The anointed day - the second Cardinal Sin - the feast

Today, families gather together in disparate levels of joy over the Thanksgiving day feast. A rotating globe displaces Taiwan into the future, where Thanksgiving has already come and gone. Celebrating in the most American fashion, Dacota and I enjoyed ourselves immensely.

I know what you are thinking; just because we are the white people amongst dark-skinned inhabitants doesn't make our Thanksgiving more authentic. In fact, it certainly does! You might also wonder how we obtained small-pox infected blankets to ignorantly gift/trade away? We didn't -- regrettably. :-(


As products of the American educational system and American cultural indoctrination, it is amazing that some consider this day-of-thanks as some kind of communion between the natives and immigrants. A day where the natives happily contributed to a Puritan feast and both sides ate in peace and equality. Throughout my youth this narrative didn't seem accurate, especially when reading history books detailing the obliteration of native populations. My intuition proved accurate; the history of the day and era is ghastly. As a youth, I played along obediently because it is easier to participate in events than to protest and demand truthful answers. Fortunately, my folks celebrated this day differently than other families and used it as an excuse to remember all that one is thankful for. We would go around discussing and expressing our gratitude for things and events that transpired the previous year and invoke positive affirmations in an effort to grow in desired traits and qualities.


Perhaps accurate accounts of historic events should be taught to our children. Not to harp on mistakes of the past but to own up to the atrocities committed. The flat-out lies told to school children are analogous to something as odious as instructing them that black slaves volunteered to come work in America. That the slavers didn't purchase them from tribes or abduct them outright but instead they came across the ocean volunteering in a manner similar to WWOOLFing. It simply doesn't teach the lessons of growth and progress that people should all to be thankful for. Celebrating the harvest, celebrating the connection to one's family, and celebrating a time of abundance in this age of enormous prosperity, in my opinion, wouldn't be ruined by accurately reflecting on how native populations have been destroyed throughout the times of colonization and forced indoctrination. Living in a first/third world country sadly reflects the unlearned lessons of imperial domination. Missionaries abound and with them the arrogance of righteousness. With these lessons omitted from public education and public dialog, such disrespect and violence will continue indefinitely.

 

Conforming to modern Thanksgiving customs, without access to a Turkey, we did the next best thing; ate as much as we could – gluttony at its finest. A delicious all-you-can-eat vegetarian restaurant transformed the traditional American experience of yams, potatos, stuffing, turkey, ham, cranberries, etc. into orange encrusted lotus root, wasabi and sesame glazed okra, yam leaves with wolfberries and mushrooms, deep fried parsnips, seared green beans in black pepper sauce, spicy eggplant, curried cauliflower, soup so stinky with fermentation that dogs would turn away, T.C.M. soup with greens, numerous dumplings of sweet and/or savory variety, and more. Much, much more. Leaving the restaurant in a dazed fashion, pain swelling in my stomach like an alien about to burst through, we successfully conquered the feast. We made 'Murica proud!

G.I. Joe circa 1955

One frame taken from a short video clip captured by Irina

Before tonight, I had thus far avoided the bars in Taiwan. They have never been my scene (state-side or abroad) and I do not find these establishments enjoyable. Obnoxious drunks, loud irritating music, expensive booze, the cultural imprinting that suggests this is the environment suitable to meet new people, the inability to have conversation because of the noise volume (although I will acquiesce and say that there exists certain bars where conversations could take place), basically the whole deal. I also find the hypocrisy of our cultural obsession with one particular drug to be offensive. Legislation against certain chemicals resulting in the imprisonment of thousands based on some “moral” (historically racist) premise is abhorrent. Simply going to these noisy, crowded, drug saturated establishments puts me on edge. People should be allowed to have responsible fun; I hope those who enjoy their time drinking away internal organs are setting a positive example.


Meeting a friend at a tea-house catalyzed the decision and subsequent action to see a live show at a bar. This decision instigated the introduction to a slew of foreigners working in Hualien. The night was exceptionally beautiful, warm, humid, stars shining, moon cut perfectly in half and gleaming wickedly, and the scent I attribute to Asia on the night's subtle breeze. The tea-house we visited was elegant, a place where you'd take a date or your visiting parents. In fact, that is how the Australian we met up with discovered the place. Most of the restaurants I visit on a daily basis are homely, good on the stomach and wallet, yet probably lack what some might call “ambiance” and I call “uncomfortable/stuffy”. I have to admit though, this fancy tea-house served delicious drinks and the sweet kumquat tea I drank was magical. A mile or two separated the establishments and we walked and talked, enjoying the night. Perhaps the most important thing I learned about Australia this night was that there exists spiders that run after you or swim and attack you from pools of water. There are dangers everywhere including poisonous, stinging plants using neurotoxic compounds; basically our conversation validated, if not exacerbated, my “Australia-phobia”. You will indeed be pulverized by 7ft tall kangaroos, bit by venomous brown snakes that look like sticks, and, worse and scariest thing of all, be subjected to the accent.


To expedite the story and, at other times, to protect the anonymity of persons, certain events will be casually overlooked. Thus far, all events portrayed in these blog posts have been extremely accurate and will continue to be unless disclaimed otherwise. As a subjective reporter attempting to remain objective, I felt the need to interject the above sentences to remain credible.


This bar could have looked like any in Portland. Various potted plant, hedges, and tables separated the entrance from the sidewalk. As expected, the density of people inside the place was indeed over-saturated. Every table, stool, nook and cranny seemed populated. The room was surprisingly small for a venue hall with the stage in the center of the room against the wall; the built stage was around a foot in height, perhaps 8'x12'. The center of the room was noticeable upon the very inception of entering the bar for white and black skin amassed. Flanking them, folks of Asian decent populated tables and walls. Foreigners from diverse countries and ages interacted with each other with familiar joviality. Most, if not all, of the people I met taught at the various English immersions school of the city.


A ska band from Taipei was performing that evening and they turned out to be quite talented and enjoyable to watch, even though I do not generally enjoy listening to the genre. Frankly the most enjoyable part of the performance remained internal. The music and the scene reminded me of the conversations I had with both of my grandfather's about their foreign travels. The brass, drums, and tuxedos transported me to the 1950's while on tour in the “orient”. My maternal grandfather served in USAF during the Korean War and visited “Formosa” (as he calls it) in the early fifties and my paternal grandfather served overseas in the Korean and Vietnam War and also consulted and traveled overseas after retiring from the Coast Guard. Having recently conversed with my maternal grandfather and listened to his life stories, his escapades in visited countries, and his youth spent in the service of politicians and bureaucrats, these events were within minds-eye. Although he wasn't physically present to share this experience, the internal bond of understanding grew ever taunt.


As the music played and alcohol consumption increased amongst foreigners, the tapping feet and head bobbing metastasized into full on boogieing. One or two old white guys, inebriated from the get go, danced throughout the show while the rest of us convulsed in spastic anti-rhythem with increasing fervor. The point of climax, where every foreigner danced, and some Taiwanese even bobbed their heads in enthusiasm, was when Tutti Frutti by Little Richard began. It was pretty surreal to be dancing away to a 1955 song that quite possibly set a new path for Rock and Roll as a genre. Our small group were the only ones dancing. It seems that dancing is uncommon (at a live show?) for the locals. People all seemed to be enjoying themselves, the music, and, probably, were entertained by watching us do our thing. It would be disconcerting for a band originating from the U.S. to play a show where nobody outwardly displayed signs of enjoyment. Dacota had the opportunity to ask the lead singer of the group about this and he replied, “You know it is a good show in Taiwan if nobody leaves the bar when you are playing.” I can see the logic in this but at the time, ignorant of this information, it seemed strange that the people, already prone to stand out, were the only ones dancing resulting in exacerbating the cultural divide by cutting loose and raising the roof.


Afterwards, we struck up conversation with two very nice people and discussed an assortment of topic.


Repeatedly called to join the “after party” of which migrated from an alternative bar to a popular bluff, we departed the bar and interesting company in search of the fabled spot. The clock shone past two when we finally found the destined location. By the time we arrived, only three people remained. Talking for a few additional hours, the time passed and sleep beckoned. We decided to forgo waiting for dawn and the sunrise in order to get some sleep. Another river-trace was already on the schedule and our plan to head out by seven was delayed until nine. Not sustainable but surprisingly fun, this night seemed worthy of an honorable mention in this blog.


This opportunity allowed me to meet people from Ghana, South Africa, Australia, Canada, Russia, Moldova, USA, Taiwan, and possibly elsewhere. Perhaps future communication with these folks will result in greater worldly understanding and alternative perspectives on customs, philosophy, political and economic systems, views of America, important literature that I might be ignorant of, and the geographic location and topology of the landscape. I honestly had to look up the location of Moldova. To be fair though, I didn't obtain my university degree in Geography. (For the Geography majors out there, this joke DOESN'T EVER, EVER get old.)

We finally found a "friend"

Simple hikes have turned into zoological expeditions. Mammalian brain, deciphering the world and the complex landscapes, hope to see anything that moves; our eyes are continuously darting, ever vigilant, ever ready. With snakes, primates, cats, birds, insects, spiders, and mushrooms on the forefront of our minds, both tree tops and forest bottoms need to be observed simultaneously. If only there existed a way for me to both watch my footing and search the trees and terrain for beautiful creatures, I would be an optimized unstoppable force. Perhaps science will develop a technique which will implant additional eyes and alter neurological functions to allow multiple optical surveillance, Hurry up already! I only have another eight months in Taiwan. Exceptionally cool plants and geologic formations already cause me to rubber neck, yet this additional searching is exciting and sometimes rewarding. Perhaps eight monkeys have been seen this past week swinging and running in the canopies above. Pictures have been taken and time has been spent watching these magnificent, distant cousins go about their intricate lives. This post is not about these primates however, it is about something we have longed and feared to see.

On Saturday, sun shone intermittently through passing clouds and we set off to river-trace. Various stops were made in search of some hidden paths or new experiences on our way to the river. We discovered some possibilities yet decided to continue our trace even though it was a river we'd traced before. With new potential sources of adventures, exploring would require alternative gear. The river we were destined towards is famous in the area for its beauty and is regularly traced by adventure groups providing the opportunity for visitors to experience the majestic rock formations and crystal water. We consider this area our backyard and quickly put distance between us and the kick-off point. At one spot, Dacota taking his normal large strides and me hurrying along attempting to keep up, I looked down and noticed something unique. A green snake lay coiled on the flat of a rock, a rock Dacota had just stepped across. He'd stepped over our friend without noticing it-- I fortunately did. Soaking up the rays, coiled and beautiful, was our first venomous snake of the journey. Easily identified as the Bamboo Viper, this beauty is the most common poisonous snake in Taiwan and the only one not legally protected. There are at least three different types of green tree snakes, two out of three are harmless. The description in the following link about the species will divulge the bit of local knowledge. “Look for the red tail,” is what we were told and indeed this one not only had a red tail but also triangular head and red eyes.


http://www.snakesoftaiwan.com/Viridovipera%20stejnegeri/species_viridovipera_stejnegeri.htm


Due to its nocturnal schedule, this little one only wanted to enjoy itself in the sun and wasn't bothered by our presence in the slightest. We climbed for a bit more, continuing to look around for additional “friends” yet didn't find any. Although Taiwan has a diverse group of snakes, this is the first one I’ve seen and feel privileged for the opportunity. Let's hope that a Sea Krait doesn't take an interest in us when swimming along the coast or for a Tiger Snake to introduce itself while wonder why these ill-prepared foreigners are trudging through the mountainous underbrush. Fortunately, since the majority of our hiking is at high elevations, most mountain snakes are non-venomous. Although,the initial ascent, from 0 – 1000 feet above sea-level offers a variety of venomous snakes which could end our expedition rather abruptly. We'll have to be more cautious in the summer-time during the height of the breeding season; until then, while trudging through the underbrush and overgrown paths on our adventures, rice slippers and shorts will continue to compose our attire.

A New Sport Is Born – Off-Road Scootering

The brilliant autumn sun awoke me earlier than my preset alarm. Hot springs were on the menu today. Located in a protected park, and the closest springs to our home (some 40 minutes away), our adventure began after picking up a few Fan Tuan. Expecting this to be an easy day-hike, we forewent our purchase of betel nut. Perhaps vanity alone will keep me from consuming this tasty and useful drug. Although sun shone through early morning fog and low clouds, the temperature was uncomfortably cold and we sped along the highway wearing sweatshirts and rain jackets to cut the wind-chill. The mountains destined for are located southwest of Hualien and is the farthest south I've ever been thus far in my life, not only in Taiwan but also in the world. As is ever become typical of life in Taiwan, mountains covered in subtropic jungle jutted out of the ground in rapid accent creating poetic landscapes of lucid beauty.


Perhaps the constant description of Taiwan's environment is boring to the reader. Through repetition, I hope that I might be able to bring the reader slightly closer to true complexity of the diversity. If the reader is familiar to the PNW and its temperate rainforest, tree, plant, shrub, and mycology diversity, then perhaps the stretch of imagination and written description need just be skewed familiar species, temperature, soil, etc. To say that this lush alien subtropic world is more beautiful than the PNW is false; however, it stimulates my curiosity and imagination as much as, say, an individual from the Middle East being transported into the Mt. Hood or Olympic National Forests. The geology and biology upon this wonderful spinning globe is surreal.


Our drive through various small towns, including one where we had to circumvent the main road due to some family function closing off the street. All our trekking eventually landed us at the correct gate entrance. Tour bus' and vans cluttering the tiny parking lot. A quick conversation about permitting caused us to drive back to the closest town and attempt to persuade the police department to issue us a permit. Due to the limited amount of humans allowed in the protected wildness in a given day, we were declined and our plans of hot spring pleasure abruptly shit upon. Respecting the reason for visitor limitations, we decided not to jump the fence. Determined to not have our day ruined, we set off towards another destination, Wind Mountain.


The map, pulled up on an ipod touch, left details to be desired. Like, pretty much all of them. We knew that this place existed and that's about it. Driving in some general direction of the place, we took a few turns off the main road and ended up at a park of sorts. Thinking that a trail might exist to get us to our destination, we paid the two dollar entrance fee and headed in. Looking more like a garden, we walked around until finding the Visitor's Center. Delighted to see us, the staff changed the introduction/description video made for guests from Chinese to English and we watched the video, having no idea where we were, the function of the place, or if it would lead us to our mountain. As it turns out, this tourist attraction was a protected forest area by the forestry department and a living monument for the events that took place on the land. Spanning hundreds of hectares, the mountains around us were heavily logged only 30 years previous. The video detailed the train systems employed, the vast hoisting mechanisms with overhead cables that carried ancient trees off the mountains, and the (horrible) re-forestation efforts taken. Only logged for five years, the devastation to the land could be viewed to this day. The video showed that these small trains capable of carrying 40 tons (with a 50 hp engine!) traveled across the scariest bridges one could image, wooden and shaky over huge ravines, and the cable systems running hundreds of feet above the valleys, carrying huge beautiful trees for lumber. The replanting effort was a basic mono-crop and grid system which could be viewed from the lookouts that littered the hillside of the park. A very pro-government, “we did a great job”, attitude was prevalent throughout the video, obviously hoping that the viewer wasn't capable of seeing through the guise. Another key point, which I will return to later in this post, is that the tree industry catapulted Taiwan's economy into is first boom of the modern era. Just another country to exploit and destroying national resources, irreplaceable systems, to expand wealth and power. Compounding this recent exploitation, if one only reads the history of Taiwan s/he will be amazed at the similarity between it and every other colonized country. Kill off or convert the savage aboriginals, exploit the resources using slave labor, and continue to the next victim. No matter how different it feels to be in this new world, the history is the same. It is sadly the same.


We walked around the park, up hillsides to various lookouts, capturing pictures of frogs and plants, and realizing that there were no paths leading to our mountain, we circled around to the Visitor's Center to request directions. Three older women, all arguing about how we might continue, all giving different accounts and different directions and were of very little help, although they were sweet. We left still destined to find the mountain. I am happy though that we stopped. It was a great hour and half detour, to learn some new information, look at huge trains and transportation equipment, and financially support a forest reserve.


Once more, driving goal-ward, we stopped and solicited directions a few more times, each response different from the last, and not just because our relative position was changing. Our circling took us to flooded out roads and farmer's fields. Amazing. When a road gets flooded out, people just drive across it, usually in a 4x4. One stop for directions gave us the notion that there would be a waterfall along the way and so we began anew moving rapidly along the single lane road (what would be done if two vehicles intersected?) we crossed river after river on pitted and dilapidated bridges, viewing water-holes, rapids, man-made waterfall systems, and finally we came to a waterfall. We stopped and took pictures. It was a lovely fall with viewable shimmering cliff face and over hanging trees and vines. I wouldn't say that I am acclimating to waterfalls, but rather the sheer volume of these magnificent phenomena are spoiling me. What will happen to me when the closest fall is Multnomah Falls?!


By this time, the road had turned to dirt, gravel, and rock. The road continued up the mountain after the waterfall in ever increase slope. Up and up we went, engine whining in protest, unguarded perilous cliff drop-offs, wash outs, rock slides, trenches, mud, etc. A 4x4 lifted truck would have been extremely useful. Our scooter though, slowly charged up switchback after dirt switchback. At one point we were almost run off the road, and literally had to pull the scooter into a fortuitous grassy patch that so happened to have been there instead of a wall or drop-off. Filled with gravel, this truck plunged down the mountain. How this driver felt save driving some 15 tons down this ridge is another story. He was hard; no doubt about that. By the time we intersected him, we'd already passed a sign that either warned of danger or that this area was forbidden to enter. After miles of uphill climbing the slope became too steep for the scooter to make it. I'd estimate 60+ degrees. There were times before which were that steep but for a shorter duration resulting in me bailing and Dacota Fred Flintstone-ing up, engine screaming, standing up,his rice slippers digging into the hillside, and pushing the thing until it got enough traction to move on its own. Having reached the point where we could go no further, we parked the scooter on an outcropping, out of the “road”, and started hiking up the hillside switchbacks. On our walk, we looked at other mountains and noticed that they looked to have switchback paths also. We inferred this based on some stepped lines cutting into the forest, it was unique to see linear lines on a mountainside but it was too far to decidedly know for sure. Getting up those mountains will be another day's story. After a few miles up hill we came around a bend and found a gate and truck pulling out of the gated area. Surprised that we were up there, the driver of the truck came to meet us and asked why we were there. He explained that this was his job site and that it was extremely dangerous to be up there. He was in a relatively new Toyota 4x4 truck and offered to take us down the mountain. We declined because we had the scooter and started walking down. A brief discussion between the two of us decided we would go and ask the gate keeper if he would show us around and tell us what kind of business they ran. He saw us coming back and you could tell he was thinking, “Oh shit. What do these kids want?” The man obviously lived up there and his dog barked viciously upon our approach. Hailing him for a distance we asked our questions. It turns out that they produced gravel up here, dynamiting the hillsides, collecting the carnage, and transporting it downhill to be made into cement. He emphatically refused to show us around the compound because, besides being extremely dangerous, the man who originally told us to get lost was the boss and wouldn't take kindly to be disobeyed. Bidding farewell, losing our chance see the place and having lost time to find our intended mountain that was now lost amongst the other mountains, we started the treacherous ride down. During the exceptionally steep parts I walked down, and the other parts of the slope we slowly edged down, knuckles white with the strain from the brake levers. As luck would have it, the breaks had been recently replaced and the mission didn't end by us bailing off the stupid deep, unprotected drop-offs.


Our conversation down (because we had to talk instead of only focusing on not dying) conveyed that we both were appalled that they were destroying this mountain in order to make cement. Perhaps in 50 years time, when the mountain is gone, a reserve will implemented telling tourists of the time when a mountain existed. Once again, aggressively destroying irreplaceable systems in order to make a living. Not nefarious or immoral perhaps, just very, very sad.; another startling example of the human plague.


We made it down and decided to see if we could find a way up one of the other mountains. A few turns later, we found a bridge, and headed up another steep hill, amazingly it was actually paved. Pavement turned out as a double edge sword though. It allowed our scooter to make it up steeper climbs than before, which there were many, but also allowed moss to grow and leaves to accumulate. No matter how good your breaks are, if a film of slippery material doesn't allow proper contact or balancing, stopping and staying up are two tricky feats. We continued to climb and, to our amazement, continued seeing farms the further we went up. People actually lived up here. Great! This spurred our continued courage and egged us on. At one point, far past any farms, the road stopped and left us looking into several cut paths entering into the forest. Bamboo surrounded us and offered us sticks which we might swat the ground for snakes, hoping to detour them from striking. The sky was darkening and a good time for snakes to be out and about. I don't know why, but the idea of tree snakes like the Bamboo Viper freak me out. Perhaps it is because I am too busy looking down at the path instead of surveying the branches we are walking under to look for a green little snake that would hospitalize me. We followed this trail ever curious as to its purpose. During our hike, Dacota heard a rustling in the bushes. We stopped and looked around and noticed that we were not eight feet from a macaque. He was attempting to look dead. He didn't move, just sat supported on a tree branch. This is the closest I’d ever been a real primate. It was awesome and he was really cute! After pictures were taken we attempted to move off and unfortunately scared the little guy who dropped out of the tree and disappeared. Some while later we came to an abrupt end. The path simply ended; as if the person clearing it either found no need to continue or hadn't been able to finish it yet. Why did this path exist? Was it owned by someone who was simply checking out areas that might be farm-able? Was there some other hidden goal?


Our way back was quick and easy, no snakes and, unfortunately, no monkeys. During the areas that were entirely too slippery for us to both go down, I trekked down the hill and Dacota, again using the Flintstone tactic with feet down for balance and friction, managed to stay up. He didn't crash, which is more that I can say the unexperienced. Down a little ways we saw another path that looked driven on. It was extremely muddy and so we decided to explore it on foot. It was getting dark and the thought of slipping down this muddy path before having to continue down the hillside caused me to demand the hike. After a few miles, it became apparent that indeed this path was fairly well traveled by a vehicle. We crossed over a flooded part of the road and around one bend and came upon evidence of life. A small river passed through the road and on the other side, a campsite/structure? composed of tarps, boards, and metal. It looked inhabited. A rusty truck and scooter signified that it was indeed occupied. We would have explored it further yet fear of dogs stopped us. In the U.S. A campsite/living situation meant, to me, that some meth-heads were cooking or doing some sketchy business. The nicest part about this trip is that there are no tweekers in Taiwan. Why these people lived up here, so far up, across the river, is unknown to me, yet the simple fact they aren't attempting some Breaking Bad scenario was refreshing. On a few occasions in the U.S., I've come up to area in remote hillsides and seen some drug operations. I never saw anyone, nor was shot at, yet have heard plenty of stories from acquaintances who have experienced such a thing. These folks here in Taiwan, whatever there story, incited my curiosity and I would have been very excited to find out the answers to my questions. Are they just up here for solitude? To find personal peace and happiness? Or are they super poor and squatting on the land? Perhaps one day we will make it back up there and ask them. We stealthily left the area, returned to the scooter, and headed down hill. A few more stops of exploration took place yet none amounted to much. We headed back under the fall of night and devoured a meal of embarrassing proportion.


Besides for the crazy steep drops and 4x4 scootering, this Sunday was fairly relaxing. Lots of driving, lots of “break system workout” (yeah. They will need to be replaced soon-- already!), a few fun hikes, and even more curiosity about people and their amazing lives.

A Lazy Sunday

An exciting day isn't always extreme. For a week of diverse adventures, I am telling the story of Sunday to help elevate the likelihood of being reprimanded again. “He's grounded; … by his mother.” The quotation will be easy recognizable to anyone that knows me well. Omitting stories of far more dangerous situations, precarious climbs, foolish river traces, and slippery and downright stupid excisions, yesterday was both fun and safe; making it a good tale. Two consecutive posts of gallant misadventure might result in multiple third-party life insurance policies purchased. Such tales will not go amiss however, and will slowly be filtered in to keep the blog exciting.


An argument arose during a previous river-trace regarding the exact definition of the word. For those who are unfamiliar with the term, a river-trace is the act of hiking upriver. Specifically not hiking next to a river, this interactive experience couples bouldering, rock climbing, river crosses, river walking, bank hiking, and swimming. Hualien is very well known for this event and tour groups can be found adventuring on the safer and more accessible rivers fully geared with helmets, life vests, wetsuits, and special water shoes. Of course the only gear we need for such activities is rice slippers, drinkable water, and, of course, betel nut. Being over prepared today though, we also had four “fan tuan”. Fan tuan is a round ball about the size of a baseball with a bunch of goodies stuffed inside. These goodies include tofu, peanut shavings, picked veggies, and other things I have yet to identify. Enclosed by five-grain rice with a piece of seaweed wrapper to seal the seam of the rice shell, the unified the ball is delicious and constitute our daily breakfast. Unable to get geared up the 'Murician (or rather R..E.I.) way with Cliff bars, fig bars, and trail mix, these delicious breakfast balls would have to do. Our previous days of river -tracing were significantly more akin to bouldering being both physically straining and dangerous; so this trip was a refreshing vacation. Speeding out of town, north towards the famous Taroko Gorge area, we passed small towns, farms, immensely intricate cemeteries, bicyclists, and other motorists. Perfect weather at seven in the morning, warm, clear, refreshing, foreshadowed a wonderful day. And it was!


Arriving at the trail-head, a local elderly couple used an existing rope system to scale down the rocky bank which composed the initial decent. Backpack, consisting of woven leafs, was jammed packed, full of provisions. They began crossing the river towards the other bank, something new for Dacota who traced this river before. Speculating they knew a local hidden path, we followed suit, down the rocky edge, into the crystal-clear blue water in pursuit of some gnosis. A half mile up a path revealed that these folks were not picnicking somewhere up the river but instead lived on this far side of the river, completely isolated from the nearby town. With no bridges or roads leading to their home (home used instead of shanty because the home was ingeniously put together out of various materials) the only way one could get to their house was to ford the river. What would be done at times of volumetric increases during the winter or during typhoons baffles me. There's no doubt about it, this elderly couple is pretty hardcore. Returning back down the bank, we began our trace, again.


Accustom to water temperatures in the PNW, the hobby of river-tracing in anything less than a wetsuit is impossible during most times of the year. Glacier and snow fed streams lead to an ocean of inhuman coldness. Contrary to my previous experiences, in this strange and exciting land, when stepping into water, which is even clearer that the water in Opal Creek, the instant coldness turns into coolness that is simply comfortable. If hiking to fast along boulders, one just needs to take a refreshing swim to feel instantly better. Hiking in the river is truly enjoyable and after eight hours, of fluctuating sunshine, wind, and rain, spending additional time in the water is enticing. Each leg of the trek was around four miles, not including the additional exploration. Of the entire day, only a single casualty took place. Dacota, crossing before of me, backpack raised above his head, went chin deep through the river managing to stay up right and unscathed. With camera above my head, I began crossing, my tip toes barely holding onto the sandy bottom when I suddenly slipped and started floating downstream. This wasn't frightening at all, it was rather enjoyable actually, and with a few quick strokes I reached the correct bank. Upon traveling further however, I realized that my sunglasses were not on my head, but rather I'd placed them in my pocket during a quick water break. They must have floated out of my pocket during the rather deep crossing. How I overlooked the safety of my beloved sunglasses is beyond reprehensible; both that I inadvertently littered and that my cool sunglasses took a watery grave.


To say the hike was uneventful or boring would be completely inaccurate. The shear beauty of the scene is beyond description. Immense metamorphic rocks of quartz and serpentinite, basalts, both columnar and normal round rocks, were encrusted with some type of mica (maybe??) shimmering in the sunshine; a myriad of varieties creating a geologic wonderland; a geologists wet dream. The epitome of clear water shone blue as if in opal or topaz. The steep canyon were lined with such startling diverse jungle no camera could ever draw out the complexity. Water falls flowed down rocky outcroppings and disappear into jungle only to reemerge cascading down overgrown vine clearings, mist scattering and creating tiny rainbow clouds far up the valley walls, only to disappear again, all eventually flowing into the stream below; the one we delightfully interacted with. Eventually we reached an area known as The Grotto. Regretfully, this area was far more extreme than what we could simply do with determination alone. There is a reason people use rigging gear up there and without doing so would result in disability or death. One day, it will be fun to get up there and do some exploring. The steep rock walls, glistening and beautiful, make a gigantic canyon which offers the challenge of surmount-ability. Even more exciting though is what might lay beyond. Continuing the trace beyond the Grotto continued to increase in difficulty, being much more similar to our previous bouldering/tracing excursions. At a particularly alluring bend we stopped for lunch only to be disappointed by the beginning sprinklings of rain. Part of this difficult continuation of the journey involving climbing in and through the steep area of a small waterfall and the cliffs surrounding it. Because the water below was far too swift to cross at a lower section of the river, this partial rock climb was the safest possible way to continue. Given the impending slippery conditions, we felt it best return to a safer spot before this voyage became worthy of another experience where the declaration of “hardcore” is necessary. Down a mile or two from The Grotto, the first sighting of people took place, a group of Taipei tourists, fully geared, getting ready to ford the crossing that stole my beloved sunglasses. Amped up on betel nut, we were cruising along, blowing by previously difficult areas with ease. Not wanting to get in the tour group's “grill” we crossed upriver. This area was even deeper than the other and was at least 6' deep. They watched in shock as two extremely white guys, without gear, charge into and across the river like it was nothing. Only to boulder the areas surrounding them, and disappear into the stream beyond with only a wave of acknowledgment. The shocked look on their faces was priceless!


Stopping to skip rocks, build sand castes, play Lui He Ba Fa Quan in the river, swim out to rocky outcroppings and scale them, and play Taiji on a particularly enormous and flat monstrosity of nature in the middle of the river, we were surprised by a hail from behind. Coming down the river quickly, a local, with extremely dirty clothes and determined face, was chasing after us. Puzzled, we crossed back to meet him, where he asked if we had a light. Confirming we did, lighting up his cigarette, and offering betel nut, Dacota and him began chatting away. Once across the river, Ma Dao pulled out two large fresh-water crabs which he caught in a particularly dangerous tributary. He explained that because the area was so treacherous, nobody went up there and he could find these gigantic crabs. Inviting us to accompany him, he took us along hidden paths used to circumvent the river where possible decreasing the time needed to get this far upriver. He and Dacota chatted away like old friends, and the rest of our voyage was spent in the company of this very interesting man. Learning a few words in English from American movies, he asked questions and Dacota answered them. He knew of major American celebrities like Nick Cage, Denzel Washington, John Travolta; knew and sang parts of songs from Aerosmith and the Beatles. The spectacle of this was extremely humorous. Currently unemployed (we derived that he was a construction worker of some sort) he kept his wife and him fed by either hunter or fishing for food. Squatting in some kind of building out of town, he lived off the land in his own unique way. Both he and Dacota complained about Taipei tourists “mucking up” the place. Apparently local resident Dacota didn't fit the description of a tourist. Imagine that! Perhaps the coolest and most interesting point of the conversation came about when we asked Ma Dao about a man-made structure overlooking a bend in the river. Built long ago, it was used as a resting and luncheon spot for visitors. The exciting part came about when he described an aboriginal trail behind the structure that lead back to Hualien. He described the path as dark and dangerous. It is most likely akin to the hunting trail I described in my third post. Given that, as the crow flies, Hualien was about 18 miles away, this path leads up and down mountains, into uninhabited canyons, and through thick subtropic forests, and wouldn't be hike-able in a day. Perhaps this information will foreshadow a coming adventure! Although, I hope to enlist the help of a native or local if we attempt such a feat.


A very heart-felt goodbye came and went, and we returned to the city, charged by such a fun day.



I didn't mention this earlier because I felt it would break up the flow of the story. At one point, this man sat down with us and took a break. He offered us some white liquor, we declined, and drank it up leaving the bottle behind as we departed. We'd already collected a grocery store size plastic bag of trash and I took his bottle without comment. Dacota, much to my surprise, asked him about this. Only on our ride home did I actually hear about the discussion. Ma Dao said to not worry about littering, that when it rained it would be washed out to the ocean. This brings to mind a conversation I had with my friend Chris about the luxury of environmental concern. Although I disagreed with his argument, supplemented by plenty of proof which I will mention, his notion, if I am consolidating it correctly, is that only in environments plush with excess and leisure is environmental concern prevalent. I'll add to his argument and say that an education which teaches of the consequence of such harmful acts as littering is a luxury.


With part of his reasoning I agree. This man, so far removed from a culture of luxury, truly felt that once it was out of sight it was out of mind.


When looking at the countries most vocal and most concerned about climate change though, first-world countries, like the U.S. and China, are not shouting for change. In fact, third world countries are far more concerned with educating their population and changing local and global policy. The main reason for this is simple. Poorer countries, especially in the tropics, are far more affected by the effects of climate change. They are far more affected by the toxification of the environment, the depletion of available resources both food and energy, and by the extreme weather patterns already being observed. As the Maslow Hierarchy of Needs shows, concerns about the ramification of pollutants on a global scale are far from the mind of people simply looking for enough food to survive. Why it takes the elite individuals from certain third-world countries to call for global environmental change should be embarrassing for countries of vast empires and extreme ostentatious wealth. If we are truly supposed to care for the meek and protect the future for our children, shouldn't massive reform be taking place? Shouldn't the democracy of our dollar be spent attempting to support businesses and politicians with a more realistic idea of the world today?
How do we both help the environment and keep all of our toys? Perhaps that should be the real question and one every 'Murican should contemplate.

Opinion article on caged animals.

Avoid reading this article if not interested in the subject.

It has very little to do with my trip. It contains no updates or summaries.

The purpose of this post is to vent and, since Dacota is working, the internet is that medium. 
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If you care about animals, like them, or find them of more sentient than a piece of concrete, it is best to avoid pet stores, especially in Asia. Having only entered a Petco or other major retailers of animals, feed, and supplies a few times I am shocked that people have the indifference to support that kind of business practice. Multiplied on a greater scale, the pet stores I recently departed from hurt my soul. Designer kitties and puppies caged, starved for attention, love, and probably nourishment cried out for help when walking by. The sadness in their eyes was horrifying. Everywhere one looks, stray dogs and cats roam, yet are left untouched. Far from an argument promoting veganism (as I am not vegan), my intent is to hopefully propose that people consider not supporting buying animals from a breeder-based institution. An entire industry is born out of people's preconceptions about a specific breed of animal. If basing judgment of a person simply based upon skin color, sexual orientation, etc. is prejudice so to then is seek out breeders of a specific animal and purchasing them based on breed alone. Compounded by the simple fact that organizations are based on rescuing animals, some are even breed specific, makes supporting animal breeders unnecessary. Similar to my argument for buying local produced goods, free-range eggs, etc. the only true act of democracy we have is that of purchasing good from a select number of retailers. Money spent at one location not only keeps money out of the hands of another establishment but helps to weaken the financial stability of the unsupported business. Its something to consider at least.

"Rescue is my favorite breed," was a great bumper sticker I saw before I departed to Taiwan. 


We'll see how my argument gets thrown into my face since I elect to financially support other industries that keep animals as slaves of production with the end-game of slaughter. Examples of this include: wool, honey, dairy, eggs, pharmaceuticals, and possibly more. The world of ethics is a slippery foe.

Exploring the mountains - Day 3

After safety is secured, panic and adrenaline slowly leave the body. A hot meal and a good night's sleep puts is all behind you as an eventful memory. In my case, it seemed like a magnificent adventure. Again noting this because I am safely looking into the mirror, which composes the back-splash of my desk/vanity, at the mountains which almost swallowed us up yesterday. The Based God must have given us enough positivity to make it out alive.


Work finished for the day, Dacota and I left the house to get food and to find/create an adventure. A delicious meal of steamed dumpling soup, yam leaf, peanut/sesame noodles, mushrooms and vegetable medley, and green tea energized our start. The morning and previous evening was extremely rainy and our plans to river chase were cut short when, while stopping at the police station to obtain a permit, we were informed it was too dangerous to proceed and to try again another time. Even though I use the term “we” it is Dacota translating the situation to me for he is the one communicating with the folks in these tales. Disappointment by our plans being cut short we decided to stay in the north part of town and see if we can find some hiking. Taking a seemingly random street we started heading up into the mountains. Our push up a hill was interrupted when leashed dogs tried to attack us and started barking up a storm. It turned out we had driven up a long driveway and arrived at a magnificent house. Multilevel and completely unique (and I didn't get a picture!!!) wood and metal construction with a huge porch and the owner coming out to see what the ruckus was about. After some dialog exchange, we were given permission to continue on foot up the road. This man was a farmer seemingly by desire alone. We took this impression because the land was a beautiful permi-culture mix of useful but beautiful plants, gardens, hillside farming of a kind of berry probably used in Chinese medicine which were intermixed by mountainous plants. Although there was some line-trimming done, the majority of the farm was left wild. Centered in the walkable area, a full-grown tree grew in and around a giant boulder. The land wasn't cultivated near capacity, maybe only a few percent, and the plants that were growing looked to be for personal use. All besides the small shrubby bushes with hard red berries that I didn't recognize. We walked around his farm, looking for access to higher ground, yet were stopped by thick jungle. Why he let us explore his farm is unknown to me, but it was a very cool experience.


After departing the farm, we took some turns down an alternative roadway and found ourselves riding up switchback after switchback, climbing hundreds if not thousands of feet in elevation very quickly. So steep was the climb that the areas we couldn't carve (turning the wheel sharply and weaving up the hill) I had to get off and trek up the slope because the scooter - which has a 150 cc engine - couldn't make it up with our combined weight. Farm after farm was left behind as we rode up this mountain. At one point we stopped and checked out a small farms with no structures which grew green onions in the area we checked out. How the legality works regarding these makeshift farms is beyond me. So far removed from the city, and so high in the mountains, I only assumed that it was public property; however, it was cultivated and is a common thing to come across. Whether or not it is leased or truly public, besides this clearing, most of this D.I.Y. Farms we've come across don't result in clearing native space but rather simply adding farm-able vegetables to an area. I took time to describe this clearing as it will show up again later in this tale. The farmers who cultivate these plots are hardcore, riding up on motorcycles with tools and baskets hanging off of them. While stopped, waiting for me to pull out my camera, we were passed by one of these farmers; rugged, intense, dirty, he moved by us without a glance back and possibly no thoughts as to why two white kids were adventuring so far away from civilization.


After another five hundred to thousand foot elevation gain we arrived at a dead end, which is also where the farmer who passed by us earlier stopped. Trails, if you can call them that, headed into the jungle beyond and we began a journey which set my new bar of things that are hardcore.


Geared up, me wearing Crocs and Dacota in rice slippers, we hiked through the thick foliage. Mind blowing was the bio-diversity of tropical ferns, vines, spiked trees, tall grasses, huge leafed plants, palms, purple-leafed ivy, and so forth. Our path continued as the trail shifted into paths of rain run-off and animal paths. Various forks were offered, but we stayed true to the path we thought more traveled. After hiking a mile or so, we stared our ascent, and hiked through switchbacks and run-off paths. Dacota claimed a path existed and I fought this idea throughout the voyage. Hundreds and hundreds of feet we climbed, sticks waving in-front of our faces to remove spider webs, and additionally to whack the ground attempting to scare away possible snakes before we stepped into certain area too overgrown to attempt to guess what was below our feet. The ascent became so steep it caused us to climb up on all fours most of the time, using trees and roots to pull our bodies forward, and bouldering certain rocky out-croppings. All through the drive up my ears popped and adjusted to the changing altitude, and as we began hiking/climbing through cloud layers, my finicky ears continued their protest. At every turn and possible fork in the path, we attempted to put up signs of stacked rocks or stick formations in order to keep out way. At a certain point, we came to an area that looked to be the end of the road for us. Disappointed that we didn't find some kind of treasure, we decided to investigate the area further, and discovered yet another path leading up and continued onward. Reading this seems like it might be boring; I can assure you the opposite is true. Tromping up a tropical mountain on a “path” no wider than a paperback novel, through spiked plants, bug infested logs, mud and rock slides, and steep drops into thicker and thicker forest, all the the accompaniment of bird calls, monkey calls, humming of flying insects, labored breathing, and the ever present knowledge that we moved beyond human establishments and any kind of safety-net. For who would we tell that we went off on some wild adventure? Nobody, is the answer. And we continued, headstrong and without doubt. Now, literally, bush-whacking, crawling under mountain hedges, over fallen trees we came onto a clearing, and in this clearing, much to my surprise, a shelter made from tarps, branches, and logs sat under trees. The twin was correct. We actually followed some sort of path made by farmers or aboriginals quite possibly the entire time, that or we had stumbled upon this structure by complete accident. Either way, with the treasure found, rain began to fall, slowly and steadily, and then increasing in strength and volume. We climbed up a mountain in rice slippers and Crocs. N ow, time to descend, slippery mountain clay, moss and algae covered rocks became treacherous and our way down turned into slow crab crawling, or me slipping on my ass and sliding meters at a time and only stopping by being slammed into logs, roots, and rocks. Leeches began attaching themselves to us. The Crocs became so slippery that my ass had to touch the ground the majority of the extremely steep descents (somewhere around 70 degrees in slope change). Crocs, bad form, and extremely slippery conditions caused me to fall back from lack of footing, whip-lashing my neck and injuring my arms and wrists while attempting to slow and brace myself for impact. Dacota handled the ordeal much better based on his rice slippers and technique and after falling so many times it became imperative that something change before I hurt myself severely. Furthermore, the further we went down the mountain, the situation became more dangerous and a fall might potentially so significant damage. So we packed the Crocs, I took his rice slippers and he went barefoot. An imperative part of this tale needs to be mentioned here for clarity. Our need for haste and the decision that Dacota would go barefoot came because it was getting dark. Getting dark very quickly. The sun had already set towards the beginning of our descent, and the careful progression had taken a significant amount of the sunset. Perhaps only an hour until complete dark was upon us and beyond being muddy, scratched up, and unprepared for a night in the mountains, our path became unclear. Perhaps one of the marks had fallen or perhaps we missed it in the darkening forest, but we were lost, on an unrecognizable path, and heading deeper into the forest. The only thing we knew was that we were on the correct side of the mountain and that somewhere below us was a road . Some skilled leading by Dacota lead us into a flood path composed of rocks and we began to boulder down the slippery, but fortunately not active, path. I'd held a back a growing panic and quietly and grumpily attempted to quickly scamper down the mountain. Communication became imperative with the growing inability to see each other. Twilight masked massive drops (some twenty feet high) yet we managed to navigate around them, and I attempted to focus my mind and focus as my breathing as it became shallower and quicker. Beyond breath changes, my eyes in the dim light loss some detail recognition coupled with a mind that was resorting more and more the panic then objectivity. It was becoming clear that we might have to set up shop for the night, make some kind of a shelter, and not transgress further. Under the canopy, illumination objects became increasingly and drastically worse. With shouts of joy at almost the last moment before a decision to camp was made, Dacota came across pipework leading into the forest. PVC hiked and assembled far onto the mountain brought spring water down into fields, naturally gravity fed without the need of pumps. Knowing that these pipes needed to go somewhere towards humanity, we followed them, making our ways through palm forests, slipping and sliding along the gratefully thinning underbrush. A half mile or so following these pipes, moving exceptionally quick, attempting to leave the forest before no light remained, we came into a cultivated clearing. This area contained a variety of cultivated plants, ginger, greens, etc. and the terrain undulated into mini-hills on the side of this mountain. Thinking we knew where we were, Dacota ran off one way while I explored the edge of the area we came down through, hoping to find a pathway that would lead us down to the road. Someone farmed this, so there must be a way out. Calling for me to follow him, Dacota and I walked through various semi-shelters and or trellis' and found our way down into the patch of green onions we thankfully stopped and explored earlier. With a quick descent we found the road! The scooter some 800 feet above us became the object of debate. To walk down the road or to work back up, get the scooter, and go home. Stars above and the shining city below, Dacota started his long run towards the scooter. Several areas were so steep that there was no way for both of us to make it down on scooter if I followed. So with unknown hoots and crawling animals in the bushes, I made my way back into the field, hoping to put some distance from me and potential predators. Finding the field released my stress. Getting out of the woods was priority, if we would have had to spend the night in the field, I could have lived with that. At least we would have been away from some bugs and creepy crawlies. The fact we found the road though, made the situation infinitely better. A low rumble and flashing headlights some half hour later meant Dacota made it up to the scooter and our ride home was almost secure. First though, we would have to hopefully make it off the mountain without the breaks in the scooter being unable to stop out weight on the steep slope, or worse, for them to fail outright. One hill we came down exceeded the scooter's breaking capability, fortunately though, the bottom forked, one going uphill and one downhill, and we used the uphill road as a “run-away” ramp. Finally, we made it back down the mountain road and into the city where we sped homeward bound, glad to be back.


Once stripped of clothes, heading into the shower to remove all of the mud caked on me and wash out various cuts, I notice a large leech still attached to my ankle. “Dacota, can you get this leech of me, it is so gross.” I called to him. On the third day in Taiwan, I didn't think I would be saying this.

Overall this was a very fun adventure. Proper previsions and proper equipment would have made this much less stressful but once civilization was reached, the experience seemed every bit worth it. Perhaps the biggest benefit would have been some betel nut. Who needs water when you have some stimulants?!?!
 If we'd spent the night in the field, if I was injured, or if we were being pursued by hornets or violent animals of some kind are the only ways that this would have been more hardcore. Reports on the news channels tell tales of similar excursions resulting in death, in particular around Mount Hood or the P.C.T. I'm happy we weren't on the casualty list. Perhaps next time, when the police refuse us from participating in a fairly safe venture, we might consider not doing something far more ambition and without proper preparation. Making it down without injury or real problems made this the new benchmark. Many more trips to come and many more tries to come out feeling even more hardcore!

Edit:

I wanted to clarify my use and observance of the small farm plots. Although some farmed area uses natural landscapes and environments, it appears that a greater percentage clear-cut small sections and then plant in the clearing. Although Taiwan is better than certain Asian countries when it comes to environmental stewardship, a significant portion of these farms raped the land of natural beauty, health, and habitat. 

Flight to a new life. Happily not, "fright of my new life!"

Stifling humidity and heat woke me up this morning. Day two in Taiwan and it is hot. Traffic speeds by outside the window of my new home. Beeping scooters, small trucks and cars speed by with individuals intent to go somewhere fast. Wearing only boxer shorts in the attempts to cool off, I am sitting on the couch easily remembering the adventure that was yesterday, a positive foreshadow, I hope, to this new experience and alternative life choice. Dapple, Dacota's speckled cat curiously smells my things and is skittish of my presence. It seems that she is used to her alone time during the day. Perhaps we will become the best of friends and my presence during the day with her will be something she longs for. She did manage to come up and used my hand as a claw and teeth holder. She really is sweet but the bloodied hand attests to her violently playful nature.


After the amazing send off from Portland, I arrived in Seattle to type the first post. It seemed the Fortuna spun a favorable path for me and I walk upon it. After the few hour wait, we boarded the “Cadillac of the sky”plane consisting of double decks with a ceiling height of seven feet, rows seating twelve people and spanning some 70 times. If I remember correctly it was a 744. The plane was a monster in the sky, no doubt about that, and I sat down next to an old Asian couple who immediately started talking with me. It turned out they were US citizens who immigrated from Vietnam directly after the ending of the “war”. They were returning on a semi-annual trip to visit family in the southern part of Vietnam. From Ellensberg Washington, this elderly couple still actively worked and sought out beautiful places in the world. I did not directly ask about their work situation, but neither were retired and could afford to go on flights for months at a time and not impact said work situation. The only information I derived was that were self employed; hustling drugs is my guess. Ha!. Wouldn't that be something? If they were some Vietnamese mob bosses and yet were so sweet. We chatted about this and that throughout the entirety of the flight which actually made it pretty cool. I had hoped to just watch movies and be anti-social, but these folks were really sweet and interesting. We received our first meal right away, at around three in the morning, and they were nice enough to have a vegetarian meal for me. It wasn't great, rice and veggies with fruit and this weird jello-type thing which was clear and had wolfberries suspended in it. As I found out later, it is usually the policy to only change around meal types on a round-trip ticket; however, they made sure that I had food throughout the trip and were really nice. People started falling asleep around me but I was entirely too amped to sleep at this point. When the guy sitting next to me got up, he was quiet and kept to himself resulting in us not speaking to one another, I followed suit. The prettiest flight attendant I'd seen on the flight was standing in an area close to the bathrooms keeping a watchful eye on her sleeping flock and I struck up a delightful conversation with her. She studied German and sociology at her university and even took a year studying abroad in Germany. We talked for over half an hour about places she'd been, places she'd recommend visiting, and about me and my interests until she had to get back to work. With some energy spent, I finally made it back to my seat after some wondering about while waiting until the guy I sat next to stirred so I didn't wake him out of sleep by crawling over him. I rested, somewhat fitfully because it was a damn airplane for crying out load, even though it was larger than most, it was still cramped with very little room to move or change positions. With my sweatshirt hood around my face, yeah I have a weird affliction that causes me to keep a pillow over my face in order to sleep, sleep came and went for about eight hours. More went than came but at least I was out of it enough to pass the time. I made an impression on this girl, for when walking through the cabins doing her job she would give a glance over at me now and then. I actually remembered receiving the glance before our conversation but thought it was because I was the whitey on the plane. After walking around a bit, various other white folks littered the plane, so it turns out she actually thought I was cute. Still unconvinced by this revelation, the old couple next to me kept informing me that she was interested in me and fluttering with me. Apparently then didn't think I was a bad-boy either (even complete strangers know that I only have a white-belt when it comes to the “girl language”) and tried to hook us up. Like I said before, this old couple was great. They were my “wing-men” (I think I used this term correctly. I am pretty bad at the dating scene and a few episodes of “How I met your mother” is my only reference to the word) and were so funny to keep bringing her back over to our area for one reason or another. Rumored that, "by simply being a tall, skinny, blond, pale male I would be flirted with" seemed remote at best. Nope. Totally true. It turns out was the reason I received the vegetarian meal and was treated so great on the flight was because she thought I was cute. I'd have to be honest at this point and say that this is a new phenomenon for me. Because of my flirting with this girl, sleeping, talking with the old folks, and eating food, I was barely able to watch a single movie before we landed. It seemed really quick, and I didn't even drain the entirety of my iphone's battery. My past trip out to Wisconsin seem just as long.

Getting off the plane and through the airport was a breeze. There were almost nobody in line at immigration and they passed me through without even having my new apartment's address. Since I didn't have a phone to contact Dacota, I thought I would be hosed. No. She let me in with only slight hesitation. Customs seemed to consist of the honor system, and even though I had nothing to declare, walking through the “Nothing to declare” exit into the lobby with no question regarding the contents of my luggage seemed like a leap of faith on behalf of Taiwan. Luggage collect, immigration, and customs in under fifteen minutes in a foreign airport. Not too bad I'd say. So I waited in the arrivals area for an less than an hour for Dacota to arrive. Airports are the same everywhere it seems, and there was not a single hesitation by me, no nervous feelings, no surprise by the people and their actions, both employees and visitors alike. People are definitely just people, all over the world.


Seeing Dacota, in Taiwan, brought the whole thing real (not believable mind you, just real). We took a bus from Taoyuan, to Taipei and then a train from Taipei to Keelung where we spent the day. After a long process we arrived in Keelung at 10 am. I arrived in Taiwan at 5:30 am. We dropped off my bags at previous co-worker of Dacota's apartment. She actually had a really cool place, with a beautiful view of temples and the city. He dragged all of my luggage up six flights of stairs with seemingly little help from me. He is awesome! After unloading some of the contents from my very heavy backpack, we took a scooter around on some errands before our intended jaunt out of the city towards the famed hot-springs Dacota foretold. Riding with my arms around Dacota, scooters, cars, buses, trucks, bicycles, and pedestrians because like go-cart obstacles and we tore-ass through city streets. It was extreme. Very Skyler-esk. I didn't shit my pants, but a lesser man would have. We stopped to get gas, grab some betel nuts, some water and umbrellas, and to get lunch at a temple. Lunch was amazing and I got a huge bowl of spicy noodles for $2.50. While in the temple restaurant, Dacota struck up conversation, in Chinese, with the staff and an outgoing lady who was curious about us. At this point, I realized my sparse Chinese vocabulary is worthless at best. After ordering food, (all in Chinese characters) and having a conversation, the contents of which had to be translated to me, I became impressed with how well my twin spoke after only a single year out here. One point to note, which is incredibly hard to describe, and that is the smell of the city. The air in the east smells so different than the PNW. Cooking food coupled with sewer (not sewage but sewer), exhaust, oil/gas/petroleum chemicals, tobacco smoke, smog, and millions of people's scents is only the tip of the iceberg of smells I could detect at one time. It is both pleasant and not, and, although different than the smells of Shanghai or China, it is similar enough to warrant a mention.


Scootering, or is it scooting?, out of town was a psychedelic trip of colors, textures, adrenaline, and amazement. Super extreme. I will get used to it but my god is it scary. As we sped out of town we came across the ocean to the east. Towers/exhaust stacks from power plants stood out one way while fog encrusted tropical forested hills stood on the other side. People swam in a makeshift harbor (or possibly just swimming area), janky boats floated to and from unknown places. The ocean crashed onto rocky outcroppings and pebbled beaches. Continuing on, we blew by smaller townships, cars screaming by us, and I held on for dear life until we arrived in a graveled area containing a few cars. After de-scootering, we started the hike. Popping my betel nut cherry (literally you have to pop the top off) its stimulating effect caused increased awareness of the setting. Indescribable density of plants surrounded the well-worn path, beyond hills and small waterfalls, taller and looming hills with even more forests were barely visible in the fog. A stream flowed beside us of blueish-white milky water making the orange rocks stand out magnificently. We crossed the river on a path of rocks and started climbing in elevation. Humid, hot, and out of breath, I labored on. Dacota trucked up this like it was nothing and for good reason, it was a daily ritual for months of his life. Something starting sticking out, a scent that I couldn't identify until clouds of greyish smoke hit us. “Sulfur fumes from the steam,” Dacota informed me, and we walked down the step bank towards it. I had given him a hard time about a plastic bucket he carried. Now I saw its purpose. He crouched next to shallow areas of the steaming sulfur water and collected mud from the river bed. While he did this, I looked at a smoking river, florescent green and neon yellow deposited rocks, and beautiful tropical plants. Returning a quarter mile downstream and downhill, we took a natural stone staircase down towards the river. Walking around a corner, an other-worldly image of blue-white steaming pools filled with elder Taiwanese citizens enjoying the warmth of sulfur, superheated, water. The pools were created by two streams intersecting, a hot water stream from where collected mud and a stream of cold water sourced from a 15-20 foot water fall some 100 feet away the pools. We took our cloths off down to bathing suits, or rather Dacota wore his bathing suit and I wore shorts. I didn't even think to bring a swim suit to the hot-springs. Ha! Amazing how the mind works. I forgot to mention, as soon as we got to the river it started to rain. To start off the experience, we went and stood under the waterfall, which was both bliss and freezing at the same time. Grabbing our umbrellas with went over to the pools and entered into heaven. A perfect spot on earth. A natural pool of completely opaque water, hot with some cooling drifts making it perfectly regulated. The pool we sat in was perfect for my height and just my head stuck out while resting on the fully on the bottom. Due to water chemical and oxygen ratio, buoyancy didn't exist. A small stone I picked up from the bottom instantly sank when I let go of it. Moving around was also funky because the body and newton's laws that I have been used to were all skewed. It was fun and intensely relaxing. Every twenty minutes or so we would get out and douse under the waterfall and return under our umbrellas in the pool. The umbrella was a great idea for both the rain and the sunshine. No need to worry about sunscreen, or covering the head to protect against possible acid rain. Various groups and people came and went and the three and a half hours we spent there were something I will remember until my dying day. An old man (now dubbed old-man Taiwan, would go from sitting in the hottest pool to the cold spring water pool from which fed the pools. Insanely hot to freezing. And it wouldn't just be for a quick dip. He spent like twenty minutes in both places, content to be in both states of the experiential condition. He also had an umbrella with six feet drape/curtain around it, and used it as a mobile changing station. His traditional circular bamboo hat made him stand out as a unique old man even more. Dacota discovered a tradition by observing and talking with the the elderly people who frequented the pools which consisted of ending the hot-spring dip (ride. I like hot-spring ride better) by spreading the sulfur mud on the skin, waiting for it to dry, and then dousing in cold water, either under the falls or in the cold-water pool. With umbrellas over our heads we waiting for the mud to dry and then quickly ran over to the waterfall and doused for the last time. Magical was the only word I can use to describe it. Absolutely Magical.


Our scooter ride home was painful. Moving at 40 miles an hour, the rain and water picked up by passing cars shot like bullets into our eyes. How Dacota managed through it and got us back home I am not entirely sure, but he did, like a champ. We changed into my dry clothes brought from Oregon and went out to dinner at his favor restaurant in Keelung. “His lady”, as he called her, owned the place and we walked in and were greeted with loving hospitality. Immediately I felt the warmth of this women's heart. All the dishes looked and smelled amazing and Dacota chatted with her for a minute, explained who I was, and that this was my first day in Taiwan. Watching Dacota have these conversation is amazing. Not understanding a word and watching a whole conversation pass by is a humbling experience. The food arrangement was similar to a buffet and so I load up my plate with all sorts of food and headed over to have it weighed. (This is a typical method out here. You pick out as much food as you want and pay for it by weight) This wonderful lady insists that she treat us to our meal and we sat down and enjoyed one of the best meals of my life. I intended to take pictures of the full plate but finished all the food before the thought even crossed my mind. She, her sons, one of the cooks, would come over and chat with us and it was just wonderful. “His lady” brought us over a special herbal tea that we would not have been able to purchase. It was something for the family, and the gist was that she thought of Dacota like a son. She also brought over some type of curry dish she made (a mixture between Taiwan and Japanese curry. Two things I didn't know existed!) It was totally different than a Indian curry and was absolutely amazing. Carrots, potatoes, apples, onions, tomatoes, daikon, and something else were in it and it was out of this world. As we were leaving she also brought us over a ripe sugar-apple. The experience made me want to cry with the generosity and love expressed. She was truly a very special person.


We visited the night market and bought a vegan ice (shavings/cream??) that was peanut flavored and out-of-control delicious. It as so good. Dacota got some toys for Dapple and while we were in the shop, we pet a long-haired Persian tortoise-colored who was deaf. She was so cute and very friendly. We took a taxi to the train station and took our train to a connecting city where we waited forty minutes. During this time I was getting cranky and tired. Dacota who had spent the past few nights finishing school reports early so he could come and get me had left Hualien at 2 am to get to the airport and pick me up. We both were on edge. After a few betel nuts and green tea however, we cheered and amped back up and had a great trip on the expedited train and arrived in Hualien at 11:30 pm.


The cab driver who took us from the train station to the apartment was super cool and we drove through the rain and night markets homeward bound. After a brief introduction to Dapple and my new home, I fell asleep to the sound of late night traffic and rain. Nine hours later, I am superficially reporting about a day in Taiwan. Never could I possibly recreate the experience with words, but with hope you, the reader, might be imaginative enough to reconstruct the events with a small portion of accuracy.