Ike slept there. Nixon dined there. Chiang Kai-shek died there. Now, after decades of secrecy, the grounds of former President Chiang's estate in Taipei are open to the public, and visitors can find there a compelling mixture of cold war intrigue and public joie de vivre.
The bodyguards are long gone now. The fierce-looking pill-box on the corner of Fulin Road and Chungcheng Road is locked and empty, its purpose and once-palpable threat now of no importance to those trapped in the long lines of traffic heading toward the National Palace Museum or Yangmingshan, the verdant mountain that rises above Taipei's northern suburbs.
In front of the main entrance, the former lines of carefully spaced young men, with close-cropped hair, walkie-talkies, and pistols comically concealed in newspapers or student book bags, no longer keep a watchful eye on the comings and goings around the estate's perimeter. Instead, the weekend crowds encounter a more aggressive gauntlet of street vendors, hawking everything from sausages to balloons.
As visitors walk down the narrow tree-lined lane that runs from Fulin Road to the main gate, they are lulled into a sense of familiarity by the dappled sunshine and the rhythmic "bah-poo" of the ice-cream vendor's horn. The surroundings and atmosphere are indistinguishable from parks and botanical gardens in other parts of Taiwan. Only upon reaching the estate's entrance are there signs that this is no ordinary tourist attraction.
The remains of a triple perimeter of electrified fence, rapidly disappearing under a curtain of thick undergrowth, and signs in English and Chinese warning of high voltage, indicate that access to this area was once not as free as it is today. The foot-thick reinforced concrete walls, heavy steel shutters, and evil-looking ground-level firing slits of the gate's guardhouse all confirm the suspicion that visitors to this place were not immediately assumed to be friendly.
Welcome to the Generalissimo's estate. For almost fifty years, this huge chunk of real estate in Shihlin, a northern Taipei suburb, was one of Taiwan's most heavily guarded places, an area whose geography and layout was long considered a top state secret. For twenty-five years, this was the primary residence of former President Chiang Kai-shek and his wife, Soong Mayling, who lived a secretive but lavish existence behind tall trees and heavy security, safe from scrutiny by the local population.
Originally a botanical garden and experimental farm during the Japanese occupation of Taiwan (1895-1945), the area was requisitioned by the ruling Nationalist Party (the KMT) as "state property" in 1948. No doubt enthralled with both the aesthetic and defensive qualities of the property, the Generalissimo and his wife decided in 1949 to make the area their official residence.
By early 1950, after six months of renovations to the main house to meet the exacting standards of Madame Chiang, the first couple moved in. Although the Chiang's maintained holiday residences in Kaohsiung for the rainy Taiwan winters and on Yangmingshan to escape the stifling heat of summer, they spent the majority of their time at the Shihlin estate, and it was there that the Generalissimo died in April 1975.
After the former president's death, Madame Chiang lived at the estate a total of only four years, but the day-to-day operation of the house and grounds remained unchanged after her departure for the United States. For more than two decades, time stood still in this place, with the housekeeping, security, and grounds staff remaining at their posts. Grass was cut, cutlery was polished, and the curious public was allowed only the same scant glimpses of wire and concrete as when the Generalissimo was alive.
In August 1996, all that changed. In an overtly political decision, the estate was dragged from its dreamy suspension of time and reality by the actions of the Taipei city government. Spearheaded by its reform-minded opposition mayor, Chen Shui-bian, the city served notice to the central government that the extensive grounds surrounding Chiang's former home were in fact municipally owned property, and that the city wanted them back immediately.
"We are returning city land to the people," a grinning Chen declared at the estate's official opening. It was a moment of delicious irony for the mayor, a former martial-law-era defense attorney plainly revelling in his power to legally dispose of the estate of the man who for many Taiwanese symbolized the political oppression of the martial law period.
Chen's actions sent shock waves through the old-guard, hard-line KMT for whom Chiang is a virtual deity. Concern was voiced about possible threats to the safety and dignity of the Chiang estate from zealous or vengeful Taiwanese independence activists, raising fears that the Taoyuan county mausoleum holding the bodies of both the elder Chiang and his son, the late President Chiang Ching-kuo, would also be turned over to the public. This brought allegations--swiftly denied by government sources--that members of the Chiang family were seeking to have the bodies returned to mainland China for burial, as the Generalissimo had insisted in his will.
In the almost two years since it has opened to the public, fears that the estate would be taken over by sound trucks crammed with betel nut-chewing demonstrators yelling rude chants about the Chiangs have proven to be groundless. Instead, the grounds have become one of the most interesting additions to the city's network of green spaces, a fascinating mixture of natural flora and cold war memorabilia.
A visit to the Chiang estate begins in earnest just inside the main gate. Off to the right lies the former motor pool, complete with repair shop and gas pump. Here an elite group of mechanics stayed on call twenty-four hours a day, ready at a moment's notice to gas-up or service the Generalissimo's custom-made pair of bulletproof Cadillacs, now exhibited at Taipei's Chiang Kai-shek Memorial Hall.
The office for official drivers stands open and abandoned. On the wall a glass-covered bulletin board is now empty, the lists of dates for state dinners, diplomatic functions, and the mandatory trips with visiting dignitaries to the nearby National Palace Museum long filed away.
Walking past the motor pool, visitors come upon what was unmistakably once a military barracks, the former quarters of an elite garrison entrusted with the defense of the estate's main gate and environs from penetration by forces bent on a forceful tete-a-tete with the first family. In keeping with the spirit of the times, however, the military has now been banished from the city-administered site. The click of leather heels and the soft flapping of rubber sandals worn by visitors has replaced the telltale crunch of hobnail boots, the barracks themselves ignominiously demoted to serving as a snack bar and public toilets.
Though the garrison that manned this forward outpost of the estate's front line is now gone, evidence of their years of service to the safety of the Generalissimo is easy to find. A path leading up a hill to the left of the main gate reveals a system of fortifications worthy of the most sensitive military installation. The paved pathway leads the visitor past an array of guardhouses, bunkers, and observation posts, all linked by an extensive system of tunnels.
The city government has opened these tunnels to the public, allowing inquisitive visitors with flashlights and no phobias about bats, spiders, or enclosed spaces to explore. While all armaments and ammunition have long been removed, the tunnels and bunkers remain much as they were during the Generalissimo's reign, allowing visitors to share glimpses of the hill's slopes and the neighboring suburb of Waishuanghsi that were once the exclusive views of gun crews and sentries.
Inside the cramped confines of the musty-smelling camouflaged gun positions built into the hill, one cannot help but sympathize with the men who over the years stared vainly for signs of the long-anticipated attack by fanatical mainland Chinese commandos, the days and hours spent hoping for something to break the endless monotony. The wooden surfaces in one guardhouse reveal the endless nights of boredom faced by Chiang's garrison: Unit numbers and the first character of the Chinese word for patience have been carefully carved by nameless, faceless guards.
While fears of armed attack up the steep slopes of this hollow hill have long ceased to trouble anyone, visitors who stroll the paths that link the fortifications are reminded that imminent threats to their safety still exist. Along the path are signs placed by the city government warning that poisonous snakes and vicious "tiger head" wasps are frequently sighted in the area. Visitors skeptical of such warnings, or outfitted with knee-high hiking boots and insect repellent, will find their perseverance rewarded with excellent views of northern Taipei and the mountains beyond.
The military has not totally abandoned this area, however. Paths stop short of a fenced border that runs along the side of the hill. A no-nonsense military policeman stands at the fence's gate, behind him a high telecommunications tower through which Chiang was able to stay in up-to-the-minute contact with Taiwan-related developments from Washington to the off shore islands of Kinmen and Matsu.
On the side of the hill facing the estate, the military fortifications give way to a complex of small structures--the living quarters of the domestic staff who kept the place going on a day-to-day basis. The buildings are now empty, and their peeling paint and dusty windows give no inkling of the bustle of activity that once pervaded the estate, with dozens of workers cleaning rooms, weeding gardens, and staffing kitchens and laundry.
In one building a side window has been removed, allowing a clear view of a calendar on the wall, frozen at December 1996. Where did the people who lived here go after December 1996? Do they still grieve for the life and work that ended here, of more predictable if not happier times under the stern direction of the first family?
A short walk from the domestic workers' quarters is the front gate to the main house, which the Chiangs significantly renovated and expanded twice, first in 1960, and then in 1986. Unlike the surrounding grounds, the house remains locked at all times, and visitors must content themselves with glimpses of the structure through the trees under the unsmiling gaze of gray-suited security personnel. These men coyly disavow any knowledge of the house and its workings, and will admit only if prodded that Chiang himself ever lived there.
Although denied entrance to the Chiangs' home, visitors can delight in the acres of gardens and greenhouses surrounding the structure. The Chiangs significantly improved and expanded upon the gardens left by the original Japanese residents, and a network of paths takes visitors through a varied landscape of trees and flower beds, adorned with fountains, ponds, and small streams. The estate's vast size and variety of vegetation has made it a popular place for wedding photographs. Around the grounds, numerous couples can be found standing and sitting in a series of most unlikely poses against the lush back grounds, wearing smiles of devoted adoration that progressively come to resemble rictal grins.
Madame Chiang prided herself on being a lover of orchids, resulting in the development on the estate grounds of the Mayling Lan, an orchid hybrid cultivated in her honor and given her name. Having failed to bear the Generalissimo any children throughout their lengthy marriage, it is easy to imagine the aging Madame finding solace from the isolation and loneliness of her later years here by taking long walks around the grounds, alone but for a small retinue of her trusted personal bodyguards.
While most of the estate's greenhouses remain locked and barred to public view, one displays examples of the various orchids and other flowers grown on the estate. The contents of the building, although clean and well-maintained, remain for the visitor as enigmatic as Madame Chiang herself, offering no descriptions of the plants on view. Visitors walk through, toss coins in the wishing well, and leave not knowing what they have just seen.
The remainder of the grounds offer a grab bag of insights into the Chiangs' personal lives, from specially designed buildings where the Generalissimo's wife showed off her orchids to visiting dignitaries, to the Chiang family chapel. The latter is an intimate space containing fifty large armchairs that look as though they were borrowed from a KMT committee room, including four special front-row seats upholstered in red velvet, undoubtedly reserved for the Chiangs and visiting VIPs.
Today, the area around the chapel is a hive of activity, with busloads of visitors from Taichung rubbing elbows with a group of Filipina workers enjoying their day off. Several aged men in identical gray slacks, apparently long-time employees of the estate, look balefully at these noisy intruders. Gone are the days when their working hours were quiet. Mayor Chen's plans to link the estate with a direct tunnel to the nearby MRT station will make things even busier, perhaps the last straw for these relics of the previous owners.
The Generalissimo's love for his Shihlin estate is undoubted. He chose this place to die. In 1973, he moved in a full-time team of doctors on call twenty-four hours a day to cater to his increasingly complex medical needs. But his wife's devotion to this place is more questionable. After the heart attack that ended her husband's life in 1975, she scandalized conservative Chinese by leaving for America just five months later, a far shorter period than the one year of "home mourning" expected of a dutiful Chinese widow. Could she not bear living here without the Generalissimo, or had this place been nothing more than a gilded cage for those twenty-five years?
Madame Chiang is now over 100 years old, and it is doubtful that she will ever again make the trip from her present home in New York City to visit the Shihlin estate. She was last here in 1994, not long before the estate gates were thrown open to the public. One hopes that she is not bitter about the changes here. It is pleasant to imagine her, in her Long Island home, thinking of the throngs of people flooding her once-private domain, happy at last that her garden has visitors.
Reprinted and adapted with permission from the China News, October 26, 1997.
Copyright 1997 by Phelim Kyne.