Syaman Rapongan (Tao): Part I

The latest novel (August 2012) by 'the one and only ocean literature writer among the 1.3 billion Mandarin speakers', so Syaman Rapongan always described himself when we traveled in New Zealand. At that time, I sensed his strong belief in that statement, and now after reading this latest work of his, I believe that is actually an understatement. 

Set against the background of modern Lanyu (Pongso no Tao or the Island of Tao People), a small islet lying to the southeastern coast of Taiwan, the story starts with the monologue of an elderly giant trevally (cilat in Tao) hungrily and nostalgically searching for food and reconnection with the past. 

This crafty personification of a talking fish is according to Syaman a rather common way of narration among the Tao who have learned to live upon the sea and its creature since generations. Even more surprisingly, as he also discovered throughout the writing of this story, is that both men and women on the island are equally familiar with the technique as well as the story of the sea.

"How was my mother to know that at night, flying fishes fly to flee from predatory fishes that tail after their shadows intending to kill and always happen to be ready with a big open mouth to swallow them as they fall into the sea? This is true, but who told her?" (p. 186, my translation. "母親怎麼知道飛魚夜間遁逃飛行，掠食大魚會跟蹤飛魚影子追殺，在飛魚落海的剎那間大於恰好張大嘴巴吞食，這是事實，誰告訴她的呢？)

Traditionally, Tao women are prevented from activities related to fishing, diving, plank boat building or even the beachhead where their men's canoes lie rest. They take care of the taro, yam or sweet potatoes in the field and handle the fishes their men bring home.  The only way for Syaman's mother to learn about the fishes is through the countless times of sitting next to men and listening to their brags and feats. She listened, observed, remembered and retold the story from her own mouth. This is an exciting new perspective, through which not only can the oceanic philosophy of the Tao be reframed by the female but the often critiqued male-dominance in Syaman's works can also be balanced somehow.

(a handsome and lonely trevally; they swim either with their partner or alone when the partner is no longer with them. p. 9.)

It will also be too lonely if the whole story goes on and on about a giant trevally, his hunger and the law of the sea. The fish's monologue and victory in a life-and-death battle in fact heralds the story of a Tao elder, Siapen Omalam or the grandfather of Omalam. 

This is where I consider that statement of Syaman being 'the one and only ocean literature writer among the 1.3 billion Mandarin speakers' as understated. If he has written only about ocean and aquatic life, that statement might be adequate. What sets him apart from other lovers or writers of the sea is his consistent concern about his people (the Tao) and their future being encroached upon by modernity that does not leave much room for tradition and indigeneity. While the fishes under his pen demonstrate a law of the sea as cruel as that of the jungle where the weak always surrender to the strong, the struggles of the Tao at every aspect of their life and almost of every age level indicate a similar law practiced by the humans and commonly known as colonialism. 

Siapen Omalam is a grandfather at his sixty. He raised his children and grandchildren in traditional Tao ways and had never had to doubt the value of this simple but down-to-earth way of living until he lost the battle with the giant trevally, learned about the regrets of his eldest daughter which he could never mend again, looked at the future of his mix-blood grandson Omalam that was beyond his power to grasp and received a Chinese girl in the house who returned to Taiwan from a break of her PhD study of Christianity in England.

As the story gradually unfolds, one sees an inevitable compromise [or rather a clever adaptation of modernity or in between?] of an indigenous culture. Though Siapen Omalam taught Omalam with all his heart about fishing and boat building, he nevertheless did not expect his grandson to continue his way of living. Before the story ends, it is clear that the boy will leave Lanyu to study in Taiwan and may become a pilot eventually. His grandfather will not stop him. Interestingly, at the moment when Siapen Omalam and his wife returned to peace, the giant trevally gave up his last breath to another young diver from the village, a successor to Siapen Omalam.

All these episodes can be fully developed for their meanings and symbols in a paper. I have just barely touched upon the tip of this iceberg. 

It does not help to curb my tears to know these stories are actually real on the island Lanyu. Syaman is a blessed writer. He is blessed with a lot of elders and neighbors that share many of their life stories with him, and he also faithfully conveys them on the paper, even though doing so does not bring much sense of achievement neither for him nor for his wife. This morning in that cafe, I literally had to stop my eyes from waters either due to laughter or sentiment just in case I should make a scene, and I seemed to hear Syaman telling me the story from every page as there are so many parts that reflect the writer in real life: the old man (老人, that's how he called himself), inferior being (低等動物或人類, he was relentless about greedy fish or men), fear of violating taboos or of evil spirits, etc.. 

This story is very well-written and real. It shows that stories about indigenous peoples (not exclusively though) may be better discovered than devised. The peoples themselves have undergone enough to be worthy of telling or being told in both literary genres and historical narratives. Nevertheless, the stories are many, yet story tellers too few.

Who will ride his canoe in the middle of the night and paddle alone on a big ocean with only celestial eyes watching from above? There is a life of a Tao fisherman and the life of a lonely writer penning for a serious cause.


ps. mata no angit  in Tao or eyes of the sky or celestial eyes refer to the stars.