This is a story about an adventurous week. We began with a tradition Chinese New Year dinner, where they literally pay you to eat. Having been invited by a fellow teacher’s family, Jeff and I arrived, dressed as if we came out of a J. Crew catalog. After walking to the door, we realized the address was a pharmacy. To our chagrin, every family has a store of some sort, and if you walk through the back door, you will enter the living room. The next room was the kitchen. We sat down to a dinner that was 12 courses wide! On a lazy Susan, all the dishes were served, the most bizarre being Shark Fin soup (I did not eat it out of environmental protest, but I kept that to myself). The funny thing is, however, that they don’t drink when they eat. All the food has some kind of liquid served alongside (such as soups), so there is no need for it. Dehydrated, Jeff and I motioned for glasses, but they believed that we needed whiskey. The Taiwanese love their expensive scotch. So, we were served glasses of 18-year old scotch-whiskey, no water, and the rest is history.
We stayed up until 3am that night, when we had to catch our train for Kenting in the South China Sea. Kenting National Park is the southern most region of Taiwan and by far the most beautiful. With warm weather, we had a week that was filled with discovery and adventure. Upon our first night, we discovered a camping ground that cost 3 US dollars per night. We setup our tent and found ourselves on the edge of a coral reef that dropped deep into the ocean like a cliff. Here we were only 50 meters away from the ocean, on a grassy knoll that overlooked the coral. Each evening, we would put on masks and walk across the jagged coral, ready ourselves, and free dive. People would gather at our tent to see if we were ok, for no one in Taiwan really swims. I would usually go by myself (Jeff had a tough ear thing going on) and the freedom of diving as the sun set was phenomenal. I could swim 20 feet down to the bottom, where I was greeted by caves and crevasses that were explored.
However, the serenity of this experience was soon broken when we awoke the following morning. It being Chinese New Year, every person and their grandparents (literally grandma and grandpa came too) came to the campsite. We found ourselves cramped next to people with their cars and every camping accessory that could be purchased. We decided that we felt like we were in a UN refugee camp rather than paradise, so we rented some very fast motorbikes and left for Jialesheui on the East coast.
Jialesheui and its surroundings are known in Taiwan as “The Lost World.” This place was incredible. We camped for free under palm trees on the shore. Sand and grass beneath us, and palm leaves above us, we were in a state of bliss. We discovered that Jialesheui had one surf shop and one café. We would spend the evenings in this surf café, eating dinner and watching surf movies on their projectors., petting the puppies they had as the dogs would fall asleep in our laps. We were some of the only people there! After the movies, we would wander through the palm trees, the sound of the ocean leading our way, to our tent. There were nights that I slept outside, warm and listening to the rustle of leaves above me and the cacophony of sea beside me.
During the day, Jialeshui lit up! There was an amazing point break where the waves would go on for 30-second rides. Some days we surfed, while some days we bodyboarded. I grew up bodyboarding rocky spots, such as Lover’s Point and the reef section of Asilomar and Spanish Bay, so this was natural. The central part of Jialeshui, or the middles, were a faster wave that on Friday, turned into a great overhead session.
During on of the middle days of the trip, we took our motorbikes, at 85mph, through the mountains and into the central part of the national forest. No people, just full of life! The luscious jungle reminded me of scenes from Kuaui’s North Shore (Ne Pali Coast) and movies such as Jurassic Park and the Beach. We hiked through these mountains, visited the aborigine villages along the way (where people looked more Polynesian than Taiwanese) and stopped by some natural hot springs. In one of these springs, fish would come up and eat the material (dead I hoped) on our feet. This was a special pool that was for people to sit on the side and have a free pedicure from our fishy friends. 20 fish sucking and nibbling on your feet is an incredible experience; I recommend it!
The final day was hell and I would rather not attempt to recount the errand of getting back. 10 hours of traveling on what is a 4-hour trip. The experience of Kenting was liberating from some of the more mundane aspects of life in the city here. I felt revived from the spirit of aloha and everything the waves and sea had to offer.
Friday, March 26, 2010
The Night Market
The night’s air has a soft iridescent glow through the back alleys and meandering streets of Changhua. In this small city enclave, there is not a drop of personal space that is left undisturbed. I sometimes feel that I have to fight for the freedom to breathe, where other times, I feel like I am alive and living hand-in-hand with the vibrancy and gentle hum of a well-tuned machine. This evening, I have just returned from the Friday night market, where mother, father and little children alike flock to sample the week’s tastes, smells and sights.
The night market is something not completely endemic to Taiwanese life. As a reflection of a pan-Asian culture, the night market marks a crescendo for a section of the city’s workforce; a celebration of work completed and a chance to forget a crowded living place’s dullness. There are the grandmas, the grandpas and babies alike, mingling at tables and stands to satisfy their palate. However, each area of residency in the city embodies a different feel to this soirée des goûts.
Sometimes I like to wander over after work, around 10 in the evening, into this pit of chaotic combustion. Eyes will flock towards the one “May Guo Ren,” or American. Short quips of hello and what’s your name are echoed as if from a chorus line of high school boys and girls, however, few will return a greeting, afraid to use socially 10 years of private English instruction. (This is a constant reminder to us foreign English teachers of the timidity of our students when confronted with real world problems that don’t utilize fake world answer grid solutions).
The olfactory delights are intriguing. What smells sweet will usually be some variety of mountain fruit, while the smell of pig’s testacies and chicken intestines, will, well, be Pig testacies and chicken intestines. There are few tricks that Taiwanese dishes play in regards to smell; what you “see” is what you get. However, all is taken in as part of the evening experience.
I am reminded to the innocence of life in Taiwan from watching the children at these markets. They play their simple antique pinball machines on their mother’s lap or carefully watch the lone foreigner attempt his hand at chopsticks. Not remarking or embellishing us in any way, but just observing, as if the most important thing is to gaze, to view, to watch.
One such example of this is a child that I spend about an hour with every week. We rarely speak to each other, but he just sits with me, watching. He is about 4 years old and a boy of perky qualities. He has short black hair that is thin like most young boys in this area of the world. Dark piercing eyes look into mine as I glance at him; eyes that can hold time in their grasp, eyes that seem mysterious in an innocent way. But he just watches, never releasing his hold on what I am doing. I can be preparing a lesson, studying Chinese, or simply eating “gee row chow fan,” fried rice. He will just watch. A careful observer with a trained skill that few can appreciate. The more time that I spend with this child, the more that I envy him.
I have attempted to do more of my own gazing lately. I feel that as life’s pace increases in a busy city, exclusion and emulsion into the world of the self is necessary. This past weekend I cycled up the Nantou Mountain Range for 5 hours into a place called Sun Moon Lake. Once there, I disembarked down to the water’s edge on the other side of this 8-mile long body of water and made camp on the water’s edge. Away from civilization and emboldened by not having to speak Chinese, I watched the sun fall over the cascades nearby and drifted to sleep.
I was awakened by lights shining through my tent. Hearing voices and whispers (along with, in Chinese, phrases such as, “is someone there,” “I don’t know, let’s look”). I figured it an opportune time to get out. I unzipped my one-man and was immediately interrogated by 25 high school students on a nature walk. Not knowing what to do, I sat down with them next to my tent and chatted for about half-an-hour. Amazed that someone would venture out into the woods alone, they tried to warn me that it was dangerous. (Side note, most Taiwanese are afraid of what most people from California would consider something non-fearful, wading in ocean water, surfing, climbing on rocks, or generally being an outdoorsy person). One student even tried to warn me that it gets dark at night. Not being able to hold my laughter in, I quipped that I would keep that in mind the next time the sun went down.
The next morning I was able to watch the sun rise over the misty lake from the vantage point of my sleeping bag. Beautiful, truly beautiful. Feeling refreshed, I packed everything up in my pack and zipped back down the mountain; a 45 mph glide for 2 straight hours of NO PEDDLING!
The night market is something not completely endemic to Taiwanese life. As a reflection of a pan-Asian culture, the night market marks a crescendo for a section of the city’s workforce; a celebration of work completed and a chance to forget a crowded living place’s dullness. There are the grandmas, the grandpas and babies alike, mingling at tables and stands to satisfy their palate. However, each area of residency in the city embodies a different feel to this soirée des goûts.
Sometimes I like to wander over after work, around 10 in the evening, into this pit of chaotic combustion. Eyes will flock towards the one “May Guo Ren,” or American. Short quips of hello and what’s your name are echoed as if from a chorus line of high school boys and girls, however, few will return a greeting, afraid to use socially 10 years of private English instruction. (This is a constant reminder to us foreign English teachers of the timidity of our students when confronted with real world problems that don’t utilize fake world answer grid solutions).
The olfactory delights are intriguing. What smells sweet will usually be some variety of mountain fruit, while the smell of pig’s testacies and chicken intestines, will, well, be Pig testacies and chicken intestines. There are few tricks that Taiwanese dishes play in regards to smell; what you “see” is what you get. However, all is taken in as part of the evening experience.
I am reminded to the innocence of life in Taiwan from watching the children at these markets. They play their simple antique pinball machines on their mother’s lap or carefully watch the lone foreigner attempt his hand at chopsticks. Not remarking or embellishing us in any way, but just observing, as if the most important thing is to gaze, to view, to watch.
One such example of this is a child that I spend about an hour with every week. We rarely speak to each other, but he just sits with me, watching. He is about 4 years old and a boy of perky qualities. He has short black hair that is thin like most young boys in this area of the world. Dark piercing eyes look into mine as I glance at him; eyes that can hold time in their grasp, eyes that seem mysterious in an innocent way. But he just watches, never releasing his hold on what I am doing. I can be preparing a lesson, studying Chinese, or simply eating “gee row chow fan,” fried rice. He will just watch. A careful observer with a trained skill that few can appreciate. The more time that I spend with this child, the more that I envy him.
I have attempted to do more of my own gazing lately. I feel that as life’s pace increases in a busy city, exclusion and emulsion into the world of the self is necessary. This past weekend I cycled up the Nantou Mountain Range for 5 hours into a place called Sun Moon Lake. Once there, I disembarked down to the water’s edge on the other side of this 8-mile long body of water and made camp on the water’s edge. Away from civilization and emboldened by not having to speak Chinese, I watched the sun fall over the cascades nearby and drifted to sleep.
I was awakened by lights shining through my tent. Hearing voices and whispers (along with, in Chinese, phrases such as, “is someone there,” “I don’t know, let’s look”). I figured it an opportune time to get out. I unzipped my one-man and was immediately interrogated by 25 high school students on a nature walk. Not knowing what to do, I sat down with them next to my tent and chatted for about half-an-hour. Amazed that someone would venture out into the woods alone, they tried to warn me that it was dangerous. (Side note, most Taiwanese are afraid of what most people from California would consider something non-fearful, wading in ocean water, surfing, climbing on rocks, or generally being an outdoorsy person). One student even tried to warn me that it gets dark at night. Not being able to hold my laughter in, I quipped that I would keep that in mind the next time the sun went down.
The next morning I was able to watch the sun rise over the misty lake from the vantage point of my sleeping bag. Beautiful, truly beautiful. Feeling refreshed, I packed everything up in my pack and zipped back down the mountain; a 45 mph glide for 2 straight hours of NO PEDDLING!
Jialesheui: A surfer's paradise
After venturing from cab, to local train, to high speed rail, to cab, and finally, to another cab, we reached Jialeshuei. This place is located on the eastern tip of the island of Formosa and is tucked scenically between groves of palm trees and beaches. Almost deserted from human life, there is a small bed and breakfast in the Greek-isles-style architecture and has some of Taiwan’s best surfing locations.
The first day we were awoken to the sounds of monkeys, frolicking upon the jungle’s edge, baiting us with their calls. Entirely unsure about what was amongst us, we didn’t realize that theses parrot like noises were indeed furry little men that would run across the road from the beach in pursuit of some forbidden fruit, then back again to their sanctuaries in the trees.
The first day of surfing was so peaceful. My longboard rested firmly between my chest as I paddled out in absolute glee to the point break that Jialeshuei is so well known for. Rides her seem to defy not only gravity, but time. A fall takes a split-second longer and a breaking wave crashes a bit softer in the warm spring air.
Over the foliage covered cliffs, a spring’s plum rain moved quickly. Dark clouds were cast and a cool rain began to drop. Not a rain you would imagine the likes of Paddington Bear, with his yellow boots and slicked hat, but more of a scene from White Squall where the shipwrecked captain goes down with his ship.
As the rain subsided, a beautiful lower cloud immerged and dropped these thick, moist, cumbersome drops upon me. It was like the beginning to a Jack Johnson surf flic, Thicker Than Water. The drops got bigger and for a second, it felt like the rain was coming up, rather than down. Finally, it subsided, parting ways with a beautiful rainbow between the lush green cliffs of the river valley.
Other memories of this trip come from an uncommon discovery, an old manual typewriter. Grabbing a piece of paper, I haphazardly aligned my type and banged away a couple syllables, “experience Jialeshuei.” To my chagrin, the ink, albeit quietly faint, was nonetheless effective. I could see the details in each letter that was struck. After some minor practice, I gained some confidence with the keypad. Typing on a manual typewriter is an art form that has been forgotten, or unlearned from my generation. Each word requires total mental and physical concentration; each word has complete meaning. Hands literally sweat and ache after striking keys. The clickety-clack resonates with a rhythm that is not present on an ordinary electronic keyboard. Images of Hemingway and Steinbeck engulfed my mind as I carefully painted ink stamps onto pages.
After writing a couple of letters to friends and family back in the states, Chi Chi, a 2 year old local girl, sat a few feet away. She stared at the strange orange contraption and the keys’ cacophony of sounds; an archaic rhythm she had never heard. Mesmerized, she approached, pointing as she always does when she is curious, asking, “na shi shenme?” What is that she deplores, as if my typing’s sounds have upset her morning stroll. Trying to find the words in Chinese, I simply gave up and positioned the typewriter on a chair and motioned for her to give it a go. With all her might, she pressed down a button. To her youthful glee, the key struck the paper (12th try of course) and the shrill laughter that followed could be heard for miles. Another letter, another giggle until I wrote her name (laughter ensuing). I cannot fathom how difficult it must be for such a young child to see these strange characters on keys and feel anything but an estranged curiosity for what they may mean. Chi Chi sat with me for a good hour as we both discovered a passion that was dusted from our grandparents’ closets.
Sports in Taiwan
I just came back from an adventurous run throughout the Tianjhong region on the Baguashan mountain chain (Changhua and Nantou counties) and came to the realization that running in Taiwan is vastly different than running in any of the 50 states in US. I have been running for most of my life and have made physical fitness central to who I am. Since my father was a fitness nut, most of my early childhood memories are of traveling with mom, a day’s bike ride ahead of dad, and waiting for him to come into view as we would eagerly anticipate his arrival on foot or cycle. Needless to say, running, cycling and surfing have been close to my heart since I was in diapers.
I have run all over the world, from Hawai’i to Washington, DC, from the riverbanks of Strasbourg and Paris, France to the streets in Verona, Italy and through the small streets and countryside of central Germany. However, the most memorable running moments come from Croatia, where dad and I ran throughout what were once war-torn conflict zones of the mid-90s. As life has thrown me to this wonderful island nation of Taiwan, I have experienced something that I have not witnessed anywhere else in the world.
When running in America, or cycling, people are quick to judge and chastise. Cat-calls, “hey babies,” and laughter are usually what awaits for a tired runner or cyclist that has decided, god forbid, to wear anything that might resemble tight fitting. I remember, as a kid, making fun of my father’s cycling outfits, thinking that spandex was hilarious. However, cycling throughout the hot mountains here, I have found myself in similar attire. What awaits us solo fanatics here is not calls and jeers, but shouts of support. Be it running or cycling, I have yet to meet a passerby that has not thrown me some form of encouragement.
Running throughout the trails of Baguashan, I was greeted with a familiar “Ji Oh” (literally, put gas in it in Chinese/Taiwanese). This familiar expression is all too frequent here in Taiwan and can be heard with the thumbs-up sign from grinning farmers and school children that are awaiting a bus on a dirt road. Taiwan truly encompasses the Aloha spirit of Haiwai’i and the southern hospitality of the Deep South, combining these symbols of acknowledgement and creating something unique; Taiwan love. There is a spirit of excellence here in the motivational words of those who inhabit this small island nation.
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