I’d heard—and rightly so—about the incredible kindness of Taiwanese people. I had just spent a few weeks in Korea, a country of teddy bears, where the locals loved telling me about a place full of… more teddy bears. It was going in circles.
So I arrived in Taipei with stars in my eyes, ready to face all that generosity. Yet, surprisingly, the guard posted in front of the presidential palace wasn’t exactly courteous. And then, the countless military vehicles really struck me. Have you ever seen a teddy bear driving a tank?
I spent most of my evenings in a bar along a very large avenue. I’d go alone and always find company—men, women, it didn’t matter as long as I could blend into this new country, discover its people, their culture, their history.
The heat made me sweat nonstop, my beard had grown back, I was wearing a black T-shirt as worn-out as possible, and my face bore the marks of several months in Russia and Korea. In short, I looked like the perfect globetrotter—the kind I’d probably dreamed of being as a kid.
So there I was, sitting at the bar, deep in conversation with a Taiwanese friend, when a fight broke out between an Italian and an American—two drunk, stupid beasts. Shouting, shoving, we kicked them out.
Well, *we* didn’t. My friend didn’t move; I was the only one who reacted, letting my temper get the better of me.
He looked at me and said, without malice, that white guys had also fought two days earlier.
I turned my head toward the room—I was the only foreigner. I was used to it, but tonight was different. The looks in the mirror were full of distrust. I felt like an idiot for all the others. I felt like an idiot.
I said goodbye to my friend; I was convinced I’d never see him again.
As I headed toward my hostel, my brain was racing. Asia had confronted me with a side of travel I didn’t know. I’d always managed to blend in, to go unnoticed, but when your features and skin color prevent that, the game changes.
And this hyper-globalization, this hyper-communication, the fact that poor guys like me can enjoy travel—is it really a good thing? Does it create an expectation, a need for a mass of tourists who couldn’t care less about the country they’re visiting? No, really, I felt like an idiot.
And then all those damn tanks, and what’s with those dozen tents in front of the presidential palace? It intrigued me. It was late, but there was movement.
Hey!
Hey! How are you?
Good, just a little drunk.
Ha ah aha!
What are you doing here? Why are there so many military personnel around you?
Ha ha ah! You can come if you want!
Oh really?
Yeah, yeah!
I climbed over the fence and learned. I learned that in the mountains to the east of the island, the island’s natives still live. I learned that their culture is disappearing, that they themselves are disappearing. That nothing is being done to preserve the very origin of this country. That all those tanks and military personnel were there for about thirty cheerful troublemakers who had made the trip. Because by being there, they were announcing: *Yes, we’re still here.*
I spent the rest of the evening with them until early morning. They showed me how to weave my own shoes (flip-flops), plied me with endless coffee, laughed when a cop took my picture and I shouted, *Yes, I’m a French spy*, and gave me a bracelet.
I left with a new look in my eyes.
This trip will end as it began, but the next one will be different. I’ll be prepared; it won’t just be an escape or an adventure.
Travelers destroy more than they preserve—it’s not easy to tip the scales, but I’m going to try anyway.
