A marriage of convenience
Speeding out through the densely packed suburbs of Taipei, the capital of Taiwan, the sleek train accelerates, and soon a chequerboard of golden rice paddies is blurring past the window.
As the speed indicator above the carriage door steadies at a smooth 285km/h, I reflect that there couldn’t be a more modern way to begin a journey back into Taiwan’s history to visit a traditional wedding of the Rukai aboriginal people, who live in the mountainous area of Maolin National Park to the south.
There are an estimated 480,000 indigenous people in Taiwan, divided among 13 tribes. Forming just over two per cent of the Taiwanese population of 23 million, they are finding it difficult to keep pace with the demands of a rapidly changing society. The Rukai, who are renowned as skilled hunters, artisans and builders, number only 11,000, and as their young leave to find work in the cities, the language and traditions of the tribe are increasingly under threat.
Dress rehearsal
Two hours later, the train arrives at Kaohsiung, and I step out into a very different climate – here, 400 kilometres to the south, it’s tropical and humid – but after another hour, having driven up a steep road of hairpin bends, I’m pulling on a jacket as we climb high into the mist-covered mountains of the national park.
My journey ends more than 1,000 metres above sea level in the village square of Wutai, one of the principal Rukai settlements. Trim houses, built and roofed in large slabs of slate flanked by neat terraces of maize and vegetables, are linked by paved stone paths that run down a wooded valley. In the square, women wearing the traditional Rukai clothing of elaborate beaded costumes and headdresses adorned with feathers are preparing for the wedding feast that is due to take place the following day.
At dusk, in front of the village hall, just below the church – for the Rukai are devout Christians – tables are laid out in the cool evening air. Villagers gather as five young couples who are to marry the following morning appear, the girls resplendent in high headdresses, long bead necklaces and tight-fitting brocade bodices with long skirts.
The elders of the tribe, led by headman Wu Piriane, assemble to preside over a rehearsal for the wedding ceremony, and for two hours each step of the marriage ritual is carried out, accompanied by the plaintive melody of traditional songs. At one point, there is a sudden flurry of activity as a young man rushes towards one of the seated brides. A roar of applause rises from the gathered spectators as he is jostled from the arena, and someone in the crowd tells me that the man is a former lover making one final, desperate attempt to persuade the object of his desire to break away and elope.
The whole spectacle runs as smoothly as a well-practised piece of theatre, but when I come into the pre-wedding feast in the village hall later that evening, there is a sudden surprise. Another couple has arrived late, and as the groom enters the room, it’s plain even to my untutored eye that he is no Rukai. Almost two metres tall, with blonde hair sticking out from beneath the traditional hunter’s cap topped with two fearsome boar tusks, he dwarfs the diminutive bride-to-be at his side. A tourist, I conjecture, who has fallen for a Rukai girl and given up on the city to spend his life boar hunting in the hills.
I shake his hand and, in perfect English, Tony Hall, a Swedish hotel manager, introduces himself. His bride, of course, is Rukai, I suggest tentatively. Hsu Hsiu-Min gives a tinkling laugh. ‘No, no!’ she replies. ‘I met Tony in Sweden when I emigrated five years ago. I’m an economist.’ How then, I ask, trying to keep the incredulity out of my voice, did they come to be marrying in this deeply traditional way in a remote tribal village? ‘Why,’ she replies, ‘it’s advertised on the Taiwanese Tourist Board website, of course.’
Wu Piriane comes to my rescue. Sitting at table after supper, he explains via an interpreter: ‘We felt that our traditional customs might disappear forever, so we elders approached the tourist board with the idea of letting non-tribal people come here to marry in the traditional Rukai way. They pay for everything, and it brings outsiders such as you here.’ Pushing back his golden Rukai cap, he smiles shrewdly. ‘This is the second time we have done this. It keeps the old ways alive, brings money into the village, and this year, we will advertise it in English on the web.’
Shotgun wedding
The next morning dawns bright, mist slowly clearing from the valleys below. It might all be theatre, but the air is electric, as urgent villagers wearing traditional clothing rush through the narrow streets bearing the beautifully prepared bundles of clothing, pottery and smoked meats that will form the dowries.
At 9am, the brides walk to an area in front of the church and climb into six finely decorated palanquins. Suddenly, a shot rings out from an ancient muzzle-loaded musket, signalling the beginning of the proceedings. Under the eagle eye of more than 50 press photographers and five TV crews bussed in that morning by the Taiwanese Tourist Board, the palanquins are hoisted onto the shoulders of sturdy young men and the procession begins.
The brides, now dabbing their powdered faces with bright-crimson handkerchiefs, are followed by elderly Rukai women who give well-honed performances of grieving mothers mourning the final departure of their daughters. It has an air of complete authenticity, and Hall strides past firmly in character, overshadowing his Rukai escort and looking stern as he follows the palanquins down to the square.
For the next two hours, as the sun climbs into a cloudless sky, the ceremony unfolds. The brides sit demurely in a row, shading themselves with large green leaves, watching as the dowries are displayed on the dais and listening as their virtues are extolled by a village elder.
In a final touch of verisimilitude, a large dead pig is brought in, followed by a very live one lashed to a pole, its squealing protest punctuating the remaining part of the ceremony, when the couples are finally united as they walk forward to sign elaborate wedding certificates. Then, as villagers join arms and form a huge circle, each bride is swung ceremoniously in a large trapeze held aloft on a bamboo tripod. The rocking, I’m told, tests the girl’s courage and will also ensure her fertility in the coming months.
Traditions kept alive
And then it’s over. A large feast has been prepared under a wide canopy in the village square and more than 300 guests sit down to roast boar, smoked chicken, noodles and other delicacies. I come across Hall and Hsu looking every inch the radiant couple. ‘It was great,’ Hall says, sinking a draft of sweet rice wine. ‘So much more fun than getting hitched in a Swedish town hall.’ Hsu nods in agreement. ‘All my family have come. My parents...’ – she nods to a conventionally dressed middle-aged Taiwanese couple across the table, who politely smile their greetings – ‘... thought it was wonderful!’
As I leave at 3pm, the feasting continues, and getting into my taxi, I notice the trussed up porker now freed on a bed of straw, spared to star another day.
Later that week, back in Taipei, I visit the Council of Indigenous Peoples, where I meet Mr Yavaii of the Ami tribe, which, with a population of 180,000, is one of the largest on the island.
‘We aboriginal people have a lower life expectancy and poorer educational facilities in our regions,’ he explains. ‘The Rukai, for example, have no high schools and have to send their children down from the mountains to get secondary education.’
Annual government funding allotted to Taiwan’s indigenous groups is £9million, which, according to Mr Yavaii, isn’t nearly enough. ‘We are still rebuilding damage caused by the catastrophic typhoon in 1999,’ he says. ‘We need more than twice that amount.’
He is, however, an enthusiastic supporter of the Rukai wedding project. ‘It’s a good way of making our own people aware of our rich history. If the traditions die, so does the tribe. That would be a severe loss for the country.’
Would he, I ask, like to have a similar ceremony in his Ami village? There is a brief pause. ‘No. I don’t think so,’ he says with a hesitant smile. ‘We Ami prefer to keep these things in the family.’
Co-ordinates: Taiwan
When to go
Taiwan has a subtropical monsoon climate, with generally warm year-round temperatures. Summers (May–September) are hot, humid and wet, and the island is susceptible to typhoons between June and August. Winter and spring offer milder conditions and autumn the driest. The village of Wutai is in Pingtung County in southern Taiwan, which is warmer than Taipei in the north. The Rukai wedding event normally takes place in the autumn.
How to get there
Nick Haslam flew to Taipei with EVA Air (020 7380 8300, www.evaiair.com). Return flights from London Heathrow to Taipei via Bangkok start at £716.20 per person, including taxes for a maximum stay of one month. There are also special web fares available at different times of the year. Cox & Kings (020 7873 5000, www.coxandkings.co.uk) offers package tours to Taiwan starting from £2,395 per person for 12 nights.
Further information
UK citizens can stay in Taiwan for up to 30 days without a visa. Passports should be valid for at least six months, and all travellers must have confirmed return tickets. For more details about visiting Taiwan or about the indigenous weddings, contact the Taiwan Tourism Bureau (www.taiwan.net.tw, 020 7928 1600).
March 2008
As the speed indicator above the carriage door steadies at a smooth 285km/h, I reflect that there couldn’t be a more modern way to begin a journey back into Taiwan’s history to visit a traditional wedding of the Rukai aboriginal people, who live in the mountainous area of Maolin National Park to the south.
There are an estimated 480,000 indigenous people in Taiwan, divided among 13 tribes. Forming just over two per cent of the Taiwanese population of 23 million, they are finding it difficult to keep pace with the demands of a rapidly changing society. The Rukai, who are renowned as skilled hunters, artisans and builders, number only 11,000, and as their young leave to find work in the cities, the language and traditions of the tribe are increasingly under threat.
Dress rehearsal
Two hours later, the train arrives at Kaohsiung, and I step out into a very different climate – here, 400 kilometres to the south, it’s tropical and humid – but after another hour, having driven up a steep road of hairpin bends, I’m pulling on a jacket as we climb high into the mist-covered mountains of the national park.
My journey ends more than 1,000 metres above sea level in the village square of Wutai, one of the principal Rukai settlements. Trim houses, built and roofed in large slabs of slate flanked by neat terraces of maize and vegetables, are linked by paved stone paths that run down a wooded valley. In the square, women wearing the traditional Rukai clothing of elaborate beaded costumes and headdresses adorned with feathers are preparing for the wedding feast that is due to take place the following day.
At dusk, in front of the village hall, just below the church – for the Rukai are devout Christians – tables are laid out in the cool evening air. Villagers gather as five young couples who are to marry the following morning appear, the girls resplendent in high headdresses, long bead necklaces and tight-fitting brocade bodices with long skirts.
The elders of the tribe, led by headman Wu Piriane, assemble to preside over a rehearsal for the wedding ceremony, and for two hours each step of the marriage ritual is carried out, accompanied by the plaintive melody of traditional songs. At one point, there is a sudden flurry of activity as a young man rushes towards one of the seated brides. A roar of applause rises from the gathered spectators as he is jostled from the arena, and someone in the crowd tells me that the man is a former lover making one final, desperate attempt to persuade the object of his desire to break away and elope.
The whole spectacle runs as smoothly as a well-practised piece of theatre, but when I come into the pre-wedding feast in the village hall later that evening, there is a sudden surprise. Another couple has arrived late, and as the groom enters the room, it’s plain even to my untutored eye that he is no Rukai. Almost two metres tall, with blonde hair sticking out from beneath the traditional hunter’s cap topped with two fearsome boar tusks, he dwarfs the diminutive bride-to-be at his side. A tourist, I conjecture, who has fallen for a Rukai girl and given up on the city to spend his life boar hunting in the hills.
I shake his hand and, in perfect English, Tony Hall, a Swedish hotel manager, introduces himself. His bride, of course, is Rukai, I suggest tentatively. Hsu Hsiu-Min gives a tinkling laugh. ‘No, no!’ she replies. ‘I met Tony in Sweden when I emigrated five years ago. I’m an economist.’ How then, I ask, trying to keep the incredulity out of my voice, did they come to be marrying in this deeply traditional way in a remote tribal village? ‘Why,’ she replies, ‘it’s advertised on the Taiwanese Tourist Board website, of course.’
Wu Piriane comes to my rescue. Sitting at table after supper, he explains via an interpreter: ‘We felt that our traditional customs might disappear forever, so we elders approached the tourist board with the idea of letting non-tribal people come here to marry in the traditional Rukai way. They pay for everything, and it brings outsiders such as you here.’ Pushing back his golden Rukai cap, he smiles shrewdly. ‘This is the second time we have done this. It keeps the old ways alive, brings money into the village, and this year, we will advertise it in English on the web.’
Start the slideshow (6 pictures)
Shotgun wedding
The next morning dawns bright, mist slowly clearing from the valleys below. It might all be theatre, but the air is electric, as urgent villagers wearing traditional clothing rush through the narrow streets bearing the beautifully prepared bundles of clothing, pottery and smoked meats that will form the dowries.
At 9am, the brides walk to an area in front of the church and climb into six finely decorated palanquins. Suddenly, a shot rings out from an ancient muzzle-loaded musket, signalling the beginning of the proceedings. Under the eagle eye of more than 50 press photographers and five TV crews bussed in that morning by the Taiwanese Tourist Board, the palanquins are hoisted onto the shoulders of sturdy young men and the procession begins.
The brides, now dabbing their powdered faces with bright-crimson handkerchiefs, are followed by elderly Rukai women who give well-honed performances of grieving mothers mourning the final departure of their daughters. It has an air of complete authenticity, and Hall strides past firmly in character, overshadowing his Rukai escort and looking stern as he follows the palanquins down to the square.
For the next two hours, as the sun climbs into a cloudless sky, the ceremony unfolds. The brides sit demurely in a row, shading themselves with large green leaves, watching as the dowries are displayed on the dais and listening as their virtues are extolled by a village elder.
In a final touch of verisimilitude, a large dead pig is brought in, followed by a very live one lashed to a pole, its squealing protest punctuating the remaining part of the ceremony, when the couples are finally united as they walk forward to sign elaborate wedding certificates. Then, as villagers join arms and form a huge circle, each bride is swung ceremoniously in a large trapeze held aloft on a bamboo tripod. The rocking, I’m told, tests the girl’s courage and will also ensure her fertility in the coming months.
Traditions kept alive
And then it’s over. A large feast has been prepared under a wide canopy in the village square and more than 300 guests sit down to roast boar, smoked chicken, noodles and other delicacies. I come across Hall and Hsu looking every inch the radiant couple. ‘It was great,’ Hall says, sinking a draft of sweet rice wine. ‘So much more fun than getting hitched in a Swedish town hall.’ Hsu nods in agreement. ‘All my family have come. My parents...’ – she nods to a conventionally dressed middle-aged Taiwanese couple across the table, who politely smile their greetings – ‘... thought it was wonderful!’
As I leave at 3pm, the feasting continues, and getting into my taxi, I notice the trussed up porker now freed on a bed of straw, spared to star another day.
Later that week, back in Taipei, I visit the Council of Indigenous Peoples, where I meet Mr Yavaii of the Ami tribe, which, with a population of 180,000, is one of the largest on the island.
‘We aboriginal people have a lower life expectancy and poorer educational facilities in our regions,’ he explains. ‘The Rukai, for example, have no high schools and have to send their children down from the mountains to get secondary education.’
Annual government funding allotted to Taiwan’s indigenous groups is £9million, which, according to Mr Yavaii, isn’t nearly enough. ‘We are still rebuilding damage caused by the catastrophic typhoon in 1999,’ he says. ‘We need more than twice that amount.’
He is, however, an enthusiastic supporter of the Rukai wedding project. ‘It’s a good way of making our own people aware of our rich history. If the traditions die, so does the tribe. That would be a severe loss for the country.’
Would he, I ask, like to have a similar ceremony in his Ami village? There is a brief pause. ‘No. I don’t think so,’ he says with a hesitant smile. ‘We Ami prefer to keep these things in the family.’
Co-ordinates: Taiwan
When to go
Taiwan has a subtropical monsoon climate, with generally warm year-round temperatures. Summers (May–September) are hot, humid and wet, and the island is susceptible to typhoons between June and August. Winter and spring offer milder conditions and autumn the driest. The village of Wutai is in Pingtung County in southern Taiwan, which is warmer than Taipei in the north. The Rukai wedding event normally takes place in the autumn.
How to get there
Nick Haslam flew to Taipei with EVA Air (020 7380 8300, www.evaiair.com). Return flights from London Heathrow to Taipei via Bangkok start at £716.20 per person, including taxes for a maximum stay of one month. There are also special web fares available at different times of the year. Cox & Kings (020 7873 5000, www.coxandkings.co.uk) offers package tours to Taiwan starting from £2,395 per person for 12 nights.
Further information
UK citizens can stay in Taiwan for up to 30 days without a visa. Passports should be valid for at least six months, and all travellers must have confirmed return tickets. For more details about visiting Taiwan or about the indigenous weddings, contact the Taiwan Tourism Bureau (www.taiwan.net.tw, 020 7928 1600).
March 2008
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