Every year, usually from August to early November, the Far East is prone to typhoons that spin in from the spawning area out east of Guam or from the Philippines. It seems that if you live just about anywhere, except in the more continental hinterlands of China, you can expect to get hit by at least one during the typhoon season. Typhoon days are here again, as reported in
Associated Press report.
While in Taiwan, there were years when we might get hit with 5, 6 or more typhoons, some approaching from the east (which would attack the eastern areas of Taiwan such as Hualien, cross the island and head towards the China mainland), and others from the South China Sea and the Philippines (battering Kaohsiung/Gaoxiung before possibly fizzling out in the Central Mountain Range).
Compared to the destructive capacity of hurricanes which affect the western hemisphere, typhoons in the Far East are no less destructive [
"The terms "hurricane" and "typhoon" are regionally specific names for a strong 'tropical cyclone'." But doesn't "typhoon" sound romantic to us Westerners?--CH]. Yet destruction, which always seems to be worse in the Far East, occurs when the populace takes fewer precautions against the winds, flooding, sea surge, etc, or when housing is not up to par. I recall reports in the China Post (Taipei) of squatter huts sliding down mountains, of chunks of mountain taking out a village, of newly built residential buildings collapsing on hillsides. Once, even the Keelong River in Taipei changed course, and whole communities were affected. Then again, there were always the thrill seekers out on the coasts who are swept into the raging swells. Reports of destruction may last for days, with higher prices for vegetables ensuing, not to mention the bureaucrats who get fired or resign for lack of planning or being ready to deal with the emergency. Several years ago, the Sungshan area (near the domestic airport in Taipei) was submerged when, during a heavy typhoon, sanitation engineers could not budge the wheel that controlled the lock to the sluice gate.
Typhoon days in the Far East are like snow days in the west; many foreigners will plot the track of the oncoming storm from the graph provided in the English language newspapers, and from information on local English radio stations. When a typhoon hits a city of 6 million, and with no one on the streets except the foolhardy, it can seem like a ghost town. In several memorable typhoon scenes, I recall having to prop my mattress up against a window to repel the screeching winds; another time, my girlfriend and I had to stand with the palms of our hands on the window for two hours to keep it from being blown (it was bending) in -- the only window in my taofang (studio apt.). We would watch from our windows with binoculars as people would get caught up in the winds and go rolling down the street.
The last typhoon I experienced occurred a few weeks after being deported from Taiwan in late August, 1999. I was staying with a British friend of mine whom I had worked with in Taipei. Though Patrick worked on the island of Hong Kong, like many other expats he lived in the outer-lying areas of Hong Kong. Patrick had a flat in a mountain village overlooking the fishing port of Sai Kung, in the New Territories (in an area nearest the highest mountain peak in Hong Kong). Patrick the Adventurous dared me to follow him up a peak during the beginning of the storm, and from a hillside perch I got my last picture of him holding onto a tree trunk. Later, we spent the rest of the afternoon on a mission to save his apartment when the rain flooded the balcony (yang tai), he outside braving torrents of rain in a poncho, and me in the living room with soaked towels and a bucket. By evening, with the storm subsiding, came news on a Hong Kong television channel that a China Airlines jet had crashed. Patrick, as a cameraman for Fuji TV, had to walk his way back to Sai Kung, and get a taxi into the city, and from there to Chek Lap Kok Airport.
For a fictional look at a typhoon, as I recall, one of the best was from James Clavell's "Noble House", in which a residential tower - so ubiquitous in Hong Kong -- tips over while the man is shaving.
Mike Steely
