Underworld justice

A surprising number of Taiwanese still take disputes to the gods.

Global Post, Nov. 18, 2010

HSINCHUANG, Taiwan — In his small, fluorescent-lit office, the portly temple scribe Lai Ming-hsien faces a middle-aged man in a dark blue jacket.

Lai asks the man's name, age and address, then begins jotting Chinese characters with a ball-point pen on a fresh piece of bright yellow paper, as the man looks on intently.

The matter that brought the man here is working its way through Taiwan's criminal justice system in nearby courts. But like many Taiwanese in such situations, he's also seeking an otherworldly remedy.

Lai is writing out the man's formal complaint to deliver to the "Lord of the Hordes" (Da Zheng Ye), an underworld dispenser of justice in Chinese Daoist and folk belief. (The man did not want his name or the nature of his case published.)

Here, in a side wing attached to Dizang Temple in a working-class Taipei suburb, Taiwanese come to air their grievances, at about $13 per complaint. Dizang is just one of scores of Taiwan temples offering such services, but it's among the most well-known.

In fact, business has boomed in recent years, says the 53-year-old Lai, so much so that the temple now employs three full-time scribes, who record and transmit to the gods more than 100 petitions per day. That's double or triple the number just a few years ago, when Lai was a one-man show.

Taiwan may have rapidly modernized and boosted educational levels in the past few decades, and its flagship high-tech industries embrace scientific rationalism. Yet many centuries-old, Chinese folk beliefs and practices show no signs of dying out.

Some practices have merely taken new, urban forms as Taiwan's old rural ways fade. Others — like underworld petitions — have survived into the 21st century intact, and might even be more prevalent than before. Such appeals can also be made by the dead against the living, says Paul Katz, an expert on Chinese religious and judicial traditions at Taiwan's Academia Sinica, at a recent talk in Taipei.

"There are people indicting people, ghosts indicting people, people indicting ghosts, and all sorts of other things." said Katz, who did field work at Dizang Temple. "This whole underworld indictment thing is busier than L.A. Law."

According to Katz, approximately 3,500 people file underworld petitions at the Dizang Temple every year.

The Chinese custom of underworld indictments dates back to sometime after the emergence of religious Daoism around the 2nd century A.D., with its emphasis on the bureaucratic order of the underworld.

"There's always been an idea that justice was being administered by officials in this world and the other world," Katz said.

At the Dizang Temple, the custom persists in modern packaging. Just like in a Taipei bank or clinic, petitioners file into a lobby off to the side of the main temple, take a number from a machine and wait their turn on rows of plastic chairs. When an automated voice calls out their number and shows it on a red L.E.D. screen, they step into the scribe's office.

Their complaints involve stolen vehicles, workplace troubles, extramarital affairs, even intellectual property rights disputes between technology firms.

"If they have situations they can't resolve, they come to us," Lai said. "We consider ourselves a bridge to the gods."

Katz' field work found only one change in the nature of such appeals from the late 1990s to 2006: An increase in missing pets cases. More recently, financial disputes have increased with Taiwan's high unemployment and recession-battered economy, Lai said.

The scribes also handle appeals for good health, better karma and getting rid of troublesome ghosts. Such petitions are directed toward the Buddhist deity Ksitigarbha ("Dizang Wang Pu Sa," in Chinese), Lai said. Both Ksitigarbha and the Lord of the Hordes are worshipped side by side at the temple, a common practice in Taiwan's blend of Daoist, Buddhist and folk practices.

On a recent Monday morning, some 30 Taiwanese visited the scribes in the space of a couple hours, mostly couples or small groups of relatives. Some of the men chewed betel nut, the mild stimulant popular with Taiwan's working class; others toted babies.

Wei, a 50-year-old man from the nearby city Shulin, padded in and out of Lai's office in old-fashioned wooden, thonged sandals, as a female companion waited outside. He said he came to ask the gods for relief from bad karma he believes he earned in a past life and is plaguing him in this one. It was his second visit; the first was three months ago for "another matter," he said, declining to elaborate.

An elderly couple asked Lai to write down their appeal for a relative's cancer treatment to go smoothly. After Lai had done so, they each pressed their left thumbs on a red ink pad and put a print on the yellow paper, which Lai then folded neatly and gave to them.

Every so often Lai refuses a case. One instance involved a third party in an adulterous love triangle, another, an inheritance dispute between brothers, he said. "You can't write just anything" and pass it on to the gods, said Lai. Sometimes he tells petitioners they should first go see a lawyer; sometimes lawyers send their clients to him.

If he's uncertain about a case, he may use a delaying tactic, such as telling a petitioner to first directly approach the gods. If the petitioner tosses wood divination blocks in front of the god's altar and three times in a row get a "yes" answer, he'll take the case.

Prices for a petition haven't gone up much — it cost $7.50 a pop when he began working as a scribe 32 years ago. But he works longer hours; he now gets only one day off a week and works eight or eight-and-a-half hour days with an hour's lunch break. Back when the temple paid him based on the number of petitions he wrote, he could earn better money than he does now (about $1,600 a month), but the income wasn't as stable, he said.

He said he mainly taught himself how to write indictments in formal Chinese, and experience tells him when a petitioner is lying. He keeps an Asustek "Eee PC" netbook on his desk, but only to listen to music. "I'm used to writing" petitions by hand, he says, though the other two scribes now tap out theirs on computers.

Katz said temple appeals have traditionally been made to win legitimacy for one's cause, or to prove one's innocence. That's an important move in a judicial culture where the burden of proof usually lies with the accused. Cops and lawyers have been known to make offerings to the gods, or even take suspects to the temple as a test of their honesty, he said.

Scribes like Lai deal with situations the courts "can't or won't deal with," Katz said. Going to a temple scribe can also be a way to "put pressure on family and friends in cases where it's difficult to work within the legal system," or to cool off a dispute.

Many Taiwanese charge into the scribes' offices in an agitated, emotional state, said Katz. But Lai then calmly writes out their complaint in formal Chinese. "By the time these people leave the temple, their facial expression has totally changed — a lot of that anger is gone," Katz said. "So it's really a great safety valve."

Taiwanese often appeal to the underworld at the same time as they pursue a case in court, Lai said. His services are especially valued since the island's judicial system is plagued by corruption, he said, citing recent high-profile cases of crooked judges.

"Judges can be bribed, but the gods cannot," Lai said.

Huang Guo-rong contributed to this report

Original site

Taiwan's real-life Sopranos

A Taiwanese godfather known as "Fool-face" goes out in style.

Global Post, May 4, 2010

TAIPEI, Taiwan — They came by the thousands to pay their respects — politicians, Buddhist nuns and hundreds of tough-looking guys in black.

The object of their veneration: Lee "Fool-face" Chao-hsiung, a top godfather of the Taiwanese mob who died in March.

Lee went out in style last week, his body carried to a crematorium in a 108-car convoy of Rolls-Royces, Mercedes-Benzes and Beemers. As a nervous phalanx of police rolled videotape, the cream of Taiwan's underworld filed past, joined by scores of politicians, female models and chanting, robed nuns and monks from the island's top Buddhist groups.

Like their counterparts the world over, Taiwan's gangsters boast colorful nicknames and truck in drugs, gun-running, prostitution, human trafficking, construction firm kickbacks, petty extortion and other racketeering.

But what sets Taiwan's wise guys apart from their Sicilian or Japanese brethren is the extent of their open involvement in political and religious life. No event better highlights that tangled web than a mob funeral like that of "Fool-face."

"Some gangsters aren't so bad, and have close relations with political parties and local religious factions," said Chiu Hei-yuan, a sociologist at Taiwan's Academia Sinica. "That's a part of Taiwan society."

In Taiwan, gangsters don't just "buy" politicians, they become them. About 15 to 20 percent of local township and county councilors and township heads are gangsters, or "heidaoren" (people of the black way) according to Chao Yung-mao, an expert on Taiwan politics and the mob at National Taiwan University.

The numbers are especially large in rural central and southern Taiwan, where traditions and old-boy networks still run strong.

He said about four or five gangsters hold office in the national legislature, and one wise guy even held a powerful county commissioner seat.

Chao dates the mob's big move into politics to the 1980s, when illegal lottery fever swept Taiwan and gangsters were looking to get a cut of the action. "That was a good time to get into politics, so you could host the games and make money," he said.

"Fool-face" didn't hold elective office. Instead, he made a name as a trusted judge of underworld disputes, earning him the moniker "Big Fool-face" in his later years, according to the China Times. He was a top figure in the Tiandaomeng, or Heavenly Way Alliance, a "super-group" of local Taiwanese gangs formed by top mobsters while they were jailed together in a crime sweep, said Chao.

Heavenly Way's underworld competitors are "Mainlander" gangs like the Bamboo Union with roots in the 1940s Kuomintang exodus to Taiwan; that rivalry was the backdrop of a recent hit film "Monga."

Gangsters also have indirect pull on politics, leaving office-holders bound in ties of obligation. They can help mobilize votes, through "vote-buying" or intimidation. That can be important in a close election, said Chin Ko-lin, an expert on Taiwan organized crime at Rutgers University.

"For a politician, what are you going to do, take the risk of losing an election?" said Chin. "And not many people will criticize you for showing up at a gangster's funeral."

The politicians in attendance at Fool-face's farewell included more than 10 legislators, the legislative speaker (who doubled as the head of Fool-face's funeral committee), the local county commissioner, the local city council head and a prominent mayor, according to the China Times. The mayor said he was there to show gratitude for Fool-face's $630,000 gift to the city.

The don also donated large amounts to Buddhist groups, which isn't a surprising development. Gangsters here attempt to influence religious life. One mobster-turned-legislator runs a famous temple in central Taiwan, not far from Fool-face's home turf. Chiu, the sociologist, says he has difficulty explaining to foreign colleagues how local people could accept this. (Imagine a Michael Corleone who doubles as a congressman and also runs a prominent local Catholic church.)

Chiu suspects it has something to do with Taiwan's casual take on religion. "Taiwan folk religion is so secular. It's not sacred," he said. Rural Taiwanese worship a jumble of Taoist, Buddhist and folk figures, and gods who don't answer prayers are promptly kicked to the curb. Temples are rowdy places, with cell phone ring tones mixing with the clacking sound of divination blocks hitting the ground.

Gangsters also have strong support in their home communities, usually poor farming or fishing villages, said National Taiwan University's Chao. They make their money on the sins of the city, while doling out cash, favors and "face" to their loyal and affectionate hometown crowd.

"They take care of their home communities, and only 'hunt' or do something illegal in urban areas," said Chao. "That's why they can win elections."

Chao said gangsters' political reach distorts Taiwan's democracy and hurts society. He cited poor-quality construction and the appointment of gangster cronies to local government posts as just two examples.

But he was hopeful that change is coming, even if slowly, as rural traditions fade.

"Urbanization is a big challenge for the mafia world," said Chao. "Young people don't care as much about 'guanxi' [personal networks of obligation] — they care about a politician's performance. That's a good environment for change."

Just don't tell that to Fool-face.

Original site

Mob funeral captivates Taiwan

Mobster's funeral draws the great and good

AOL News, April 27, 2010

TAIPEI, Taiwan (April 27) -- How big is organized crime in Taiwan? Very big indeed, judging by the attendance at this week's funeral of a top mob boss, which drew prominent politicians, Buddhist monks, TV variety show celebrities and foreign dignitaries.

Gangster Lee Chao-hsiung died last month of liver cancer at the age of 73. The 108-car funeral procession conveying his body to a crematorium Monday included a Rolls-Royce hearse, Mercedes-Benzes and BMWs. Fetching female models carried large signs announcing each delegation in what amounted to the closing ceremony for an Olympian of Asian organized crime.

It was believed to be the island's biggest ever gangster funeral, with more than 20,000 attending and lines of spectators stretching for more than a mile.

"He was the big boss, and it's natural that many gang members want to bid a last farewell to him," said an assistant to a Taiwan legislator quoted by Agence France-Presse.

What was perhaps more remarkable were the other guests. They included the island nation's legislative speaker, who doubled as head of the funeral committee; a prominent mayor; and more than 2,000 chanting Buddhist monks and nuns.

Why all the reverence? Though details of Lee's past were scant, he was known as an arbiter of underworld disputes. He helped negotiate the safe release of several kidnapped politicians, according to AFP.

And then there's the money. He donated just under $2 million to four of the island's main Buddhist groups and to his native city of Taichung, according to the the Apple Daily. Donations at his funeral yielded another $1.6 million for charity, even after deducting $1.2 million to cover the funeral costs. It's not clear to whom or what that money will go, the Apple Daily said.

"Everyone pushed me to lead the funeral committee," Taiwan's legislative speaker told Taiwanese reporters. "I think he has a benevolent heart," said Taichung's mayor of the deceased wise guy.

Gangsters play an ambiguous role in Taiwan society, with many engaging in both criminal activity -- "the black path" in Chinese parlance -- and legitimate business ventures, or "the white path." They are often enlisted to arbitrate business disputes.

"In Taiwan it's not a big deal to be associated with an underworld figure," said Chin Ko-lin, an expert on Asian organized crime at Rutgers University. "In fact, a lot of people are even proud of it."

Gangs have long had close ties with big businesses and politicians, and moved into the construction and entertainment industries in the 1990s. Chin said some Taiwan politicians enlists gangsters' help at election time and attend funerals and other functions to tighten bonds.

"They want the support of the Taiwan underworld," said Chin. "It shows that the whole issue of 'black-gold' [corrupt] politics is going to continue to exist for a long time in Taiwan."

Monday's funeral drew a star-studded cast from Taiwan's underworld, according to the Apple Daily. They included a top figure from the Bamboo Union, Taiwan's largest gang, leading a 500-mobster delegation; the head of the Heavenly Way Alliance with another 500 wise guys; and Four Seas head Chang "Brother-man" Jian-ying, with 300 gangbangers.

Gangsters from Japan's feared yakuza and Hong Kong and Macau triads also made a showing.

Large-scale mob funerals are a regular occurrence in Taiwan and are generally tolerated by police. A 2007 funeral put to rest former Bamboo Union leader Chen Chi-li, who had spent his latter years in a luxury home in Cambodia after serving time in Taiwan for his role in the murder in California of a Taiwanese journalist. One of Taiwan's top pop stars attended that large service.

But Rutgers University's Chin said that Taiwan cops were unhappy with an ostentatious funeral of a top Four Seas gang boss, and since then have worked out funeral guidelines with gangsters.

As a result, youths under 18 were not allowed to attend Monday's funeral. The police detained 148 such kids and called their parents to come get them, according to the Apple Daily.

Original site

Japan's genital festivals

Nothing says springtime like a penis festival

KOMAKI, Japan — It's springtime in Japan and that means one thing.

Actually, two things. Penis festivals and vagina festivals.

It may sound like a sophomoric gag. But these are folk rites going back at least 1,500 years, into Japan's agricultural past. They're held to ensure a good harvest and promote baby-making.

Maybe they should hold more such festivals. Japan has one of the world's lowest birthrates (1.37 children per woman), which experts blame on stagnant incomes and changing gender relations.

The center-left government that came to power last year hopes to make child-rearing more affordable with a $280 monthly stipend per kid.

Meanwhile, the festivals provide an economic shot in the arm for host cities, a party for foreign tourists and expats, and a chance for locals to let loose, too.

One of the best-known penis festivals is at Komaki City's Tagata shrine, about 45 minutes outside Nagoya, every March 15. In a neighboring village, a vagina festival is held the Sunday before that. This year, that was the 14th — meaning rare, back-to-back genital worship days.

At the Hime-no-miya grand vagina festival, parents dress up their kids, pray for healthy babies, and celebrate with sake, beer and snacks galore.

In the morning, children carry a small vagina to the Ogata shrine. Later, some 40 grown men strain under the weight of a massive vagina while carrying it to the shrine in the main parade. They're followed by two smaller vagina litters.

At the end of the day pink and white mochi (glutinous rice ball treats) are hurled into the crowd.

The penis festival the following day drew far more foreign and Japanese tourists — some 100,000, according to a festival brochure. Festival foreplay included much posing with wooden and candy penises.

The main event is the parading of a two-foot by six-and-a-half foot long phallus carved from Japanese cypress.

Teams of men strain under the weight, stopping to spin the penis around a few times amid yelling, cheering and jostling. The work is so hard that teams rotate during the one-and-a-half hour procession.

This phallus parade is rooted, says the brochure, in "an ancient Japanese belief that for the growth and development of all things, the mother, earth, has to be impregnated by the father, heaven."

"People come here when they want to have a baby," said festival volunteer and Komaki resident Katsuragawa Noboru. "If it works, they have to come back the next year to thank the gods."

It worked for Katsuragawa, twice: He has a son and a daughter now, he said with a laugh.

Lucy Glasspool, who researches gender and pop culture as a visiting scholar in Nagoya, was helping out at the information booth. It was her first penis festival.

"I heard about this a long time ago and I'm not sure I believed it," she said. "But now I'm here and it's everything I thought it would be. I highly recommend the penis-shaped candy."

She gave English-language updates on the penis' progress through a microphone, and passed out detailed information in English on the history and significance of the rite. But most Western tourists seemed happy enough just to drink beer and make endless penis jokes.

Vendors sell penis- and vagina-shaped candies and chocolate-covered bananas, wood penis sculptures and penis earrings, adding to the mirth. Eavesdropping was a riot.

Said one American woman into a cell phone, in a southern twang: "We just found an ashtray that's in the shape of a vagina that you need to buy."

"It's smaller than last year's," one jaded female expat loudly complained, as the phallus approached.

One American woman, reviewing a photo of her friends posing with penis-candy-sucking Japanese, said, "Oh my God. This one is so going on Facebook."

Original site

Need a cadaver? Head to Taiwan.

With the help of a Buddhist group, Taiwan's "Silent Mentors" program has brought in the bodies for science.

Global Post, October 19, 2009

HUALIEN, Taiwan — Here on Taiwan's rugged east coast, a good body is a hard thing to find. Or at least it used to be.

Now, one Buddhist group may have found the answer to the island's serious cadaver shortage.

For years, medical schools here were short on the dead bodies needed for research and training. The cadavers they did use were unwilling donors, often from mental institutions. One problem was cultural: Confucian tradition views a person's body as a precious gift from one's parents. The body should be buried whole and undamaged, the thinking goes.

But that began to change here in the mid-1990s, when a popular Buddhist group, Tzu Chi, began its "Silent Mentors" program.

Based in Taiwan, Tzu Chi is the world's largest Buddhist charity, with 10 million members and 2 million volunteers worldwide. In 1994, it began to appeal to its members to donate their bodies for medical research.

The call worked. Now, some 25,000 people have signed up. Hundreds have already passed away and had their bodies used for medical training.

Where once the student-cadaver ratio in some Taiwan anatomy classes was 100 to 1, now it's 15 to 1 or less, allowing for far better instruction.

"It's snowballed, it's getting really big — we can't stop it," Tseng Guo-fang, director of the medical simulation center at Tzu Chi's medical school.

Tseng says the key to the program's success is the promise to respect the silent mentor, and put the body to good use.

In most med schools, research cadavers are name-less pieces of flesh. But here, students get to know the donor's family. They learn about the donor's life. And sometimes they even meet the donor before he or she passes away.

"This way, family members know who is going to dissect their loved ones," said Tseng. "That establishes mutual appreciation and trust."

Huang Jian-yi, 54, is one relative. His father signed up as a Silent Mentor after a diagnosis of lung cancer. At first, some family members weren't sure about the program, said Huang. But now, they've all grown to appreciate it.

"What I most approve of is Tzu Chi's respect and reverence for the silent mentor," said Huang.

Ceremonies are held before and after the body is used. Both students and relatives of the silent mentor participate. After a body is used, it's carefully stitched back up and dressed. The students show their thanks to the silent mentor, and present flowers to relatives of the deceased. Then, in a solemn procession, they carry the bodies away in caskets to be cremated.

Such rituals not only make relatives feel better — they also help medical students.

In Taiwan, where folk beliefs still run strong, medical schools are rife with ghost stories. It's common to hear tales of students who joked over a cadaver, only to later come down with mysterious ailments. Others suffer from psychological problems.

(Warning: This video includes graphic images.)

Tseng himself says he felt "guilty" when cutting up cadavers as a medical student.

"It's not right to dissect someone who may not have been willing to donate their body for this purpose," said Tseng. "I wanted to say 'sorry' to the body, but there was no way to show my appreciation."

Taiwan medical students who practice on Silent Mentors can rest easier, because they know the person has willingly donated his or her body for instructional purposes. "Now, if students feel guilty, it's only because they haven't studied hard enough," said Tseng.

Josephine I-Hwei Chen is another Silent Mentor relative. Her father was a respected Tzu Chi elder. In 2003 he became the first "Silent Mentor" used for surgical simulation (previously, bodies were only embalmed and used for anatomy classes).

"We thought that he was a mountain, that we could always count on him," said Chen. "The last time we saw him he was smiling."

Embalmed cadavers aren't good for surgery practice, because the condition of the body is too different from a live body. For surgery simulation, Tzu Chi freezes cadavers instead.

In this case, Silent Mentors' bodies must be delivered to Tzu Chi within eight hours. They're promptly taken into one of the group's 32 freezer units and cooled to just below freezing. When needed, the bodies are thawed out over three or four days, then used for surgery practice.

So it went with Chen's father. Ten months after his death, his body was thawed. Relatives and medical students held a ceremony in the operating room before instruction. They gathered in a circle around the body and chanted Buddhist sutras.

Chen said the donation of Silent Mentors like her father was critical for training doctors with better skills. Otherwise, bodies are just buried or burned, wasting a precious medical resource, she said.

"In the future, we hope we can save more people," said Chen. "In this way, we can turn something useless into something useful."

Original site

Fight flu with boat-burning

A Taiwanese tradition takes on special significance this year.

Global Post, May 15, 2009

XIGANG TOWNSHIP, Taiwan — Forget quarantines and Tamiflu. In southern Taiwan, the best, tried-and-true way to keep pestilence away: Burn a boat.

Not just any boat, mind you. For the best results, you need an elaborately decorated boat bearing effigies of the plague gods — a.k.a. the "Cholera Kings."

It's a folk ritual dating back at least 160 years here — much longer in southeast China — and it's performed every third spring on schedule.

But amid lingering swine flu fears, this year's "King-boat burning" took on an added timeliness.

"In 2003, there was the SARS epidemic, and in 2006, there was a pig flu in this area," said Ting Jen-chieh, an expert on Chinese folk religion at Academia Sinica. "After this ritual those diseases decreased — so people here believe it was because of the plague gods."

There haven't been any confirmed cases of swine flu in Taiwan. But with memories of SARS still fresh (it killed more than 70 people here), the island remains on edge.

The most recent scare came after Hong Kong's second confirmed case of H1N1. Seven Taiwanese passengers sat near the victim on a San Francisco to Hong Kong flight, and then traveled onward on a separate May 11 flight to Taiwan.

All were tracked down and determined to be disease-free later that week.

Not all locals here in southern Taiwan really believe boat-burning will drive away disease, of course.

But the community still embraces the ritual. On May 11 I witnessed hundreds of locals pulling the boat (on a wheeled platform) with two long ropes. Elderly, middle-aged, 20-something Taiwanese — all joined in.

Walking alongside them was James Chan, 70, visiting the boat-burning for the first time, and sporting a traditional conical farmer's hat for shade. "It's unbelievable, all these people pulling together," Chan said. "It's powerful."

Chan had just returned from overseas, stopping in Japan. He said airport controls were tight there, amid the swine flu scare. Inbound flights waited on the tarmac, as biohazard-suit-clad Japanese health workers checked each passenger's information and condition.

We walked with the villagers as they pulled the boat to a lot outside town. There, a mind-boggling pile of "ghost money" awaited, to serve as the boat's pyre.

The boat was lowered onto the pile with a crane. Locals stacked the money and fitted the boat with masts. A fire was lit, and the boat went up in a furious blaze.

The ritual's exact meaning and origins are murky. In a 1976 essay the U.S. anthropologist David Jordan tried to get to the bottom of it (see his essay here). He lived in this part of Taiwan in the late 1960s and 1970s, carefully recording local folk customs.

Locals gave him conflicting accounts of the boat-burning. The most common one: Taoist priests tricked the plague demons by worshipping them as gods — then destroyed them in a burst of fire to protect the community. Jordan wrote, "Flattery and worship are accomplished for three days upon the demons, who are gradually lulled off their guard and become vulnerable.

"Late in the evening of the third day the priests file into the temple, where the demons of disease are at rest. Quickly the demons are captured by spells and chants and confined to a paper and wood ship, so that they are no longer free to roam the countryside working disaster on its inhabitants.

"On the following morning the ship … is hauled to the middle of a field in the village of Poplar Camp, traditionally considered to be the ancient shore line, and is ceremonially burnt and thus destroyed, demons and all."

More than three decades later, that ritual remains intact, says Academia Sinica's Ting.

There are only a few modern touches: A construction crane to lift the boat onto its burn-here spot, and a mini-bulldozer to help pile up the "ghost money" around the boat.

For the past year Ting has been living in the same village as Jordan did, noting how customs have changed. A few are in decline: There's a serious shaman shortage now, for example, as the occupation loses its past prestige.

But many folk beliefs are remarkably resilient.

"He [Jordan] predicted Chinese folk religion wouldn't change — and I've confirmed his prediction," Ting said. "At least in this agricultural area, the traditional way of explaining things is still very strong."

This, despite the island's vault to first-world status.

Just an hour or so drive away, factories churn out liquid-crystal display panels in a high-tech science park. Here, Taoist priests busy themselves trapping the Cholera Kings in paper and wood.

Why a boat? "A boat can bring the plague, but also carry the plague away," Ting explained as we watched the smoldering ashes, and waited for the charred mainmast to fall.

With pestilence like swine flu now spread worldwide via jumbo jet, maybe they should start burning a mock 747 instead.

Original site

The goddess and the Web

How technology is affecting one ancient religious ritual in Taiwan.

Global Post, March 28, 2009

CHANGHUA, Taiwan — Catching up with the sea goddess has never been easier.

Every year, Matsu — goddess of the sea — goes on an eight-day temple-hopping tour of central Taiwan. This year's tour kicked off on March 21.

Her procession takes a highly circuitous route, and doesn't exactly stick to a strict timetable. That used to make her hard for believers and tourists to track down.

But now, a GPS chip attached to her sedan chair beams her location to a website that shows it in real-time — down to the exact lane or alley — on a detailed map of the island.

"People tell us it's very convenient," said Chen Chong-fen, a local government cultural official who helps organize the event. "Before, because Matsu goes to 21 towns and many temples, finding her could be a headache. But now, using GPS, it's easier to know where Matsu is."

The virtual Matsu-finder is just one example of how tech-savvy Taiwan is updating millennia-old folk traditions for the internet age. It's using the web to make life easier for adherents and to promote festivals to tourists.

A "ba jia jiang", or one of the eight generals, guards Matsu's path

Taiwan is rich with temple and folk customs, most brought here in the 17th through 19th centuries by settlers from the southeast Chinese coast.

Matsu-worship is one example. Like most Chinese deities, she dates back to a real woman who lived on the southeast Chinese coast in the 10th century. According to legend she had supernatural powers, and after her death, she became immortalized as a protector of fishermen and other seafarers.

Now, she's worshipped throughout the ethnic Chinese world, but especially on the southeast Chinese coast, Hong Kong, and Taiwan where settlers had to brave a perilous sea journey across the Taiwan Strait to get to their new homes.

Every spring, Taiwan sees its own version of the Muslim hajj. Thousands of believers trek along with icons of the goddess as it tours through the countryside. The most well-known is an eight-day, seven-night tour by the Matsu icon from Jenn Lann Temple.

I caught up with the procession March 22, about 12 hours after Matsu had left her home temple. Finding the goddess was a breeze, thanks to the website. I sped to central Taiwan on a bullet train, had the information desk helpers look up the website, and wrote down a street to give to a cabdriver. What would the 10th century Matsu have thought?

The procession is far from austere. Matsu is greeted by a deafening roar of fireworks wherever she goes, along with the occasional possessed Taoist shaman and gaudily dressed temple guardians.

Her procession is something of a carnival, with ritual figures (an "informer" wearing oversized black glasses at the front, followed by two guardian gods) joined by scantily clad female singers on truck flatbeds, horn-blowing and gong-beating musicians, and mobile advertisements for car tires and herbal remedies.

Hard-core adherents walk with Matsu the entire way, some 300 kilometers (186 miles), sleeping on storefront sidewalks or sardine-like on transport trucks. They also abstain from eating meat for the first three days.

"After eight days you'll know what the meaning of pain is," said John Hu, 32, who helps market merchandise for the Jenn Lann temple. "They want you to be reborn — it's just like in other religions."

One 46-year-old said he's done the entire eight-day walk every year since the 1990s. "It's an expression of our faith," he said. A trader in Taipei, he only gave his name as "Jeffy" because he's afraid of too much publicity.

"I don't want to tell you my last name because then all my friends and family will ask me too many questions — just like you're doing now," Jeffy said, with a laugh. "They don't know I'm here, every year I just tell them I'm taking a vacation."

Most Taiwanese Matsu-worshippers are too busy with work or studies — or too casual in their belief — to take eight days off to chase the goddess around central Taiwan's back-alleys and rice paddies.

For them, touching Matsu's sedan chair for luck as it passes is enough. Or better yet, crouching down on the road and letting the divine sedan chair pass over you.

Problem was, in the past, it wasn't always easy to find the sea goddess' procession.

Enter the website. Chen, the local government official, said organizers hired a company to set up the site, and first offered it last year.

This year, they also offered PDA updates to the growing number of people who followed Matsu on bicycles (a consequence of the island's bike fad, which I wrote about here.)

Such services also reflect the shifting appeal of the sea goddess festival.

"The Matsu pilgrimage is changing rapidly," said Hsun Chang, an expert on folk religion at Taiwan's Academia Sinica. "It's becoming more and more tourist-oriented, and relying on mass media more than before."

The "informer" walks ahead of the Matsu procession

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Taiwan's urban 'jitong'

As demand shrinks, shamans update their style

By Jonathan Adams
International Herald Tribune

November 10, 2008
(a version of this article also appeared in the Dec. 7 edition of the New York Times)

TAIPEI: After 10 minutes of drum-beating and incense-burning, Chang Yin donned a black, spotted robe and pointed hat. She picked up a fan with her right hand and a silver flask of sorghum liquor with her left.

She sat down on a chair before an altar piled with images of deities, fruit, cans of beer, snacks and joss sticks. She slipped into a trance. The session began.

Chang is a jitong - a shaman who dispenses advice while possessed by a god. Here, inside a modern office building next to Taipei's bustling main train station, she is carrying on a folk tradition that goes back hundreds of years in Taiwan and the Chinese mainland.

In the past, such shamans played a central role in rural village life. Based in local temples, they would channel spirits to help heal the sick, pick auspicious dates for important occasions and resolve community disputes.

Now, as the Taiwan economy has developed and its population urbanized, jitongs like Chang are changing with the times. With the tradition on the decline in the countryside, Chang is one of a small number who are maintaining the shamanistic practice, but adapting it to the needs of modern city-dwellers.

"People moved into cities, but they still have this kind of religious need," said Ting Jen-chieh, a specialist in Taiwan religion at the Academia Sinica's Institute of Ethnology in Taipei.

Forty years ago, shamanistic ceremonies were still a frequent feature of village temples, with jitongs playing an important public role. Now, Ting said, few young Taiwanese are interested in becoming a jitong. Many older ones who do carry on have switched to "private practice," often in urban settings - operating out of homes, storefronts or offices.

The problems they are called upon to solve have changed, too: fewer village-level quarrels; more marital disharmony or individual setbacks in the workplace.

In the southern Taiwan village Ting has been studying, there were eight jitong in the 1960s. Now there are none.

"Before, jitong were seen as performing a public service," Ting said. "But now, as people have become more educated, they've come to think the practice isn't scientific, that it's uncivilized."

But if jitongs are less visible, the underlying beliefs that prevailed when Taiwan was a predominantly poor, rural society are surprisingly resilient. Many Taiwanese pragmatically switch between Taoist, Buddhist, folk and other beliefs and practices, depending on the situation, Ting said. And at least 70 percent of Taiwanese still adhere to some traditional ways, like venerating local deities or casting divination blocks, he said.

"Taiwan has become more middle-class oriented, but we still keep our folk practices," Ting said.

Consulting a jitong is a case in point. The practice has not been totally abandoned, just updated. Chang Yin, for example, regularly sends out text messages via mobile phone to about 300 clients. That virtual network has replaced the tightly knit village setting of old.

One Sunday a month, she invites those contacts to her office for an open spirit medium session.

On this particular day, as she answered petitioners' questions, several elderly men lounged nearby on pillows and chairs, watching the proceedings. Children ran in and out of the room. Chang's assistants bustled around in the office and attached kitchen, lighting joss sticks, washing dishes, tending to accounts.

Her office door remained open, with about 15 waiting visitors and passers-by chatting and eating in the outside hallway.

As clients knelt on pillows before her and aired their troubles, Chang was by turns a marriage counselor, family therapist and psychotherapist.

"In the U.S. or the West, people go to a psychologist," said one 40-year-old man who works in financial services in Taipei, after he and his wife had finished their session. "The jitong plays the same role. In Taiwan, we think going to a psychologist feels a bit strange. A psychologist is just a person, but this is a god. I can say anything to a god, but I can't say everything to a psychologist."

Most often, Chang is possessed by Ji Gong, a maverick Buddhist monk who lived in China in the 12th century, and loved his meat and liquor. Thus the cans of beer as offerings on the altar and Chang's hiccups and slurred speech as she channeled the tipsy monk.

Another popular god is Santaizi (literally, the "third prince"), who is the youngest son of a Tang Dynasty general and has a third eye and boundless energy.

But she says other spirits, including Jesus, can speak through her.

"I usually ask Ji Gong to answer peoples' questions," she said in an interview. "When I start the ritual, I need to dress in Ji Gong's clothes and drink alcohol, because Ji Gong likes it."

She says she does not remember anything that happens while possessed by the spirits.

"My assistant helps me, recording everything I say and telling me what I did," she said.

This time, a visibly relaxed "Ji Gong" was cracking jokes, sipping liquor, hiccuping, waving a fan, teasing questioners, scolding a child, and in general thoroughly enjoying "himself" and putting everyone at ease.

The questioners all listened calmly, letting Ji Gong do most of the talking.

Ji Gong assured one troubled woman who had recently lost a baby that the child was doing well on "the other side."

"Give me your heart, and I'll open it," Ji Gong told the woman, using a Chinese phrase for giving happiness.

The woman put her hand to her heart and then extended it to the shaman.

"That's not your heart, that's your hand," Ji Gong said, chuckling mischievously.

"I was just kidding - only you can open your heart," Ji Gong said. "If you want to open it, just open it. You think too much."

Another time, Ji Gong gave specific advice to a couple and their young son, repeat visitors. To the wife, he said, "Your husband's not gentle enough, as usual," and gently upbraided the father.

Then Ji Gong had another message.

"Your son wants to ask you for money, but he's afraid to," Ji Gong told the father. "He wants money for an online game - he's been trying so hard to overcome an obstacle, but he needs a weapon. Just give him 100 dollars or 200 dollars." (About $3 or $6.)

In the interview, Chang said that the spirits called her to be a jitong; she did not choose it.

"When I was 6, I asked my mother why there were people walking in the sky through the clouds," said Chang, who grew up in a suburb of Taipei. "They didn't blame me or think I was seeing things - they bought a book with pictures of holy beings and asked me which ones I'd seen."

At 12, a Taoist priest began teaching her the ways of a jitong during summer and winter school breaks. At 15, she said, she was capable of being possessed. She completed vocational school and held jobs in a hospital and in sales, but said the spirits kept pestering her to be a jitong and to deliver their messages. So she did so, starting in 2005.

If the profession has evolved in tandem with changes in society, it is not only the jitongs who have made adjustments.

Chang notes the gods are more likely to be consulted on thorny personal relationships these days than physical illness.

"So now they give a difference type of guidance," she said. "The gods have changed along with the times and kept up with the trends."

Yang Chia-nin contributed reporting.

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