I realise I’m out of practice with this long haul travelling lark as I try to enter Taipei through the Residents Only line. It’s even more obvious as I pile into an airport taxi and have an immediate heart attack as I can’t find my phone, which has my credit card, bank card, and drivers licence. I’m in Taiwan with just my passport and about $200 in local cash.  

Stop! I shout at the driver. Poor man lurches to the curb and I gesticulate for him to open the boot so I can check my bags. This is ridiculous. Only seconds earlier I send a text announcing my safe arrival. My rational mind knows the phone is in the car, but my lizard brain has left the building. As panic threatens to overwhelm me, I see the phone in the footwell of the car. For God’s sake woman, get your shit together. 

It takes little time to get a feel for the city and find my way around. The MRT (metro) is cheap, most trips around central Taipei cost no more than $20 Taiwan, so just over $NZ1.00; clean: no graffiti, litter, or beggars; orderly: everyone lines up at the barrier to board, giving disembarking passengers room to exit; quiet: there are messages reminding passengers to use headphones and speak quietly; and fast. It is quite a change from New York or London or other big city metros where you are in a noisy, grubby human pinball machine being eyed by people who look like they forgot to take their meds.

I kick off my visit with a three hour walking tour of the historic part of Taipei and around the political/Governmental district, which includes the imposing Chang Kai Shek Memorial Hall. It’s a stunning site with curved blue tiles on the roof and slanted cream walls. Looking from the top of the 89 steps leading to the hall (he lived to 89) you see extensive gardens and a huge square. The National Theatre flanks one side, the National Concert Hall the other. Inside the cavernous hall is the “Great Man”, sitting with his arms on the chair arms and smiling benevolently, emulating the statue of Lincoln in Washington DC.

But there the similarity ends. A few hundred metres away is 2-28 Peace Memorial Park, named after the vicious crackdown by the KMT on locals protesting corruption and economic hardship. The number 2-28 refers to 28 February 1947. The next four decades of White Terror were marked by brutal martial law and it’s fair to say Chiang Kai Shek is not universally revered. There are some efforts, subtle as they are, to reduce the reverence paid to CKS, such as renaming the Memorial Square Liberty Square.

The big ticket item is the Changing of the Guard which takes places every hour on the hour. Now you may think you have seen it all in Athens, where the pom pom lads prance prettily in front of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. I agree, this is elegant and enchanting. However the ceremony at the Memorial Hall is next level, though the choreography is more Joseph Goebbels (think goose steps and Hitler) than Parris Goebel (think Superbowl and J. Lo). There’s lots of heel clicking and rifle tossing and serious expressions. You can find videos on YouTube.

Housing 2.6 million people, the city itself is very spread out but easy to get around: everything is clean and tidy despite the lack of rubbish bins. I make enquiries. When there were public rubbish bins, people would bring all their household rubbish out and fill the bins rather than disposing of it at collection centres. Why wouldn’t you? So the Government took all the bins away but also promoted an initiative to reduce waste and promote recycling. They now have one of the highest recycling rates in the world. Go Taiwan.

Still on the cleanliness schtick, let me mention public toilets which, unlike rubbish bins, are plentiful. In every Metro station, public park, transport station, museum, temple and rest area you will find a spotlessly clean facility. I thank years of yoga when there is no western style throne and squatting is the only option – falling in is not an option.

In Europe I find you tire of cathedral after cathedral: in Asia it’s the same thing with temple after temple. Once you learn the difference between Buddhist (there’s a big fat buddha sitting there) and Taoist (a riot of colour with numerous beardy gods and no big fat buddha) and Confucian centres (no colour, no fat buddha) there’s not much different to admire, though the rooflines are always fascinatingly decorative.

I pretty much eat my body weight in dumplings, particularly xiao long bao, the pork dumplings with soup inside. On a previous trip to Shanghai I take a class to learn how to make these, but any attempts at home are more dumpster than dumpling. Street food is plentiful and delicious, even if sometimes you don’t know what you are eating, and often it’s better you don’t.

The two young women in the photo are making something that looks interesting, and there’s a queue of people so I reason it must be good. A thickish batter goes into what look like mini muffin tins, which sit over a heat source. Something unidentified gets plopped in, then more batter and cooking and turning commences. It takes several minutes and for my T$70, about $NZ3.50, I get a small basket of six with fried onion and some sauce. They are quite delicious and I eat them still not knowing what they are. When I go to the night market I see a big sign for Tayoyaki, a Japanese snack. A-ha, octopus balls! and just like you, I never knew octopus had them.

PS: I’m too lazy to set up another blog now we have finished caravanning, so sorry about the false advertising.