Night in Taipei

One Night in Taipei

Seated fortune-tellers line the street from the local MRT station to Hsingtien temple, while blind faith healers offer head massages on the pavement outside the gates. The outer courtyard is a meeting place for quiet evening banter. The old sit on small plastic stools, while the young gather on the temple’s steps.

Inside, silver-haired priestesses in long blue robes wave joss stick fans over people who queue to be blessed. Some hold up baby clothes when their turn comes.
“For luck”, the woman beside me explains.
Fruit offerings in baskets lined with neon orange and candy pink paper sit on long side tables.
Urgent drums are intermittently beaten and bells are rung. Worshippers raise incense to their foreheads and bow, eyes closed. Red divining blocks fall from the hands of others and click on the marble floor. The smell of incense clings to my clothes and hair long after I have left.

Outside, in the humid night air I, try to match the phonetic English spelling on the street sign to my map and decide to go north to Shilin Night Market.
Stalls of sunglasses and mobile phone covers dominate Shilin’s fringes, while countless clothes and shoe shops line the main market streets. Young microphone-toting touts stand on platforms trying to drum up business and background music blares out to attract customers. The Taiwanese love “renao” which roughly translates as “noisy” or “lively”. I slip off down a quieter lane, where traders sit patiently behind stalls of slippers, watches and wonderfully crafted teapots, nodding a greeting and waiting for me to make the first move before starting a soft sales pitch.

The little teapots make nice souvenirs. As I pick one up, the stall owner enthuses in Mandarin while gesturing the virtues of my teapot’s pour. By placing it down and pausing when he shows me the price he has punched into his calculator, I somehow negotiate an extra teacup into the deal, although his asking price was fair. He wraps my purchase carefully in newspaper and secures it with elastic bands.

Spiced smoke and vibrant fizzing sounds lead to the market’s centre where hawker stalls conjure up delicious meals. There are no pictures like in the food courts of the big department stores and as my Mandarin does not extend beyond “ni hao”, eating here is a challenge. But feeling adventurous, I point to one of the numerous bubbling pots and am soon presented with an aromatic bundle wrapped in banana leaves. I am somewhat of a novelty at the market and wonder if my chopstick technique is up to scratch as the locals give me furtive glances.

After dinner, leaving the market, I pass another row of fortune tellers, here in red painted wooden booths, decorated with lanterns and framed calligraphy. One of them beckons to me, but I smile and shake my head, saying that I would rather not know. I leave Shilin behind and turn the corner for home.