Where Alcatraz Meets Acapulco
Taiwan’s Prison Island, and the Spring Breakers Who Keep It Afloat
Well, I’ve already failed to publish on my self-imposed schedule of every three-ish weeks, but Unmusable is (finally) back with a long post about Green Island, the site of Taiwan’s most famous offshore prison. Because I’ve been told that longer emails don’t always make it into inboxes, I’m experimenting this time with breaking the post into sections. Even though this is a long one, I’d love if you still clicked through, at least long enough to look at the photos!
Contents:
Part I: On Navigation
Part II: On Nightmares
Part III: On Nostalgia and Nation
The vomiting began about 40 minutes into the ferry ride.
The boisterousness of the crowd heading to Green Island (Lü dao 綠島) had proven to be inversely related to the size of the swells over which our little ferry labored. By the time the first bilious attack struck, the silence in the cabin rendered the gradually intensifying gastrointestinal tribulations of our fellow passenger distinctly audible.
The motion sickness bags that were hung ostentatiously and ominously on every support pillar in the cabin were transparent, presumably to facilitate detailed data collection on the subject of sub-optimal pre-departure meals. As someone who does not intend to become a regular passenger of this ferry, I chose to content myself with the sonic elements of the trip’s histrionic hurling.
I will confess, this opportunity to compare stylistic and technical elements of various up-chuckings was a first for me. The trailblazer who first parted ways with his lunch began to retch in a drawn-out, bassy heave that lasted an improbably long time, and made me worry as much for his need to inhale as for any digestive distress in which he found himself. Several minutes later, he was joined in his abdominal convulsions by another, more tenorial groan that emanated wetly from several rows away. Shortly thereafter, two distinctly trebly members of our expedition accidentally followed our ferry down the descending side of a particularly large wave, even as their pre-departure snacks continued on their inertial upward trajectory.
Not to be deterred by a stomach newly relieved of its burdens, our original bass soloist continued on in his performance with ever greater gusto (though his dry-heaving never entirely drowned out the more percussive interjections of the trip’s alto and soprano contributions). Starting with the deep drone of the ferry engines, passing through the first bassy evacuations of the low-pitched opening solo, and continuing through a collective crescendo that culminated in the blaringly brassy (albeit briefer) barfings of the ensemble’s treble registers, the final effect was a performance of Thus Spewed Zarathustra that would have done even the most committed member of the Portsmouth Sinfonia proud. It might even have seemed funny had I not been actively convinced of impending doom. (I had heard in advance that the trip to Green Island was not for the faint of heart, and I discovered en route that everyone was referring to me. I am the the faint of heart. Indeed, had the option availed itself, I would have gladly, like bravely bold Sir Robin, “bravely taken to my feet and beat a very brave retreat.”)
Why had I willingly paid money to lock myself into this vessel-cum-vomitorium? Well, my destination, a small island 35km off the shore from Taiwan’s east-coast city of Taitung, is home to the former political prison from which stems the island’s notoriety. Today, the decommissioned prison is part of Taiwan’s National Human Rights Museum 國家人權博物館, with exhibits and educational programs designed to increase awareness and preserve the memory of Taiwan’s White Terror. My simple goal was to take in the framings and remembrances of one of the darkest epochs in modern Taiwanese history, and to visit the concrete memorialization whose very existence is a testament to the country’s democratization.
I had assumed that many visitors would share my goal. What I found instead was a small island of between 3,000 and 4,000 residents whose economy is kept afloat by spring breakers attracted to the combination of affordable accommodation, beach town kitsch, scuba diving, and a nearly car-free environment perfectly suited to carefree scooter loops around the island’s single main road.
There is one more layer to the incongruous experience of visiting this Alcatraz-meets-Acapulco (or is it more concentration-camp-meets-Cancún?) This final element is the fact that the politics of the island remain deeply blue, to the point that residents have never elected a non-KMT mayor.
Between the memorial to political prisoners, the low but steady levels of inebriation amongst my fellow tourists, and the island’s distinctive political backdrop, Green Island provided a microcosm of some of the thorniest tensions in contemporary Taiwanese society. Ultimately, this short foray proved to be far more than a simple trip to a museum. Rather, my time on the island provided a snapshot of the tensions, anxieties, and memories that lurk behind contemporary discussions of Taiwan’s status and identity.
On Navigation
If getting to the island was a somewhat harrowing experience, post-arrival navigation proved extremely simple. I and my traveling companion Ryan were picked up at the dock by the married couple that operates our guesthouse.1 After cheerily agreeing with us that the ferry can be a bit of a tub of terror, the wife tried to convince me to rent a scooter, despite my protestations that I don’t currently have a valid license. (She assured me, “Americans always learn to ride scooters quickly!”) After convincing her that my own two feet were happily planted on terra firma, and that I was content to walk the 40-ish minutes to the guesthouse, she switched gears and hustled us into the guesthouse van.
After unloading at the guesthouse, we were asked if we needed to rent scuba equipment. My repeated assertion that we had as little need for scuba equipment as for a scooter was met with some bemusement: “So, you’re not getting a scooter, and you’re not going diving. Why are you here?” My reply that I was there to visit the prison elicited a certain resigned acceptance.
Looking at her watch, the owner of the guesthouse suggested that, if we didn’t dawdle, we might still clock an hour or so at the prison museum. And so, armed with a strangely detailed set of directions given that there is only one road on most of the island, we set out in the direction of Taiwan’s most notorious prison.
If you do a South Park and “follow the only road,” you will find yourself walking on a well maintained two-lane street that alternately bends towards breathtaking views of the rocky shoreline and wends between the island’s ubiquitous guesthouses, scuba schools, and general stores. The beach town vibe is only occasional broken up by detours past makeshift landfills piled with castaway washers, driers, and scrap metal. (You will also pass a goat on the inland side of the street—read to the end of the article to see a photo of this ruminant landmark.)
The route between the guesthouse and the prison suggests an island in transition. Several lots seem either to be abandoned or drifting slowly in that direction. Many of the relatively spartan inns exude the same kind of comfortably shabby nostalgia that characterizes the blue nostalgia restaurants I sometimes eat at in the Taipei area, perhaps owing in part to flaking layers of the same Tatung green paint that adorns many blue nostalgia eateries. Larger establishments in various stages of completion, and outfitted in generically stylish shades of granite, rub shoulders with older B&Bs. The architectural incongruities that frequently result seem to signal a shift toward a more bourgeois aesthetic.
The degree to which my destination was out of step with the average visitor to the island was made clear by the holiday-goers we passed en route, many of whom I recognized from the ferry ride to the island. On scooters, with an air of carefree revelry that occasionally flirted with inebriation, several of the pairs we passed had adopted poses straight out of a Taiwanese road film, with the driver keeping their hands on the scooter’s handlebars and their eyes (mostly) on the road, while the rear passenger rode with arms outstretched to catch the wind.
Shortly before arriving at the museum proper, you will pass a public green space built around a monument that marks the boundary of the Green Island White Terror Memorial Park 白色恐怖綠島紀念園區, of which the museum is one part. On my way to the museum, it was deserted; on the way back, it was occupied by an athleisure-clad middle-aged couple engaged in a completely candid but extremely elaborate sunset photo shoot—perhaps not the most reverent of activities, given the nature of the park, but it is an undeniably beautiful spot.
Finally, concrete walls inscribed with thought reform slogans of a bygone era announce one’s arrival at the prison-turned-museum. A jaunt up a short flight of stairs, through a pair of rather mundanely bureaucratic glass doors, and you’re in.
After much waffling, I have opted not to identify the guesthouse here. On the one hand, it was a fantastic place to stay, with clean, comfortable rooms, a great location, and an unfailingly generous, welcomingly gregarious family of operators. At the same time, some of our later discussions touched on sensitive political issues. As such, I have opted to lightly anonymize the owners.
That said, I would wholeheartedly recommend this guesthouse to anyone heading to Green Island. If you find yourself heading that way, and you’re looking for a good place to stay, please feel free to be in touch, and I’ll be happy to provide contact details for the guesthouse.