As I drive through Bamboo Mountain, a small town in Taiwan, I pass a lone puppet show performing in front of a temple. Nobody is watching but the puppeteer is still performing.

I pull over to watch. It's all in Taiwanese, so I don't understand much.

Cars and scooters pass. A couple old-timers pull up to watch but don't dismount.

Who is this show for?

The old man says perhaps it is for the birthday of somebody who has already passed away.

I try to see behind the stage where a parked truck acts as the dressing room for a myriad of hanging puppets waiting to go on stage. But I get shooed away by the puppeteer's assistant before I can peak inside.

How many years does this art have left if the only audience are the dead?

I get back in the car and move on.

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