In Taiwan Travelogue, the narrative is filtered primarily through the eyes of Aoyama Chizuko, a well-intentioned Japanese writer whose journey through 1930s colonial Taiwan becomes a subtle but sharp critique of the imperialist mindset. The novel argues that the colonizer’s gaze, even when benevolent, is inherently paternalistic and incapable of grasping the complexities of the colonized experience. Through Aoyama’s romanticized perceptions, her misguided attempts to “protect” her Taiwanese interpreter, Chi-chan, and the eventual critique of her perspective by other characters, the book demonstrates how even compassionate curiosity can exoticize and ultimately flatten the culture a colonial representative purports to admire.

From her first moments in Taiwan, Aoyama perceives the island as an enchanting spectacle for her consumption. Arriving at a market in Taichū, she feels she has been “transported back into the midst of Shōkyokusai Tenkatsu’s Magic Troupe” (3), comparing the vibrant street life to a fantastical stage performance. Her observations are filled with wonder at the “alien” vegetables, the “flesh tapestries” of meat, and the “undulating ripples” of the crowd. This exoticism shapes her literary ambition: to write a travelogue that will “preserve the state of this island before it’s changed forever” (102) by the Japanese Empire. This desire, while appreciative on its surface, positions her as a privileged outsider cataloging a culture for preservation, rather than engaging with it as a living, evolving entity. Her role is that of a consumer of experiences, rather than as a participant in a shared reality.

This paternalistic gaze extends directly to her relationship with her interpreter, Chi-chan. Aoyama views Chi-chan as a delicate figure in need of saving from the hardships of her Islander life. Aoyama’s offers to be her “easterly wind” and bring her to Japan, as well as her decision to gift her an expensive kimono to protect her from prejudice, are framed as acts of generous kindness. However, these gestures are rooted in the assumption that Aoyama knows what is best for Chi-chan and that Mainlander culture offers a superior way of life. The kimono, in particular, represents an attempt to impose her own cultural standards of formalwear, overlooking the practical and symbolic weight of Chi-chan’s traditional chōsan. Aoyama’s protective instinct is a form of condescension, treating Chi-chan as a subject whose life needs to be improved and uplifted.

The novel does not allow Aoyama’s perspective to stand unchallenged. The character of Mishima, a fellow Mainlander, directly confronts her intellectual blind spots. He accuses her of judging the Empire’s actions based on “subjective and arbitrary criteria” (244), such as her personal enjoyment of a particular food, without considering the impact of colonial policies on the Islanders. He calls her out for her “intellectual arrogance,” making it clear that her romantic view is a form of self-serving naivete. The most definitive critique, however, comes from Chi-chan herself. In their final conversations, Chi-chan explains that Aoyama’s constant need to shield her was a form of “misguided treatment” because Aoyama “never once asked me: Do you want this protection?” (229). This revelation exposes the core flaw in the colonizer’s gaze: it denies the colonized their agency, reducing them to passive recipients of a kindness they never requested from their colonizer. Ultimately, the novel shows that no true understanding is possible when one looks upon another as a project for salvation.