Take a spiritual hike

Taiwan is a devout place. Daily, I weave past smoke-blackened stainless-steel pots for burning “afterlife currency” in front of homes, storefronts or new construction plots. I associate the island equally with the smell of burning incense sticks and burnt paper money as with tea eggs brewing in soy sauce. Long stamped out in other parts of East Asia, many faiths and age-old folk beliefs live here.

The spiritual seems to coexist, not clash, with the scientific. Even within the rational halls of the Taiwan Semiconductor Manufacturing Company (TSMC), engineers often perch green bags of “Guai guai” (meaning "behave") puffed corn chips on top of their computer monitors so that their machines won’t malfunction. TSMC even earmarks a budget for these amulet-like snacks, which need to be replaced yearly. Their magic vanishes with the date of expiry.

Given this landscape, it’s no surprise that this spring, I encountered a few different spiritual walks in Taiwan. “Whan that Aprille shoures soote … Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,” as The Canterbury Tales begins. (Translation: With April’s sweet showers … folk long to go on pilgrimages.) It felt like every Taiwanese cab driver would strike up a conversation about Mazu, a venerated local goddess. She is, among other things, the deity of water and rain.

They spoke about how she was coming to our city, what the traditions are and the pilgrimage itself: “The route is not set. She has a will of her own, the palanquin bearers simply follow her tug.” She even has her own app, called Baishatun, after one of the two temples that pilgrims set out from annually, equipped with a real-time GPS tracker showing an adorable cartoon version of the goddess en route.

“Mazu stopped in the Ford Automobile Showroom for the night!” From Starbucks to Family Mart, Mazu-themed snacks, mugs and merchandise abounded, a testament to her widespread veneration. A friend encountered the endless crowd of pilgrims on her way to the pool and had to wait for their crossing.

Once a minority belief, with only 5,000 registered participants in 2010, this pilgrimage now draws hundreds of thousands. This year, over 300,000 people joined some portion of the 10-day, 400-kilometer pilgrimage. The palanquin bearers walk through blazing heat and torrential rain, their devotion unwavering. During Taiwan’s last drought, thousands gathered at temples to beseech Mazu for a typhoon to replenish their dwindling drinking water reservoirs.

And on May 4, the Sunday preceding the Mazu Pilgrimage, a group of activists walked a Gaza ceasefire pilgrimage. It was organized by Christians fundamentally opposed to Christian Zionism. This smaller but equally determined group — atheists, Muslims, Buddhists, and the politically-called — walked 41 kilometers in a single day. This distance matched the length that a Palestinian must walk to find safety. By nightfall, the group reached Chiang Kai Shek Hall, a checkpoint. “Today, we mapped Gaza onto Taiwan,” one of the participants said as they sat in a circle beneath the Freedom Arch. Their physical tiredness served as a connector, with one saying, “We can empathize with how the Palestinians feel.”

A pilgrimage takes walking, a physical act, and makes it spiritual. By walking great heights or great distances, people can leave a “mind mark,” to borrow from British nature writer Robert MacFarlane. Instead of passively scrolling and stewing in outrage, the collective act of walking together with a shared purpose of changing the state of things, whether a noisy or contemplative undertaking, transforms our world and, in turn worldview. Each step forward is a small, powerful reminder that we have a choice in the direction and pace of our societies.

Esther Kim is a writer from New York living in Taiwan. She is working on her first book.