Hunter School. Sakinu Ahronglong
Sakinu’s stories as I was reading and translating them. It’s an honour for me to finally give Sakinu a gift in return by translating his stories.
This collection was published as Shanzhu, Feishu, Sakinu in Mandarin. As you can tell, the three words in the title rhyme. Sakinu rhymes with shanzhu, meaning “mountain boar”, and feishu meaning “flying squirrel”. As you can also tell, the English title wouldn’t rhyme.
I considered calling the collection The Sage Hunter, the title of a 2005 feature film based on Sakinu’s stories. But in the end, I went with Hunter School, in honour of the actual school that Sakinu built and will rebuild.
I’ve reordered the stories in the collection to tell the story of Sakinu’s life and the lives of his fellow villagers: from an idyllic childhood to an adolescence in which Paiwan people get buffeted by socioeconomic forces beyond their control, to a maturity in which they are finally able to reorient themselves and choose their own path.
Sakinu’s path is a hunter’s path. As someone who as a child used to read The Call of the Wild by the light of the moon, I wanted to follow Sakinu down this path, only to discover that to Sakinu it’s not the call of the wild, it’s the call of his Paiwan ancestors. To Sakinu, there is nothing wild about a Paiwan hunter, who is every bit as civilized as you and me, if not more so. In these stories, Sakinu translates the call of his Paiwan ancestors into terms that modern Mandarin readers can understand, and I’ve done my best to relay-translate that call into English.
Darryl Sterk
PART ONE
A Paiwan Boyhood
The Flying Squirrel College
With the approach of spring, flying squirrels used to go in search of nubile mates, hoping to fall in love. At night you once heard flying squirrels wooing each other. Sometimes the entire valley resounded with the rhythms of squirrel courtship, when there were a half dozen flying squirrels singing the song of love on each and every tree. What a magnificent sight! What an amazing sound!
Alas, the last time I heard the flying squirrels sing their songs of squirrel love was when I was in secondary school. I didn’t immediately notice when they stopped, or rather when they failed to sing one spring, perhaps because I had never fallen in love myself, either with a girl or with the mountain forest. But I knew someone who had not only fallen in love but had a lover’s intimate knowledge of the object of his love.
“Hey Dad! What happened to the flying squirrels?” I asked him one day. “Where have they all gone?”
“Sakinu, I thought you’d never ask,” he replied. “It’s not just the flying squirrels that have disappeared. What about the mountain eagle that used to soar over the peaks hunting for prey? I didn’t need to notice the silence of the squirrels. The quiet eagle told me all I needed to know, that the animals of the forest had started to migrate further afield.
“As for why, you can blame it on the destruction of habitat due to development and on the overuse of the crossbow by unscrupulous hunters. No matter how many flying squirrels there were, hunting them night and day with advanced technology could only end in the local extinction of the species. But you can’t lay all the blame on people, you know. Partly the squirrels themselves are to blame.
“The flying squirrel,” he said, “is the dumbest animal in the world. A flying squirrel is so dumb it will stand there waiting for you to catch it. Maybe dumb isn’t the right word. Maybe I should say stupidly curious. At night the flying squirrel finds nothing more fascinating than a bright object. All you do is shine your flashlight at one, and it will stand there transfixed, not moving an inch.
“Flying squirrels hide in their dens in the daytime. A flying squirrel may have dens in two or three trees, but it usually chooses one to make its bed in. Unless a human comes or its tree den is forcibly occupied by some stronger squirrel, it won’t leave or move into another one.”
I always looked up and tried to spot the entrances to flying squirrel dens in trees when I hunted with my father as a boy. It’s all down to experience: as long as a person learns to see the world through flying squirrel eyes, Father said, he’ll be able to find one.
For example, if you see a hole in a tree that looks damp, especially one that is funnel-shaped, you know there’s no way you’ll find a squirrel inside. Who would want to live in a place that makes your skin itch or turns into a swimming pool every time it rains?
But flying squirrels are still the stupidest. Every time Father discovered a likely hole, he covered it with a hand-woven net he’d tied to a bamboo pole. Then he knocked the tree trunk with his machete. Knock knock. At that, the flying squirrel inside instinctively flew towards the entrance into the trap Father had set. Trapped in the net, the flying squirrel struggled, making the net even smaller until it couldn’t move. In the end, all we would see was a tightly wrapped grey-brown ball.
Flying squirrels may be thicker than bricks, but they are also the most hygienic animal. A flying squirrel is so clean almost every part of it can be eaten or otherwise used.
Even undigested food in the intestines can be squeezed out and enjoyed with millet wine. Old folks say this is the most nutritious part. In the village, I often see elderly hunters washing back bites of the undigested stuff from the guts of a flying squirrel with swigs of millet wine as they reminisce about all the battles they fought and won when they were young.
One time on a hunt for flying squirrels, my father said, “Son, flying squirrels are divided into ‘lowlanders’ and ‘highlanders’, just like people in Taiwan. The flying squirrels we normally see with ash-brown fur are lowlanders, while flying squirrels with dark-gray fur and white spots on their heads live higher up.
“In winter, when food is scarce in the mountains, we can see the highlanders below the ridgeline. The highlanders are even stupider than the lowlanders, which have had to learn how to hide from hunters and to avoid people in general, in order to reproduce and survive.”
Once I followed my father to the hunting grounds around Pine Brook, a model alpine village belonging to the forest bureau, to hunt for wild bees. As we walked, suddenly I threw back my head and called, “Dad, do you think there’s a flying squirrel in that there tree hole?”
Father looked up and smiled with pride. Softly, he told me, “Watch and learn!”
He tiptoed up and knocked lightly on the trunk. A flying squirrel popped its head out and looked around with a suspicious look on its face. It was trying to find out who had woken it up. Its vigilant eyes took in the surroundings.
I eased myself behind a tree, but by the time I had found myself a hiding place, the squirrel had disappeared into its hiding place. By then, Father had managed to find a branch with an offshoot. He took off his pants – no need to be shy! – tied the pantlegs together, and fitted the branch through the belt loops. If you haven’t brought a net with you, you can make one. I was impressed.
I was also amused: there was Father in his old yellow rubber boots and shabby underpants. He looked so comical.
But he was deadly serious. He moved slowly and softly. It seemed like the whole forest was watching Father’s every move. He approached the hole in the tree and covered it with the opening of his makeshift net, hit the trunk with his machete, and waited. And waited. But after the longest time, no flying squirrel had come flying out. Father asked me to hit the trunk hard with the axe. Still no response. All we could hear was the echo of the axe in the valley. Then he said, “Oh! This flying squirrel has definitely gone to school. He probably finished elementary.”
No sooner had he finished speaking, the flying squirrel found another way out of the tree. It flew across a ravine, settling itself in a tree on the other side. We realized we had been tricked by the thickest animal in the forest. Father climbed the tree and found that the flying squirrel was so incredibly smart it had installed a back door, an escape route in the event of attack.
Father shook his head and said, “This squirrel didn’t just graduate from elementary.