In 1951, the year I turned nine, at the time of the autumn rice harvest in central Taiwan, I went with my father and uncles on a duck drive through the fields.

Living near Chunan, my family had no fields of our own, and we made our living by raising ducks. Back then, we lived in what was still a typically agricultural society. When the family needed a helping hand, I, the eldest son, had no way to refuse. At times I'd even skip school for duck drives.

We would ordinarily start from Tahu of Miaoli County and drive the ducks west to no farther than Sanyi. Duck herders all had their own "realms of power." The area south of Sanyi belonged to the herders of Fengyuan of Taichung County, and they would also drive their up there in the fall.

A bamboo rod and shouts of "hao!"

Living and working out of doors every day was extremely difficult. We'd drive the ducks during the day, and sleep at night amid piles of rice straw. We'd eat simply, carrying our pots and pans and cooking ourselves. Occasionally we'd have a meal at a house where we knew the people well or would stumble upon a ceremony at a temple or the like, and strangers would give us a warm welcome.

There'd usually be two or three herders on a duck drive, positioned at the front and back. Because I was the youngest, I'd usually bring up the rear.

Ducks live in flocks, and we'd drive them in small groups forward, directing them all with bamboo poles. Every once in a while one or two of them would stray off. You'd just have to tap with the pole and shout "Hao! Hao! Hao!" and they'd quickly come together again.

Sometimes there'd be trouble when ducks would get lost or hurt. We were all most worried about illness--about losing the ducks to an epidemic. As a result, duck herders would keep their ears open for news of places where ducks had taken ill and then steer well clear of them.

Sometimes two herds of ducks would get close and intermingle. At such times, there was no need to fear. After you had raised ducks for a long time, you could recognize the color of their feathers, their movements and habits. Ducks of the same flock can also recognize each other and stick together. If a stupid duck couldn't recognize his own clan, most herders would pull him out and hand him over.

The herders are like the ducks:

Duck drivers would count their flocks once a day. When ducks walked on the small embankments between rice paddies or on a small bridge, they'd get into a long line, and you could count them by threes as they went by--one, two, three, four--and then multiply at the end for the total. Ducks walk along the road at a constant speed and won't run away ahead or behind, and so it's not hard to count them.

We'd also be very particular about where we'd sleep. We'd want to find a certain lay of the land, by a pond with wind breaks or at the bend of a river. At night someone would have to stay up to keep stray dogs from scaring away the flock.

So many years later, my memories of duck herding are faint, but a few scenes often come to mind--sleeping at night on a hard pile of rice straw, the chirping of crickets, a pleasant cool feeling. . . or at night when ducks and people were asleep, and only the insects disturbed the peace.

My wife often jokes that because I've herded ducks I look a lot like one. These past few years she's searched everywhere for duck mementos. I don't think many families have had this kind of experience with herding and now "raising" ducks.

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(photo courtesy of Journalism Dept. Nat'l Chengchi U.)