When I first received the ten-year plan of the National Theater and Concert Hall for "Taiwanese Aboriginal Dance and Music: the Bunun Tribe," I mulled over it for several days. That's because once things got mobilized, it would take hundreds of people, which is the same as saying we would have to move all the tribes onto the stage; how to integrate and systematically display the special characteristics of each nation of aborigines would definitely require a deep understanding of the cultural system, and would require their acceptance and agreement. The challenge promised to be enormous.

Do the Bunun Love to Dance? I stressed that it would be essential to have an extraordinary understanding of the logic of their cultures; only then could I respect and follow their culture, and even become one among them.

For example, in the Ami tribe, both men and women play important leading roles in dance; but in the Bunun tribe, they argued: "If the men don't go into the mountains to hunt, then what's the point of dancing?" You can't insist on more just because it looks good.

On a deeper level, the Ami nation is divided into two important cultural threads. One type has song and dance for young men at the Prayer for a Bountiful Harvest: this marks a kind of military training for the passage of youth in Ami society, and all the singing and dancing are like martial music, in order to build bonds among all men of the same age group. As a result, it is necessary to begin two days before the actual Prayer festival, going to the seashore to sing louder than the sound of the waves. This is different from the other thread--songs for friends, marriage, going off to military service, or moving to a new home. The former is powerful and serious, without the joy or relaxation of music. It is possible to sing the songs of the Prayer for a Bountiful Harvest at ordinary times, but you are not supposed to mix them in with other types of songs. They have their own reasoning and taboos in all this, and it is not for we producers or arts directors to decide or change. If one were even slightly careless, this would constitute a distortion of their culture.

The only thing we did for them was the technical stage production work, like the pace at which they should enter, or the lighting, which in turn depends on bringing out the original mood of the song and dance. Thus we asked all the staff and workers, including lighting, design, and so on, to go to the villages to understand the meaning underlying the music and gestures. As for its essence, this was left to the aboriginal peoples themselves to express, with respect for the original voicing and sound of the music, and without any added choreography.

The arts of each aboriginal nation are extraordinarily rich and refined, so each can express themselves. After our performance, you know some people asked me: "Ming Li-kuo! Where did you learn to teach them how to dance as well?" [Laughs] They really didn't understand that I can only add praise and joy; where could I come off teaching them?! In the past, many people--even including some aborigines themselves--always wanted to see "pretty" and "noisy" when their music and dance was moved onto a stage. I think that was because of a lack of confidence.

Music and Dance Is a Window: Of course, the music and dance of the "mountain people" [as Taiwan's aboriginal inhabitants are sometimes known in Chinese] are a part of their cultural environment, inseparable from their religious beliefs, memorials and ceremonies and their hunting, fishing, agricultural lifestyle. When it is pulled out of all that and placed on a stage, the relevant cultural background inevitably cannot be fully expressed. For example, in the Bountiful Harvest rite, without the setting of the village in mountains and streams, the atmosphere of the right seasonal changes or the impact of the surrounding vitality of life, it really ceases to be a prayer rite. Thus my use of the term "song and dance" is meant to stress that this is not a prayer, nor a rite. Performing outside the original cultural environment is simply to open a window, and through song, dance, and the dignity of the people, to draw the audience a little closer, to enable them to understand and enter into the richness of the cultural, human world of Taiwan's aboriginal compatriots, and to genuinely lead them along the path to the beauty and depth of this culture--and not just sympathy or sentiment.

Nevertheless, although it is impossible to fully articulate the original cultural environment, still, the ultimate meaning behind the culture on the psychological level can transcend time and space and be expressed on the stage. For example, we can grasp the bonding spirit of the song and dance of young Ami men at the Prayer for a Bountiful harvest. Or take the world famous Bunun "Basiputput" (song in prayer for an abundant harvest of millet), which originally accompanied sticking bamboo poles into the millet fields; pig bristles were placed on the sticks, the song telling the millet, "if you hurry up and come to my field, I'll give you some pork to eat," expressing expectations toward the harvest. Today millet is not often planted, but this song is still important to the people, because it has already evolved into an expectation for all crops, and for all life. When sung, there is naturally a sense of sacred cleansing and of expectation in the heart; on a stage or indeed anywhere, you can similarly enable everyone to feel the harmony between that person and all persons, similarly sharing the flesh and blood, and the heart and soul, of the Bunun.

A Diamond for Firewood: In the end, I feel that it is best for the culture of Taiwan's "mountain people" to stay in its original environment, because its vitality is there. But the villages themselves are changing; it is hoped that through performances at the National Theater Hall these people can again feel proud of their heritage, and treasure it even more. For example, in the Ami village of Chimei, I asked about the special features of the wooden ch'in (a stringed instrument). But they weren't very forthcoming, just saying it was useful for chasing monkeys away. But that simple instrument has an integrated cultural content: Why use paulownia wood to make the wooden mallets? You can use paulownia leaves to wrap rice, to take it out of the cooker and put it in a rice bowl. The choice of materials has its relationship with nature, and is a product of long accumulation of life experiences. We may see it as a diamond, but they might just use it for firewood.

Through the affirmation of the National Theater, it seems the tribes have revived, with an even stronger bond.

If You Love Something, Let It Go: Now I take things in hand, because I hope in the future to let them go. In this process, I have specially asked aboriginal people to participate in production, which is to say "village administration." I'm getting them to understand their own culture and to be adept at stage techniques--in this way, when there's no Ming Li-kuo, they can still stand on their own. I often remind myself not to let them depend too much on me.

You ask me how I can grasp their cultural pulse this way. Well I'm one-fourth aborigine! [Also Ming's wife Kai-lin is a daughter of an Ami-Bunun couple--Ed.] I am also of the same generation, and this includes nearly ten years of mutual knowledge and mutual respect. Bunun elders really like me, you know; I can sing the Basiputput. And in Chimei, I can lead the singing. Leading the song--that's not easy, and you have to see if anyone is willing to respond to you. Some people sing, and even have good voices, but nobody responds, just sitting off to one side chatting. Some people sing, and wow!--everybody gets into it, and dances till they drop. That indicates happiness, recognition, encouragement, and obedience. From the response you can tell whether or not you've caught people's fancy, and your standing in the village. When I sing, they always respond. [Laughs]

[Picture Caption]

"The music respects the original sound, and no choreography is added to the dance." Ming Li-kuo stresses that when you bring aboriginal dance to the stage, you must first deeply understand and respect the overall cultural background. (photo by Pu Hua-chih)

The world-famous "Basiputput" (a Bunun song of prayer for a good millet harvest) makes one look forward to living, whether it is performed in the village or on stage. (photo by Arthur Cheng)

In the coming-of-age ceremony at the Rukai harvest festival in Tanan, the elders dispel evil spirits by striking the young men's legs with a bundle of leaves. （photo by Arthur Cheng）

"The music respects the original sound, and no choreography is added to the dance." Ming Li-kuo stresses that when you bring aboriginal dance to the stage, you must first deeply understand and respect the overall cultural background. （photo by Pu Hua-chih）

Hand in hand, singing songs passed down from their ancestors, the Ami people of Iwan dance for days on end at the harvest festival, a source of admiration and wonder to professionally trained dancers. （photo by Arthur Cheng）

The world-famous "Basiputput" （a Bunun song of prayer for a good millet harvest） makes one look forward to living, whether it is performed in the village or on stage. （photo by Arthur Cheng）

At a wedding in Tashe, the elders gather at the home of the newlyweds and sing the old songs late into the night, a deeply moving part of Puyuma culture that can't be duplicated on stage.

With the meeting of the mountains and the plains, will the Han people and the aborigines learn to understand and respect each other better?