Taiwan Today

Kite flying is one of the more popular outdoor recreation activities in Taipei. On sundrenched weekends, the parks are filled with children and adults tugging at kite strings, struggling to set their kites aloft. But when the breeze is particularly good, the skies become crowded with kites basking in glorious flight.

There are kite fliers, and there are kite fliers. Most of them see kite-flying as a chance to get some sunshine, fresh air, and a little exercise. Contentment is seeing their simple, mass-produced plastic kites up high, tails rustling in the wind. But there still are a dedicated few who attend to every last detail of their handmade, bamboo-and-paper kites. Some of their creations, like a dragon hundreds of feet long, are inspired by mythology or imagination and take many months to make. Once airborne the magnificent kites draw cries of admiration from the onlookers below. Yet whether they be casual participants or passionate enthusiasts, Taiwan's kite fliers are continuing a fascination that first took wing in China over two thou sand years ago.

In fact, the Chinese had experimented with huge kites that could carry a man harnessed to its wings centuries before hang-gliding became a sport for the gutsy adventurer. Although they were barely successful, the ingenuity of the construction was laudable. In the thirteenth century, Marco Polo wrote about witnessing kite-assisted flight in China. Their arms and legs outstretched, men were strapped on to enormous, light weight kites and launched from merchant ships to forecast the success of the journey. If man and kite crashed into the sea without lifting to the air at all, it meant that the journey was certain to be ill-fated and was therefore postponed. However, Marco Polo had not been aware that what he had witnessed already had a long history.

Emperor Kaoyang of the Northern Chi dynasty (550-557) was thoroughly intrigued by the idea of flight. He would have his enemies and dissenters tied to owl-shaped kites. Then he would watch while they were thrown off a high section of the palace wall known as the "Tower of the Golden Phoenix" to see if they would fly. Most crashed to their deaths. But surprisingly, one did finally take off with the wind, drifting for almost two miles before landing. Even though he survived the ordeal, the poor soul was later starved to death.

The Chinese legend of the kite's beginnings is less gruesome. As the story goes, a sudden gust of wind blew a farmer's wide-brimmed tou li off his head. But before the wind could carry away his hat, the farmer was able to grasp the chin strap. Thus the tou li, a sturdy but light construction of straw over a bamboo frame, became the inspiration for the kite.

From a historical point of view, kites originally served a military purpose, their colors, shapes, and movements used to convey signals. Liu Pang, founder of the Han dynasty (206 B.C.-22l A.D.) was a little more creative. He waited until deep in the night to fly kites with whistles and noisemakers into the encampment of his formidable enemies from the Chu kingdom. The eery sounds, combined with the Han troops singing sentimental songs in the Chu dialect, were enough to scare and confuse the Chu soldiers. They scattered in different directions, and the tactic lead to eventual victory for the Han.

Communicating with kites was not always successful. Emperor Liang Wu of the Liang kingdom (502-557) was struggling to withstand a siege by rebellious troops on one of his cities. He ordered that a kite be sent up to summon loyalist troops a distance away. Unfortunately, enemy archers brought the kite down before it could flutter a distress code, and the city fell.

Even through World War II kites continued to have military significance. The U.S. Navy used a maneuverable kite to simulate a Japanese Zero plane for target practice. And during the Japanese occupation of Taiwan, kite flying was absolutely forbidden. Hsieh Chin chien (謝金鑑), president of the ROC Kite Fliers Association recalls: "The Japanese were suspicious about kites being used to signal Chinese planes or troops. But we children flew them anyway. And when we got caught the soldiers would confiscate the kites."

Kite flying was a clandestine activity, which all the more encouraged resourcefulness and creativity. Any child who wanted to fly a kite had to make his own, even the string, because the rope that could be purchased from the store was too thick. "There wasn't anywhere you could go to buy a kite," says Hsieh, who is now sixty-five. "But it really wasn't that difficult to make one. You just had to be able to split bamboo." As Hsieh explains it, old newspapers were simply pasted on to a bamboo frame. But making the string was time-consuming. The hemp plant had to be soaked in water for a week or until it had softened and its bark could be easily removed. The fibers were wrung to squeeze the water out, and then pulled apart. The strands were about two feet long, and were joined into a long string by rolling them up and down against the thigh.

The prohibition against kite flying ended with the departure of the Japanese in 1945. Yet during the 1950s and the 1960s, kites remained simple affairs. At that time, leisurely activities were taking a back seat to building the island's economy. Then in the early 1970s, kite flying received unexpected encouragement from the government. The provincial governor of Taiwan, Shieh Tungmin, who was later to become vice president of the ROC, instituted a campaign to promote outdoor recreation in the form of skipping rope, shuttlecock kicking, and kite flying. Today, a balmy weekend at the park will attest that kite flying outlasted the campaign.

Few children make their own kites anymore. Hsieh remembers an old soldier, who he thinks was the first person on the island to sell kites. He says: "Not long after Taipei's Sun Yat-sen Memorial Hall was built, weekend kite fliers would come to the plaza in front of the hall. A retired soldier was always there, selling triangular kites that he made and painted himself."

Hsieh himself began selling kites, but quite by accident. One Sunday twenty years ago, a Japanese tourist offered to buy a centipede kite he was flying. "I tried to refuse politely by saying that I would only sell the kite for NT$1,000, a ridiculous price for a kite at that time. I was sure he would refuse, but he didn't," says Hsieh. And each time he made a new kite, another Japanese tourist would pay the same price for it. Hsieh was soon in business. His family later began making large numbers of simpler kites. "We made kites from bamboo and the remnants we purchased by weight from umbrella factories," says Hsieh. "In those days, there were as many spectators at the plaza as there were kite fliers. We would fly more than a dozen kites in the air, and people would come up and pick out the ones they liked. After they paid NT$50-100 for the kite, I would put the string in their hands, and off they would go. We sold kites from early morning until the moon came up. On a good day, we were able to sell between eighty to a hundred kites."

Still, for dedicated kite enthusiasts, making your own kite is more than half the fun. Tai Ken-yuan (戴根遠), a seventy-year-old retired education official originally from the mainland, has been flying kites since he was seven. "I have never once bought a kite," he says, "because I feel so satisfied and proud when I see the kite I made up in the sky." Tai's early kites were mostly square and simple. He says: "The China of my childhood was made up of farms and villages. We didn't have much in the way of entertainment. So we made and flew kites. No one ever taught me how to make a kite. I saw the kites of other children, and I built kites just like theirs out of bamboo strips and old newspapers."

That was over sixty years ago. Today, Tai's kites are exhilarating works of art that show a good grasp of aero dynamics. He points to a kite of a butter fly on a pot of flowers as his most out standing creation. Most butterfly kites fly head up, but Tai's butterfly dips head down into the flowers. He still makes his own kites by hand. "I've never used a machine," he says. "I still split the bamboo with a large knife. I've tried to make kites using nylon, but they were not strong enough. There is nothing like paper and bamboo."

Chinese crafts as well as everyday necessities have long made good use of bamboo and paper. They were not only easily obtainable and inexpensive, but the combination was also aesthetically pleasing and practical. It was only natural that the combination would be used for kites as well. Hsieh Chin-chien explains: "Paper and bamboo are extremely light, making it very easy to get the kite up. Paper that has been painted or treated with oil is stiffer than cloth, and yet it still can catch the wind."

Undeniably, there are disadvantages. A nose dive, caused by a sudden drop in the wind or change in its direction, can wreck or seriously damage a paper kite. While many kites today are made of plastic or nylon for extra durability, the kites built by serious fliers in Taiwan are still made out of paper and bamboo. This is both an astonishing and pleasant sight for an American kite-flying couple, Ivan and Susan Klecka, who now live in Taiwan. Says Ivan Klecka, "In the States kites are made out of fiberglass and other high tech materials. It's amazing that a country that makes and exports graphite rods for tennis rackets and golf clubs still uses bamboo for kites."

The designs have remained traditional as well. The skies are filled with dragons and phoenixes, tigers and cranes, and symbols of prosperity and longevity. Seldom seen are the sleek, geometric feats of aerodynamics that are more common in the West. Also noticeably absent in Taiwan is the stunt kite. Of British origin and dating back to the beginning of the nineteenth century, stunt kites now make up half of all kite sales in America and Europe. However, kites that can dip, dive, and fly back wards, and do loops, swoops, and somersaults in the sky have not impressed serious fliers in Taipei. Susan Klecka recalls an experience at the park: "I was flying a tumbling kite, but because of wind turbulence it would hit the ground after a few tumbles. An old man watching me became furious. He insisted that I didn't know how to fly the kite properly."

Beauty and aerodynamics combine in Hsieh Chin-chien's awesome dragon kite. The multicolored dragon spans over 90 meters, and undulates gracefully in the sky. Even from high above, it has a striking presence, its bulging eyes glaring and its gaping mouth threatening to spit fire. The body of the dragon is made up of over a hundred sections that sway to the rhythm of the wind. It took Hsieh several months to construct it. He says: "Every single section has to be perfectly balanced. If not, the kite will not be stable. The distance between sections has to be just right; too close and it looks ugly, too far apart and it won't catch the wind." When Hsieh's masterpiece lifts off to the sky, onlookers catch their breath, and their admiration is Hsieh's reward.

Tai Ken-yuan is just as exhilarated when his kite becomes the center of at traction at the park. "Many people have asked me if they may hold the string, and I'm always being asked why is it that the kites they buy can't fly as well as mine." According to Tai, mass-produced kites are often not well-balanced, and a good kite is one that has been made carefully by hand. "But even the best-made kite won't fly properly if you don't have the correct technique," he says. "There are little things you have to know. Like if your kite starts to flap in a big wind, you can't pull the string taut. You have to relax and allow your kite to ride the wind. And you can't fly your kite higher than 300 to 500 meters, or you won't be able to see it."

Most avid kite fliers are like Tai, generally very willing to share tips on correct flying. They also stick together, and in Taiwan they join the ROC Kite Fliers Association. Most of the association's 100 members make their own kites. Several go overseas each year to participate in international festivals or competitions. Hsieh is the association's director. "We have flown our kites practically everywhere," he says. "We've been to America, Australia, France, Germany, England, and most countries in Southeast Asia. We don't fly the stunt kites that are now so popular overseas, but our kites are still very well received because of their design and the creativity that went into building them."

At home, the association's yearly islandwide competitions attract from several dozen to several hundred participants. In one event, the competitors are given two-and-a-half hours to build a kite from scratch and fly it. Recently, the association sponsored a festival to urge the allocation of recreation space in the Taipei suburb of Neihu. Several hundred people flew their kites at a reclaimed landfill, which they hoped would one day become space for footloose kite flying.

In Taiwan and in many parts of the world, kite flying is often regarded as child's play. Many members of the Kite Fliers Association are well past their youth. But for them and for many fliers as well, kite flying is a sport that invigorates the body and brings tranquility to the mind. Ivan Klecka explains: "I liken kite flying to fishing. You're out in the fresh air, in the elements. You've got a line in your hand, but instead of looking down, you look up. But you can't see the wind the way a fisherman can see the water. Until your kite begins to sway. Then the wind becomes visible. There is mental relaxation, but there is also excitement because you're always just on the edge of control."

While Tai Ken-yuan is elated to see his kite soar and then serenely dance with the wind, he gets the greatest thrill from the children and adults who watch his kite wind its way up to the skies. He says, "It's like sharing happiness." •