Matou town, nestled along the Tsengwen River as it courses through Tainan County, is born for the beauty of this season. Seasonal fruits, the pomelo and its close cousin, the shaddock, and the newly cultivated avocado, flood through the small town in streams of green and yellow.
White geese frolic on innumerable fish ponds constructed along the river. A spread of paddy fields—now as mature and sexy as a movie blonde-shakes its hair in breezy coquetry in the distance. The rice stalks bow, weighed down with their burdens, and sway in the gentle caresses of autumn gusts.
Even Beethoven's Pastoral can not be complete without the orchestration of Matou's fall sugarcane, sweet potatoes, ears of maize, vegetables, watermelons, and tree ears. And though an intersection provides easy access to the busy North South Highway, Matou, for all its land area of 54 square kilometers and its 50,000 population, is as serene as a long forgotten fairground, still sated with bounteous harvests. Matou is content with its simple and honest traditions and customs.
As soon as our car left the north-south freeway, we came on mounds of pomelos standing sentinel at the gateway to the small town. Matou, literally "pock marked bean," seems a weird name however, it fittingly describes the pomelo's pitted appearance. Approaching the town, house-of-cards vendors' shelters—bamboo poles buttressing canvas roofs, worn with evident age-provide interim shelters for the thousands of sentinels. Hanging down from the awning frameworks are strings of sweetmeats made from the skin of the pomelo These somehow frightening red-colored pomelo bits are said to be good for curing coughs.
Each stand offers bargain prices edging for customers' pocket money Even when the price reaches US$1 a catty, the dealers enjoy a brisk business And they never have to worry about a lack of resources.
It is said that the pomelo originally hailed from southern Fukien on the mainland, and was first introduced to Anting village in Tainan County at the end of the 17th Century. Up to the mid-18th Century, Kuo Ting-hui, a native of Matou, was the only grower to transplant it in the small town's environs. However, as one proverb says: "Though indigo blue is extracted from the indigo plant, it is bluer than the plant it comes from." The climate and soil of Matou help make the pupil-fruit surpass the master.
The Matou pomelo's meat is so fleshy and juicy that it long ago made Matou a celebrity on the mainland and in Japan. It is said that when Emperor Chia-ching of the Manchu court toured the island and was introduced to Matou's pomelo, he marveled at this rare delicacy. During the Japanese occupation of the island, Matou's pomelo was treasured by the Japanese royal family. Today, it is also a favorite fruit of the island's grassroots citizens.
We had no difficulty locating the descendants of the Kuo family, the first and grandest growers of pomelos in Matou. The 87-year-old patriarch, Kuo Ah-lin, ushered us across the doorstep of his red brick house, then led us through to the back, where the orchard stands. Most of the conical pomelos had already been harvested. But still hanging in the trees were their cousins, the round shaddocks, about the size of footballs. Each was wrapped entirely in newspaper, tied with red plastic cords. "With one bite from a bee or fruit fly, the shaddock is ruined. So we have to dress them up," explained the venerable Kuo. The propped shaddock trees, about a man's height, looked like aged coolies trying to transport the heavy loads at both ends of a carrying pole.
Dotted sporadically amid the pomelo plantation are bearing avocado trees, their buttery fruit also dressed up in outdated newspapers. Originally from Latin America, the avocado trees had no difficulty adapting to Taiwan. Rising up to a height of two-stories, the trees announce with some arrogance the facts of their growing popularity on local markets.
Kuo plucked a football-like shaddock and an avocado to treat us. He dexterously cut the skin from the shaddock's tip, incised the skin of the round belly into eight parts, and then peeled the skin quickly. A neighboring child solicited the yellow skin, now in the shape of a yellow blossom with eight petals; he carefully put it on his head and hurried away to show it to his pals. While we were busy wolfing down the juicy citrus, Kuo peeled the skin from the avocado, then spun the meat in a liquefier with a cup of milk and some sugar. Though disseminating a quaint odor, the juice proved quite tasty.
During our one hour stay at the Kuos, we saw no sign of his offspring. And the aged man, who had spent his lifetime in this small town, witnessing one fourth of its entire history, seemed from time to time to be wallowing in deep thought. No wonder. Though he has three sons, all of them went on to further their studies in America and then settled down there. The pomelo orchard was about to turn into the Cherry Orchard, a famed story with a similar theme. We could almost not bear the sight as the lone old man touched words inscribed on a stone tablet counting the glorious history of Matou's pomelo: It was dedicated to the Kuos by the Tainan County government in 1976.
Conversing with this now "solitary reaper," we hiked to the extreme end of the orchard, wielding our hands to drive away pestering bees, flies, and mosquitoes, watching our steps for fallen twigs and tree branches. It was a surprise to note that the orchard was bordered by an irrigation ditch on the rear. The construction work was still proceeding, and though it was Sunday, we were glad to come on Matou Mayor Ho Ching-hui, who was supervising the work.
When he learned that we had come to do an article on Matou, Mayor Ho volunteered to be our guide. So, bidding farewell to the Kuos, we drove with him through the main streets of the small town. And though, according to Ho, Matou boasts more than 1,000 medium to small shops and some 100 business companies, the downtown streets gave forth a rather lonesome air of prosperity.
Only one or two motorcycles were stopped at a gas station to fill their tanks. Otherwise, it was deserted and forlorn, showing only empty walkways underneath the outthrust time-worn two-story houses. The houses here sit next to each other, their partitions being walls so thin that, I believe, you can hear all the conversation next door.
Finally we came on a corner flaunting the town's "largest" crowd of people perhaps the bus station. But, then, no one has to worry about rush hour jams or anything like that. Once in a while, we came on new construction-houses, but very few. The older ones, though worn with age, all flaunted dexterously carved facades. The new replacements, maybe more imposing in size, are vulgar and gaudy.
Once in a while, we came on a Buddhist or Taoist temple sandwiched between civilian residences. A gallery of immortal deities, some of their faces smoked by incense to a pitch dark shade, seemed at ease in Matou's quiet, humanistic environment-more so than amid the more scenic or transcendental temple landscapes. Leaning against a column at the doorstep of one temple was an aged worshipper, who had apparently gotten up early to ask for the immortals' blessings, only to fall sound asleep.
In front of the portico, a cobbler with an ageless tinkering machine, sever al pairs of wornout shoes Scattered around him, was obviously enjoying a brisk business. After all, the scene seemed to say, he is next of kin to the deities. When he saw me pick up my camera to zoom in on him, he protested: "This is a trade that is about to die out. I have no intention of being a cobbler all my life." He waved me away. I left him in peace, thinking that maybe the immortals should give him a number plate.
Strolling around the streets, we not infrequently ran into some totally deserted red brick houses. With roofs caved in and windows fallen out, but doors barred behind huge locks, such houses were almost always encased in yards buried under luxuriantly growing weeds, rank grasses, and crippled furniture. Even the town hall is an ancient relic. Obviously, the same old space has been forced to accommodate a growing number of staff members. All the old partitions have been removed.
Matou was first inhabited by an aboriginal tribe called the Siraya. Since these aborigines lived in the plains area rather then deep in the mountains, they also acquired an area name—the Pinpu Tribe.
Around 1624, the Matou area was a vast expanse of uncultivated wilderness. An estimated 3,000 aborigines inhabited the area.
When the Dutch later occupied the town, they set up a theological academy. By around 1639, a total of 215 aborigines had been baptized. Then in 1651, the first Han people, the Kuos, came to clear land and settle down. At that time, ships would come upstream to a dock at Shui-chue-tou in Matou. Over the next three hundred and thirty odd years, the small town gradually took shape, growing first from north to east, then westward, then down south.
During the early Ching Dynasty, Shui-chue-tou was the most prosperous area of town. Even today, we can see the relics of docks at this place. Published anecdotes reveal that, "Business was so booming that men and women, poets and educated people mingled with merchants and loitered around. Visitors came like an endless stream."
However, as the proverb has it, "Seas change into mulberry fields and mulberry fields into seas." It is said that during the reign of Emperor Chienlung of the Ching Dynasty, a fortune teller from the mainland happened to pass through Matou. Overwhelmed by the serene landscape as well as a "dragon lake" and a "phoenix cave," he thought that Matou was blessed by a supernatural being. He spotted a silk-cotton tree next to an ancient well. Blooming luxuriantly, it looked like a yellow umbrella for use by the Emperor, and so he announced that Shui-chue-tou dared to challenge the dignity of the Emperor. He gave orders that a bridge be constructed on the spot, unfortunately undermining the geomantic omens, because now the supernatural being is said to be buried under the pier of the bridge.
In fact, over the long span of time, the sea approaches were gradually silted up by the great volume of soil carried from upstream. As time passed, the coastline shifted to the east, and the coastal area itself was transformed into depressions or tidal ponds. And the once thriving town of Matou, which used to border on the sea, became a landlocked basin, waning and declining.
We decided to pay a visit to the largest temple in Matou, Tai-tien-fu. Busload after busload of pilgrims travels here from all over the island to pay homage. It is very evident that the temple is favored by a large crowd of worshippers. The donations of the pilgrims have been so huge, that the temple fathers have financed erection of a huge dragon about five-stories high, to the rear of the temple. Hundreds of staircases allow tourists to climb to the mouth of the dragon and venture inside its body, which is about 100 meters long. The strong contrast between this vulgar entertainment facility and the solemn, historic landmark that is also the town's religious center, is an ironic evidence of the snail pace of worldly insight into the quiet town.
The deities worshipped here are the five one-thousand-year-old immortals. A legend has it that in the early years of the Ching Dynasty, the pioneering settlers of Matou were frequently pestered by wild beasts, which proved especially detrimental to the crops they were growing. One year, when the peanuts were ready for harvest, one of the ancestral residents set up a thatched hut at the site of today's temple to shelter those who guarded against such unwelcome intruders.
One drizzling afternoon, five aged men with silvery beards begged to put up for the night at the thatched hut. The host treated them as guests coming from afar-with special politeness. The following morning, when the host visited the hut again, the five old men had already gone. But on combing around the cottage, he suddenly found five statues in a niche of the wall. Their faces and complexions were exactly like those of the old men. Learning thus that they were immortals, the host started to worship the statues day and night. And as the news spread, the number of pilgrims grew rapidly. The thatched hut was overhauled, becoming a thatched temple, then a clay temple on the way to its present, highly decorated state.
All told, the small town registers 16 large temples, bearing witness to the essential role religion plays in the lives of the conservative townsfolk. Actually, while people in large cities love to speak up their minds to their friends, acquaintances or psychiatrists, country folks are more prone to communicate with supernatural beings.
On our way to the oldest house in the small town, we stopped by a small temple dedicated to Kuan Yu, a general of the Period of Three Kingdoms, deified by later generations as China's god of war. His is about the best preserved temple in Matou. Constructed during the reign of Emperor Chienlung of the Ching Dynasty, it has been overhauled several times. From its rooftop to its beams, pillars, altars, incense burners, and deities, it is all vividly carved and sculpted. Lord Kuan Yu, carrying a kind of war-axe with a five-to-six-foot handle for fighting on horseback, is flanked by two warriors-Chou Chang, also grasping a weapon in one hand, and his son Kuan Ping. Evidently business is slack; there has been no war on the island for a long time.
Accompanied by Mayor Ho, we arrived at the old Lin house. After more than a hundred years, the wings on both sides are dilapidated beyond repair. The main courtyard's center was stacked high with dexterously carved jars, flower pots, and other bric-a-brac. It seemed also, as if all the rooms were so fully occupied that their rattan couches and stools had been forced outside. Another dominant category in the courtyard was bird cages. A man in his 40s, clad only in shorts, was here whispering to his pet birds. With a visibly lukewarm altitude, he nodded his head rather then greet us verbally. Only when we showed our admiration for an ingeniously carved wood cage did the man respond: "It cost me NT$20,000 for this cage. And its hood is lavishly decorated with Hunan embroidery."
Another unique old building is the Kuos' old house, half of which has been reconstituted into a modern four-story apartment-that is half in the literal sense. The main gate had been torn down on one side from the center, and so had each of the two gates leading to the two courts in the rear, and even walls and pillars were divided in half. We were told that the two brothers who own it had diverged in their views, one wanting to tear down the old house and substitute a modern building, the other determined to keep the old house intact. It resulted in a standoff.
We were, of course, more interested in the older part of the house, even though it was evident that it has long lacked proper maintenance and care. In the spacious grounds fronting the house, wild reeds shoot up to meet 30-cm long sponge gourds hanging down from wood racks. Some of the sponge gourds now lay dormant under the relentless sun, waiting to be processed into dish-cloths. Several sugarcane stalks bent on probing in different directions, attracted no one to cut them down.
A German shepherd stood sentinel at the main gate, and we had to enter through a side room. We passed by an old-fashioned kitchen, complete with a weather-beaten cooking range which allows the use of only faggots and coals for a fire. It sported a smoked chimney. We glimped a woman flashing by, then vanishing behind one of the many doors. The people here seemed so secluded and unassuming, that they had forgotten how to play host. Leaning against one wall was a huge jar. Out of curiosity, we lifted the lid to find an old turtle and two small copies crawling slowly on the bottom. In fact, the house was half-deserted, and there was no telling when the old scissors-shape decorations along the roofline would also become as untraceable as its inhabitants.
Our host was evidently substantially taken aback by our unannounced visit. Another German shepherd barked wildly at us. And we guessed that the Kuos must have been pestered by strangers like us from time to time.
It might simply be coincidence, but it seems that all residents of old houses have a special attachment to growing plants. And in no time at all, the head of the house found himself taken off guard by our strong interest in the precious breeds of orchids he collected. A one-story-high cactus, which can probably be found only in overseas desert areas, loomed large in a very small courtyard, sunlight flooding in to cast its shadow on the pavement of red stone slabs. A set of rattan sofas placed along the covered walkway of the house provided a pleasant retreat where the whole family could take the breeze.
Our hostess, now on hand and quite hospitable, suddenly, asked, "Do you know a place in Taipei called Chia-tze, where they provide dancing courses to help trim your figure?" What she was trying to say was, actually, she was not a frog in the well.
When we were about to leave, she showed us how the latches of the doors had been ingeniously designed to fold during typhoons. And she wanted to hold us, to treat us to wines homemade from plums. When we finally did emerge from the old house into the fresh air, it seemed as if we had been on a long journey, traversing a time tunnel.
The sun was now drawing quickly to the west. And suddenly the tranquility of the town's once-deserted streets was broken by the innocent talk and laughter of primary school students. It was time to go home, and many of them joined hands on their ways to their destinations. Some of the little tots were picked up by their parents and ridden off on bicycles. They wielded their hands to say goodbye to their friends. According to the town magistrate, greater Matou now boasts four high schools and nine primary schools. But in order to seek a college education, the favorite sons have to leave their hometown.
Our car moved slowly out of the downtown area. On the outskirts, farmers were still busy harvesting rice with automatic machines. It was amazing to watch the rice stalks being eaten by a machine; then in a twinkle, the husked rice laid itself squarely in a canvas bag. Once in a while our panoramic view of the open fields was blocked by a full truckload of the bagasse of the sugarcane. The trucks were heading for the venerable Taiwan Sugar Company, founded in 1905, and about the only industry in town.
In some spacious courtyards, we saw women busy raking out watermelon seeds to be dried under the sun; they would be further processed into between-meal nibbles for the New Year season. Everywhere, the slender papaya trees and the maize ears were still loaded with unripe, green fruit. Some of the farmers who had harvested earlier were busy sowing now for the next harvest.
Casting our final look at the small town, our gaze met pairs of bulls' eyes, lamenting and blue, as their owners took their last journey on a truck. In contrast, geese in the area were as jolly as ever. In the far distance, huge cranes were busy working along a newly constructed dike following along the forever-running Tsengwen River. They were, perhaps, the real prime movers for the small town.