Vignette #14: Taipei’s Sexy Police Women Work the Corner

Around a decade ago, police services in Taipei were instructed to recruit more female officers. The government sought to rectify the stunning lack of estrogen on the force. The police quickly complied, and in short order these newly minted female officers were being seen on the street everywhere.

Kudos.

However, the police recruitment office handled the hiring of females the way a lot of Asian offices approach it—they hired on looks. Normally this is done in public-facing jobs, where customers enjoy being served by energetic, attractive, young people and is particularly common in traditional female jobs, like flight attendants.

I don’t really have much against the police hiring women based on looks. I’m a feminist. I believe hotties have as much right as uggos to break gender barriers. However, having all these extremely beautiful women suddenly directing traffic on every street corner—the starting point for new police officers in Taipei—had unforeseen consequences.

On the positive side, middle-aged, roly-poly male police officers suddenly experienced fits of community service, put down their doughnuts and coffee (or the Taiwanese equivalent), left their precinct houses, and took these young charges under their wing to show them how to direct traffic—very altruistic. I’m sure some of these men hadn’t ventured outside the station in a decade or more. Judging by the strain these guys put on their uniform buttons—it was overdue. These beauties had a salubrious effect on the forces’ general fitness for duty.

On the negative side, I’m pretty sure accident statistics spiked. Not that they didn’t do a good job directing traffic, but they were a distraction. There was no warning these young women were going to hit the street. I was stunned when I pull up to my local intersection their first morning on duty. I was just minding my own business, somnambulating my way to work, when—bam—there she was, a goddess in government issue blues and sensible shoes. It was like suddenly finding a young Bo Derek, in mirrored aviator sunglasses provocatively waving you through traffic.

I drove into a lamppost. I can’t be the only one.

The practice of hiring on looks extends to men. It used to be required that you submit a photo with your resume for many jobs. I was hired from Canada, by a Korean school, based on my photo, not my resume. I’m sure they didn’t think I was particularly attractive, but they thought I looked kind. They took the photo to a face-reader who confirmed my amiability, and I was in. Sure, it’s not a flashy way of getting hired on your looks, but it still counts.

Symbolic, Parabolic, Metaphorical, Allegorical … Chinese

As you might have surmised, I have issues with Chinese. Just as doctors make terrible patients; many language instructors are the worst language learners—I’m one of those. Despite living in Taiwan, I exist in an English bubble. I spend my work days in an English environment, and when I go home most of my recreation is also in English. My Chinese is an embarrassment, except when I swear, which is stunningly smooth, natural, and stylish, but that uses a different part of the brain. I usually refer to my Chinese as functional, meaning I can get around in Chinese and accomplish most things that need doing. Normal daily conversations are okay. If I have a patient audience, I can even have a deeper discussion. However, there are definite limits to what I can do.

One aspect of Chinese that causes me problems is the depth of shared history, literature, and culture that can be drawn on by Chinese speakers to make allusions that shape and shade their meaning. (For an introduction to this topic see: The Unified Field Theory of Culture Shock and A Low-Context Dude in High-Context Places). There is no equivalent to this in English. I cannot draw on five thousand years of shared English linguistic tradition to come up with allusions to make my speech more eloquent.

I have not heard many other foreigners complain about this issue. It might just be me. In my family, this comes up, and it’s frustrating.

On one memorable occasion, my wife made a statement to me, in Chinese, which I absolutely did not understand. When I asked for clarification, she launched into a very long-winded explanation of what she had said, and it went something like this: “Well, what I said was ‘blah, blah, blah, blah’. Now, in the Song Dynasty there was a famous poet, Su shi, who drew on the tradition of Lu Yu, a Northern Tang Dynasty poet and proponent of ci poetry that employs the rhythms of popular Tang songs. In the cadence of ‘blah, blah, blah, blah‘ you should have recognized a reference to the meter of that particular Song Dynasty poet, who in turn was making a poetic allusion to that earlier Tang Dynasty poet. As you know [no I don’t], the ci form linked poetry with other arts, particularly painting, so this shades the meaning of what I said to be: ‘blah, blah, [shadings of a holistic view of the arts], blah, blah’. Now, Su Shi himself was deeply political, as were many Northern Song poets, and spent years in exile for his opposition to the corrupt government minister Wang Anshi. So, you should interpret what I said as: ‘blah, blah, [shadings of a holistic view of the arts], blah, [with a dash of stick it to the man], blah’.”

Of course, all of this simply shades the meaning of the actual words. It adds color and implies a richer meaning than the words themselves. Someone educated enough to speak in this manner is considered eloquent. The audience needs to be equally knowledgeable to pick up these little linguist breadcrumbs. A shared history and culture are required for this manner of speaking to have any meaning.

The conversation simply left me going: “Huh?!? So should I wash the dishes or not?”

I don’t get the impression that many other foreigners run into this particular quirk of Chinese. I’m guessing because most Taiwanese are savvy enough not to speak in such a connotative way to second language speakers. However, my in-laws have a tendency towards this type of speech. Indeed, my family is staunchly Taiwanese and confuses the issue further by bringing in Taiwanese allusions and Japanese allusions, from the occupation period. I’m actually a big lover of Chinese art, literature, and history. I appreciate that the culture is rich enough that it affords opportunities for bringing this kind of texture and nuance to the meaning of a sentence. That is seriously cool. But, my Chinese is at a level where I’d be satisfied if when some random dude yelled at me, “Hey Dummy, hurry up and get on the bus, you’re holding up the line,” I’d be able to deliver a pithy reply in unaccented Chinese. I’m not there yet.

I find it endearing that my wife, and her family, have such faith in my Chinese that they think there’s any prospect I might be able to draw inferences from such sketchy linguist trails. I don’t know what in their experience of me makes them think there’s any chance I’d get it—but, you got to love them for trying.

Taiwanese Delicacies #4: Oyster Vermicelli

The next Taiwanese delicacy was a revelation for me when I first encountered it. I didn’t expect to like it—there were clearly intestines in it. Of course I tried it. My guiding culinary principle is to try everything. To my amazement, I enjoyed every mouthful and have since overcome any squeamishness about eating poop tubes. (See: Gross Out Porn for the Armchair Traveler).

We’re talking about one of the quintessential Taiwanese dishes, Oyster Vermicelli.

If you’re going to try it, you’ll need to learn to say it in Taiwanese. You won’t get far ordering it in Mandarin. The characters are 蚵仔麵線 pronounced ô-á mī-sòa in Taiwanese. Using the Roman alphabet to transliterate produces some pretty incomprehensible spellings; Oamisoir, Oh Ahh Mee Sua, Orh Aaa Mee Suan, etc. It’s a bit of a mouthful. Here’s my two-bit Taiwanese lesson: The first syllable (ô) is pronounced ehh, like someone just farted in your face or punched you in the stomach; the next two syllables are easy (á) is pronounced ahh, like you just had an epiphany; () is the same as the English pronoun me; and, (sòa) is hard to describe, it is a bit like saying the first part of suave, but then having the rest of the word get stuck in your throat, and become a guttural nng sound, while your tone simultaneously drops, and your mouth widens at the corners, like you’re grimacing. Make of that what you will. I suck at languages, so grain of salt.

Taiwanese Oyster Vermicelli is a soup. It has a delightful woodiness that comes from the Japanese smoked bonito flakes (katsuobushi) in the soup stock. The stock is geng (焿 or 羹), meaning thickened, usually with starch, giving it a smooth and slimy texture. Many Taiwanese soups are prepared this way. The vermicelli is made primarily of wheat flour, formed into noodles and steamed until tan-brown. The process allows it to be cooked for a long time without breaking down. The main ingredients are rounded out by oyster and intestines. If you order 蚵仔麵線 Oyster Vermicelli in Taipei you can assume it’ll include intestines, unless you specify otherwise. However, if you want to be very precise you can order 蚵仔大腸麵線 Oyster and Braised Intestine Vermicelli.

The soup is garnished with cilantro. Garlic paste and spice may be added. To suit my own taste, I generally add vinegar to any geng soup stock. The soup itself is a full-flavored hearty blend, dominated—but not overwhelmed—by the fish flakes, with oyster providing a touch of the sea, and just a soupçon of shit on the palate from the intestines. It is a well-balanced blend of flavors. The vermicelli, because it’s been cooked for a long time, is very tender. It hits the spot perfectly on cold winter days. It really is delicious.