The Peace Correspondent (15 page)

Shattered by this revelation, I retreat to my chamber to seek serenity and to dream of almond-eyed Mongolian beauties.

FOR a tiny place that was one of the world's major battlefields a few decades ago, and which has only been open to foreign tourists for about a year, Quemoy is remarkably casual. About 20 minutes after arriving on the 55-minute flight from Taipei, my wife and I have checked into the River Kinmen Hotel, and are in Kincheng village at the motor-scooter rental shop.

The grinning owner shoves a Chinese form at me, and says his only three words of English: “Name. Number. Money.”

What number does he want? Passport? Credit card? International Driver's License? I write down my Hong Kong telephone number and give him the equivalent of about $20 in Taiwanese dollars. He hands me the keys to an almost new burgundy scooter of the type that gigolos ride in Italian movies, and leaves us to it, with no instructions, no helmets.

But these scooters are simple, with no clutch, no gears, no shifting, just gas and brake controls. The light traffic in the few blocks of town presents no problem, then we are out on the open road, exulting in the born-to-be-wild, wind-in-your-hair riding -- even though we can only reach about 35 miles an hour. The pleasant, pine-covered island with its fine, empty roads is perfect for motorcycle riding.

But Quemoy (Kinmen, or Golden Gate, to the Mainland Chinese), an archipelago of 12 islands covering 58 square miles, is much more than a scenic tropical getaway. Once, the world's
black-and-white TV sets were tuned to daily news reports from this outpost just off the coast of mainland China. In an attempt to wrest the island from Taiwan, the Communist army launched a massive artillery barrage on Quemoy on August 23, 1958.

Over the next 44 days, half a million shells fell on the island. Taiwan's forces, equipped by the U.S., retaliated with their own artillery and air offensive, severely damaging mainland forces. In October, China announced an “even-day cease-fire” program, and for the next 20 years the two sides traded artillery fire only on alternate days (with Sundays a day of rest). Instead of artillery shells, they fired canisters containing propaganda leaflets.

The volume of the war of words increased to karaoke-like levels, however, with the mainland broadcasting its propaganda to Quemoy, while Taiwan retaliated with four 30,000-watt loudspeakers on Quemoy blasting out anti-Communist messages and rock songs across the narrow strait. As well, over many years, when the wind was right, Nationalist forces on Quemoy launched thousands of helium balloons toward the mainland carrying pocket calculators, digital wristwatches and other products of Taiwan's capitalist factories (including, it is rumored, see-through silk lingerie) to demoralize the mainland Chinese. As far as I know, no one has determined the effectiveness of silk panties as a propaganda weapon. All of this ended in 1991, with the general relaxation of tension. What was one of the world's major battlefields a few decades ago gradually opened up to local, then international tourism.

So the island is a repository of fascinating military sites and memorabilia as well as natural beauty. Decades of large-scale reforestation, with each soldier stationed there responsible for the growth of one tree, has succeeded in the greening of Quemoy, turning it into what residents, (with an obvious eye on tourism), call a “park on the sea.” And with the captive labor of all those soldiers based on the island, it is as trim and clean as a military base.

As we scooter across the island, we happen on soldiers
everywhere in mottled, camouflage uniforms, like Chinese male Spice Girls. It is the most militarized place I've seen, with armed guards standing by sandbag emplacements, anti-aircraft guns mounted on the roundabouts, and jeeps and army trucks draped with netting. Yet the atmosphere seems unthreatening, like a military theme park, and there appears to be no restriction as to where we can go, except into the bases.

Navigating with our Chinese map, we reach the northeasternmost point of the island, and the Mashan Observation Station, the closest point to China. Despite not speaking a word of English, two bespectacled armed soldiers standing guard at the camp entrance make it clear that we can't enter now. The station is closed for lunch.

Shortly before 1:30pm, several Taiwanese teenagers show up on scooters, then a tour bus disgorges excitable, amiable rustics.

At precisely 1:30pm, the soldiers let us pass, and we enter a tunnel, which goes a long, long way, arrow-straight towards the beach. At the end, the tunnel opens into a blue-painted room, with narrow slits at eye-level, looking out to China, visible just beyond the narrow strait. We all take turns peering through one of the five mounted binoculars to what was once called the Bamboo Curtain. It is eerie, seeing this once forbidden zone, just over a mile away, and imagining the deadly artillery duel. Perhaps it is the only bit of their former homeland that many of these Taiwanese will ever see.

Continuing on, and frequently getting lost in the maze of roads, we find the August 23 Artillery War Museum. Like the entire island, this is now a swords-to-plowshares endeavor. Set in a pleasant park with a lake, it displays an F-86 jet fighter, a 155mm cannon and an amphibious landing craft, all now backdrops for tourist photographs. Laughing youths strike heroic poses before the pieces, hoist their girlfriends into the intake of the jet, and click off souvenir snapshots for the folks back home.

Inside, the museum displays grainy black-and-white photographs of Quemoy's military past. There is considerable media
content here, with a display of news clippings and pictures depicting war correspondents with PRESS on their helmets and TV newsmen with an antique hand-held newsreel camera. Another shows mainly American correspondents gathered under a makeshift Quemoy Press Club sign. A display of English, French and Spanish clippings includes a U.S. News and World Report story: “The Reds are the real losers in the Quemoy war.”

At the northwest point of the island, we happen on the Kuningtou Military History Museum, near the site where local forces repelled a major Communist amphibious assault in 1949 (10 years before the deadly artillery duel). Displays here are mainly huge, heroic battle-on-the-beach paintings, some basic mock-ups of the battle zone, plus weapons such as American M5 A1 tanks, known here as Kinmen Bears.

With dark (and the cocktail hour) fast approaching, we return to the River Kinmen Hotel, and reluctantly hand the desk clerk the scooter key to return to the rental office. I feel like a Hell's Angel robbed of his Harley.

In this spotless, friendly hotel, once again we face communication problems as the restaurant menu is only in Chinese. But a woman from a party of ebullient locals comes to our rescue. She explains the menu through the practical expedient of darting over to nearby tables to spirit away dishes from under the chopsticks of diners, to show us what is available. With her recommendations, we feast on lemon chicken, chili prawns, fish grilled with garlic, steamed vegetables, rice and chilled Taiwan beer.

People able to withstand the world's greatest artillery barrage are not stymied by the problems of a pair of hungry foreigners.

HIKERS coming down the mossy stone path out of the thick forest welcome us with cheery greetings: “Ni hao, Ni hao?” (“How are you” in Mandarin). Hiking is a social activity in Taiwan, and all along the way we encounter friendly groups of climbers with walking sticks, tinkling bells on belts and backpacks, carrying umbrellas and wearing sporty khaki outdoor hats.

Walking the trails of Yangmingshan National Park, a 30-minute drive northeast of Taipei, we can appreciate why the Portuguese called this Isla Formosa (Beautiful Island). On rugged Taiwan, weekend escapes from the capital are only a taxi, train or subway ride away.

Even though this is the closest getaway to the capital, locals seem pleased, and mystified, to find foreigners here. “How you find Yangmingshan?” ask those with a modicum of English. Easy. We took a cab from downtown Taipei.

Like travel all over Taiwan, getting around the park can be a challenge. At the visitor center, park rangers try to help, but speak little or no English. Finally we buy a map in Chinese (English maps are out of stock) and, with much sign language, work out basic directions for a suitable half-day hike. At the canteen, we buy bottles of water and lichee juice and packets of biscuits and set off up the mountain.

From the center, we follow a broad, paved stone path up to a junction, where a map and directional sign are posted on a board. Taiwanese parks are well marked -- unfortunately, only
in Chinese characters. So we stand there attempting to match the squiggly symbols on the sign to those on our map, until another hiker comes along and points the way.

As we continue up through the sweet gum trees, green maples and flowering cherry trees, we encounter more hikers. One elderly Taiwanese walking with his cronies wears a red ball cap that says, appropriately, Top Climber. “Very good healthy,” a spry septuagenarian assures us as his wife nods approvingly at our efforts.

Foliage changes within the park, and we pass through pine and acacia forests planted during large-scale afforestation programs early in the century. With the clear air and the scent of pines, we could be in the middle of British Columbia, Canada, except for those pesky Chinese signs.

A couple walking down the hill carrying a bag of cuttings stops to chat. When I look at the fernlike plants and smell them, the woman says they are used for making tea. “Good for the throat, and for a cold,” she explains. In her best English, she adds that their proper name is “Under the Stone Plant,” and shows how they grow under the paving stones along the path.

The higher we climb, the fewer hikers we encounter. When no one is around, all we can hear is the throaty warbling of the bulbuls and babblers and the scraping of our boots on the ancient mossy stones. Little lizards skitter along the path, birds rustle in the bush and the wind sways the cherry trees. It is a rare, and welcoming, sound of silence so seldom heard in Asia.