Taiwan Today

It was 3 p.m. in a Taiwan village. The scorching sun hung above the middle of a riverbed, faithfully guarding the great earth. Except for the murmuring flow of the stream and occasional cicada chirps from afar, the land was as quiet as a sleeping beauty. Li Mei-yuan, a village girl, was walking hurriedly along the riverside, looking for her cattle. She won­dered why she had not heard their bellowing for such a long time. She tired, so she jumped onto a bamboo raft to sail down the river. She searched with bright eyes, and the water flew by just under her feet. In the winter of 1975, Li Mei-yuan doffed her silk dress and high-heeled shoes. She left the bustling and hustling city or Taipei for her hometown in Miaoli County, central Taiwan. Both her friends in Taipei and her relatives in the Miaoli area were puzzled: "Why would a college graduate, a major in business management, abandon her well-paying job in an air-conditioned office to return to the countryside to tend cattle?" "I quit my trading business, because I could not fulfill my potential there. I was brought up in the village and was deeply influenced by rural life. Cattle were my companions when I was a child, and I missed the fields and crops. "While I was working in Taipei, I often thought, since I had majored in business management, and since several of my husky nephews were working in the Miaoli countryside—Why should I not go back home and apply my business knowledge to a dairy farm?" Her staunchest supporter for her plan to run a dairy business was her father. Last year, the elderly farmer passed on all his farming experience to his daughter. About eight years ago, the Li family pooled NT$260,000 (US$4,500) to buy 18 milking cows for her. At that time, one of her nephews, just graduated from junior high, was looking for work, not prepared to go on to a higher school. He became an indispensable helper to his aunt. That year, the government made great efforts to develop the island's dairy industry. When Magistrate Chiu Wen­-kuang of Miaoli County learned that a "college coed" was running a dairy farm, he gave her an honorable sobriquet: Pasture Queen. Before long, she discovered that her village-Chungping-was more suited to raising water buffaloes, since their breeding called for less work and lower costs. Therefore, she sold her cows and bought buffaloes. Now, her buffalo herd has increased to 300 head, the largest on Taiwan. She is increasingly confident of her future prosperity and hopes, in the future, to increase the herd to 1,000. Over the last few years, every day, she and her nephew carried their lunch boxes, and with a few native dogs to help, drove the buffaloes to the river. But not long ago, her first major worries arose: it had rained constantly for months and she had a hard time finding fodder. Every two or three days, she drove her car off to look for grass at other places. And as the herd increases, the grass grown on her limited farm—even in top weather-is not enough to feed them. Only recently, she drove the herd to Taichung for fodder-a long way down south. This impressed her ne­phews, "Since our aunt is working so hard, how can we not also set an example for her?" All four nephews have now joined her, after graduation from high schools. When the buffaloes are grazing, she takes time out to teach them how to live life: "Don't think herding cattle is menial work," she told them. "You must understand that the most important thing for a man is really to blaze his own path." Now, after years of farming in a fresh and beautiful environment, all of them have been steeled into typical farm­ers-simple, honest, and hard-working. In their vigor is the promise of the Republic of China's new farming generation. After years of dealing with cattle, Li Mei-yuan can deliver a calf and treat the diseases of her herd. She pays close atten­tion to improvement of her stock, so she keeps detailed records of each animal. In cattle-raising circles, she is now often called "Dr. Cattle," and occasionally, she accepts invitations to lecture at farm­ers associations. When she talks with visitors, Mei­-yuan often punctuates her remarks with economic terms and English phrases. She has great confidence in the economic future of her cattle raising business be­cause she has carefully calculated the "cost and effect." When her herd initially increased to 50, family members were unnerved by the rapidity of its growth and urged her to limit the herd to that size. She responded, "In for a penny, in for a pound. Let's carryon our business toward larger goals." Mel-yuan is not the only "cowgirl" in Taiwan. A number of others have become equally successful. "In the past, who could believe that I would go to the hills to raise cattle?" said Lin Su-yun, throwing up hands still spattered with milk. "When we fell in love years ago, my husband often pro­mised that he would build a villa on a hill for me and that he would sit outside under the window and play the guitar. Now, you see.... " As she talked, she glanced over at her husband, sitting smiling sheepishly now at the corners of his mouth. At five o'clock in the morning, Wu Chia-lang and his wife, Lin Su-yun, are already milking the cows in the barn. They have a herd of 33, producing more than 300 kilograms of milk a day for an island milk plant. Chia-lang graduated from the animal husbandry department of National Chung Hsing University and once served as superintendent of a dairy farm owned by Taiwan's most successful chain of pastry stores—Yi Mei, which is reputed particularly for its wedding cakes. Nine years ago, Su-yun was teaching English at a junior high. She followed her husband to Wenshanli in Miaoli County, to stake out their own business. The 42-year-old dairy farmer re­called, "When we first arrived here, there was nothing. We began to grow hay and build a farmhouse. We obtained an NT$180,000 loan from the local farm­ers association and used the sum to buy six cows and build a small barn. Life was very hard, especially for her. We hired no hands, and both of us were burned by the scorching sun." While he was talking, he frequently looked at his wife, who had been mock-complaining, but actually enjoying her satisfaction. "Come on. It has been nine years, nine solid years," his wife picked up the refrain, caressing her hair with her fingers. Wu-yun graduated from Taiwan's Providence College of Arts and Sciences, whose graduates were supposed to become comely secretaries, able to work only in the most comfortable of business environments. Moreover, Lin Su-yun is from the fabulous Lin family in Tai­chung, one of Taiwan's oldest and most wealthy families in the years of the Manchu Dynasty and the Japanese occu­pation. When she was a girl, she was considered a "pearl in the palm." When she grew up, her family held out a number of wealthy young men for her matrimonial choice. Unexpectedly, she gave her hand to Wu Chia-lang, a farm boy from Hukou in Hsinchu County, one of Taiwan's most agriculturally backward districts. "I didn't want to marry a wealthy man. I don't like the vainglorious habits and manners of the good-for-nothing young men from wealthy families. I chose a plain farm boy who calls a spade a spade, and who can make his own career with his own hands." When the pretty girl decided to marry country boy Wu Chia-lang, the whole family rose up in opposition. Nevertheless, she insisted, and in the end, the wealthy family and the hard­ working scion of island farmers were related. When they started their dairy busi­ness, Su-yun could not continue practicing her English..."To the cattle?" But her English knowledge was very useful for translating agricultural articles in Eng­lish for her husband's reference. When foreign visitors come, she is a stand-by interpreter. Sometimes, foreigners aware of the dairy farm on the hill, drive over in the early mornings to enjoy "super fresh" milk. Later, some become permanent friends. "In the past, I did not understand cows. Now, everyone of the herd has become a friend. Whenever I call the name of a cow, she will turn her head and look at me. It is like a roll call-only very interesting," said our hostess. Whenever she mentions the cows, Lin Su-yun's eyes become wide and bright. She recalled a newly-born calf called "Little White." She was afraid it could not compete successfully with the others for drinking water, so she fastened it outside the barn and placed a pan of water there for its exclusive consump­tion. When it turned the pan over with one of its hooves, she would patiently set it right and fill it once again. She treats the calves like her babies. After spending more than 3,000 days on the farm, she has learned how to treat the troubles of cattle as well as how to milk a cow. Even her dog has become more learned under her training; it knows how and when to open the barn gate. Threading through the herd, walking in a dung-scattered barn, smelling the pungent odors, all are part of the daily life of a woman once cherished within Taiwan's most wealthy family. During the rainy season, she has to prepare the fodder and dry the new hay. A little carelessness, and a fire may start on the hill, adding suddenly to the whole family's heavy duties. Sweat and cows are the building blocks of their lives. Lin Su-yun never goes to the movies, nor has she much interest in excursions. But in addition to the marketplace and her father's home, she never misses a literary or art activity in the nearby cities. She often drives to Taichung to attend a concert or a dance per­formance. Few musicians and other performing artists are aware that there are farm families among their audience who have traveled scores of miles just to enjoy their performance. Because communications are inconvenient from the hills, she cannot visit friends very often. She occasionally has a phone chat with other rural women. When the birthday of their respective local deity is celebrated, a major event in the villages, they may stage big dinner parties to entertain their friends in other villages. Living in the hills and tending the cattle, she never forgets to spare time for reading. Each month, she buys some books, taking advantage of mail-order service. She hopes that their two sons can also find bigger worlds in books, so she bought large numbers, including an encyclopedia, children's stories, tradi­tional fairy tales, etc., forming a modest library. Reading time begins after the TV newscast. The two boys go to their rooms to do their homework, and father and mother habitually pick up their favorite books, reading to the chirps of insects and the croaking of frogs; an occa­sional bellow from a cow breaks the near stillness. Chin Jen-ching is another college woman who has abandoned city life to settle in the country. Early in the morning, this slim and tall farm housewife was busy reaping tender grasses with a sickle. Her glasses were clouded by morning mist, she took them off and wiped them clean with a corner of her dress. While she was work­ing, her two young daughters-Hsu Ting and Hsu Yu—played happily among the haystacks. When the grass at her feet had piled up, she carried it to the barn to serve as breakfast for a cow which had just given birth, with herself as midwife. At the same time, her husband, Hsu Chien-yi, was building a wall on one side of their barn. He hummed a Chinese folksong; their small dog, Jimmy, barked. Hsu Ting and Hsu Yu carried a small pail to the garden to water the flowers, which, they proudly told the visitors, were planted by themselves. The kids were taught by their mother in their free time to grow vegetables and flowers and to take care of pets "so they will know why and how to take care of others when they grow up." Besides pet dogs, the mother bought them two young goats and a flock of chickens and ducks. Since there are so many mouths to feed, a subordinate of Chin Jen-ching's father often comes down to lend a hand. Nine years ago, Jen-ching and her husband gave up a colorful city life and traveled to this hill by the side of Chung-kang Stream to build a livestock kingdom. Jen-ching's father was a major general in the ROC Army. After Jen­-ching graduated from Taipei's Ming­-chuan Women's College of Commerce, she was employed by the Chinese Steel Corporation as chief accountant. To her, farming was as distant as the Sahara in Africa, about which she knew nothing. The training of her husband, Hsu Chien-yi, was also totally unrelated to farming. He studied cinema in Italy, and 17 years ago, joined the Shao Brothers, a leading Hongkong studio, beginning a very successful movie life. He starred in five films and also wrote screenplays. In 1971, he returned to Taiwan to organize a mass-communications company. Though he was a good movie star and screenwriter, he was not a competent business manager, and he lost all his savings in the venture. He was tired of cut-throat business competition and longed for a quiet and solid life. His wife was also tired of the vainglorious life of movie circles; she longed to settle down in a rural area. Jen-ching recalled they were very busy that year looking around orchards and livestock farms, one of which they would buy. Because they could not really make up their minds, they went to a temple to seek the advice of the deities. They drew the traditional lottery sticks after offering incense; the message was that Rising Dragon Village in Miaoli County was the best place for their future life. "When we arrived here, there was nothing but sand and pebbles. We built the roads, prepared the land, applied fertilizers. We endured the attacks of mosquitoes and snakes. We fell so soli­tary that many times we thought of giving up. We carried on just because our first faith—our desire—was too strong. Now, we have overcome all hardships," Jen-ching recounted their sufferings, looking ruefully at her callused hands as she talked. They first invested NT$50,000 (US$1,250) to raise pigs and grow watermelons. Then, when they decided to raise dairy cows, the farmers association refused to provide a loan. "Because we knew nothing, even the basics of farming, we decided to get some training and to seek advice from livestock farming experts. Then, we began to grow grass and raise the cows." More than 30 cows now graze their pastures. Like Lin Su-yun, Chin Jen-ching gets up before dawn to milk the cows. By seven o'clock, the truck from the milk plant comes along to collect the morning's product. Then, Jen-ching walks down the hill with her daughters to pick up their newspaper, delivered at a gravel company. This intensely urban woman has adapted to rural life so thoroughly that she can handle every farm chore—weed­ing, preparing land, reaping, delivering a calf, fixing a broken faucet, or replacing a fuse. "If I don't do the job, who will come such a long way into the hills to do it?" she asked. After settling down in the village, she paid close attention to the customs, habits, and taboos of the local villagers. On the first and 15th days of each moon (the Lunar Calendar month), she goes to worship in the temple. She said that when she first came and saw the villagers kill their chickens, she also began to kill her chickens by herself. But she did not know how to fold the claws and the heads of the dressed chickens. When she offered the chickens as sacrifice at the temple, other worshippers gossiped and laughed, because all her chickens raised their heads and spread their claws as if poised for a fight. As she told the story, her two young daughters were playing a star-war game on a personal computer. Life in the hills is uneventful, but she relishes everything. Once when they returned to their house and opened the door, they saw a big venomous snake. "My husband was stunned and jumped up to a chair and my daughters cried. It was I who picked up a big stick to kill the snake. But it took much doing. Since, I have watched closely how the villagers kill a snake with a stick. Now, I have learned the trick and can finish one off with one stroke," she said proudly. College-educated farmers are no longer as effete as they used to be in the cities. They have become accustomed to a plain way of life, even in their daily speech. "This is my woman," says swar­thy Shih Chieh-pin, introducing his wife, Chiu Pi-hua. Not embarrassed, she smiles and looks at her husband as their six-year-old daughter plays with a small dog. Their white cottage stands lonely on the Nanho Dairy Farm at Tunghsiao, a coastal township in central Taiwan. The setting sun was lengthening its shadows over visitor and farm family alike. The white cabin in its green setting is very attractive, much like a farm house in a Western country. Said Shih Chieh­ ping, the builder: "I am a bumpkin, and I don't know how to manage my world." On the floor-to-ceiling window is pasted the two words, "I milk," separated by a heart sign. Displayed in the chamber are several bottles of preserved venomous snakes, "famous products of the mountains." Seven years ago, Chiu Pi-hua met Shih Chieh-ping right here. "On meeting him, I was immediately captivated...'by the beautiful grassland,'" she smiled. Though a mother of three, this farm lady still looks like a co-ed just graduated from college. She was a junior high class­ mate of Chieh-ping's younger sister, but had maintained no communications with her after leaving school. Seven years ago, they met again, and Pi-hua was invited to the farm. "After half a year, I decided to 'wash clothes and cook the meals for him,''' she said. "Maybe I have a special friendship with the mountains. People are afraid of loneliness in the mountains, but I enjoy the freedom here." In her childhood, Pi-hua loved romantic stories. She often went to the seaside alone to watch the waves and to talk with the stars. On the morning of my visit, she brought her children for a walk on the hilltop. They were followed by the dogs. Tung Shang-ping and 16 other young farmers were sent to the United States to receive dairy farming training for 20 months. In 1975, the 17 young men joined up to go to Tunghsiao to raise milking cows. At that time, the farm was just an expanse of weeds and bushes, but the 17 used brains and brawn to turn it into a "young men's dairy village." In 1978, 13 of the partners called it quits because of insolvency. Now, only four of the original farmers carryon the business. His wife, Chiu Pi-hua, was graduated from a business junior college. She is luckier than Lin Su-yun and Chin Jen-ching, because she does not need to milk the cows and cut grass for them every day. Nevertheless, she is equally busy be­ cause she must prepare meals for the workers, handle the farm's business with "the outside," serve as "finance minis­ter" of the farm, and keep tabs on the cows. After the children are in their beds for afternoon naps, she seats herself by the window to read or write to friends. When she tires, she looks out the window at the blue skies. When the kids get up, she takes them to the slope to help the workers plant or reap grass. When they are in the mood, mother and children will "wallop" on the sloping pasture—they often compete to see who can roll faster. The elder daughter particularly likes their way of life. She races with the small dogs and says that when she grows up, she will raise cows just as her father is doing. While the girl was frolicking, her mother remarked, "Look, she doesn't look like a girl at all. She romps like a tomboy." As pets for the children, Pi-hua bought a brace of pheasants, which run together with their little mistresses in the mornings. With 15 hectares of slopeland and more than 90 cows to care for, Shih Shang-wu is so busy that he almost has no time for his meals. Fortunately, he has been able to afford farm machines and several farm hands in recent years. His busiest time falls around the Lunar New Year, when all the workers return to their homes for family reunions. The couple must take up all the burdens of farm chores. Now, their eldest daughter has learned to help her parents milk the cows. "To us, New Year's Day is not New Year's Day; only the cows can rest in this family," said Pi-hua.