In response to an article titled "Living With the Crisis."
To the Editor:
I welcome that the issue of the economic crisis is gradually disappearing from the pages of The New York Times International Weekly that is published in Clarin in Buenos Aires. At one point, during the recent months, many of your articles were related in one way or another to the crisis.
I have lived 43 years in Argentina; all my life I have experienced an economic crisis. However, I live a happy and fulfilling existence. Maybe Americans should try to understand that economics are not the only important issue in life.
--Héctor Horacio Otero
Buenos, Aires
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
This just in...
Opinion »
Editorial: Where the Dust Blows and Settles
To reduce problems caused by dust storms, the world needs to improve agricultural practices and reduce desertification.
_____
Awesome, New York Times. Thanks for the insight.
Editorial: Where the Dust Blows and Settles
To reduce problems caused by dust storms, the world needs to improve agricultural practices and reduce desertification.
_____
Awesome, New York Times. Thanks for the insight.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Rugged
During Matt's visit in January and February we sometimes discussed Taiwan and China and how things compared. At one point I asked him how he would characterize Taiwan in one word. I think he did it in several, but I had an [pre-meditated] answer ready: rugged. Judging from Matthew's reaction I believe he thought that was a silly summation. But I have lived here longer than he stayed here which results in an asymmetry of information. I have more than he does, and I am right.
But it is interesting, Taiwan's ruggedness. Five hundred years ago this place was given the name Ilha Formosa, which was eventually shortened to plain Formosa. In fact, many people still call it that, including locals. Formosa came from Portuguese which came from Latin and means beautiful. But beautiful and rugged might be construed as opposite, which is a problem for my argument. How could the one word characterization of "the beautiful island" be rugged?
I am just going to claim the Portuguese were being silly when they gave Taiwan that name. They saw the unnamed island from afar and, not caring to stick around, thought of a title that would make their seafaring fables more interesting to audiences back in Portugal. (This is my personal take on the history.)
This is not to say Taiwan is ugly. It isn't. But I am positive the Portuguese had beheld islands seemingly more deserving of that name while on their voyages.
So then, why is it rugged? The short answer is out of necessity. Taiwan is comprised mostly of mountains. They rise from nothing to thousands of meters like cliffs. In fact, Taiwan is home to the highest mountain in East Asia, YuShan, at some 3,950 meters. This mountain rises from the ocean floor to its highest peak, an altitude gain of 8,000 meters, in just about 100 kilometers.
There are so many mountains because underneath the island exists a kind of haphazard mess of tectonic plates and belts and terranes. This complex, chaotic "system" leads, of course, to many, many earthquakes. (There have been three or four in the few weeks I have been back on the island. During the last one I was watching a movie in my room and only after thirty seconds of constant rumbling wondered whether I should get up from my bed.)
And then, of course, there are the typhoons. Taiwan is not the only country that has to deal with the buggers, but they can be a serious burden. The last big one, Morakot, produced 1.4 meters of rain in 24 hours and 2.7 meters within 72 hours. This, in conjunction with Taiwan's mountains, was a perfect recipe for mudslides which wiped out bridges, eroded foundations under roads, washed away entire towns, flooded cities and destroyed several tea crops. Aside from the rain typhoons bring, it can get quite windy.
According to locals there are in fact four seasons here. Perhaps this is true, but summer absolutely dominates, and spring and fall could not be more than several weeks. Unfortunately, the typhoons and the blistering hot sun are packed into the same unrelenting season: summer. Most Taiwanese wear jackets and long sleeves in 35 degree Celsius weather, when the humidity is between 85 and 100 per cent in order to save their skin. And why bother to repaint the outside of your house if it is just going to blister and peel away from all the elements within a year?
The paint is not the only thing that gets neglected, though. All these natural elements - mountains, earthquakes, typhoons, sun, etc. - not only define the natural landscape, but are so prominent and ever present that they delimit the infrastructure and aesthetics of the cities. Upon my arrival in Taiwan I was struck how tile dominated the cityscape. Well, it turns out it is probably more attractive than concrete, the only viable alternative. Other materials such as wood just would not hold up. The strength of nature here simply demands that she be heeded.
Plants and animals, as well as architects, must adapt. The elements have exactly the same effect in the countryside, and upon my first trip into the mountains I was very disappointed. Compared to my native Washington the scenery simply did not compare. The shrubbery and trees were dark, dense, universally green and brown, and nearly indistinguishable. Like the white square tiles on the outsides of the buildings, the plants covering the mountains seemed to have one purpose: survival.
Becoming increasingly aware of this universal trait, I began to seek it out. I found it in buildings and flowerpots, mountains and trees, but also in society and people, particularly the elder generation. Old men riding rusted motorcycles without shoes and missing teeth, carrying large canisters of propane to and fro. An elder lady who opens every day for business - no weekends, no holidays; typhoon or no, customers or not. The person who collects the trash in a trailer attached to a single speed bicycle - one time I literally could not see her because of all the garbage bags enveloping her. She had become a part of the moving pile of rubbish.
Of course the construction of Taiwanese society has not blossomed solely from earthquakes and typhoons, but the effects I think are indubitable.
The thing is, while rugged and beautiful often have quite different meanings, in the case of Taiwan I see beauty not despite, but because of the ruggedness. One morning during those very few weeks that constitute spring, I was waiting at a stoplight when I noticed the trees were full of little yellow flowers. Literally overnight they had blossomed. They were not dominant. They were more like an accent to the background of green, but they stood out. They were bright, pristine, and fragile. And they were ephemeral.
Were it not for the constant rugged norm, I may not have noticed them, but that morning they really struck me. And they were not alone. In the coming days other flowers came and went as well, and I saw them too in a new light.
The man made creations, also, have a subtle beauty that I have slowly come to realize. I do not think it is intentional, but rather by necessity there is a lack of showiness in the design of most things. Taipei 101 aside, many buildings fall into the background noise, and the focus turns to what they contain (and do not contain). Everyone has the same iron door, and the same concrete walls and the same tile flooring. But some restaurants have good food and some do not. Nobody frowns if you go to dinner at a place with fluorescent lights, cockroaches at the front door, foldable chairs and unadorned walls; everyone smiles, however, if the food tastes good. Atmosphere is created by people and fills a space that might otherwise be taken by golden chandeliers and silk tablecloths. (There is of course something nice about intricate woodwork and grand staircases, but there can be a hidden beauty in the lack thereof as well.)
And the people. I know the man on the rusted motorcycle was missing teeth only because his smile was so large, talking to me in Taiwanese and not minding that I did not understand his words because his message was already clear. The lady that is open every day does not seem the least bit upset about it. On the contrary, whenever I go there to eat she seems joyed to be able to serve me. Yes, the people are the most rugged of all. Taiwan has been tossed from country to country, more recently endured its own social and political trials, deals with more than its fair share of natural disasters, and yet sincerity and generosity persist among the vast majority of the people I have encountered here.
Taiwan is rugged. To survive on this island requires toughness and a strong constitution, it demands effort and endurance. But it is because of this ruggedness that the Portuguese were silly, not wrong. They could not know, from a passing glance, the beauty this island contains. The necessity of ruggedness on the island demands that hubris be pushed aside: the beauty here is modest, slow to emerge, and demands patience from the observer. But it is also long lasting and powerful. I imagine the name Ilha Formosa will stick for quite some time.
But it is interesting, Taiwan's ruggedness. Five hundred years ago this place was given the name Ilha Formosa, which was eventually shortened to plain Formosa. In fact, many people still call it that, including locals. Formosa came from Portuguese which came from Latin and means beautiful. But beautiful and rugged might be construed as opposite, which is a problem for my argument. How could the one word characterization of "the beautiful island" be rugged?
I am just going to claim the Portuguese were being silly when they gave Taiwan that name. They saw the unnamed island from afar and, not caring to stick around, thought of a title that would make their seafaring fables more interesting to audiences back in Portugal. (This is my personal take on the history.)
This is not to say Taiwan is ugly. It isn't. But I am positive the Portuguese had beheld islands seemingly more deserving of that name while on their voyages.
So then, why is it rugged? The short answer is out of necessity. Taiwan is comprised mostly of mountains. They rise from nothing to thousands of meters like cliffs. In fact, Taiwan is home to the highest mountain in East Asia, YuShan, at some 3,950 meters. This mountain rises from the ocean floor to its highest peak, an altitude gain of 8,000 meters, in just about 100 kilometers.
There are so many mountains because underneath the island exists a kind of haphazard mess of tectonic plates and belts and terranes. This complex, chaotic "system" leads, of course, to many, many earthquakes. (There have been three or four in the few weeks I have been back on the island. During the last one I was watching a movie in my room and only after thirty seconds of constant rumbling wondered whether I should get up from my bed.)
And then, of course, there are the typhoons. Taiwan is not the only country that has to deal with the buggers, but they can be a serious burden. The last big one, Morakot, produced 1.4 meters of rain in 24 hours and 2.7 meters within 72 hours. This, in conjunction with Taiwan's mountains, was a perfect recipe for mudslides which wiped out bridges, eroded foundations under roads, washed away entire towns, flooded cities and destroyed several tea crops. Aside from the rain typhoons bring, it can get quite windy.
According to locals there are in fact four seasons here. Perhaps this is true, but summer absolutely dominates, and spring and fall could not be more than several weeks. Unfortunately, the typhoons and the blistering hot sun are packed into the same unrelenting season: summer. Most Taiwanese wear jackets and long sleeves in 35 degree Celsius weather, when the humidity is between 85 and 100 per cent in order to save their skin. And why bother to repaint the outside of your house if it is just going to blister and peel away from all the elements within a year?
The paint is not the only thing that gets neglected, though. All these natural elements - mountains, earthquakes, typhoons, sun, etc. - not only define the natural landscape, but are so prominent and ever present that they delimit the infrastructure and aesthetics of the cities. Upon my arrival in Taiwan I was struck how tile dominated the cityscape. Well, it turns out it is probably more attractive than concrete, the only viable alternative. Other materials such as wood just would not hold up. The strength of nature here simply demands that she be heeded.
Plants and animals, as well as architects, must adapt. The elements have exactly the same effect in the countryside, and upon my first trip into the mountains I was very disappointed. Compared to my native Washington the scenery simply did not compare. The shrubbery and trees were dark, dense, universally green and brown, and nearly indistinguishable. Like the white square tiles on the outsides of the buildings, the plants covering the mountains seemed to have one purpose: survival.
Becoming increasingly aware of this universal trait, I began to seek it out. I found it in buildings and flowerpots, mountains and trees, but also in society and people, particularly the elder generation. Old men riding rusted motorcycles without shoes and missing teeth, carrying large canisters of propane to and fro. An elder lady who opens every day for business - no weekends, no holidays; typhoon or no, customers or not. The person who collects the trash in a trailer attached to a single speed bicycle - one time I literally could not see her because of all the garbage bags enveloping her. She had become a part of the moving pile of rubbish.
Of course the construction of Taiwanese society has not blossomed solely from earthquakes and typhoons, but the effects I think are indubitable.
The thing is, while rugged and beautiful often have quite different meanings, in the case of Taiwan I see beauty not despite, but because of the ruggedness. One morning during those very few weeks that constitute spring, I was waiting at a stoplight when I noticed the trees were full of little yellow flowers. Literally overnight they had blossomed. They were not dominant. They were more like an accent to the background of green, but they stood out. They were bright, pristine, and fragile. And they were ephemeral.
Were it not for the constant rugged norm, I may not have noticed them, but that morning they really struck me. And they were not alone. In the coming days other flowers came and went as well, and I saw them too in a new light.
The man made creations, also, have a subtle beauty that I have slowly come to realize. I do not think it is intentional, but rather by necessity there is a lack of showiness in the design of most things. Taipei 101 aside, many buildings fall into the background noise, and the focus turns to what they contain (and do not contain). Everyone has the same iron door, and the same concrete walls and the same tile flooring. But some restaurants have good food and some do not. Nobody frowns if you go to dinner at a place with fluorescent lights, cockroaches at the front door, foldable chairs and unadorned walls; everyone smiles, however, if the food tastes good. Atmosphere is created by people and fills a space that might otherwise be taken by golden chandeliers and silk tablecloths. (There is of course something nice about intricate woodwork and grand staircases, but there can be a hidden beauty in the lack thereof as well.)
And the people. I know the man on the rusted motorcycle was missing teeth only because his smile was so large, talking to me in Taiwanese and not minding that I did not understand his words because his message was already clear. The lady that is open every day does not seem the least bit upset about it. On the contrary, whenever I go there to eat she seems joyed to be able to serve me. Yes, the people are the most rugged of all. Taiwan has been tossed from country to country, more recently endured its own social and political trials, deals with more than its fair share of natural disasters, and yet sincerity and generosity persist among the vast majority of the people I have encountered here.
Taiwan is rugged. To survive on this island requires toughness and a strong constitution, it demands effort and endurance. But it is because of this ruggedness that the Portuguese were silly, not wrong. They could not know, from a passing glance, the beauty this island contains. The necessity of ruggedness on the island demands that hubris be pushed aside: the beauty here is modest, slow to emerge, and demands patience from the observer. But it is also long lasting and powerful. I imagine the name Ilha Formosa will stick for quite some time.
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