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Content Warning: This section of the guide includes discussion of racism, bullying, and emotional abuse.
Hiyoshi Sagako, a wansheng (a Japanese person born in colonial Taiwan) writes the introduction to the 2020 Mandarin edition of Taiwan Travelogue. Her involvement began in 2015 when she learned that translator Yang Jô-hui was searching for the out-of-print 1977 Mandarin edition of the book. Sagako owned both that edition and the Japanese original, and arranged for her contact information to reach Yang through a museum staffer, inadvertently setting the new translation in motion. She was later amused and mildly offended to learn the museum had described her simply as “Japanese.” Under Japanese colonial rule, Sagako explains, the wansheng occupied an unstable middle position: judged as culturally inferior by Japan-born Japanese (referred to in colonial Taiwan as “Mainlanders”), yet distinct from Taiwanese “Islanders.” Sagako characterizes the wansheng as a people without true homeland or social standing, but one whose outsider vantage makes them uniquely positioned to notice things within Aoyama’s novel.
Sagako provides the novel’s context: Aoyama Chizuko was born in 1913, debuted as a writer at 19, and became widely celebrated. In 1938, the Government-General of Taiwan invited her on a lecture tour that Sagako identifies as serving imperialist propaganda ends. Aoyama wrote a series of travel essays resulting from the trip, which preceded her 1954 novel Taiwan Travelogue. The novel centers on Aoyama’s relationship with her interpreter, Wáng Chiēn-hò (Ōng Tshian-hòh in Hokkien, Ō Chizuru in Japanese), and is presented as a work of fiction. Sagako once suspected Wáng was an invented metaphorical device, but eyewitnesses confirmed Wáng was a historical person.
Sagako draws attention to the novel’s 12th and final chapter, “Mitsumame / Fruit and Jelly Ice.” Aoyama’s adopted daughter, Aoyama Yōko, stated in a 1970 afterword that this chapter was absent from the original manuscript. Sagako theorizes that Aoyama added it as a fictionalized apology to Wáng: Aoyama had rewritten the events of a real-life meeting, crafting to achieve a more reconciled ending than what actually occurred. The introduction closes by urging readers to remain conscious of Aoyama’s position as a colonizer throughout the story.
In May 1938, the narrator, Aoyama, arrives in Taichū and is immediately overwhelmed by Kanjō Bridge Avenue, a market district whose parade of unfamiliar goods and languages recalls a magic troupe procession she once witnessed in Nagasaki as a child with her Aunt Kikuko.
Through flashbacks, Aoyama explains how she came to be in Taiwan. After her the film adaptation of her novel A Record of Youth succeeded at the box office, a magazine editor offered to fund a South Pacific trip in exchange for serialized propaganda supporting the Southern Expansion Policy. Aoyama refused, but the exchange lodged Taiwan in her imagination. Unable to afford an extended stay independently, she appealed without success to her aunt. Her funding problem was solved when the Nisshinkai women’s organization and the Government-General of Taiwan issued a joint invitation covering all costs, motivated by the warm reception her film A Record of Youth had received from Taiwanese audiences.
Aoyama travels to Taichū on her own, buying food from platform vendors along the way. She asks a ticket collector where Islanders shop and is directed to Kanjō Bridge Avenue. While attempting to buy an unfamiliar fruit from a young vendor, she becomes entangled in a miscommunication over packaging. A petite young woman with dimples resolves the confusion in flawless Japanese. The vendor expresses gratitude by giving Aoyama a packet of kue-tsí (small roasted seeds). The woman demonstrates how to bite through the shell to reach the edible kernel inside. At that moment, Mishima Aizō, a Taichū City Hall staffer, arrives for their 2 pm meeting, which Aoyama has entirely forgotten. She is taken away by taxi, and the young woman quietly disappears.
At the Takada residence in Muhō, Aoyama meets members of the Nisshinkai before attending a lavish banquet at a Mainlander-oriented restaurant. Though the food is impressive, it is nothing like the authentic Taiwanese street food Aoyama craves. Mishima deflects every request; Aoyama’s host, Madame Takada, later reveals Mishima was once blamed when Mainlander guests fell ill from a local clam dish, noting that only an Islander could properly judge its quality. As a remedy, Madame Takada has engaged a female Islander interpreter to guide Aoyama: Ō Chizuru, a former Japanese-language schoolteacher. Aoyama rushes to the waiting room and immediately recognizes Chizuru as the woman from the market. Chizuru explains she identified Aoyama at the fruit stand and heard about the interpreter position through her sister. She promises to take Aoyama to the market that afternoon for the Taiwanese foods she has been longing to try, and gives her another lesson in eating kue-tsí.
Aoyama sits with Chizuru, whom she privately nicknames “Chi-chan,” taking notes while Chi-chan explains Taiwan’s railway network and the 1935 Great Shinchiku-Taichū Earthquake, which destroyed the renowned Gyotōhei Bridge. Chi-chan also walks her through Taiwan’s ethnic landscape: the Hoklo majority who speak Taiwanese (Hokkien), the Hakka minority with their own distinct dialect, and numerous indigenous tribes, each with separate languages and traditions. When Aoyama asks about Chi-chan’s own heritage, Chi-chan gives a carefully answer expressing imperialist sentiments before confirming that her family is Hoklo.
In June, during the rainy season, Aoyama moves from the Takada residence into a compact one-story Japanese-style cottage beside the Yana River, provided rent-free by Madame Takada. Chi-chan begins visiting twice a week and, well beyond her role as interpreter, arranges climate-appropriate clothing, a library card, bus maps, and a list of suitable restaurants for Aoyama, all before Aoyama has thought to ask for them.
When Chi-chan accompanies Aoyama to a lecture at her own former girls’ high school, a male staff member treats Chi-chan as domestic help and orders her to clean Aoyama’s shoes. Aoyama publicly corrects him, identifying Chi-chan as her interpreter. She later complains about the incident to I-san, a university administrator, only to learn that he had sent Chi-chan home from a university event, seeing her presence as unnecessary. I-san justifies this by noting that Chi-chan is merely a privately hired Islander interpreter from a public school. Furious, Aoyama declines an invitation to a luncheon and returns to the cottage to find Chi-chan there with savory bí-thai-bàk (rice noodles in pork bone broth). Chi-chan had prepared it on the assumption that Aoyama would not enjoy the formal meal. Aoyama finishes the entire pot.
Afterward, Aoyama speaks candidly about her opposition to war propaganda and the social pressure to marry, then formally asks Chi-chan to be her friend. When the rain clears, they sit on the veranda eating lychee while Aoyama explains her philosophy that true travel means living through all four seasons in a foreign place, not rushing between designated sights. She reveals plans to remain in Taiwan a full year and eventually publish a book titled Taiwan Travelogue. Chi-chan supports this, in contrast to cautionary telegrams from Aoyama’s Aunt Kikuko. The chapter ends with Aoyama, struck by Chi-chan’s effortless command of classical quotation and her unreadable composure. Aoyama asks for the privilege of calling her “Chi-chan” aloud.
In Shōka, Aoyama and Chi-chan attend a screening of A Record of Youth followed by a formal banquet, at which Aoyama has no time or space to eat. Chi-chan later leads her to street food on Shōsei Street afterward. In a tearoom, Aoyama fails repeatedly to identify Chi-chan’s professional ambitions.
Two young women, distantly related to Chi-chan, enter the tearoom and direct contemptuous remarks at her in Taiwanese, invoking the term “muâ-inn-thng.” Aoyama confronts them until they leave. When Chi-chan offers to find a replacement interpreter rather than explain, Aoyama insists she is asking as a friend, not scrutinizing her credentials.
While exploring the ancient town of Rokkō, Chi-chan discloses her background. The Ō family are wealthy, long-established Hoklo landowners in Taichū. Chi-chan is the daughter of a concubine whose mother had been a gē-tòa, an entertainer akin to a geisha. Neglected and at times hungry, Chi-chan was sent as a child to live with her mother’s impoverished jute-farming relatives, the origin of the slur “muâ-inn-thng.” She was eventually taken back into favor by a half-sister and is now engaged to a Mainland-educated man, an arrangement her father and sister secured to spare her the worst fates typical of concubines’ daughters.
Aoyama finds this outcome unjust; Chi-chan views it pragmatically as the best available path for someone like herself. Aoyama correctly deduces that the same half-sister arranged the interpreter position to expose Chi-chan to Mainland customs before her wedding. At Aoyama’s request, Chi-chan begins addressing her as “Aoyama-san.”
On the train station platform, Chi-chan confides that her one shared meal with her fiancé was soured by thoughts of the structural inequality in arranged marriages. She doesn’t know of any writer who has captured what women actually feel in such circumstances. Aoyama declares she ought to write a novel for Chi-chan.
On the train home, Chi-chan reads a Han-language novel Aoyama bought her. At Aoyama’s request, she translates aloud a fantastical story about quarreling Taiwanese gods. Listening to Chi-chan’s measured, clear narration, Aoyama suddenly grasps Chi-chan’s true ambition: to become a professional literary translator. A rare brightness in Chi-chan’s otherwise impenetrable expression confirms it.
Back at the cottage, they spend two hours making muâ-inn-thng together, hand-kneading jute leaves and rinsing away the bitter sap before stewing the pulp with yam, anchovy, and rice water. Before they eat, Chi-chan finally explains why she consistently refuses to dine alone with Aoyama: As a subordinate Islander, she will not share a table with a superior Mainlander, only with an equal. Aoyama asks whether they can eat together as two human beings, rather than as writer and interpreter. Chi-chan agrees, now that Aoyama is “Aoyama-san.” They share their first meal as equals: muâ-inn-thng over rice alongside Rokkō meatballs, kiâm-lâ-á clams, and pickled radish. Aoyama finds the bitter soup’s sweet aftertaste unexpectedly satisfying. Chi-chan then quietly clears her entire plate of meatballs at remarkable speed, revealing an appetite equal to Aoyama’s own. Delighted to have found a kindred spirit, Aoyama declares that they must embark on a culinary tour of the entire island. After a brief moment of surprise, Chi-chan nods and grins.
Through a paratextual introduction, the novel foregrounds its status as a work of ambiguous authenticity, establishing the theme of Storytelling as an Act of Historical and Personal Reckoning. Hiyoshi Sagako, a wansheng scholar born in colonial Taiwan, provides an introduction framing Aoyama Chizuko’s text as a fictionalized 1954 account of real 1938 events. This primes the reader to expect that there are real-life events that the novel is based on, which includes the reality of Aoyama, Chi-chan, and indeed Sagako’s existence. By presenting the main narrative as a rediscovered document wrapped in later commentary, the frame disrupts the illusion of definitive historical record. This is compounded by Sagako’s note that the final chapter of the novel is suggested to have been completely fictionalized, further blurring the lines between what is real and what is constructed. Sagako crucially warns readers to remain conscious of Aoyama’s “status as one of the colonizers” (xvi). This establishes a degree of unreliability in Aoyama’s narration as her perspective is limited by the bias of her cultural upbringing, which has been affected by the values of Japanese imperialism. Sagako’s consciousness of this unreliability stems from his own wansheng identity, belonging fully to neither Japanese colonizers nor colonized Islanders, which signals both his distance and sympathy for both sides of the social conflict. This drives an unstable vantage point reflecting the text’s layered uncertainties. This metafictional structure employs nested documents and unreliable narration to dismantle monolithic imperial histories, thereby demanding an active, critical reading of the ensuing chapters.
The motif of food maps the spatial and social boundaries of 1930s colonial Taiwan while exposing the theme of The Paternalism of the Colonizer’s Gaze. Upon arriving in Taichū, Aoyama rejects refined, Japanese-tailored banquets arranged by Mishima and Madame Takada, seeking instead the unfamiliar produce and street food of the Islander market. Mishima’s refusal to let Aoyama eat local dishes reinforces the colonizers’ association of unassimilated Islander culture with contamination. Meanwhile, Aoyama’s craving for authentic culture masquerades as progressive appreciation while functioning primarily as privileged consumption. She views the vibrant market as enchanting spectacle, comparing it to a magic troupe, rather than the fraught, lived reality of people under colonial rule. Aoyama’s persistent attempts to breach this culinary divide reflect a benevolent yet self-serving desire to extract absolution over the Japanese imperialist project from a colonized space. In this way, Aoyama’s gastronomic tourism flattens Islander experience into an exotic commodity tailored for her own literary ambition, highlighting how even compassionate curiosity operates as a form of intellectual arrogance when it ignores the systemic oppression of subjugated cultures.
Initial interactions between Aoyama and her interpreter, Chi-chan, illustrate The Fragility of Friendship Across Power Divides. Despite Aoyama’s eager attempts to collapse the professional distance between them, Chi-chan maintains strict formalities, responding with an impenetrable smile Aoyama likens to a “Noh mask” (44). This symbol represents the emotional labor and self-protection demanded of a colonized subject. Chi-chan deploys impeccably pleasant demeanor as a survival strategy to navigate her Japanese employer’s whims and the constant indignities of the colonial hierarchy. When a school staffer orders Chi-chan to clean Aoyama’s shoes, Aoyama reacts with indignant anger, failing to recognize that her own demands for intimacy also disregard Chi-chan’s systemic vulnerability. The social reality of colonial Taiwan under policies of forced assimilation renders true equality impossible.
The preparation and consumption of muâ-înn-thng (jute soup) exposes complex class stratifications within Taiwanese society itself. Before the meal, Chi-chan’s flawless translation of a Han-language novel demonstrates her intellectual capabilities, contrasting sharply with the societal limitations colonial structures place upon her. After two young women hurl the slur muâ-inn-thng at Chi-chan, she reveals her origins as a neglected child who once lived with impoverished farmers. She later explains her steadfast refusal to dine alone with Aoyama, stating: “I am unwilling to dine at the same table with you as an inferior” (65). The bitter soup, derived from agricultural byproducts, embodies the poverty and marginalization Chi-chan endured during her youth. By insisting on maintaining spatial hierarchy during meals, Chi-chan actively asserts dignity, especially against Aoyama’s naive assumption that personal affection is enough to erase colonial and class lines. While their shared meal later on ostensibly bridges the gap between them, Aoyama’s eager declaration that they must embark on a culinary tour highlights lingering disconnect. Chi-chan pragmatically navigates intersectional burdens of gender, class, and colonial subjugation, whereas Aoyama views their dynamic through the privileged lens of consequence-free adventure.



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