Mo Mo
Being of Dutch descent allowed me to play a drinking bet with the local Chinese. I would bet them that my ancestors were on the island of Taiwan before their ancestors were. Most Chinese would guffaw and think I was putting them on, but when they saw I was serious about the bet, they took me up. `When did your ancestors arrive on the island then?’ I would ask. Even the oldest Chinese families couldn’t trace their origin to before Koxinga’s arrival in 1645. But the Chinese immigrants from the mainland first had to get rid of the Dutch, my ancestors, which kept me in free beer.
I could win this bet with anyone but one of the Shan Di Ren. But of course, I would never bet with one anyway. The Shan Di Ren are the aborigines of Taiwan having inhabited the island since the early Indo-China bronze age. They are, once accustomed to the oriental facial characteristics, a quiet distinct and recognizable racial type. They are small-boned, well proportioned, and if exposed to the sun, their skin becomes the shade of smooth bronze. A thirty-year-old woman would have the size and shape of a thirteen-year-old Caucasian girl. Their facial features range from Polynesian through Malayan to Chinese. In ancient times, before China and Japan took any interest in the island, the aboriginals were roughly divided into two groups: the plains dwellers of Malaysian stock mixed with ancient Chinese Miao and later Hakka blood, and the purer Malayan stock that lived in the wilderness and practiced the age-old arts of tattooing and headhunting.
It was the head hunters that always got everyone into trouble.
It seems every so often, some shipwrecked sailors would wash up on the island and end up as trophies in the headman’s hut. This would enrage the sailor’s home countries who, under the pretense of seeking retribution, would try to take over the entire island. First, the Chinese from across the strait in Fukien, then the Portuguese, then the Dutch, then the Japanese, then the Chinese again, then the British and American, then the Japanese again. All were invited to invade the island under the pretext of bringing a stop to the barbaric practice. All failed to keep the island. Throughout its history, Taiwan has belonged to China for more time than to any other country, and so Taiwan was considered something of a distant province of China, though not until the last century did China care or even recognize the existence of the island. The Japanese took the island in 1895, and through their efforts, headhunting was finally eradicated. However, stories of the occasional head gone missing still appear from time to time in the local papers.
After the fall of the Ming Dynasty in 1644 and the arrival of Koxinga, Chinese, mostly Fukienese from the mainland, began pouring in. They forced the aboriginal tribes out of the fertile plains and into the highlands where they got their designation as `Mountain People.’ The highlands were less fertile, and the living conditions harsher. Starvation, disease, exploitation, interbreeding, and some indiscriminate slaughter took its toll. After three hundred years, the aborigines were the confirmed losers in the battle of expanding populations and have become an embarrassing minority.
Most live in reservations in the more remote counties of central and southern Taiwan. All but a few reservations are typical of those found in North America. Dirt roads through lonely woods would lead to a scattering of unfinished plywood housing units rotting in a barren landscape. Dogs breed among rusted-out hulks of Nissan pick-up trucks. Oil barrels sit next to shacks to collect rainwater for washing. Dirty half-naked children play amongst the garbage, dazed by the sheer monotony of it all. The senses, deprived of new stimulation, shut down. People don’t notice much because there’s nothing much to notice. Chinese schoolchildren and church groups would occasionally make a day trip to one of the reservations. Each child equipped with a toothbrush and bar of soap was instructed to teach ‘the savages’ the rudiments of personal hygiene.
Then there are a couple of reservations that Chinese and Japanese tourists go to. Well paved roads lead to air-conditioned visitor centers where aboriginal handicrafts and souvenirs are sold. A grandstand, in the design of a wooden palisade, stages entertainment native style. Thirty-six village maidens sing and dance in complete synchrony—each identically dressed in colorful costumes, headdresses, and leggings of colored cloth and rabbit fur. Then the men, war paint and loincloths, drums beating, dance the dance of the hunters, re-enacting the ancient tribal custom of headhunting.
Even if that particular tribe had never practiced the custom, it didn’t matter, headhunting was what they were infamous for, and head hunters are what the tourists want to see. Afterward, Chinese office clerks can have their pictures taken with one of the males dressed in loincloth and face paint as he poses, machete aimed at the clerk’s neck. Every tourist had a grandmother back in the city that would see the picture and say, ” Wha? Were you not afraid to be so close to a headhunter? Why I read in the paper just the other day that three tourists were found without their heads!”
Looking down from their dark misty mountains, the city lights in the distant horizon beckoned the mountain people like moths to a flame. In increasing numbers, they were drawn down into the cities where many were ground up like a rat in a lawn mover, their bones thrown back up into the mountains to be buried in the village plot. Mountain folk were second-class citizens. There were few openings for them in management. Mostly they sold their bodies. The unattractive men and women found work as robots in factories and assembly lines. However, many aboriginal women were extraordinarily beautiful and thus prized as prostitutes and ‘Little Wives.’ One never saw a pretty girl on the reservation or the factory floor. Others, those who didn’t fit into either the roles of beast of burden, or sex kitten, chose to drink away the recognition of their futile existence, and who could blame them.
Mark and I were at the Uptown Club situated on Juong Shan Bei Liu, the main drag. It was around four in the morning. We had made the usual rounds at our favorite watering holes, and the Up-Town was the last stop before an early night home. It was a Monday. At this time of night, a few of the triads were hanging around, but they paid us no attention. Christine and Mo Mo were sitting by themselves. Richard had warned me to stay away from what he called the Midget Bitches since they were the daughters of Mountain women and unknown Chinese fathers making them Yiban Ren, half-breeds – despised by both races.
There were four in all, and they all looked like sisters. All were under five feet tall with wide flat faces, and high cheekbones made adorable by pixie-like features and small white teeth. Their eyes were larger than Chinese eyes, and their skin tanned and smooth. What made them attractive was in the way they moved. There wasn’t a hint of self-consciousness. They moved sensuously without it appearing affected the way women usually do when they want to look sensuous. Neither could have weighed more than ninety pounds. Talk among the boys was that their light weight allowed you to hold them up by the waist and while standing up, raise and lower them repeatedly onto your penis as though you were jerking off with both hands. Others claimed that while sitting on your lap, they could raise their legs up behind their heads so you could spin them like a top. Hence their moniker – spinners.
Mark, Bogo, and I had worked out a fair way of divvying up the ladies. Whoever claimed dibs on a particular girl first, got her. Mark picked Christine before I had a chance to even decide between the two. We smiled and waved across the room, they did the same. We went to their table carrying our beers. The triad boys glanced our way for a moment, then went back to their conversations. It didn’t take Mark and me long to figure out the girls had divvied us up as well. I was Mo Mo’s.
I thought Mo Mo to have been in her late twenties, but Richard had said she was past forty.
“She’s been around since the days American G.I.’s came to Taipei for beer and pussy before going back into the jungles of Vietnam,” explained Richard.
We were sitting in the Shaolin Pub a few weeks earlier. I was listening to Richard’s gossip. He always had the best gossip and seemed to know everyone’s dirty laundry. I remembered Richard had mentioned something about Mo Mo’s first American boyfriend died in a motorcycle accident fifteen years ago. There were unspoken implications that suggested the death wasn’t entirely accidental.
“So what’s the story about Mo Mo’s dead boyfriend,” I asked.
“Its a strange story man. He was U.S. infantry stationed in Taiwan shortly after the Vietnam war. He made serious money selling K.P. goods on the black market. That’s how he was able to afford a Harley. You know that all imported motorcycles have a two hundred percent import duty?”
I shook my head.
“That’s why you don’t see anything bigger than a 125 cc. its the only motor they manufacture on the island.” Richard continued.
“Well anyway, here he is this big American riding around on his big Harley and stomping any gook that got in his way. He pissed a lot of people off. He did something to piss off some local Liu Mang (gangsters), and one day when he and Mo Mo were riding down the street, another motorcycle was coming towards him. Just as they passed, the guy on the back of the oncoming motorcycle swung a baseball bat and caved in his skull. Mo Mo caught a handlebar across the throat when they crashed, and they had to do a tracheotomy. The Doctors of course fucked it up, which is why Mo Mo talks like she does. But her boyfriend didn’t make it.”
Richard swallowed his beer and yelled for another. Wendy came over, all smiles showing her perfect capped teeth, ample breasts pressing against a tight metallic purple party dress trimmed in pink brocade. Batting her fake eyelashes, she asked in a girlish voice. “You Smacky want another drink too?”
“No, what I really want is you, screaming my name as you dig your fingernails into my back.”
I said with absolute truth.
“Smack, you not rich enough for me. I very expensive girlfriend. You have to pay my apartment, and buy my dresses, and give me lots of spending money every day.”
“Do you ever do any charity work?”
“No Chinese no give charity, you so silly. I get you another Vodka.” And off she went without confirmation. I had switched my drink from whisky to Vodka after I started teaching Angel.
Richard nudged me. I followed his stare over to a young Chinese woman no older than twenty, cute, perky, bubbly.
“Who’s she?” I asked, knowing it was just the latest in Richard’s endless list of conquests.
“That’s Candy. She just started working here.” Richard said while trying to hold back a smug smile.
“Fresh meat, huh.” It was an unspoken gentleman’s agreement to not mention Richard’s wife Charley when he was chasing skirt.
Richard motioned her over, working his routine. Richard had his way with women too. He was a bad influence and let all the girls know it. Since most women are irresistibly attracted to the wrong type of man, Richard used his reputation to good advantage. Richard was tall and lean and quite handsome with masculine features and curly chestnut brown hair, and this drew them even more. His method was to make overt advances on the new girls and then wait a few days until all the other women had warned the potential target off.
Of course, the more the other girls warned the newcomer off such a notorious womanizer, the more intrigued they became. They all thought they would be the one to change him into a decent, or at least a monogamous man. After a couple of days, they couldn’t wait to get foolishly involved with Richard and become the center of the other girl’s concern. As Richard chatted up Candy I noticed her body language. She was leaning forward, rocking back and forth from toes to heels, eyes gleaming. It was obvious Richard had her entranced. After Candy excused herself to go serve some customers, Richard returned to the conversation.
“Where were we?” he said.
“Mo Mo’s accident.”
“So why are you so interested in Mo Mo? You’re not planning on fucking her?
I made an expression of thoughtfulness.
“Stay away from those bitches. They’re trouble.” Said Richard with faux concern
“Yes, Mommy.”
Mo Mo’s most memorable quality was her voice. It was low and gruff and required a lot of air to make it work. When I first heard her speak, I thought she was imitating a pirate’s `Arrrh me matey.’ It was a full ten minutes before I realized she wasn’t putting me on and that that harsh barking sound coming from that petite little body was truly her own.
“So, are you ladies on your own tonight?” Began Mark, somewhat self-conscious of using such a cliché line yet feeling that anything more clever would be lost in translation anyway.
“Sure, sit down, don’t worry,” said Mo Mo. Christine giggled.
Mark sat down opposite Christine, I, Mo Mo.
“I’m Mark, and this is Smack.”
“Yea. We know you guy. This Christine and I’m Mo Mo.” Said Mo Mo. Mark looked surprised.
“We heard about you too,” I said, coming to Mark’s rescue since he was a little put off by the revelation that our reputation preceded us.
“What did you hear? We are bad girls?” Mo Mo cocked her head like a fighter loosening up.
“I heard you girls are trouble.” I paused. They would worry that I’m about to insult them and are preparing to counter-attack, which will get their heart rate up and adrenalin flowing – the endocrine cocktail for love.
“ Many men fall in love and break their hearts over you.” I tried out my bullshit charm. Dale had taught me that trick. Just flatter them, and no matter how outrageous, so long as you held a straight face, they’d buy it.
“Ha! You heard that?” Mo Mo barked and snarled her lip in disbelief.
” Yes. I heard that because of your great beauty, every man wants you, but when you turn them down, they can never love again.” I fought to keep a straight face.
” Wha say! So much bullshit! I never hear so much bullshit before. I better be careful around you. Such sweet talk bullshit. You fuck many girlfriend with that sweet talk neh?“ Mo Mo chattered like an excited chipmunk.
“Yes, It’s true I fuck many girls with sweet talk only one difference.” I paused.
“What difference?”
“With all those other girls I lied.” I lied.
“Ha! Now I know you some bullshit artist, no you worse, you the fucking devil.“ Mo Mo had learned most of her English from Vietnam war vets.
“We all have our faults.” I shrugged innocently.
“Hey, don’t worry, I like you anyway, Gan Bei.” Said Mo Mo as she lifted her beer bottle. I lifted mine and we clunked bottles, “ Bottoms up.” By this time, Mark had engaged Christine in similar bullshit small talk. We continued with the small talk for a few more minutes, but the loud music made it difficult. Much of the time was spent looking around. I would look around the room, and whenever I looked at Mo Mo, I would catch her looking at me. She would give me a big grin, then, embarrassed; she would nod her head, lift her beer, and say Shuay-I – cheers.
I ended up driving Mo Mo home on the back of my bike since she lived in the same suburb as I did. There was a strange feeling in the air as we rode back. It was cool, and the fog had descended from the mountains as it does every morning around that time. Once out of the city, the streets were dark and deserted. The fog enveloped us, swirling and spinning off in small eddies as the bike cut its way through. The scenery passed by in a blur of blue and grey watercolored images. There was a slate smell in the air that warned of approaching rain.
We pulled up at a nondescript two-story strip mall built in the 1950s. The first floor was covered over with roll-down corrugated steel doors. Above the deserted and silent stores were the apartments. Through a narrow door between two steel-clad storefronts, Mo Mo and I made our way up the stairs. The apartment was dark. Mo Mo put a finger to her lips as we tiptoed through the hall to her room. I followed her through the door and shut it behind me. Mo Mo went about the room turning on lights. First, the ceiling light that had only a red light bulb. Then a red Lava lamp on her dresser, then a black-light that hung above two black-light posters, one a Peter Max illustration from the Yellow Submarine movie, the other, the twelve sexual positions of the Zodiac. I noted that the position for my sign was a kneeling version of a sixty-nine.
Finally, the soft yellow light from her nightstand brought some semblance of reality to the scene. I sat on the bed. On the dresser was a wood carving of a hand rising from the ground with the middle finger extended in the position known as the bird. Love beads, and a peace symbol on a chain was draped around the saluting hand. Mo Mo went to the dresser and lit a large candle and used it to light some sandalwood incense. She then put a cassette into her mini player and removed some objects from an ebony jewelry box. She sat back down. The Doors were playing `Riders on the Storm’.
It began to rain outside. Mo Mo rolled a huge joint out of cigarette papers that were printed to resemble the U.S. hundred dollar bills. She retrieved a silver Zippo lighter from the night table and lit the joint. Taking a couple of quick puffs, Mo Mo inserted the lit end of the joint into her mouth, sealed her lips around it, and beckoned me to come close – shotgun. She grabbed my face with both hands and pulled me close to her mouth. I inhaled a monstrous stream of smoke that continued to pour out of Mo-Mo’s mouth even after I had pulled away.
Mo Mo’s room was a time capsule. It was the strangest dichotomy I had ever experienced. This little bedroom above a Chinese grocery store in a suburb of Taipei was Haight-Ashbury circa 1969.
Mo Mo was a forty-something, Harley riding, Chinese hippy chick, with black-lights and Jimmy Hendrix posters on her walls.
On the night table, under the lamp, was a photo in a golden frame. The old flame, no doubt. I reached over and picked up the photo.
“So this was your old man eh?”
“Yea, he was a crazy asshole, just like you.”
But he was more than just a crazy asshole like me, he was me, or he would be if he were still alive and ten years younger. The man in the picture could have been my twin brother, same dirty blond hair and blue eyes, same drooping mustache, same six foot one, two hundred pound frame. In the photo, he was sitting proudly on his gleaming red Harley Sportster with a much younger and happier looking Mo Mo perched on the back wearing Daisy Dukes, white Go-Go boots, and a red sequined halter top. I thought how strange it is that specific patterns and dramas repeat themselves.
There were a million stories in the big city, but that number was finite. Eventually, they all have to be retold again and again. I had come close to killing myself on my motorcycle too. I knew what he was like alright. Maybe we should die young, much more romantic, and you wouldn’t have to deal with all that nasty business of growing old.
I found it painful to look at the photo. All those dreams, the plans for the future, happy ever after, now all gone, never to return. Had he lived, they would have grown apart and probably learned to hate each other naturally like everyone else. Yet to have died at the height of a romance immortalizes you for eternity. No living man could ever fill those shoes the same way again. I put down the picture frame with its haunting image of another time, another world. Now I knew why Mo Mo looked at me with those misty eyes.
I was her old boyfriend come back from the dead.
Mo Mo looked at me and smiled. “Hey! Be nice!” she said in a raspy voice. It was Mo-Mo’s favorite phrase. She knew what I had seen. She could see how it un-nerved me, how I could feel her loss.
We finished the joint and the wine while making small talk. For a moment, I had seen behind her mask, but the vulnerability it exposed was too painful. The small talk was aimed at shoring up the walls. Shortly afterward, and without any further confirmation of our shared understanding, I said goodnight.
