5 March 2011 - Year Two- The Kung Fu diaries

Two weeks ago I hit my one year anniversary in Taiwan. It was a quiet and sobering moment when I realised it was the 21st of February. The date rang with almost as much resonance as my birthday does, but instead of cracking out the party poppers I spent a few quiet moments thinking about my year in Taiwan, accomplishments, phases, people that have come and gone, routines that began, were maintained, and were dropped. I was pleased to find that, whilst pangs of homesickness were as frequent as they'd ever been, I had no regrets regarding my move and felt comfortable, happy and at peace with my life in Taiwan.

I had just spent two weeks with a good friend and old housemate who had been one of many to promise he would visit me in Taiwan before I left, but the only one to make good on this promise, so far. I was immensely grateful for his visit for a number of reasons, the most important being that it forged a bridge between two worlds that I had previously thought of as separate and independent entities, my life in England and my new life in Taiwan. A face that was preserved in my memory with the backdrop of our local pub had now, by some miracle been transported into my new world, of motorbikes, betel nut trees, fried rice and iced fruit tea. Seeing him react to a world he had previously only known read about in my emails allowed me to view Taiwan through fresh eyes and talking to him made me realise both how far I'd come in some respects and how much I'd stayed the same in others. The trip, like any successful holiday had its fair share of calamities and highs, the former being represented by a scooter accident involving Marc, a small fishing boat and the Taiwanese coastguard and the latter by the discovery and exploration of an overgrown theme park, built into a forested mountainside and abandoned almost a decade ago but left mostly untouched.

I was sad to see Marc go, but welcomed the sensation of closure and peace that his visit brought me, the reminder that everything and everybody I miss in England were not removed by anything more significant than a 17 hour flight and will be ready for me when I choose to go home. With the beginning of a new Chinese Year I was however aware of the potential to fall into a belated 'January blues' and decided I needed a new project, a new purpose, a new reason to get up early every day rather than slumber until guilt and the approach of my afternoon shift at Gram roused me grumpily from my far too comfortable bed. By which readers can deduce that I am no longer a student at Feng Chia University, or doing early bike rides, or going swimming. Routines, it is fair to say, have not been my strong point in Taiwan. They have come and gone, enthusiasm has flared and fizzled, excuses have been made and accepted (if not believed), but, with the departure of Marc, and my days intimidatingly free again, I was in need of a new hobby.

And so it was, with this reasoning and the inspiration of the film Ip Man in my heart that I found myself walking into a Kong Fu dojo with Xiao Yen last Saturday, one week after my anniversary. What better way to greet the new year is there than to take up a Chinese martial art? Wing Chun, or Yong Chuan as it is known here, seemed to tick a lot of boxes for me. Firstly, it looks and sounds cool. People who claim that their practice of a martial art has nothing to do with looking and sounding cool are clearly lying. Secondly, it seemed to combine a useful and functional self defence regime with the sense of spiritual and mental awareness you would hope to find in a Chinese martial art. Thirdly, as far as I could tell, learning would not involve standing on one leg on a post in the sea for days on end, or screaming harsh, guttural phrases whilst standing in a circle and punching in the air. Fourthly, I would probably never be required to try to kick somebody in the head, when my legs clearly don't want to be raised above knee level.

My first impression of my Master (Shifu) wasn't a particularly overwhelming one. With thinning hair, a jowelly chin and a substantial belly covered by graceful robes he looked more like the sort of man I was used to seeing sat by the side of the road selling coconuts, than a deadly Kung Fu master. I'm happy to say that looks were very deceiving. As Xiao Yen expressed our desire to become his students, I nodded along seriously whilst secretly imagining myself fighting Jackie Chan in an epic battle involving most of the weapons displayed on the walls of the dojo. He then proceeded to give us a demonstration of various styles and techniques, picking poles, swords and nunchucks from the walls and whirling them in a way that left little doubt that we were standing in the presence of a master. We found ourselves at the all important 'mu ren chuang', the wooden training dummies that all those who train in Wing Chun become intimately familiar with. As his arms, wrists, palms and fists whirled and crashed into the dummy I was struck and immediately taken with this style of Kung Fu. It was both graceful and powerful, intricate and understated. There were no spinning kicks or knock out blows, but instead an incredibly fluid cascade of blocks, counters and strikes, performed at great speed and yet seemingly requiring very little movement, or indeed effort. No grunts or shouts were emitted and when our new Shifu turned back to us he was not even breathing hard but standing, calm and impassive as he enjoyed our wondering admiration. When the demonstration was complete we sat on tiny bamboo stools raised just off the ground whilst Shifu eased himself into a throne-like chair before us and began the elaborate process of making tea from fresh leaves which we drank from dainty china cups. Strangely, the act of serving and cordially sipping hot tea after such a display of combat prowess didn't seem in the least juxtaposed, instead it seemed in keeping with what he had been showing us, a martial art grounded in serenity and harmony. After, or sometimes during each training session we are given the opportunity to join him for tea, allowing the lesson to sink in and our minds to focus as we sip and chat.

After four lessons in the space of a week I am completely sold with Wing Chun, and am resolved that this will be the one hobby that does not fall by the wayside, the one that I take to a high level and don't look back in years to come as a fleeting interest to be replaced by another. The lessons are bruising, as forearms and wrists strike repeatedly into the unyielding wooden arms of the murenchuang, and fists pound into hard pads mounted on the wall which feel as though they are filled with dried beans or rice. I'm also not allowed to drink water whilst I train, and received a stern admonishment after sneaking off for a quiet gulp between exercises. Something to do with body temperature and 'Chi' as I understand it. Chi is all very well I thought sulkily, but I'm bloody thirsty and sometimes cold water hits the spot better than tiny cups of piping hot tea. Still, secretly the oddness of this rule pleased me, I wasn't in some 'Retford Red Dragon Kung Fu School' with bottles of lucozade and aggressive teenagers, instead I felt like the Karate Kid with Mr Muyagi, unable to see the logic in the rules at this stage but sure some day they would end up saving my life or providing me with the means to win my big climax fight.

My Kung Fu lessons have provided me with the incentive to revive this journal, which has been lying dormant for over six months now. I am not, however going to attempt to tell the story of those six months, or clear the backlog of anecdotes and adventures, the daunting thought of doing that has kept me from writing for too long and could send me firmly back into hiatus. Instead, a summary of how things stand now:

I am twenty three years old and have lived in Taichung City, Taiwan for just over a year, with my Taiwanese girlfriend, Xiao Yen. I work at Gram English Center, teaching a variety of misfortunates what I know about using the English language. I get around on a black 200cc motorbike, speak Chinese badly but enthusiastically after six months worth of lessons, eat Macdonalds more than government health advisors would recommend and hang out with a variety of folk, from fellow ex-patriot to born and bred Taiwanese. I believe in muddling through more than making plans, I have been complimented on my deftness with chopsticks and my biggest grumble about the Taiwanese is their habit of leaving Christmas trees up for half the year after Christmas. I am a student of Wing Chun Kung Fu and the author of the Taiwan diaries, a horribly incomplete and unsatisfactory account of my life in Taiwan. But better than nothing.