THE FIRST AMERICAN TO WORK IN A TAIWANESE HOST CLUB AND LIFE ON LINSEN NORTH ROAD
As far as I know, I was the first (non-mixed) white guy to work in a host club in Taiwan. My manager always stated this with extreme conviction, but if you have the receipts to prove otherwise, feel free to steal my thunder. Just please don't put this on my headstone.
The opportunity arose when a friend mentioned a contact in the industry, and my Chinese ability provided the introduction. I was no stranger to a karaoke room in Taiwan, so I was eager to learn more. Most other foreigners in Taiwan were not equipped linguistically, nor did they possess a similarly delusional and obstinate desire to push their inculturation beyond just learning a few swear words in 台語 (táiyǔ).
My brief stint on the Taiwanese variety show 二分之一強 (èr fēn zhī yī qiáng) had felt like vapid drivel, previously souring me on chasing local stardom. But curiosity won out. I decided that, for a short time on a path less traveled, I might as well get paid for the experience of playing a token foreigner.
下海 (xiàhǎi)
In the industry, they call the act of joining the nightlife 下海 (xiàhǎi)—literally "entering the sea." It's a good metaphor for the 八大行業 (bādà hángyè). This term covers a wide swath of service, nightlife, and sex-work-adjacent jobs, existing as main or part time employemnt for roughly half a million people on the island.
The job is brutal. To find success as a 男模 (nánmó), you are pushed to drink heavily. You must be a good conversationalist, have some sense of style, and capable of doing multiple nights worth of partying in a single go. These days being able to perform trending DouYin dances is also expected. There are endless cultural nuances to heed. The concept of 面子 (miànzi) is important, albeit fairly intuitive. Likewise, the unspoken rules of the host/hostess karaoke system come with their own lexicon. Failing to grasp them quickly can spell trouble for both you and your employer, but as the token American, I was afforded significant leeway. Time spent here also was a stark reminder that no matter how good at Mandarin one gets, Taiwan, like most East Asian countries, are typically monoliths in terms of culture. As a ("white") foreigner, you are just not meant to be there outside specific contexts, and constantly get reminded of that fact. While I have not investigated it yet, I would be curious to know what the vibe is in Singapore, given it's relative success with multiculturalism.
林森北路 (línsēn běilù)
Living life as a regular on 林森北路 (línsēn běilù) taught me that boozed-up temperaments are like waves: they have a rhythm, but they are wholly unpredictable. I almost ended up in a giant brawl just by being in the room when a business deal soured. Six bottles of whiskey and thousands in hostess fees deep, the investment pitch turned into a fight, and I was caught right in the crossfire. On another occasion, someone literally drank themselves to death via peer pressure at my regular hangout; the next day, you couldn't get a reservation because so many customers wanted to check out the spot where it happened. My US salary combined with a dwindling roster of foreign/ "normal" friends led me to spend way more of my money and good health in this neighborhood than I probably should have.
A typical night would start in a stir fry restaurant that began around 11pm or so and would consist of drinking 3-5 liters of Taiwan beer. I typiclly listened to people yell over each other in Taiwanese while they gambled slots on their phones, chain smoked, and played drinking games typically involving cards, betting drinks and the like. It grew tiresome walking on eggshells, listening to the same cycles of worry about money and intoxication. It also grew literally tiresome carrying my gangster friend home on my shoulder when he would become emo due to a dysfunctional relationship and drink himself into a stupor. Some nights felt like clocking into a corporate team-building event, just with the veneer of singing and booze. But like any vice, the hits of dopamine and lust provide endless allure, while the bill that comes a week later provides a painful reminder that you were there and have a crew.
上岸 (shàngàn)
This brings us to the industry's counterpart: 上岸 (shàngàn), or "going ashore." This refers to a host or hostess maybe finding a sugar mama or a kept man situation, or simply meeting their savings goals and quitting the grind for a more normal existence.
Most foreigners in Taiwan experience a kind of scripted existence where every conversation follows the same pattern for the first few minutes. "Where are you from, why did you come here, etc". I thought that by diving into the deepest parts of the sea, I would find something more authentic. I do think I enjoyed genuine nights of brotherhood, of cultural exchange, and respect. I also confirmed suspicions that I will forever be an outsider in some ways. I found that the clubs have their own script, mostly written in whiskey, exhaustion, and bar tabs
I am putting this on the internet to freeze these experiences in amber. It is cathartic to document these nights so I do not fall back into unhealthy habits. I remember plenty of nights where I had no answer to the question: "What the hell am I doing here, at this time, with these people?"
I may have been the first American to 下海 (xiàhǎi) in this specific corner of Taiwan, but the most satisfying part of the journey was finally deciding to 上岸 (shàngàn). I stepped off the path less traveled and realized that while the view from the bottom was unique, the air back on the shore is much easier to breathe.
