Poop, poop, massage!

Poop 1

While waiting to cross an intersection today, I noticed people on the far side of the road were staring at something to my right.

I looked over my shoulder and saw a man standing in the middle of the crosswalk holding a leash, with four lanes of traffic stopped either side of him, waiting for an enormous and belligerent squatting dog to poop.

It was a Bernese Mountain Dog or similar, and looked like it weighed at least 50 kg. Its deposits were huge too.

The light turned green. I happily walked on, while the owner—still awkwardly holding up traffic—tried scooping the poop into a woefully undersized plastic bag.

Poop 2

Literally about one minute later, a man on a bicycle passed me from behind, then screeched to a stop on the sidewalk about five steps ahead.

He was wearing a tank top with a yellow parrot perched on his left shoulder. His right hand was holding a cigarette. Immediately below the parrot, there was birdshit on his skin.

I stepped around him, hoping he wouldn’t talk to me.

Then, while I was waiting to cross the next intersection, he passed me again, rounding the corner and heading down a side street.

This time, I got the photo above.

Here’s a close-up, poop and all:

Massage!

A few minutes later, I was walking on the edge of the road—the sidewalk was blocked by scooters and other things—listening to a podcast, when I heard a shrill voice calling from my right.

I turned to see a woman, roughly age 25 or 30, wearing a Santa Claus outfit (minus the hat and beard), standing in a doorway, waving at me enthusiastically and calling out “Massage! Massage!”

(In Taiwanese Mandarin, it’s pronounced ma-sha-ji.)

I didn’t get a photo, but imagine a Taiwanese version of Mariah Carey’s Christmas album, and you get the idea:

“You want ma-sha-ji?” she called out loud enough for half the city to hear.

I politely declined at normal volume, and continued on my way.