Taiwan’s Dog Temple Works Magic for Seekers of Luck

When the clock strikes midnight, strange things happen at the Dog Temple, which was dedicated to the fidelity of a dog but now attracts gangsters, prostitutes, housewife stock whizzes and forlorn lovers.

Tough guys roll up in sports cars, sauntering to the altar to pray on their knees. Girls in miniskirts and low-cut blouses, accompanied by bodyguards in leather jackets, place incense in sacrificial urns. Their bouffant hairdos bob as they mumble prayers.

Middle-aged women, clutching copies of stock market listings, drop wood blocks in a Buddhist ritual as they search for an ethereal tip.

“I’m praying against VD,” said a prostitute with fluorescent pink lipstick, who calls herself Fragrant Flower. “We ‘Little Misses’ need all the protection we can get.”

Praying has become a big business on this island of 20 million people, where superstition is pervasive. Thousands of temples throughout Taiwan do a steady trade in fortune-telling. Astrologers, palmists and soothsayers have flocked to the big cities to give advice on Taiwan’s huge stock market and the popular, illegal numbers game.

Buddhist, Taoist or Confucian, all temples are in on the act. But perhaps the most famous is the Dog Temple, on a cliff overlooking the sea about 15 miles from Taipei.

Legend has it that about 100 years ago, 17 fishermen were caught in a storm and pitched overboard. Their bodies washed up on the shore.

Local villagers dug a grave for them by the coast. As they buried the fishermen, the vessel’s pet dog jumped into the ditch to be with his masters. The villagers buried the dog alive and hung a lantern on the grave to commemorate its fidelity.

For years, fishermen used the grave as a navigation marker when steering their junks into the harbor in rough weather.

In 1961, a group of local businessmen built a temple on the site, equipped with bronze dogs, sacrificial urns with canine engravings and statues of Taoist sages.

In 1975, the temple doubled in size and began staying open 24 hours a day. It started a store and hired dozens of people to sell temple paraphernalia--clay dogs, incense, paper money that is burned for the dead.

When plans were made for a nuclear power plant next door, the temple appeared doomed. But local pressure saved the site and now nuclear plant officials come to the Dog Temple to pray.

Some businessmen opened a replica of the Dog Temple just down the road to cash in on the excitement. But after a few months, it lost customers.

“They could feel there was no power there,” explained Wang Yuan-yuan, a Dog Temple board member, who was working the graveyard shift at the advice counter recently. “Only we have the genuine article--the dog spirit.”

Business has been so profitable, said Wang that the temple is planning a dog theme park just up the hill.

“The little dog has been so good to us, we want to pay him back,” he said.

Hsiao Hsin-huang, a professor of sociology at National Taiwan University, said uncertainty about the future has fanned the prayer craze on this Nationalist Chinese island. He estimates that temples make millions selling religious goods and gathering contributions.

“Nobody knows what will happen so people naturally turn to the gods,” he said. “People are only interested in fast money and many of them believe in luck.”

Over the last few decades, Taiwan’s economy has boomed, bringing its per capita gross national product to the equivalent of $7,518 in 1988, the fourth highest in Asia.

The growth also has created huge savings but the economy lacks investment opportunities, so much of the cash floods the highly speculative stock market. In 1987, the market had an up and down swing of 450%. Record rises and falls were registered on two consecutive days in November.

Proper investment techniques do not seem to work very well because big players control the market. Many investors resort to prayer.

Thick clouds of eye-stinging incense swirl around the temple’s red columns.

Two elderly ladies, both with pink handbags, pluck sheets of paper from the wall and head to Wang Yuan-yuan’s advice desk.

“We’re here looking for good bets,” said one woman. “We play the stock market and we need a little advice.”

“Mr. Wang says we have to buy stocks tomorrow,” her friend said after the consultation ended. “He gave me two numbers.”

“There it is, eighth column, fifth stock,” she said, pointing to her stock chart. “That’s what I’ll buy.”

Up the stairs on the altar, 18-year-old Chao Cheng is on his knees mumbling.

“I’m in love with an older woman,” said the doe-eyed student. “Dog Spirit says I have hope but I must use special skill.”