We caught the coach near the Taitung train station early in the morning and headed north to Iwan.

The bus drove along the East Coast Highway,flanked by the vast Pacific Ocean to the right and by undulating hills, rising into the coastal mountain range, to the left. Iwan is a little village nestled between the mountains and the sea.

Iwan Stream divides the village in two, and Iwan Road winds through it, past more than a hundred one- and two-storey Western-style houses.

Noontime in Iwan is quiet and peaceful. The rather dilapidated old reviewing stand has a sheet of red paper pasted on it showing how much money has been raised and spent for the festival. Huang Kuei-chao, a former research assistant in the Institute of Ethnology at Academia Sinica who is serving as our guide, explains that the harvest festival is an affair in which everyone pitches in, like lunar new year once was for the Han Chinese. As a rule,each person puts up NT$200, but each person with a job outside the village contributes NT$300 and students and members of the military go free. As visitors, we brought along a case of rice wine and a carton of cigarettes as a token gift.

A family nearby is holding a paklag, or substitute funeral ceremony. The son is a sailor who works out of Kaohsiung and was unable to return for his mother's funeral. Now that he's finally come back, the family has slaughtered a pig and invited friends and relatives to a ceremony in memory of his mother. Otherwise, he wouldn't be able to take part in the festival.

Dozens of pairs of eyes stare at us curiously.Huang gives us Ami names: one is Sla (meaning earth or source) and the other is Nipon (meaning Japan, also the name of the current village chief.)Then the chief and an old woman named Sla pour wine for us in a naming ceremony. Huang explains that the ceremony is designed to ward off evil and bring good fortune. The gods of the village won't recognize strangers until they've been given a local name, but now that we've received them we can share the same space with the locals on an equal footing.

A big pot is steaming to one side. Slaughtering an ox or a pig or two is a must at festivals.Several people are busy divvying up pork into 70or 80 portions, each in a plastic bag, and distributing them to the other villagers according to age. The villagers squat together in twos and threes and mold glutinous rice balls to go with the meat.

"We don't have any form of writing at Iwan.This is our true text, a living one," an old person says with some emotion. Their food, clothing andshelter are the same as that of the lowlanders now.It's only in festivals and ceremonies that the traditional forms and ways of life reappear.

But looking ahead, most of the villagers are children and old people. Where are the young people? "Everyone goes away to find work these days," an old man named Wu says. "If they want to come back, they have to ask for leave and maybe give up three or four days of pay." The festival used to go on for a week, he says, but now it's shrunk to four days.

At sunset, the ocean fades from view but the sky fills with brilliant stars. A crowd gathers on the basketball court to celebrate the kaifolodan(welcoming the spirits) ceremony, which marks the beginning of the festival.

The mato'asay (old people) and kalas (elderly)sit down in a circle in the middle according to age,while the kapah (young people) and mama no kapah(teenagers) wearing traditional clothes and decorations, dance and sing around them. Huang tells us that the dancers always face inward because "the benevolent gods are on the inside, and the malevolent spirits are on the outside." The songs are actually prayers and the dances are the corresponding movements.

At first, the scene is rather forlorn. There are only twenty or so young people on the court, and their performance is rather unskilled. Afraid we must be greatly disappointed, Huang explains that the songs and dances of the harvest festival, unlike the ordinary love songs and work songs of the aborigines, are sacred and can't be practiced regularly.

But when the older people rise to their feet and take over the singing, the atmosphere picks up considerably.

The melody is simple but their singing forceful and moving. According to Huang's translation, the meaning is this:

Young people, sing and dance hahay hahay

The gods grant you good fortune hahay hahay

Your lovers are waiting for you hahay hahay

Old people, guide us hahay hahay

Let us thank our forebears hahay hahay

The pakarogay, who are the youngest, carry around a big bucket of rice wine and offer the dancers wine and cigarettes as encouragement. The supervisor of the performance, a young mama no kapah, stands at one side and shouts: "You haven't eaten enough, is that it? Put a little more umph intoit!" Suddenly he takes his conductor's stick and swings it at the dancers, who duck and cry out in surprise. "That's to train discipline," they explain.

Scrupulous attention to the prerogatives of age is a traditional virtue of the aborigines. But with the outflow of population, the elaborate system of age classes has gradually become blurred and only comes into focus at the annual harvest festival.

The Ami system of age classes is limited to the males, who are responsible for the affairs of the village. It forms a curious contrast to the matriarchal system of matrilinear surnames, of marriage into the bride's family and of women as head of the household. It seems that in Ami society it can truly be said that "men are in charge outside the home, but women rule the roost."

Interestingly, each class is subdivided into a number of smaller groups, each named after an important event that occurred in the year its members joined the pakarogay class. For example, the lamingkok group that Huang belongs to is named for the Republic of China: it was formed the year Taiwan was retroceded from Japan. Another group is named for the telephone: it was formed the year the village had its first telephone line installed. . . .The names not only express each group's social position but also serve as a kind of historical shorthand.

As the evening lengthens, the singing and dancing gradually subside. Around 11 o'clock the mato'asay receive their pork and begin a late dinner on the court. Leftovers are wrapped up and taken home. The spectators gradually disperse as the evening's celebration comes to an end.

July 16, bright and sunny

A "harvest festival mass" is held in the morning at the Catholic church up in the mountains.Dressed in traditional outfits, the villagers singhymns in the Ami language, the village chief assisting a Swiss priest. This odd fusion reminds us of something Chen Mao-chung, the museum director at Academia Sinica, once said: "Culture is alive and can't be preserved in a bottle. You have to see how the old and the new are fused and make the appropriate adjustments."

The kailisin ceremony, or feast of the spirits, begins today. It will go on for three consecutive afternoons, and everyone--men and women, young and old alike--can take part.

Near a melon trellis by the stream, a village elder with a cigarette dangling from his mouth is dressing his nephews, nieces and grandchildren. He first wraps their heads in long black scarves and then decorates their heads with three colorful ornaments. Then he helps them put on their shirts, tight-cuffed pants and waist decorations, matched with betel nut bags--everything has to be just right. Except for the betel nut bags, which were made by their mothers, the rest of the apparel is all store bought -- it was actually sewn by a Han Chinese lady who runs a store in the village. Her handiwork is so good the outfits sell for NT$7-8000 apiece, not cheap by any means.

When we go back to the dance site, we find that more people have returned to the village for the festival. What makes everyone's eyes light up especially is the troop of children in traditional costumes bringing up the rear of the procession. They have a hard time keeping step, but they're all happy and smiling. "There are really a lot of kids this year," Huang says, with emotion. "Iwan's culture won't die."

The women advance confidently to stand at the sides of their husbands or older brothers. It's said that young women, according to tradition, could stepup to the man of their choice, but now they stand off to the side, slightly embarrassed, waiting to be drawn into the dance. Their coyness seems to be an affectation picked up from the Han Chinese.

Dancing in full costume under a burning July sun is a test of strength and stamina, but you can't know how joyful an experience moving in rhythmhand in hand with a group can be unless you've tried it. The ethnomusicologist Peng Li-kuo once said: Aborigine dancing and singing aren't intended for entertainment and appreciation. You have to experience it by doing it, and feel yourself become a part of it.

The steps aren't difficult, and the songs are the same few melodies repeated over and over (in fact, that's one reason why they're dying out), but wet your whistle with a cup of rice wine, and you'll feel the energy come. According to our observation, the voices and movements of the older people are more firm and powerful, those of the younger more hesitant and confused. The pakarogay, the youngest of all, even drag their feet and don't start throwing themselves into it until mama no kapah inspecting the performance makes as if to hit them.

In the evening the families spread tables in front of their houses to eat dinner and enjoy the cool breeze. Their openness, courtesy and fondness for drinking and talking are habits that don't change, even if they've been away from the village for along time. "Singing alone is no fun," they say."If you sing, you've got to sing together. It's not enough just to sit together. It's no fun unless you drink. And beer isn't a real drink. If you're going to drink, it should be rice wine. Especially if you eat sashimi, you've got to have rice wine to keep germs from growing in your stomach."

As the evening lengthens, a sea breeze rises, wafting the sounds of voices and laughter. Leaving doors open at night or sleeping on the ground is normal here. The Amis' respect for age and order still exerts an influence, and Iwan is bathed in feelings of warmth and friendliness.

July 17, bright and sunny

Since there are no activities in Iwan during the mornings of the festival, we decide to head over to neighboring Changpin Village and watch the first United Ami Harvest Festival.

It's a grand scene. People from Ami communities are crowded around the athletic track watching teams go all out competing at dancing and singing.

The only problem is, the recreational and political aspects of an activity like this are much greater than its original meaning. Anthropologists point out that the harvest festival isn't designed to be a good show or to please judges. It's an occasion for each village to worship its spirits with its own songs and dances. What's there to compete about?

The older people have their doubts, too. Many villages have halted their festivals for the day to take part in the gathering. How can that be good? some of them grumble. Will it bring bad luck?

In the afternoon we return to Iwan. The number of people has probably doubled, and the atmosphere is livelier than the day before. Troops appear in changing formations, and a pair of them sing in antiphony. But they say that the scene is not as grand this year as in previous ones.

The activities end at six thirty, and the youngest group stays behind to take pointers. "We've been too lenient this year, and not enough people have came back," the mama no kapah says. "We'll have to bring back penalties next year--an NT$1000 fine for every day you don't come back."

This is another result of the population exodus and the introduction of administration from the lowlands. Most villages are said to have penalties to prevent young people from staying away, but they often refuse to go along, countering, "It's not the national law."

In addition, the stream has been practically fished out, and fishing is no longer permitted there, except during the festival when the ban isn't enforced. They used to hold a fish-catching ceremony before and after the harvest festival, but that died out a few years ago, and so the harvest festival can no longer be said to be preserved whole.

In the evening, Ming Li-kuo brings several young Bunung and Tsao friends of his from Ningpu over to drink and chat, and they say that this is the first time they have been to an Ami village to see the harvest festival. Some "Taiwan aborigine dancers" also came to Iwan the day before yesterday to watch the singing and dancing. It seems that cultural interchange among the aborigines is gradually increasing. The young Bunung sing the song that goes, "I live at Nalu Bay . . . we're all in the same family." The sound of their voices reverberates in the still, starry sky.

July 18, fair becoming cloudy

In the morning, the workers slaughter a pig,clean the carcass in the stream and bring it to the basketball court for cutting up and cooking. Some people prepare fresh bamboo shoots, and others slice the joints into traditional cups.

The waves on the ocean are higher than usual. Typhoon Amy is approaching.

Today is the last day of the feasting-the-gods ceremony. At noon, a banquet is spread out to treat special visitors like teachers, policemen and government officials, but there aren't many. The elders eat together, and the women and young people start to dance. A big wind comes up, and the rain pours down; the typhoon is really here. People are somewhat confused. They say this hasn't happened for many years. What does it mean?

The village chief mounts the platform and makesa bold speech to the cheers of the crowd. They reform their ranks, determined to sing even stronger to stop the wind and rain. The children run around happily, but the audience gradually disperses.

When the rain finally stops, the women dance gracefully in the field barefoot, no less energetically than the men.

Because of the typhoon, we decide to set out in the evening for Taipei. At sunset, we look out the bus window and see the men walking home in twos and threes, their waist decorations swaying, and we say a silent prayer for their safety.

Notes:

After returning to Taipei, we phone Huang Kuei-chao and find out it has been raining in Iwan continually but the wind fortunately hasn't been too strong. The evening of the 18th was the festival of the Cowherd and the Weaving Maid, the Chinesee quivalent of Valentine's Day, which the young people celebrated by changing out of their traditional dress and singing popular songs on the basketball court to relieve their pent-up feelings. The climax of the evening, according to custom, is declaring the name of your sweetheart, but the wind and rain kept people away and the objects of their affection hadn't shown up.

July 19: The festival is postponed due to rain.

On the 20th, the neighborhood leaders and women heads of households held the piphayan ceremony to send off the spirits. Arranging the women's ceremony on the last day of the festival, which is centered around the men,is said to express respect, to serve as a kind of piece de resistance, by saving the best for last.

If you visit an aborigine village in the area, it's best to live with the locals and have someone to serve as a guide. Otherwise, you can stay for the night in Chengkung and visit some of the towns to north, such as Danman, Paisangan and Ningpu, during the day.

[Picture]

Times and places for harvest festivals along the East Coast

[Picture Caption]

Men, women and children of all ages throw themselves into the joyous activities of the harvest festival.

(Right) Nestled between the mountains and the sea in Taitung County, theAmi are one of the aboriginal peoples that best preserve the traditions of the harvest festival.

Singing hymns in the Ami language at the harvest festival mass is another part of the "tradition."

First wrap on the scarf, then put on the head ornaments. Traditional culture is passed on in just this way.

In the kaifolodan (welcoming the spirits) ceremony, the men sing and dance to honor their ancestors, expel evil and pray for a bountiful harvest.

The older they are, the more fresh pork they get on their betel leaves. This is a festival luncheon for the various groups of men.

Dancing in full costume under the hot sun is a test of strength and stamina. The mama no kapah supervisor takes a break and drinks a cup of rice wine for a pick-me-up.

(Above) A betel nut bag sewn by a mother or a sister is the best. And don't forget to embroider the date it was finished on it!

(Below) This women's troop is made up of the heads of families. Their clear voices and nimble bare feet are the equal of any man's.

We contest the wind and rain with our singing and dancing.

（Right） Nestled between the mountains and the sea in Taitung County, theAmi are one of the aboriginal peoples that best preserve the traditions of the harvest festival.

Singing hymns in the Ami language at the harvest festival mass is another part of the "tradition.".

First wrap on the scarf, then put on the head ornaments. Traditional culture is passed on in just this way.

In the kaifolodan （welcoming the spirits） ceremony, the men sing and dance to honor their ancestors, expel evil and pray for a bountiful harvest.

The older they are, the more fresh pork they get on their betel leaves. This is a festival luncheon for the various groups of men.

Dancing in full costume under the hot sun is a test of strength and stamina. The mama no kapah supervisor takes a break and drinks a cup of rice wine for a pick-me-up.

（Above） A betel nut bag sewn by a mother or a sister is the best. And don't forget to embroider the date it was finished on it!

（Below） This women's troop is made up of the heads of families. Their clear voices and nimble bare feet are the equal of any man's.