Often stereotyped and sidelined, Taiwan’s Indigenous peoples are challenging reductive narratives through ceremony, art, and daily life.

For many non-Indigenous Taiwanese, their first encounter with Indigenous culture may have come in 1996, when a controversy involving copyright infringement, cultural identity, and global pop music drew national attention.

That year, a palang – a traditional Amis song titled “Elders’ Drinking Song,” performed by married elders Difang and Igay Duana (legally known as Kuo Ying-nan and Kuo Hsiu-chu) from the Falangaw community in Taitung – was sampled without permission by the German musical project Enigma in its track “Return to Innocence.” The song went on to become the theme of the 1996 Summer Olympics in Atlanta, sparking debate over cultural appropriation and the recognition of Indigenous voices.

Enigma and the Duanas ultimately reached a settlement through mediation by the Magic Stone Record Company. Enigma founder Michael Cretu claimed no intention of violating copyright, while Difang Duana said that as long as people knew the song was from the Amis in Taiwan and sung by his wife and himself, the case was settled. As an unintended consequence, the media attention from the case piqued public interest in their music.

Around the same time, Puyuma singer Kulilay Amit of the Tamalakaw tribe, better known by her stage name A-Mei, rose to stardom with her debut album Sisters, earning her the title of “Queen of Mandopop” among critics and eventually catapulting her into the status of one of Taiwan’s most iconic Indigenous artists. Her soulful music captivated audiences for its raw emotion, vocal power, and ability to bridge tradition and modernity.

Since then, two stereotypes have lingered in public perception: that Indigenous people are “great singers” and “heavy drinkers.” The latter misconception, reinforced by songs like “Elders’ Drinking Song,” often stemmed from a literal reading of the title rather than an understanding of its ceremonial or communal context. The result was a reduction of rich cultural traditions to surface-level tropes. These impressions barely scratch the surface of a culture that is layered, lived, and deeply rooted in place.

More than performances

Most travel itineraries to Hualien and Taitung on Taiwan’s east coast include stops to watch Indigenous song and dance performances. Without further context, tourists may think of the resonant voices and tightly held hands moving in rhythm as mere entertainment designed to please.

In truth, Indigenous music and dance have never been just for show. Long before the written word, oral traditions served as the primary means by which communities preserved history, documented daily life, and passed down beliefs and wisdom across generations.

Taitung is home to six Indigenous tribes: the Amis, Puyuma, Bunun, Paiwan, Rukai, and the Yami (also known as the Tao) of Orchid Island. Each maintains its own language, dress, belief system, and ceremonial practices – distinct cultural identities shaped by centuries of continuity and adaptation.

The Amis follow a matrilineal age-grade system, which assigns social duties according to age and clan, while the Paiwan uphold a chieftain hierarchy with noble lineages.

Consider the Amis harvest festival. Held between July and August, its form varies from village to village, with many choosing to keep ceremonies private, guarding against tourism’s distorting influence. Others have opted to share select portions with outsiders, aiming to foster understanding while upholding clear cultural boundaries.

Beyond village festivals, some local governments organize joint celebrations featuring Indigenous song, dance, food, and crafts – offering broader audiences a first step toward cultural engagement. Yet within many communities, the question remains: How can traditional rhythms of life be preserved when opened to the outside world?

After living for years in Taitung, I’ve found that meaningful encounters rarely arise from scheduled programs, but from unplanned moments. Once, as I was walking through a village, I passed a family eating dinner outdoors. A man called out to me.

“Where are you going?” he asked. “Want to join us for some fish soup?”

I politely declined, explaining I had already eaten.

“Fresh from the sea today!” he shouted, undeterred. “Come on, just a sip.” He pulled out a chair for me.

There was no performance in that gesture – only an expression of the Indigenous value of shared time and space, where generosity flows as naturally as water. While such moments may be rare for tourists, many communities are now creating short village tours to share stories of migration, land, and daily life. These half- or full-day walks invite travelers to see the world through local eyes and to try ancestral skills like weaving, brewing, or trap-making – quiet forms of knowledge often overlooked.

In communities where resources were historically scarce, sharing has become an essential part of daily life. Social roles and cooperation are deeply embedded in the collective rhythm. Even as a stranger, if you arrive with sincerity, you’re likely to be met with the same kindness.

Design rooted in daily life

For many Indigenous communities, life and land are inseparable. Among Taiwan’s coastal tribes, there’s a saying: “The ocean is our refrigerator.” Seafood is gathered with the tides, wild greens are foraged from nearby hills. It’s a reflection of a relationship with nature rooted in balance and respect. There is little waste, no hoarding – only the practice of taking what is needed and giving back what is used.

As some joke wryly, “We’re too poor for McDonald’s, so we eat lobster and sea urchin every day. We’re sick of it.” Beneath the humor lies a deeper truth: here, freshness isn’t a luxury – it’s a way of life.

This philosophy is also reflected in how meals are served. Pastries are wrapped in shell ginger leaves, wine is poured into bamboo cups, and betel nut sheaths transform into makeshift spoons.

At a culinary event at Taitung’s Kaiana Workshop, our host, Ibu, introduced the appetizer: “This dish is a microcosm of the entire Haiduan Township.” From red quinoa and eggplants grown in the lowlands to cabbage encasing fern leaves from the high mountains, every bite reflected layers of ecology, movement, and memory. Stories woven into food have a way of softening unfamiliar flavors, as if the land itself were coaxing your taste buds to listen.

As sustainability gains global attention, such practices are being reappraised not as remnants of the past, but as forward-thinking models. In the Netflix series Chef’s Table, New Zealand chef Ben Shewry observes that people often create because they have to. What was once born of necessity is now hailed as innovation – a creativity that, for Taiwan’s Indigenous communities, never strayed far from the soil.

Art as a language

This creative spirit is perhaps most vividly expressed in the arts – notably through the Amis Music Festival, founded by singer Suming Rupi in the village of Dulan in Donghe Township.

What began with a few hundred participants on a school sports field has grown into one of the most unique cultural events in Taiwan. Held around mid-November, the biennial festival is organized without corporate sponsors or government funding, bringing together Indigenous performers from across Taiwan and even the Pacific Islands.

The stages are set by the sea, and crowds of more than 8,000 gather – not for headliners or fixed schedules, which don’t exist, but for a shared atmosphere. Cultural classrooms, open-air screenings of Indigenous films, and market stalls round out the experience, encouraging dialogue over spectacle, and participation over passive consumption.

“Events like the Amis Music Festival and the Moonlit Sea Concert breathe new life into age-old traditions,” explains festival curator Cheng Yi-hao. “These songs are deeply rooted in each community’s environment and memory, carrying the rhythms, wisdom, and shared experiences of those who sing them.”

Visual arts are also flourishing through land art festivals and contemporary exhibitions. Using weaving, woodwork, and natural materials, artists are transforming childhood memories, village migrations, and relationships with the land into works that invite audiences to see, hear, and feel.

More importantly, this creativity is no longer confined to the communities where it began. Indigenous expression is taking root across Taiwan and beyond, building bridges where there were once borders.

Though curious and inviting, Indigenous culture is not a tourist attraction or a performance made to please crowds. Cramming these experiences into travel itineraries or oversimplifying them into stereotypes is a disservice to the magic that they bring.

“We don’t mind visitors,” a woman told me after offering me a ride while I was walking on Lanyu, or Orchid Island, a small island located off the southeastern coast of Taiwan. “We just need to be respected. We’re not here for display. What surprises outsiders is just our everyday life.”

Today, Indigenous musicians are earning the spotlight on mainstream stages, and travelers are increasingly embarking on slower, more immersive journeys. If those experiences prompt us to approach different ways of life with greater openness – or to ask questions rather than simply observe – then that’s a step closer to genuine cultural respect. Because respect, after all, is more than just a word – it’s where understanding begins.

TOURIST INFORMATION

Taiwan East Coast Land Arts Festival (Moonlit Sea Concerts – June – September)
Amis Music Festival (Chinese Only) – November 8th – 9th, 2025
Taitung Public Art