environmental Protection Administration. Now for some good news. Erren River isn’t nearly so noisome as it once was. If it isn’t out of the hospital, at least it’s no longer in intensive care. According to an article posted on the Water Resources Agency’s River Restoration Network Web site, by the 1960s the bed of Erren River was covered with waste metals, and it emanated a constant stench. Much of the contamination was the result of smelting factories dumping solid and liquid waste. Untreated sewage from pig farms made matters worse. A key year in the river’s environmental history is 1986, when the “green oyster incident” (綠牡蠣事件) galvanized public opinion. After oysters being raised in the shallows of Kaohsiung’s Cieding District (茄萣) began dying en masse, scientists found they contained dangerously high copper concentrations. Within six years, cleanup efforts — which included dredging to remove contaminated sediment — had reduced copper levels in oysters to less than a tenth of those recorded in 1986. Even so, in the words of one group of scientists, Cieding “still produced oysters with the highest copper and zinc concentrations among the areas investigated.” I’ve crossed Erren River countless times, but only recently did I begin to explore its environs, and delve a bit into its history. The river’s source is 460m above sea level at a spot called Shanjhu
RSS