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.
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