On the Good Foot

The street names rhymes with tabarncac. That was the first sign. But the real omen that sealed it for us was the row of Tibetan prayer flags hanging from the third floor balcony of the house/apartment complex. What better a symbol for us never mind we have since learned that Tibetan prayer flags are trendy in Van). It was both the first and last place we looked at - which is a somewhat of an impressive stat considering the competitive renter's market here. We'd heard too many horror stories of people not taking the first place they looked at, and subsequently losing it, merely because it was just that - the first place they saw. We needed to settle quickly and we did. I think our new landlord Howie Baby (that's my personal little nickname for him which he knows nothing about) took pity on us because of our situation. That sappy intro letter we wrote really worked a miracle - thanks Marie!

Sitting on the front patio of our new cozy abode ("cozy" of course being the code word for "tiny"), I notice cyclists struggle up and skaters cruise down the steep grade of Adanac St.. Flea lays sprawled out in the sun while Michele soaks it in wearing her Little Miss Sunshine t-shirt. Proof that it does occasionally get nice in the rainy city...

Ok, if you want to get technical about it, this was the second place we saw. However, the first one doesn't really count seeing as how when we strolled up at 1:15 - right on time - the landlord was counting a big bundle of cash and the new tenant, presumably with the 1:00 appointment, was already signing papers. "It happens", offered the landlord when he noticed us, not even bothering to look up from his wad. It all happened so quickly that I stood stunned frozen for a second; then I clued in that we had lost out. Oh, it's like THAT now. Such a humbling experience can be both motivational and educational. but it can also instill fear - especially seeing as how 95% of the places advertized for NO PETS in the classifieds. Funny, I see dogs around everywhere. Our friends Sean and Marie chose to offer 50$/month extra on top of the asking price to secure their place in Kits - and they don't even have any pets. So we were a bit concerned until Howie Baby left us a message saying on the same day - when he had previously said he'd get back to us in a few days - saying that it was ours if we wanted it.

Now we had to decide whether or not to take it without the luxury of comparing it to anything else. And so the Tibetan prayer flags and the fact that it rhymes with tabarnac proved to be too strong omens to ignore and we decided to take it and alleviate the stress of finding a place. And now that we've settled in, there is no regret whatsoever. It's clean, new and in a pretty cool part of East Van called Commercial Dr. It reminds me a bit of College St. in T.O. before it got all trendy and uppity. There are bars where South Americans and Italians are watching footy at all hours of the day. I must say that it is refreshing to be back in a multicultural setting after all these years away.

Things are falling into place rather nicely you'd say. Our biggest allies to getting sorted so rapidly have been Michele's parents. They have exceeded their generosity tenfold by supplying us with everything from deluxe bed, bedding, pillows, to kitchen stuff and large towels. All colour co-ordinated mind you. But the real kicker is the almost new, size-efficient, fuel efficient and no-frills efficient, 4 door Pontiac Wave, complete with go faster stripes on the side. It's basic. It's perfect. And it doesn't stop there. They also paid for our first year of insurance to boot, a sizeable amount for new drivers (apparently our combined previous 15 years Canadian driving experience means nothing to insurance folks as they offered us 0% discount- isn't that lovely).

After closing the deal for our July 1st move, we headed back to the little paradise of Gabriola to visit, and gather the rest of our stuff (that includes Flea) where were treated to Alberta beef steaks the size of our plate (sorry veggie freaks but damn are they tasty), roasts and fresh strawberries on ice cream as the hummingbirds whizzed around getting high off nature's nectar. It was tough tearing Flea away from her new home in the country, and her pal Daisy, but we stuffed our little car to the max and headed for the big city. Leaving the relaxed vibe of Gabriola to come back to the city was a little like paradise lost for the three of us.

Now comes the potentially scary part. We're on our own, jobless, and moving into an unfurnished apartment. You know what that means. You need all the little details you normally take for granted like a can opener, scissors or an elastic for instance. If you want to cook, you suddenly realize you need a wooden spoon or spices - all of them. You room needs a bedside table, the living room needs chairs. You even need tupperware for leftovers! Money evaporates as quickly snow in the winter here. When they say that Vancouver is one of the top 5 best places to live in North America, they are obviously talking about it from the point of view of those who have the bread - loaves of it. No matter how much I had mentally prepared myself for the inevitable expense of starting from scratch, there is still an involuntary twitch everytime I take that plastic card out to swipe more money out of my account. Some of the locals might think I'm autistic. From my numerous past moves, I've learned to not even bother converting amounts back into the old, cheaper currency I was used to. It was ok to calculate paying 10,000 NT for a 4 bedroom place with huge kitchen, 2 bathroom and but then to settle for this much smaller (albeit much newer) 2 bedroom for about 32000 NT... Shit, I wasn't supposed to do that!

However, there are always gives and takes with anywhere you live. In my ever-optimistic outlook, I submit that I cannot put a price on the clean air I am breathing in - and even more importantly that the bump as we affectionately call him/her - is breathing in through her/his mother. And I know that it's all still new and all but I am still wowed by the sight of snow-capped mountains as I strut along the avenue. Even better, we had the chance to hike at the foothills of some of those mountains on Canada Day with some friends. And in the winter, we'll be able to go snowshoeing up there!

I've had some nibbles in terms of job prospects but nothing substantial as of yet. I did reel in a small fish that will give me a bit of cash on the side but I need to land that tuna in order to provide for the family. These are some unfamiliar waters and I'm an un-experienced sailor to begin with, so I'm still feeling my way around out there on the sea of employment. I'm pretty patient as far as it goes so I'll just keep throwing the line out there.

Last Saturday, I did get a pretty cool non-paying gig though. I was at the U-20 World Cup sitting in the press box to cover the Scotland vs Costa Rica game for a local online sports magazine. They gave Gaston an official press pass and everything. Sitting there absorbing the match, impressed by those skilled young punks out there on the pitch, I thought to myself that I could definitely get used to that kind of work. And had it not been for an email that went into the Fifa dude's junk mail, I would have been at every first round match. The good news is that there is one 2nd round match still to be played in Vancouver and the teams as luck would have it are Spain vs Brazil. I'll have a sangria in one hand and a samba drum in the other come Wednesday night.

Well, it's evening which means it's getting chilly outside. Hear that Tainan, chilly! Eat your sweaty little hearts out! Now I will return into my pink-carpeted abode (no, we can't really believe we have pink carpets either) to stare blankly at the pale yellow walls until our other shipment of decorating stuff arrives from Taiwan. If you're ever in town, do look us up. It's real easy to find us, just remember the Commercial: Adanac rhymes with tabarnac! Then just look for the Tibetan prayer flags et voila! Or, if you're not the resourceful type come to 1837 Adanac St or give me a call at 778-318-0462.


This is oj just letting you know that Michele, lil' oj, Flea and me are off on the good foot. And like JB (RIP), it's right about time for the splits. Aiiiiiiiiiiii,,,ow. I shouldn't have tried that. A la prochaine!

oj

King of Hill

It is never more evident than during the Chinese New Year how densely populated this little island really is. A population of 25 million people with identical vacation time on an island roughly the size of Vancouver Island, bearing in mind that 70% of the island is covered in mountains and that 95% of the population lives on the west coast. Crunch those numers and you will find that mayhem on the roads at this time is simply unavoidable. Once the token family feasts and required visitations to relatives homes' have been fulfilled, it's time for families chu qu wan (go out to play). Without exception, all of the families whose children I teach privately stayed in Tainan because they fear the insane traffic. Even when taking little side streets or out-of-the-way country roads in an attempt to avoid traffic, has cars and scooters suddenly appearing dangerously out of nowhere. And to make matters worse, the impatient factor is bumped up a notch so people tend to drive even nuttier than normal, making ridiculously dangerous passes around blind corners, needlessly putting the lives of themselves, their families and strangers in danger. 95% of the time they are taking these risks only to be held up by a line of cars not far ahead.

Why then, in my right mind, would I choose to go on a road trip this Chinese New Year? Well,I figure it's a small price to pay to be able to spend several days on the beach, hanging out for perhaps the last time with a select crew of Tainan vets and long-time friends. And besides, there are ways to avoid the main roads when on a motorbike. Whereas the cars are hopelessly stuck in a single lane, the motorcycle or scooter can usually squeeze through on the side. And there is very little in this world that feels as sweet as cruising next to a scene of mountains dotted with rows of gangly betel nut trees on a warm sunny day. The "scenic route" may take a bit longer yet time seems to evaporate as the special "road trip" playlist on my Nano and scenery unfold - that is, until the reality of sitting on the bike for so many hours stings your behind and you suddenly feel an uncontrollable urge to wiggle your butt to make sure it's still attached to your body. Once again, I had my most trusted road trip companion Chris "The Full Knighty" along for yet another classic road trip together. True to his embracing nature, he convinced a couple of friends from the bar who had barely left Tainan to join. Our convoy now included Aaron and Emily and their two dogs Marley and Dixie.

I had the bright idea to leave very early from Tainan in order to avoid the traffic. What was I thinking? We aren't exactly accustomed to functioning at that ungodly time of day and we paid the price by jellying* not once but twice. Pretty big jellies too. The first one, due to my assumption that my slight deviation from the main road in an attempt to catch up to my party would have me join up with them on the 182 turned into a big ordeal that had Chris backtracking all the way to Tainan and Aaron and Emily going the completely wrong direction. One hour wasted! The other jelly occurred later on when I realized that I had lost the tent that had been slovenly bungied up against my backpack, which was itself bungied up to my bike. I was trying this new technique, see... I've got to admit that I am a bit notorious for the shoddy bungeing. Where are you when I need you most Bungee Master? I told the crew to keep going while I u-eed in hope of finding my temporary home. I rewound my mental tape, retraced the route we had taken since I had last seen the tent about 20 minutes ago after filling up for gas. I figured all I had to do was go back on the 185, find that squiggly road we somehow ended up on and, if need be, back onto the 27 to the gas station. Eyes set on tent radar, I was full of confidence that I would find it. However, despite skillfully recognizing the squiggly road, I was frowning by the time I made it back to the Smile gas station. My only hope was that it had fallen into a ditch on the opposite side of the road where it lay hidden from view. As I veered back onto the squiggly road, something caught my eye. It wasn't the tent, but three bent heads, incense clasped reverantly in hands, devotedly praying to a sacred bodhi tree. I slowed down instinctively. I had to appreciate this classic Taiwan moment: prayer, beautiful and serene, right next to a noisy and filthy major road. I just love the contrast! As I took in the scene, something else jumped out at me. Thankfully, it wasn't a stray dog but my beloved tent! There it was, propped up casually against a betel nut stand. Can you say divine intervention?

Hwy 1 is the only way into Kenting - the most popular beach destination in Taiwan. To get to where we were going, we could not avoid the 1 forever. Yet being road trip vets, we chose a route that had us on the 1 for only 45 minutes before it cut back into the mountains on the Capricorn Highway and then joining up with the dainty 199. The 199, though noticeably busier, remains one of my favourite little roads: about 1 & 1/2 car lengths wide (not suitable for the staggering amount of SUVs we encountered; yet there they were, insensitively bullying all other vehicles out of space), spiralling down through low level mountains toward the sea. Occasionally, it provides an opening, revealing stunning shots of the Pacific, until it hooks up with the 26 where it hugs the coast for 20 or so memorable kilometres of crashing waves until we reach our destination.

We stay in a small fishing village called Jiou Peng where friends of ours rent houses to support their recent surfing obsession. Tucked away in a relatively quiet area, away from the major route up the east coast to Taidung, it remains relatively remote and quiet despite its close proximity to Kenting. Pitching our tents near the Jiou Pong beach, in a grassy area previously camped at and respected for its shade, dubbed the Hippie Commune, we spent 4 wonderful days in the Pong. I managed to get in two sunset boogie boards, many keep up sessions, some hiking (the baby macaque shyly spying on me from the tree being the highlight), big cookups at night, hanging out and chatting with friends as time slows down to a standstill (reminiscent of cottage-life in Ontario), music jams at night and waking up each morning and jumping off the pier into the sea as first order of the day. Good living.

We left Jiou Peng on a moody morning where wind and drizzle accompanied an ominous dark sky. Still, the drive along the coast, though chilly, was dramatically beautiful as waves crashed extra mightily into the rocks near the shore. Though I was sure we would encounter rain, somehow we managed to steer clear. Rain combined with cold is the cruelest way to ruin a road trip. And sure enough, once we had wound our way back up the 199, onto the Capricorn highway and back onto the 1, the weather cleared so as to provide us with some sunshine.

Now I had to a decision to make. For those who know me well, decision-making isn't my strongest suit. My tentative plan from the start had been to go to up to Wutai to visit my friend Basel on the way home. But given the weather and mood that morning, I had been leaning towards the coziness of home; yet, now, snacking on a giant piece of bbq'd squid, soaking up the warmth of the sun, the idea of mountain air suddenly became appetizing again. How many more opportunities will I have in my lifetime to go from the beach to the mountains in the same day? I decided to wait until we had reached Shui Men, the nearest town to where the road splits towards Tainan and Wutai, to make my final decision.

We stopped for a rest near Water Gate. I gave Basel a call to make sure it was still ok to come and he gave me the green light. That was probably enough but he also mentioned that he was leaving for Korea the next day so this would likely be the last time I'd see him for awhile and my last chance to go up to Wutai for who knows how long. Chris - who has been with me up to Wutai twice in the past - passed up on the opportunity, preferring to get back to his cat and other city affairs. I did not try too hard to convince him, though I initially had reservations about going alone for some reason. Michele and Flea had already gone home the previous day so I really was on a solo mission. Then I realized it had been some time since I had done just that: gone on a solo mission. And though I love my friends, my girlfriend and my dog, I also have a tremendous passion for adventuring on my own. Decision made, I hastened away from my traveling companions and our lovely chill out spot, making a right turn instead of a left so that I now sped in the direction of the high mountains rather than the plains, trying to make it up there before the fading light disappeared altogether.

I first roll past the touristy town of Sandimen, famous for its aboriginal residents and culture. Another 10 minutes later, I reach the checkpoint gate. Wutai is a protected area and theoretically you need a permit or at the very least a reference from one of its residents to get in. The idea is to protect the Rukai peoples which have thrived there for hundreds of years. While I must support this ideal, I also do not want it to stop me from going to appreciate this gorgeous place. As usual, the gate is half closed, allowing only enough space for one regular-sized car to pass through. I've had horrible experiences at this checkpoint in the past. I recall being given a hard time once even though accompanied by Squirrel, a native of Wutai. Never have the gatekeepers been courteous or friendly whatsoever; preferring always to treat us with suspicion rather than courteousness. But this time I planned to execute the "Act Like You Know" routine exactly as I had done when I came up just this past New Year's. As I approached the gate, I slowed down, gave the guards a friendly grin and a wave and proceeded on through as though I belonged. Once again, it worked like a charm as the guard reacted with a perplexed look. It probably wasn't worth the effort to stop me.

Up, up, and further up I went, taking advantage of the last bit of dwindling sunlight. I made decent time, arriving with about 45 minutes or so before darkness would rapidly envelop the entire valley. Already, I deem trip as worth it; just the sight of these steep, young mountains, driving on the incredibly high roads, and breathing in the fresh air soothes the soul in an indescribeble way. I suddenly couldn't believe I had been even considering otherwise. Once past the village of Wutai itself, I was shocked to hear a man and a woman dueting "Angie" by the Rolling Stones amazingly loudly as I approached Banosaru, the name of Basel's property. It overlooks not only the village but also allows for a panoramic view of the many peaks and valleys surrounding Wutai.
I turned first onto the service road then, keeping left, up the gravel driveway and under the sign reading "BANOSARU", carefully navigating the no-room-for-error, rather gaunt driveway, as it bends around and up to level 1. There are a few motorbikes parked as well as the familiar sight of Basel's Volvo. I unhook the bungees to free up my bag and make my way up to level 2, passing the tool shed and adjacent "tea house" where weekend guests can sit, chat and drink green tea - favourite pastime of the Taiwanese. I salute the Generalissimo when next I pass the fountain where permanently resides a statue of Chiang Kaishek, feet firmly planted two inches below the water. And Basel has the audacity to claim not to be political.

The driveway continues to zig zag as I now climb up to level 2 where two seperate guesthouses reside side by side. In front of the guest houses, there is an open space where people can sit and gaze at the view, eat some food or simply hang out. Today there is a group of people that I assume are Brusan's (Basel's wife) relatives. I recognize only his in-laws from previous visits. Presently, they are wrapping and baggin up a staggering amount of meat off of the grill for each member to take home. Looks like I arrived at the tail-end of a big bbq feast. "Rats", curses my stomach, growling over my poor timing. Brusan's father seems to read my face or my thoughts for he brings over a sausage on a stick for me to snack on. Then Brusan appears, asking me if I have contacted Basel yet. She seems oddly distant and in fact, she doesn't even seem to recognize me even though we have met several times. She tells me to set my things down and that she'll take me to see Basel who is at the KTV. Then it clicks in my turtle-like mind: of course it had to Basel singing Angie as I drove up! The guest house remains familiar from my relatively recent trip up here. Basel's psychedelic paintings are always a pleasure to examine. I decide to also have a quick change of clothes as I feel quite grimy from the drive. Murphy's Law still applies for as soon as I have stripped down to my underwear, someone outside begins calling me urgently. I scramble to get some pants on and peek outside to see who it is. A big burly stern-faced aboriginal is peeking impatiently to see what I'm doing.

I hop back on the Yamaha and follow the large, squat Rukai man down the road no more than 150m to the neighbour's house. Apparently, nobody walks around these parts either. My eyes are immediately attracted to the table where 5 or 6 men are sitting around a table filled with beer, booze and remnants of several hours of feasting. Behind them, Basel and a large woman are reaching the song's crecsendo as they are entranced by the words inscribed on the ever-cheesy KTV video. He is then informed of my arrival and turns around to gaze at me. As ever, I am stunned by the larger than life presence of this man. His long, dreadlocked hair hangs down just about to his ankles of his unusually massive frame, while his eyes remain customarily hidden behind thickset, trendy n' funky glass frames. For such an imposing man, he offers me the most delicate of hugs. We are mutually happy to see each other. He is quiet, perhaps searching for the proper words to show his appreciation.

Then Brusan comes to greet me. The real Brusan, that is. I realize that it wasn't Brusan whom I saw at his house but one of her sisters. No wonder she seemed so distant. They pour me a cup of Taiwan Beer and the toasting begins. Everyone is drunk - and has been for some time. Drinking and feasting in celebrate before a departure is the way of these mountain folk. Toasts are personal and done individually rather than the group toasts we are often accustomed to. Each toast demands the toasting ritual be respected: individuals maintain eye contact with one another, place one hand under the cup as the other hand draws the cup to lips, downing the entire contents of the cup and then making sure to re-establish eye contact before setting the cup down. The very fact that you don't sip but gulp down the booze renders intoxication that much more efficient!

Next they provide me with a platic bowl, some chopsticks and a spoon. Let the feasting begin as my tummy rumbles in anticipation. Basel tells me that he has had a goat, a 150 kg boar (Yes, the Rukai hunt boar a laAsterix and Obelix), and several chickens slaughtered for the goodbye feast. He informs me that the men sitting around the table are his closest friends from the village. One is a famous aboriginal singer/musician, another the clan's top hunter, another is a handyman etc. I try to match the face with the specialized skill for now. It is clear that Basel holds them all in high esteem.

Once the formalities are over with, I get down to the business of eating. After a long drive with only a stop for the BBQ'd squid in Fongshan, I am e si le (Mandarin meaning hungry to death). Mountain pork, a rack of grilled goat ribs, ginger goat hot pot and steamed fish relinquishing huge chunks of juicy meat satisfy my palette - and then some. All the while, my cup is constantly being refilled. "Eat, eat", pleads Basel as if not noticing that I have been mowing down consistently for the past hour. Basel and I catch up as the other men hold animated discussions. During breaks in our own conversation, I listen and observe the Rukai interacting with each other. It is clear that, related or not, they are all brothers, giving off the impression of a familiarity only exhibited by friends who have known each other since childhood. Occasionally, Basel or someone else would get up on a whim to sing a song on the KTV. When the macho hunter steps up to belt out a tune, his voice is surprisingly soft and melodic. The aboriginals really take their music seriously. When he is done, I ask him if he will take me out hunting sometime as I think it fascinating to watch first-hand any experts or masters in any discipline. He gives me a once over and simply shakes his head in refusal, stating confidently that I am too tall. For good measure, he also adds that I am also too slow. I knew the request was a longshot but I didn't expect to be shot down so ruthlessly. He's probably right, though. At last, I cannot eat another bite and we return to Basel's.

That night, rather than go down into the village, Basel makes a 5 star fire and we sit and chat in a way only two likened souls can do. If you were to compare the two of us based solely on personality, you would find two very different people; and yet, I feel there is some sort of inexplicable bond between us. The heart to heart talk which spontaneously arises around the fire, in a natural and vivacious setting devoid of the many distractions of an urban environment, guide us from subject to subject, until several hours have passed and many large bottles of beer are splayed on teh ground. It is rare occasion to see me drinking until I'm drunk these days but tonight it just seems appropriate for some reason. Basel finally passes out after his long drinking bout and I am exhausted from a full day of driving. On my way back down to the guesthouse, I run into Brusan and Liang Liang, recently returned from their party. They cajole me into sharing one last beer with them before I finally hit the pillow, instantly plunging into a fathomless mountain slumber.

I'm woken up the next morning by Basel's voice echoing throughout the valley. It feels neither too early, nor too late. I'm feeling a little rough yet as soon as I step outside into the warm day and cast my eyes upon the lush green of the valley, I already feel much better. I just love it here. I inhale deep quantities of fresh mountain air before going up to see what's cooking. I welcome into my oral cavity some noodles and fresh steamed veggies from the garden Liang Liang has prepared for breakfast. To my surprise, they are already drinking beer. They say the best way to cure a hangover... Fortunately, I do not feel that hungover. I prefer a cup of 6 year old red ginseng tea - highly prized in Korea I'm told - to do the revival trick. Basel then asks me if I would be so kind to go into town to fetch some more beer. I happily oblige. When I return, he asked me if I noticed the large tree in the school yard opposite the shop. I replied that I had. "Did you know that tree was the very same one the Rukai used to hang their enemies on before decapitating them?", he continued. "If you go to Maolin, there is a sacred tree that used to hang the captured Rukai". I had forgotten about the head-hunting nature of the peoples who first inhabited this island and suddenly became intrigued by the subject. This began a series of interesting stories about the savage nature of the history of these people.

After hanging out a bit, I decide to take a drive by myself to the end of the road, which ends at a town called Ali. In all previous visits to Wutai, I have never been passed Basel's property. It is only about 10-15 km but it is a magnificent stretch of road due to all the twists and turns as well as the sheer drop of the cliff. I am still just as shocked that they managed to build roads up here. Aside from the philosophical question of our creations being morally right or wrong, humans are without doubt amazing creatures. Five minutes up the road, I stop and take out my new binoculars and gaze at a kettle of hawks (look it up I dare you) riding the air currents. If I had to pick any activity to do for eternity, effortlessly riding the air currents like the hawks might just be the one I'd choose. I could watch them all day. Finally, in the name of effective time management, I tear myself away and hop back on the bike.

But I make it about 20 m before I feel compelled to stop again. This time I am drawn by another creature which is much closer to the road. At first I think it is a hummingbird but upon closer inspection, when it finally rests on the branch of the tree it has been busily discovering and I am able to pin it down in the binocular lense, I realize it is a type of butterfly which I have never seen. It is exquisitely coloured, mixing a deep black with vibrant red, with slender shapely extensions at the bottom of its wings rather than the usual heart-shaped synchronicity of the standard butterfly. After seeking out the name since the trip, I have learned only that it belongs to the swallowtail family of butterflies.

The town of Ali is as small and quaint as you might expect for a town in the middle of mountains. However, I am in the mood to be in nature and decide to follow an old, unpaved road leading to a water tower of some sort rather than explore the town. The road soon turns into a dirt path. Here I catch glimpses of the birds I often see caged up un the parks in Tainan. It is a hobby for some Taiwanese to bring their caged songbirds to the parks and gather. Sure it's lovely, but I'll never support the concept of cageing up a bird. As comedian Brian Regan says when personifying a parrot: "Thanks alot, I've been blessed with the gift of flight. I really appreciate the environment. Oh, and by the way, I've done reading this page".

The path eventually leads to a dried up river bed. The river must be the source of the village's water supply because I accompanied by a gurgling sound emanating from visible pipes running alongside the path and there are signs of previous human visits in the form of litter. Not a bit surprising for Taiwan unfortunately. I climb up the large boulders of the dried up river bed, which is likely active and much differnt during the rainy season. These giant rocks provide the best jungle gym in the world as they are a cinch to climb. I feel as if I could keep going for days and once again must force myself to hold back a little. Beyond lay acres of relatively untouched wilderness, flora and fauna (barking deer, macaques, wild boar, Asiatic bears etc) that I would love to explore. But alas, I must contain myself. Besides, I've got lots on my mind these days and it seems the perfect place to sit and figure stuff out for myself.

I return to pay my final respects to Basel and Brusan before catching the last few hours of light for the return drive home. As good hosts do, they insist that I leave with a full belly. He searches for some sort of parting gift (Wutai - the board game?) and finds a pendant made from metal and beads made by a local artist to give me. I'm touched. Once again, he cannot help but be emotional when it's time to say goodbye. He has nothing but sadness for my imminent departure from Taiwan and has done little else but shower me with confidence and encouragement, assuring me that Michele and I will thrive in Canada. I feel much the same, but to hear someone else say it with such conviction means more to me than he realizes.

I don't know the next time I will be in Wutai, but I have a feeling that I will be back someday. In fact, I would gladly return to Taiwan with the intention of spending a holiday up there. And the next time I come, Basel will have completed the house up on the fourth level which he has recently begun construction on, leaving this house on the third level to serve as yet another magnificent guest house. It is easy to picture Basel, sometime in the future, looking out of the window of his living room out onto the extensive, lush valley, satisfied that his work is done. At last, he will truly and deservedly feel like the King of the Hill.

* jelly: slang we use around here to describe silly mishaps

Don

Tomorrow may never come
For you or me
Life is not promised
Tomorrow may never show up
For you and me
This life is not promised

- Mos Def from "Umi Says"

A cool breeze races through the open window at breakneck speed, whirling by only to smack against the wall beyond me and the computer. This aggressive gust is welcomed as I tap away to the latin rhythms on the second floor of our apt, which feels like an oven pre-heated to a temperature suitable for cooking a roast. Yet despite the intense summer heat (which one never seems to get used to - much like its cousin in Canada the winter cold), strong winds such as these are usually a sign that typhoon is on its way. At the very least, bad weather is on its way. Typhoons, so long as they aren't too destructive, can be a blessing because the winds clear out the smog and the pollutants in the air. It is only after typhoon powered winds that we can see the mountains and the sea from our gargantuan rooftop.

The forecast for my life also indicates that a major typhoon is sure to hit for the entire month of June. Potentially, there will be lots of: attempts to pin down and make stable, things flying through the air that will come out from out of nowhere, as well as some roots being torn out. And of course, what's a typhoon without a bit of flooding.

But first, the sad news.

Dave's father, Don McMaster, passed away in his sleep a few weeks ago. Like Dave, I have known him since I have had any recollection of memory whatsoever. The McMaster's are fellow Don Millions as well, still residing at 102 Cottonwood Drive long after our move out of the ageing community known to most Canadians as Don Mills.

I used to meet up frequently with Mr. McMaster on the sidewalk which ran parallel to Don Mills road. Either I would be returning home and he would be off into the direction of the Mall or the arena ot the other way around. Always the polite boy, as well as an extremely shy one, I used to stop and make small talk with Mr. McMaster. I usually considered small talk with adults a tedious and frightful business but for some reason, it didn't seem like the chore it was with other adults when I encountered Don. He never pressed me or forced me to say what he wanted to hear by asking the loaded questions adults love to ask. Somehow, he always made me feel relaxed, at ease; to a shy person, that sense of security is crucial in order to appease the social fear.

Only really knowing him during the latter stage of his life, I can only remember him as being quite gaunt. I was surprised when Dave told me he had been quite a bit beefier in his younger days. I now wonder what thoughts ran through his mind during my stages of development (wish I could say evolution), from timid boy into awkward man. If he was ever contemplating why my hair was so long and always so annoyingly in my face during high school, or how I didn't notice him until the very last minute because I was lost on my own planet during my solo walks home from elementary school- he never let on. Rather he was consistently kind in character and demeanor. One thing I've learned in this life is that this consistency of character is no ordinary human trait. So I salute Don McMaster - whom I wasn't really close to yet lived in close proximity to - as his soul moves on through the cycle of its evolution.

I feel for Dave because he never got to say goodbye in person. He had been planning to leave in the fall and yet it is the end of May and we have already said our goodbyes. In fact, an email from North American suburbia told me he was wearing a tuque recently! (Hard to say which is the lesser of two evils: profuse sweating in Tainan or resentful shivering in Don Mills. At least it's supposed to be hot here now!) His father actually surpassed all living expectations by an amazing sum. He had been diagnosed with a few months to live - four years ago! I know doctors prefer to be on the cautious side but come on.... The thing is, to be fair to the men in white, there is just no way of telling how the zillions of factors that alter life will conduct themselves. Furthermore, there is no scientific accounting of the will of the spirit. If one's will is strong enough, the logic of science will be defied. Such examples are countless throughout history.

Anyway, news that "the old man" - as Dave coined him most of the time - was sick and in the hospital came while Dan and I were in Japan on a musical shopping spree/holiday. Upon return a few days later, arrangements were made for Dave to fly out on the Sunday. News of his father's passing came on the Thursday before departure, just minutes prior to Dave's going away dinner. He simply texted me "HE"S GONE". I could only stare at the words blankly, thinking of Dave while picturing his Dad as gone. Thankfully, as you always hope when hearing of a death, he went in his sleep. The lull didn't last long though as I was snapped back to reality when Caspar, the precious three year old I teach French, came barging back in the classroom thirsty for attention and play. Caspar's presence was an instant comfort for it symbolized renewal, rebirth and life at its most vibrant and enthusiastic; it reminded of the natural cycle. It is something that is all too easy to forget in the modern age.

A half hour later, at dinner, a classic Tainan feast complete with sashimi, three cups chicken, fish, veggies loaded with sizeable chunks of garlic and more all being washed down with gnarly but forcefully accepted Taiwan Beer (all for under 10$ mind you), Dave confided that he had some time alone before dinner to digest the emotional news. I think the dinner was a welcome distraction (the attached "Codfather" photo is one of them). The sheer number of friends who turned up was a testament to the impact "Jolly Dave" had on the community here.

The nickname Jolly Dave stuck to Dave as quickly as the humidity when he first arrived. He admitted to me that he wasn't crazy for the moniker. I can't blame him. I mean, think of the pressure? "Hey, what the hell does Jolly Dave have up his ass today?" just doesn't ring quite true now does it? He preffered Matteo's nickname for him: Dangerous Dave (as most geezers would, init?). Still, there is reason that Jolly Dave stuck. He possesses a joie de vivre that is infectious when in his presence. His laugh is hearty. He loves people and he likes to talk to them. Alot. He's a jolly bugger who loves life and can make others love it too when he's around them.

Before Dave came to Tainan, I had spent the most time with him during my childhood. He really was like a second big brother to me, coming outside to hang with the sporty little kid next door. I was the perfect subject for his little game strategies. I involuntarily have to chuckle when I mentally rewind back to those days. He loved to use the palm of his hand to design the patterns I should run while playing American football on our shared front yard witht he Hunters. He'd say things like "run to the baby spruce, circle it twice, then run to the road, turn around, fake the catch, then go for the bomb. I'll hit you at the lamp post!" Poor Mark Hunter, awkward and a bit uncoordinated, never had a chance! I'll always be grateful to Dave for volunteering his time to hang out with a couple of little creeps like us. I've never told him how much it meant to me till now. That's why Dave is like family.

Of course, growing up sent us on different paths until they somehow meandered back together in our adult lives. I saw him sporadically because he's friends with Craig and the Lower East Side crew. After graduation, he got me a job at Templeton, helping me confirm in my mind that the office is as far from my ideal working environment as can be. I did enjoy the social aspect though. I am grateful for the experience though as I wouldn't have enjoyed watching The Office tv series half as much (the British version of course).

Then, on a visit to Toronto my first year in Tainan, we met up. He was already having thoughts of living abroad and teaching English. I merely told him that I was really enjoying myself in Tainan without putting any kind of sell whatsoever and next thing I knew I was doubling his sizeable frame on the back of my motorcycle (that was a test of balance I tell ya). I love the way the non-sell often sells the salespeople. Dave has been a part of our exceptional Tainan social fabric for two and half years, half of which we were roommates. Though I still consider him a big brother figure (I mean that in a positive light), after spending so much time with him I now also consider him a close friend as well.

At last Monday night's belotte* session, we joked that someone would have to step in and act as anecdote teller to replace Dave. However, part and parcel with that role would require telling the same story a few times over! (sorry Dave, you couldn't expect me to resist that one). Though long, and sometimes inapprorpiately timed in terms of flow to the game, I declare that I will miss Dave's stories immensely. Tuesday night footy, Friday night hip hop nights at his and Dan's velevety apt and forever the knowlegable resource when we wanted to know the score of the footy game, Dave "McAlmanacmaster" is already missed by many here in Tainan.

It's the first of several goodbyes to come in the near future. Tainan is a transcient place. People come and go. I've now lived in several countries where I have had to make friends knowing full well a future seperation is unavoidable. It's never easy but it does get easier.
You come to a point where you realize fate brought you together in the first place and if
you are meant to cross paths again, it will happen. If not, you have shared a bond and thereby remain part of one another for the length of your existence. I view my friendships as wealth and as cheesy as this sounds, I consider myself a rich man - despite the scoffs of the materialistic and narrow-minded. We certainly don't live in a world that recognizes this type of wealth. In any case, goodbyes are an opportunity to appreciate and to move on. And the more it hurts by the way, the more evidence of camaderie, of spiritual kinship there is.

I alluded to cycles earlier on and nothing exemplifies the natural cycle more than having a dear friend's father pass on while our friends Launa and Jonathan are on the verge of having a baby. We are so attached to these lives we lead, and yet all of it - family, friends, cherished things materialistic or not - will all be gone one day. What is built will be destroyed. I'm still amazed at how well our mental defenses manage to have us avoid
this very real truth. And things can disappear sooner than we realize or when we least
expect, too. And yet we stubbornly go on leading lives, taking our precious time for granted, in denial of our attachment to living.

It wasn't only the news of Dave's father which has spawned all these thoughts within me. Another bit of shocking news greeted me when I returned home, concerning with, funny enough, my home. It looks like we're being tossed out of it like yesterday's leftovers. And no, Michele isn't leaving me for some younger football hunk, but rather the landlord - whom we have never even met - has decided to sell the apt. Michele and I have now been here together living here for a little over a year. Michele has resided here for 6 years. Significantly, she has never lived in any other place for that long. Not surpisingly then, she was slightly traumatized by the news. Ironically, it comes just after hearing from Dan that he will be moving directly across the street. And just hours prior, while waiting for a flight to Tainan in the Taipei airport, Dan and I had been making musical plans and bragging of the convenience of living across the street. Then, all of a sudden, things were turned upside down again only hours later when I saw Michele. I have no qualms about admitting that I have become attached to this apartmnent. It's a macking pad (see Movin' On Up) that is sought after by a few friends. Over the last half year or so we have gutted it out slowly to the point where it has just about reached our vision of how we want it to be. Even the roof top is almost cleared.

After the initial shock that necessarily comes with news of sudden change, I realize this move could a blessing. As mentioned earlier, the forecast for June predicts typhoon. Searching for a new place, then moving, a heavier teaching schedule, the World Cup (come on!) will combine into a whirlwind of a month. However, a sea of calm awaits us in the month of July in the form a return to Tibet for a month. After seeing a decent place last night, though still more expensive and not as nice as this place, we had a bit of a chat with our stern-faced security guard. After a lengthy talk, he convinced us to let him call our landlord so he can convince her to let us stay. Even if they sell it, the new people will already have tenants. I was kind of hoping to stay here, especially considering we are planning a move back to Montreal next April or so. Either way, things will work out fine and it's a good opportunity to downsize (speaking for Michele here as I ain't got shit!)

First priority as requirement for our provisonal new abode is Flea. I disagree with one friend who coined this requirement as constraint. Flea is a daily joy and I revere as much in one of our daily walks as she does. Therefore, it is simply unthinkable that we don't find a place close to a park. Ideally, we will try to stay in this neighbourhood to be able to continue walking around the Sports Park, which also is home to a picturesque temple and the football pitch I often huff and puff at on Sundays.

We also need a place with reasonable rent as we prepare to enter save mode, given our intention to move back to Montreal sometime next spring. Which reminds me, only a year remains for any of you to visit the unique island of Taiwan. Don't worry, we'll sort out accomodation no matter what. Taiwan will not only touch your heart as their tourist slogan goes, but it will touch many other parts of you too.

Tainan is full little steals when it comes to housing so I'm confident we'll find something to our liking. As a last resort, we have the option of moving out to a mansion directly across from the shore of the South China Sea. Things could be worse as the imminent storm drifts nearer and nearer.

oj

P.S. Also, I am skypified so if anyone uses Skype, my user name is chrispady.

Phoenix Plunging

"We can gradually drop our ideas of who we think we ought to be, or who we think we want to be, or who we think other people think we want to be or ought to be. We give it up and just look look directly with compassion and humour at who we are."
- Pema Chodron




Heart wrenching.

Once again, I can but stare and watch as the ball - that wondrous, object of desire which also turns grown men into little babies because they get so possessive about it - floats into the back of my team's goal. Euston, our South African keeper, lowers his head. He had no chance. That guy was wide open. Ok, so we're 1-0 and the game only lasts 25 minutes. Still, half of the game remains and we do have the offensive explosiveness to pull it off. We press with deliberate passes and determination. The crosses are poured in relentlessly from the wings but either the finishing just isn't there or their defense is solid. Even later, shots continue to drift wide or their off target or not quite powerful enough. Nothing seems to be going in our favour.

Until, that is, the ball is floated in perfectly to Denton (our Dutch dynamo: ex-gynmnast striker playing in his final tournament for the Phoenix; reputation for powerful and acrobatic headers). He has only to aim it with his head and it's bulgin' the back of the ol' onion bag and celebration time. It couldn't have been scripted more perfectly. We hold our collective breath (team + supporters) as time takes a nap. Mais helas, when time clocks back in, the ball inexplicably bulges into the sidenetting instead. We all know that we unlikely to get another tasty chance like that one with the amount of time left. That was the one. For the Phoenix, it wasn't to be - again.

******************************************

No one likes losing, but losing repeatedly in virtually the the same way is another level of acceptance. It's almost insulting. That's why it teaches us the best lessons. Our team had been preparing semi-seriously for the last 6 months and we had been playing great team football during the build-up games to the tournament. Our new gaffers, Taller-Than-Tall Tom (he is too, if only by a few inches) and Ferg, had put much time and effort into making this team a winner. They, everybody, really wanted to win. Can you smell the danger? That attachment to winning is so dangerous -especially when winning is expected of you. And though I can't deny that I wanted to win it at home, previous experience was my teacher before this competition. My motto: play to win but don't count on it. My personal goal for the tournament was to play as well as I could and provide a good time in between and afterwards with some fine music (DJ MICHELE rocked Saturday's after-party while oj handled Sunday's). And to the gaffers' credit, they did all they possibly could, too (both are Phoenix players currently injured). But it is the uncontrollable factors, the ones beyond our control yet visible that always seem to haunt us, returning only to bite us on the ass when it counts most.

The doom clouds loomed from early on as destiny caught us with an elbow. Within 10 minutes of the first game versus the much hated Taipei Animals (hated of course, because they have the best winning record) when going for the header off of a corner, our captain, Kid Ari, connected not with the ball but with the cranium of their thug defender (actually Ari is probably more of a thug). He went straight to the sideline and disappeared. Throughout the rest of the game, I frequently stole concerned glances over to the sidelines, wondering why Ari hadn't even reappeared to watch the rest of the game. When he didn't, I knew it was hospital time and I feared for arguably the team's strongest weapon: the hip hop central midfield.

Never mind, the French connection it is then. Raf-de-Nantes slides in from the wing to join me in the middle. Jesus, our token, tiny but skillful Bolivian (he, his brother Juan and other latinos are musicans making a living playing their indigenous music around Taiwan) replaces him on the left flank. I am already determined to lead the team and now I know I have to step it up even more with Ari out. We prey on the Animals and win convincingly 2-1 to all but assure a spot in the next round.

On the Sunday, our quarter-final game is against our long-term rivals the Evil Pacers of Mordor (aka Black Lung, really Kaoshiung). As is our Sunday morning habit, after a long Saturday drinking session, we come out as flat as 2-day old half-empty Molson Export and within the first 5 minutes, we are lucky not to be down 1-0 when a powerful strike from their forward rattles off the crossbar. Alarm bells ring like alarm clocks throughout our team's bedheads. We respond emphatically. But it isn't until the dying minutes that I wriggle my way into position in the 18 yard box and spot Hugh the Hammer, having held up on his run, sitting eagerly alone on the penalty spot. I deliver a great cross and he drives a header into the back of the net for a Phoenix birth into the semis. Hey, what's that in my hand? It feels the Pheonix jinx melting away in my hand. Maybe it really is our day at last...

******************************************

It's the downtime between games. I'm in the shade (oh yeah, it's already scorching here)stretching. I'm no spring chick anymore. If I don't stretch properly these days, I am ridiculously sore the following day. However, after a reasonably easy Saturday (one team in our group did not show and so we only played two 35 games as opposed to three 25 minute ones- big difference because the games are short and intense), I still feel remarkably well. I did wake up slightly hungover this morning (above and beyond , these tournaments are excuses to be festive). But I wasn't about to let a slight headache prevent me from leading the team to victory. Other teammates, however, were not quite on the same page. Without boring you with stategical details, we play a 3-4-3 formation (3 defenders, 4 midfielders and 3 forwards). With only 3 at the back to shut down the opponents, it is essential that all 3 are ready to run and see a lot of the ball. Well, two out of three of these integral defenders happened to be out drinking until the wee, wee hours of the morn. They were still slightly drunk and it showed. That crushing goal in the semis described earlier could have likely been prevented if those guys had been even half-sober. Et voila, quelle vie!

So much potential. Wasted.

But wait, isn't there a valuable lesson here to remember?

Just why the hell is it so important to win in this world? To be the best. The Champs.We play some of the best footy on the island. Any other team would back us up on that. But until we win the Cup, we will be known as the perennial bridesmaids. I was disappointed but, oddly, not that disappointed. We didn't play badly. In fact, we outplayed them in that semi-final. We had injuries. We had ill players playing crucial positions. More importantly, I remembered my real, simple goal for the tournament: to play to my ability. And I did that. So my head was up for once during that awkward saunter towards the crowd after a loss. Still, though, losing does really suck. It hits you in such a way that can only be likened with loneliness. When you lose, it feels like you've been rejected, ignored, and abandoned all at once. Nobody loves a loser, right?

Frankly, I'm a bit tired of this world of winners. Competition is a double-edged sword which can bring out amelioration and creativity you never knew you had or, it can transform you into a horrible person that does things he/she would normally never do. It brings out a side of humanity better left to fossilize. I remember scoffing at the classic Nestle (or is it Hershey's) commercial as a kid. You know, the one where the boy comes home dejected after losing his hockey game and his Mom asks, "What's wrong?. "We lost", he mutters glumly. "Well, did you have fun?", she inquires, handing him a cup full of hot chocolate by the roaring fire. "Yeah". "Well, that's all that counts", concludes Mom. The message was simple and admirable. The only problem is that it wasn't the least bit compatible with the philosophy of most of my competitive coaches. Winning was all that mattered, no matter what it took. These are the lessons that many of the kids are growing up with in sports.

So let me now revert back to Pema Chodron's quote at the beginning and place what happened in the context of the Phoenix. The Phoenix must gradually drop the idea that we should win the Cup before it even happens, that we even need to win it in the first place, and stop worrying about the other teams altogether. We are an excellent team that happens to always have players (never the same ones) that seem to show up on the Sunday so hungover they can't kick a ball straight. You have to laugh. People mess up. You have to forgive them in the end. And hey, we still win (and the closest runner-up team isn't even in the same galaxy) the best supporters on the whole island trophy.

Losing is a whole lot easier to handle when you don't expect to win in the first place.

Your loser friend (temporarily)

oj

Soul Control

“Your soul is not a passive or a theoretical entity that occupies a space in the vicinity of your chest cavity. It is a positive, purposeful force at the core of your being... When the energy of the soul is recognized, acknowledged, and valued, it begins to infuse the life of the personality.” Gary Zukav from The Seat of the Soul.


My latest experience is narrated mostly by my soul, although my personality occasionally takes the reins as well.


Should I stay or should I go?

All of last week, I was obssessed with one Idea for this upcoming weekend: mountains. However, a Friday morning torrential downpour started to flood doubts into my plans. By afternoon, the rains had tapered off but the ominous clouds remained. As is the case every Friday afternoon, hosting Below the Bassline put me in a groovy mood. Feeling so nice after the show, I decide to Go Dutch for a little hit of their creamy cheesecake. I mention to Erik, the owner of the coolest little restaurant in town, that I have been considering hitting the high mountains but have my doubts in terms of weather. “Ah, don't base your decision on the weather in Tainan. It could rain here and be beautifully sunny up there”, he offered in his laid-back Seattle accent.


By the end of the afternoon, the sky clears amazingly to display a stunning orangy-pink sunset. In a rare Tainan moment, the rains team up with the wind to plow away the habitual layer of pollution, leaving the mountains in plain view from Jackie's eastward facing apartment on Dongmen Street. Tempting. I am firmly caught between two minds (what's new? eh, Dan). Alright, who can I coax into joining me? The list of rejections is long. Michele is coming off a week of sickness. Asif is scared off by the weather reports. Dave has to work on Saturday morning. Dan has plans. Siv's out of town...etc. There are special times where I demand to take off by myself; unfortunately, this isn't one of those times. Alas, maybe it just isn't meant to be.

Or is it. More than his words, it was Erik's look of envy when I told him I planned to hit Yakou. “Man, why do I need anyone else anyhow?” I start convincing myself, “you're going, accompanied or not”. My personality interjects. “You shouldn't go alone, it's too dangerous. Remember what Jackie's Mom said about the poor road conditions up there. Besides, won't you get bored all by yourself. What if it's raining and cold all weekend?”. I won't bore you with the listing of my personality's endless fears. I signal for my personality to hush and this is what I say in the kindest and firmest of tones, “Pack away your fears and get your things together. Unless it's pissing down, we leave in the morn”.

Now, as I see it on this here Saturday morning, the sun's already up and inviting me to take off eh. I get ready and say goodbye to my sweet lady. “Looks like it cleared up after all", she says, " wasn't sure it would after last night's rain”. “Good thing I hadn't heard the rains during the night or I would have surely called it off”, mutters my personality. After a light dan ping breakfast, I mount Berthe and press play on my MP3 and let the cool sounds of Joe Bataan's Black Coffee set the tone.

In top flight, as the new day sun already beats down hard on my exposed arms, I'm thankful to be leaving early. The prospect of an adventurous weekend on my own Time (kairologic time if you recall) plus the driving salsa and latin beats get my blood boiling. The reality of the immense, multiple-layered peaks sitting buddha-like in the distance are highly inspiring. I can't wait to just be right up there.

Just before noon, after several hours of motoring and having now just entered the lower mountains, I stop by some stairs by the side of the highway. As I turn the key to Berthe's ignition to the left, the sound of running water trickles into my ears, replacing Berthe's rather noisy gait. A quick scout mission tells me it's the perfect spot to sip tea and have a little sit down in the shade. It turns out that not only is there a stream but there is decent waterfall here as well. I have to hurdle a few rocks to get up close and in my excitement to clamber up as fast as possible, I misjudge a detour around a fallen branch. The unusually sharp branch catches on to my pant leg and creates a tear. “What's the rush, laddie?”, I remind my personality. Sometimes, he is such a child. But then again, that's also part of his charm.

Standing near the falls, I can see its main jet ricocheting off one or two projecting rocks, before it tumbles down about 30 ft. In a flash, I've stripped down to cool down. The loudness of the crash is almost deafening as the powerful jet thumps my head. People pay good money at spas in Taiwan for this very same treatment. And, just like the spa, all I have to do is move slightly to the side to get a less potent yet just as pleasurable jet. Then, a colourful surprise. I am suddenly encircled by rainbows. Small ones which follow me which ever way I turn. I'm no physics genius and I don't know the theory behind wave particles and such so as to be able to explain this phenomenon to you. All I can do is pass on the image and try explain the sheer delight of being massaged by Nature while rainbows dance all around me. And now I am finding that mere words can not do the feeling justice as I now dry off in the sun. Overhead, a group of thugged out rain clouds moves in to block the sun. It doesn't dampen my present mood, though. I brew up some tea and sip in the sweet silence.

I'm starting to feel peckish so I decide to have lunch in the nearby town of Meilan. I order a fried rice and some mountain vegetable from a local restaurant run by aboriginals. There is an older but not elderly couple sitting down enjoying their meal. They are curious about the foreigner and instantly strike up conversation as I walk by. Turns out they are also from Tainan. They are curious as to my meticulously planned schedule for the weekend. I tell what little of them I possess but refrain from getting into the whole no-plan philosophy. In return, they enthusiastically divulge their entire agenda.

Once I exhaust my limited conversational Mandarin, I sit down and wait for my food. Ah, the snail's mountain pace can be felt even though my food comes quickly.Yums. And even before I am done, in true representation of the warm aboriginal hospitality I've encountered time and time again iin Taiwan, one of the owners offers me a local delicacy called xiao mi. It's a kind of dumpling filled with crushed peanuts and something sweet. Who cares what it is, it's delicious! Following that, I watch as the woman from Tainan jumps out of the passenger seat, runs over to me, and hands me a bag of fresh wax apples. Feeling blessed from all these unexpected gifts, I'm all smiles with thanks as I strap my helmet back on and start up Berthe for the next stage of the journey.


Up, Up and Away

From past experience, I remember to stop in at the Meishan visitor centre to pre-order my supper at the Yakou hostel. Being so high up and isolated from any cities (by Taiwanese standards anyway), they must know you're coming in advance or else you starve. I learned that one the hungry way. I run into some communication difficulties with the teenage kid at the reception. He is so embarrassed to be talking to a foreigner that he is unable to concentrate. The best he can come up when we are in a communication stalemate is, “ni hen shuai” (You're handsome). They are the perfect words to diffuse my frustration at my lack of being able to convey a simple desire to eat supper that night. Oh well, I may starve but at least I'm handsome to this guy. Anyway, he finally calls for back-up and it all gets sorted. And with the sun shining strong, I decide to camp that night and refrain from ordering a room. I know it will be cold up there but I am sufficiently prepared for that. As long as it doesn't rain...

Amazingly, not ten minutes after leaving the visitor centre, still on cloud nine, the god Murphy asserts his omnipresence by envoying a convoy of clouds to roll in suddenly like those alien ships from Independence Day (never ever thought I'd make reference to that crap movie) and I start to feel a few innocents drops from the sky. Is it too late to go back and order a room? I decide to suck it up, whatever conditions I'm dealt. After all, I won't die now will I? To dawn or dismiss rain apparel, that is the current question. I decide to put it on. Five minutes later the rain stops. That Murphy character sure does have a sense of humour.

However, by the time I reach my next stop in Tianshih, after an hour or more of steady upwards spiralling, the clouds have completed their hostile takeover of the sky. They are moving hurriedly, like worker ants with a task to finish. The unpredictable mountain weather is demonstrating itself at an accelerated pace. I cover my tent and sleeping bag before climbing the steep steps leading to, - you'll never believe it - in Taiwan of all places, a temple! Before reaching the top however, an audio sensation snags my attention. It is distinctly the sound of monks chanting, and rather loudly at that. I immediately envision monks performing a sacred meditational ritual upon the mountain peak. However, when I reach the shrine, the shaved-headed holy men I had imagined are actually a small tape-palying device and a few speakers. Tricknology! The shrine is a memorial for the souls who lost their lives during the construction of the Southern Cross Highway as it is known. I say a prayer of thanks to them for without their sacrifice I might not be here right now.

Decidedly, the weather in the PM cannot be more different than the AM. The blue skies have been taken over by fleets and fleets of various types of grey clouds, from ghostly thin vaporous ones to fat moonless-night coloured ones. The likelyhood of rain doesn't stop me from exploring the area behind the temple.

The lake I had read about is no more than a pond in reality. There is a trail behind it which eventually leads into the forest. Had I suddenly slipped, banged my head and contracted amnesia, I would have sworn I was in BC judging by the size of the trees. Indeed these multi-limbed giants are from an era long past. Within seconds, the wind makes me stop in my tracks and commands my attention. I listen carefully and respectfully. Once it has spoken its piece, the quiet that follows the monologue makes up for months of constant Tainan city noise. I can't get over how lush everything is. Songbirds brag to one another about how many little critters they've gobbled up. A few swoop down into my path just millimetres ahead of my stride in a display of precise stealth flight. Velvety moss and lichen drape the trees' ankles. A slight rain begins but there are so many trees to use as cover that I fail to get wet. That is, until it starts to pour down. I decide to seek cover under a particularly massive umbrella-like pine. It is here that I encounter another human moving in the opposite direction. I never did catch his name but he is a real character from Taipei. You don't encounter too many unpleasant people when walking in the forest I've noticed. My guess is that their souls have also taken over their personalities in Nature's splendour.

I return to the temple around in the late afternoon. I quench my thirst by eating some of the juicy wax apples I had been given earlier that day. I decide to sit on the steps facing the valley and watch the clouds for a bit. Mesmerizing. Surreal, too. Giant masses of vapourous spirits colliding invisibly, often travelling in completely opposite directions; the beauty of chaos. And what is my place is all this? Humble observer. When out of the blue, a patch of perfect azur sky magically opens up, high above the dizzying clouds, I gasp in amazement while applauding the spectacle. However, with the hunch that the day's end nears, I decide to leave the cloud show and make a move to the hostel.

The interminable night

As I slowly rise in altitude, clouds still racing frantically about me, I find my hands are beginning to sting from the cold. I'm forced to add an extra layer in the form of my ever-dependable MEC fleece. You gotta hand it to that company, they make stuff that endures. Even though I've prepared myself for the year round cold of Yakou, the reality of driving in it remains a challenge. As I pass through the infamous weather changing tunnel, I wonder what the view will be like on the eastern side. The western side usually holds the favourable weather until you hit that dank, creepy tunnel which often leads to gloomy weather on the other side. The weather is already gloomy though so I can't see it getting any worse.

Sure enough, it is marginally nicer on the other side as I am welcomed by the sight of a glorious sea of clouds, immobile and restful. I stop to admire my new setting briefly before cruising down to where the isolated hostel lays nestled on a small plateau.

With Berthe's engine cut for a well-deserved rest, the first thing I notice is a difference in the strength of the wind up here. It's wailing; a worrying factor if I am to spend the night in a tent. I'm already starting to regret not reserving a room. And when I scope the parking lot, I notice the dreaded tour bus. Surely a full bus will fill the hostel. A couple are outside their van checking out the scene as well. It turns out they too are also from Tainan. We go in together and soon learn that they are indeed completely booked. Where is my saviour, Peter, this time around?

As it is only 7 o'clock, I contemplate eating my reserved supper and then making a run for Lidao, the next village over. Not a mouth-watering prospect in the dark, especially after a long day of driving already, but doable. For what though? The sake of comfort? That 's when the stubborn part of my personality, the part that believes strongly in self-sacrifice and and rigorous challenges as a means of learning to live without comforts, takes control. “We're staying. You said you'd tough it out, so tough it out tough guy”. Did I mention that I make it a point to never argue with my personality?

After dinner, I return outside. The couple introduce me to Kevin, their son. They invite me to come over and try some the taro cakes and soup they had been concocting under the shelter. Though freshly full, it would have been rude to not accept. Plus, I was curious to try these reknowned tarot delicacies from Jian Shan I had often seen but never tried. Again, I try to converse with them as much as possible, practising as much Mandarin as I can while the opportunity is there.

Then I set up my tent. I am advised to set up right next to main entrance of the hostel as it is the best place in terms of priority number one: wind protection. Once it's up, I try it on for size by lying down and faking sleep, unconvinced that concrete will provide any sort of rest this night. Beneath my delicate spine and the tent's thin layer of vinyl, I feel only rigidity. Bob Marley's words, "Cold ground was my bed last night/and rock was my pillow too.." spring instantly to mind. I think back to my rainbow waterfall; the sunshine, the elation and freshness of it all and have to question whether or not that was really earlier today. The yin and the yang. I resolve here and now to make the best of it and deal with situation I have put myself into with as much grace as possible.

The couple beckons me over yet again. This time for some sake to warm us up. After my first small cup, the wind suddenly gusts violently and my tent responds by leaping in the air and dazzling us with a lovely pirouette. However the landing is less impressive as it folds over on itself and crumples in an injured heap. I react immediately by mending the minor damage and then gathering four fair-sized pieces of metamorphic rock residing in the neighbourhood and tying them with string to the tent. I return to finish the rest of the sake in this increasingly blistery environment. The family ask if it would be ok to camp out beside me. With all the hospitality and good will they have shown me, do you think I am about to refuse? All I can really offer them in return are some grapes, which I do, and of which the mother eats one out of politeness. Oh well, I can't exactly force them to accept.

For a very long time now, after milleniums of lying awake, invariably woken up each time just as I am on the verge of sleep by a severe feeling of discomfort resulting from the unyielding ground beneath me. I have resisted looking at the time on my cell phone -even though my personality leeps asking if he can check - because I am all too certain that I will see an earlier number that I desire. Each time I get close to sleep, I suddenly realize that if I don't remove my shoulder blade digging into the concrete this instant, I may never regain feeling in it again. I'm cerain this seemingly endless cycle of near sleep and extreme discomfort could only get worse by checking the time, triggering spiralling, negative thoughts of how much longer there is to endure. Why bother counting?

The wind is unrelentless. Often I can hear it howling way off in the distance beforehand,so I prepare for its imminent arrival by bracing myself. Sure enough, when it reaches the tent, it swoops down and sweeps it up in a brash demonstration of power. I can't believe the tent is holding up as well as it is. I decide to dub the tent George, after George Chuvalo the Italian-Canadian boxer who withstood punishing rounds with such boxing legends as Mohammed Ali, Joe Frazier without ever being knocked out.

A gleam of hope perhaps. The noise of awake and chatty people is clearly audible now. Sure it's another source of sleep deprivation, but if people are up and about, then maybe I've survived the interminable night after all. My personality can no longer resist the temptation and reaches for my phone, unable to ignore the time any longer. It reads 4:02. "now why did you have to go do that?" I scold.

A few times during the night, I think of my friends in Tainan. Are they struggling to sleep due to intense +30 degree humid heat while I lay here wondering if I am going to contract hemrrhoids? Ironic! Well, it's almost seven now, so I might as well make my way to the cafeteria and wait for my pre-ordered breakfast to emerge. I take out a book in an effort to stay awake. I'm physically exausted yet strangely, I feel an inner strength. It occurs to me that I did not once feel myself turning negative throughout the entire nocturunal ordeal. Sure, I second guessed my decision and my stubborness in accepting my fate rather than attempting to make it to Lidao, but on the whole I'm happy with how I've dealt with it. Not once have I succumbed to despair as I easily as I could have. This feeling is echoed in the smile I give the curious little boy who keeps interrupting my reading by saying only "hello" and then running off.

A breakfast of eggs, shredded pork, a steamed bun, rice porridge, cabbage and pickled something or other is devoured in record time. Now to decide on the course of my day. High on the list of temptation is renting out a room and making up for valuable lost sleep. Alternatively, I could suck it up and start exploring mountain country. The weather does nothing to ease my decision-making. It remains storm cloudy, cold and windy. I decide to wait it out until 8 o'clock to see if there is a change in the sky by then. Dreary thoughts of returning home -of quitting - undoubtedly brought on by the ominous clouds, start to get seriously entertained.

As I pack George up , an audience- small both in number and in size- consisting of the same curious boy along with his brother and sister watch my every move. They find it tremendously funny every time the wind blows through to mess up the fold and I have to run to repair it. So content were they with the foreigner show that they did not even think of coming down from their comfortable perch to help me out, the little brats! To kill time afterwards, I go back inside and try to read in between dozes.

At 8 am, I make my way to the very front of the hostel grounds to check out the weather again. A shiver runs through me as the cold wind whistles through. I have to crouch low in order to see under the tall pines blocking the view of the valley. Is that sun I see reflecting on the face of the mountain in the valley beyond? I turn around and look behind me. Dark rainclouds pervade. Still unsure. One thing I do know is that I've got to move. “Well, I'm going to get on Berthe, start her up and when I get to the highway, I will either turn right or left and my decision will be made.” Poor Berthe has trouble getting going, evidence that she has also suffered last night.



Paradise re-visited

Sun vs Cloud. Hot vs Cold. Elation vs Suffering. Me vs Personality. These are the major battles so far this trip. It is only on these weekend excursions to the mountains, on my own, that I become more vocal and cast a shadow over my control-obssessive personality. No, that isn't quite right. It's like my personality is hushed by Nature and allows my wisdom to be heard. In the city, my personality is much too distracted by the myriad of city life social activity to be worried about the Big Picture. As splintered a being as we are, we still have much to learn from one another. And because there are no other personalities present to sway, influence and relate to, my personality is all ears for once when I have something to say.

So it is I which gives the commands to turn right, towards the light, when I reach the highway junction. No sooner then I begin to head east does a full dose of sunshine strike the valley brilliantly, supporting my decision immediately. From this particular point on the road, at an altitude of 3000 some odd metres, it is all downhill until you reach the Pacific. I rejoice in slipping the bike into neutral, thereby severely diminshing the noice factor (she is vocal with her raspy voice that Berthe) and increasing the peace. Even after a short stop at the side of the road to inspect a never-before-seen strikingly violet feathery friend, I merely point the bike back onto the sweet path of momentum to get going once again.

It's time for the Neutral Game! The rules are simple: put it into gear and you lose. It means that sometimes you may slow down so much from a slight incline that you come agonizingly close to stopping. A rookie would then be tempted to slip into gear, for speed's sake. But the wily veteran will exert patience, knowing that holding out those few extra metres will reap rewards of steep declines to follow. I stop again at another spot further down where the entire baricade, designed to protect from landslides has been completely wiped out. The remains of the wall can be seen further down in the trees following the sheer drop-off. Mental note: stay humble and aware.

The worries and doubts I had at the top of the mountain disppear as quickly as my motorcycle drops in kilometres. The temperature also plummets rapidly and it isn't long before I can strip off the burdensome layers. My next decision is the following: to go to paradise right away or on the way back from Wulu. My aching body from the interminable night confirms paradise would very much be appreciated as soon as possible. If you recall the Paradise Found monthly, paradise in this region comes in the form of a unique hot waterfall. The water comes down scalding hot in small jets, which in turn form small pools. People have allowed some of the cool river water to seep into those pools to make them just right for a natural hot tub.

I make it down to the gate and pack a half day ration of food. I will be munching on fruit and snacks until dinner. Aside from a parked green BMW, it is all quiet. So quiet in fact, that I strain my eyes to match the machine-like hovering noise that has peaked my curiosity. A squadron of giant bees or wasps have come to check me out. A little bit further down the path, I hear some strange cawing noise. If it's a bird, then it's a strange one. My suspicion is soon confirmed as a band of monkeys greet me with loud noises and snarls from a safe distance. They are a quintet and the reason they may be so agitated is because there is a baby on board. It's rare to see monkeys in the wild in Taiwan (yes people, Taiwan not Thailand) so I'm quite excited to see my distant cousins again. However, they share neither my enthusiasm nor my curiosity so I decide to keep moving, past the pig sty and the unfriendly chained up dogs (I'd be sour too if I were chained up all day), leading to the path down deep into the valley.

The path down to paradise is as steep as I remember. I hope it isn't slippery from the recent rains but it isn't too bad. A few slips and slides, without the away. Once riverside, I decide to give the beemer crew some time alone in paradise. Plus, I am feeling mighty hot and could use a cool down before the spa. I set down my bag and start hopping and skipping over the rocks with an extra zing in my step. Suddenly, as I stand on a massive piece of rock, I flash back to grade 4 at Jeanne Lajoie. I'm playing on the jungle gym, stalled and standing on the green iron bars that are meant to be crawled upon, maintaining perfect balance. When I reopen my eyes, I'm back to this very same spot on top of the rock. No wonder I'm so happy when I come here. This is my natural jungle gym. And I realize that all that training I had at Jeanne Lajoie has made me a fearless climber even now.

I'm careful not to step on the gazzillion tadpoles near the surface as I enter the water. It's ice cold! A refrigerated shock runs through my entire body when I plunge in head first. When I exit the water after a short swim, my back remains icy cold for a good minute. The swim is just what I need. Now I'm hyper-awake. I brew up some tea and let time pass away in a Pooh styleh. A large spider crawls onto my bag. I manage to convince it that my bag will make a poor home. A fat, brown bird comes to say hello. Then the sun and the clouds start their back and forth, brother-sister squabbling about who rules the sky again.

Time to hit paradise. Populating it is a group of youts (gotta say that one a la Joe Pesci). My guess is that they are classmates in their last year of high school. About 6 guys and one girl in total. Funny age. Lots of horseplay, like pulling each others bathing suits off and loud screams when taunting one another to dive into the cold river. How lucky, two sets of monkeys in one day! Just joking, I got along fine with them, all the while remembering that I was very much the same age once upon a time.

It isn't until a quarter the way through the climb back up, feeling my entire t-shirt heavily soaked through and through, that I recall the intensity of the heat and humidity from my previous climbs. Again, the blessing of my upbringing strikes me. I used to go down into Wilcket Creek and find little paths (eventually leading up to Sunnybrook) and spend hours just scrambling up and down them in the dirt. Or, when we would stop for a water break at the fountain on the way back from a bicycle ride, I'd take a quick sip of water and then beeline for the path and sprint up and ski down the path until my parents would call me to leave again. Getting down on all fours is almost as natural as walking to me!

Now back up on the highway, my plan is to continue eastbound, by-passing the town of Lidao and exploring further down into the Wulu Gorge, unchartered territory for me. I apologize in advance for this one, but what a gorge-ous area! It consists of a deep canyon with high walls rising high on either side of the narrow, brilliantly turquoise river. In the distance from where I am now stopped, I can see a road which possibly leads down to the river. However, the longer it descends, the worse the roads gets. Finally, I decide to turn around as I have no intention of getting stuck and stranded on this rarely trodden path. But first, I might as well take a peek just to see how far... At least the distance of Paradise and back and to be honest, my legs are still a bit wobbly from this morning.

On the way back up now, I spot a suspension bridge. Being a heights enthusiast, I must check it out. Wooha, it's up there. When I peer over the edge of the bridge, seeing the 1000 foot of emptyness between me and river and rock, I feel a tinge of excitement. I always get the urge to jump. Not to kill myself mind you, but maybe it's that desire to feel that flying sensation. I hawk a lugey and it takes it about 8 seconds before it hits the river bed. The view is stunning. On the other side of the bridge, there is a staircase. My personality starts to climb again out of curiosity, (or is it addiction?) before I stop the insanity. Have we not had enough gruelling exercise for one day? When I look down at my trembling legs, I know they are grateful for the decision.

Heading back up towards Yakou, the weather turns sour. The rains come and they aren't messing around. I make a quick decision in Yakou to keep driving until I hit Meishan where I can get a room. It will mean an extra 1-2 hours of driving in the cold rain after having driven a fair bit already, too. But it won't be dark and I feel sufficiently energized to do it. And strategically, it will make a huge difference for the drive back tomorrow morning. And so I ride slowly and carefully in the pounding rain. When I finally reach Meishan, it is dark. I am soaked down to the marrow and exhausted from the required concentration of driving in the rain. I settle a room in the otherwise vacant hostel and, once my stuff is hung up to dry, I relish jumping into the womb-like comfort of a hot shower. I stay in that stall much longer than necessary.

I spend a quiet night in the hostel. It's Mother's Day today and luckily, there is a cell phone antennae practically outside my window. The reception is so good that Maman sounds as if she is in the next room. Then I listen to an old Bill Cosby stand up routine before letting the rain massage me into a sleep as deep as the Wulu gorge.

The rain has ceased when I wake up. When I open the curtains, it takes me a good minute to adjust to the light. I feel like a gremlin. The sky appears overcast but leaning more towards clearing up than more precipitation. I eat the last of the supplies: an orange, a star fruit and some young mangoes, before setting off.

The air is magnificently fresh from the rain. I am literally intoxicated from it. The entire time I remain in the mountains, I make sure to consciously inhale as much of this natural air as possible before returning to the city. Lusher than lush valleys are my delight for the first hour or so. I do not rush this part of the journey. I make a stop in Jiashan for a banana milk and some noodles.Then, the fine selection of latin jazz, latin-funk and salsa rhythms propels me home with a wide grin pasted on my face.

Funny, but it isn't until I reach the town of Shinhua, just outside of Tainan, that the heat starts to get to me. All that concrete and lack of greenery makes a huge difference. The traffic and the frantic driving also gets my mountain goat. Why can't everyone just chill? “You all need a trip to the mountains my friends”, I suggest to all the city folk. Nobody listens. Th reality of work, errands and everyday city life slowly consumes my thought process. I can feel the transformation coming on. My personality is about to take over again and there is nothing I can do to stop it. At least, not for the time being. Oh well, it was fun while it lasted.

Movin' on Up

Blasted mozzies! As soon as the temperature heats up even slightly, I'm reminded of how these minute, six-legged creatures - and their incessant buzzing in my ears (nothing, aside from a depleted amte stock, makes me cringe more) and their lump leaving itchy bites on any uncovered section of my body - continue to be the bane of my existence. I'm just hoping for some sweet karmic revenge in the next lifetime. That is how karma works, isn't it? All the suffering inflicted upon you in this life, you get to do back, with interest, in the next one? Hope so coz I've been banking on it with the mosquito in mind...

It's very late or very early, depending on which end of the age spectrum you find yourself. The clock reads 04:14. Darkness still pervades the outside world. The restless nite owls are reaching the climax of their days while the early risers are eagerly beginning theirs. I am neither, or sometimes both; but I happen to be up this time not only because of a mozzie but also due to a rare case of insomnia.

However, and this is the part that strikes me as odd, the lack of sleep isn't driving me crazy the way sleeplessness normally afflicts one. My brain just seems to be alert, and I feel well rested - despite not having properly slept. Can't quite figure it out. I'm not in a worried state of mind. I didn't have any caffeine beyond a morning mate. I even went for a 2 hour bike ride this afternoon where I exerted myself to the fullest so I'm not exercise-deprived either. And yet despite frequent lion-like yawns and seeming fatigue of the body, my brain is as zingy as if it were post-mate. And even with the covers brought right up to the chin (I'll say it again, sub-tropical my ass!), the ever-persistent mosquito, not so much desperate for survival as plain greedy, has managed to pierce into my cheek (twice) and my neck. Enough's enough, you win you blood-sucking little beast!

And so, I take advantage of the special serenity of the dawn of a new day to get down to my long overdue letter.

I'm writing to you from my new home. After over a year of visiting this space I used to call my girlfriend's, I'm slowly getting used to the idea of not calling it “Michele's place” anymore, but, mine too. I moved in at the beginning of March. Not a trying move considering my former house and this apartment are a mere 5 minute walk away from each other. And because of my minimal possessions and lack of anything too big or heavy (i.e fridge, stove, bed etc), I didn't have to hire the infamous blue truck movers (whose little trucks have more of a reputation for bad driving than for moving). Yep, I could feel myself turning Taiwanese as I piled a celiling fan here and a bookcase there onto Michele's tiny hair-dryer-for-an-engine of a scooter. A few equilibrium-challenged zings to and fro pretty much did the trick. One classic trip had me on the back dragging my mammoth suitcase as Michele piloted us slowly through the tiny, zig zaggy streets. The noise from the wheels dragging kept our ears ringing for the rest of the night. I also made several trips on foot, walking through the park and its constants of old folks cold chillin' on the concrete ledge staring - and occasionally glaring - at the atoga while the young kids playing on the jungle gym threw out their "hallo"s each time I passed carrying some different item, be it a kitchen rack, a chair, or a patio umbrella. South Central Tainan baby, keepin' it real in the hood!
Truth be known, Michele and I considered looking for a new place and even went as far as checking a few out. But in the end, the proximity to both the Trees (a small but rare forest next to a farmer's field I've often cited) and the canal (with a stench I've surprisingly grown accustomed to – truly, we humans can get used to anything!), a rare vehicle-free zone close to a giant sports park and a beautiful temple, were the best thing for little Flea. Flea is the impressive-eared street dog Michele nearly hit then decided to rescue two years ago. When she's not rolling in dung or dead animals, she's the cutest thing since Mochichi! I'm already very much enjoying the routine of taking her to the Trees in the morning and then walking off dinner down by the canal at night. It's also pretty special to have someone extremely overjoyed - and genuinely at that – greet me every time I come home. Now if only Flea would take after Michele's behaviour! Yes, the unconditional love and loyalty of the pet dog cannot be overrated – even when she follows my every step around the apt as if her existence depended upon mine. I always wanted a pet shadow.

Getting out of the old place wasn't as smooth as we had envisioned. The landlords, Dr. Tu and his wife, were far nit pickier than I suspected they would be. I knew there was an element of anal retentiveness to their collective personality but when there is no room for compromise or even discussion it can be frustrating. "She's the boss" I can still hear Dr. Tu say with a nervous laugh after his wife would groan out yet another complaint about a missing light bulb or huff and puff because the blinds had a slight bend on one of the layers. Basically, they expected the house to be in the exact same state it was in when it was rented out to us two years ago. And I mean exactly. Admittedly, our lack of regular up keep came back to haunt us but to expect a house to not go through any changes in two years seems a little unreasonable to me. In fact, it downright goes against the laws of physics and Dr. Tu is a man of science...

And even the home improvements we thought we had made came back to bite us in the ass. We replaced the intensely bright living room fixture with a ceiling fan during a moment of heat-induced insanity during our first summer. Instead of simply buying a lamp so as to have light and a fan for the taxing summer ahead, we were required to hire a technician to take it down and put in a new light fixture. We also put in many hours of sweeping, mopping, moving and tossing. Junk piled up outside the house. It didn't take longer than the first item to be carried out before passer-bys were eyeing the unwanted goods and applying on those squeaky brakes in order to get a good look, raid gleeming in their eyes. Dave commented that the locals were a little like the old Cretan ladies scavenging Madame Hortense's place. In the end, it all got done - as it always does - and we got most our deposit back.

Going to the electric and water company proved to be an intersting experience too. Because Dan was back in England this whole time for a funeral (RIP Grandpa), I was by default the chosen one to perform the task of telling them we had moved out due to my fluency in Chinese. Yeah right, as if terms like “meter”, “gauge” and “pay” are even in my vocabulary. And even if I knew those words, there was always the likeliness of getting the tones messed up and end up saying “lizard”, doorknob” and murder” instead.

The first time I went to the water company, it was dark and I wondered whether they were even open. When the fantom appeared out of the corner of the caged payout area, I tried to tell her we wer moving. She gave me a long-winded response, in a mix of Taiwanese and Chinese characteristic of Tainan, of which I understood almost nothing.Thankfully, another customer spoke English and was able to convey her monologue. When I went back the next afternoon, I had to wonder if I was in the same place. It was lit up like a tv set and there was a huge line-up snaking almost out of the building. A far cry from the ghost town from the previous day. Maybe there was some sort of mass refund I hadn't heard about. I joined the cue. Then I realized that it must be because the bills must had been sent out. Bad timing for this lost, little foreigner. Luckily, I ran into a lady I coincidentally knew from a vegetarian restaurant I often go to and she helped find the right desk. After lots of painfully bad attempts at using my Chinese, much shrugging, waiting and uncomfortable laughter following a language stalemate, I was finally shown a number I had to equal in cash. Done.

Sometimes frustrating but often amusing, it remains a daily challenge to live in Tainan.
So far I have been in my new place for about 2 weeks. The apartment has been well-lived in by transitional-minded foreigners for about 5 years now. That translates to lots of accumulated junk. We've got our share of gutting and cleaning ahead of us – a challenge we're ready for. We can both see what we want to do with the place, the vision is there, so it's up to how much time we are allotted by Father Time to do it. The way it's looking as far as Michele's schedule is concerned, the place should be ship-shape sometime in the fall of 2008. She's a busy one these days. No matter, baby steps, right?. Baby steps. Baby steps. (What About Bob? anyone?)
Last weekend was a positive start though as we spontaneously braved cold and rainy weather and an even more severe language barrier (once again) to hit the B & Q (AKA Canadian Tire/Walmart) to buy some paint. This time we had five employees corner us in the aisle. One poor guy, probably from the car part section, got dragged into it because he spoke a few English words. I could see the regret in his eyes for having bragged about his English skills on his resume. After a while, they stopped even talking to us and formed a huddle of their own while Michele and I pretended to look at the different styles of brushes on sale. Somehow we succeeded on our mission and spent the weekend painting what will be our chill out/stretching/guest room. We plan to put tatami mats down with loads of cushions from Bali, a Thai triangle cushion (the bomb for reading) a low table and some lamps for just hanging out. I've been wanting a space like this for a while now.

I might as well describe the rest of the apartment while were on the topic. It is a two-floored place situated on the 9th floor (though is says '10' on the elevator button because the '4' is missing. The '4',of course, is an evil number in Chinese superstition and their equivalent to unlucky 13.) in the "Datung World" complex. The lobby is beautifully adorned with a Japanese garden, amazing rocks and minerals and a lovely pond with all sorts of exotic marine life. Not! It's about as drab as a lobby can be with ugly, antiquitous Christmas and Chinese New Year decorations and a few fake plants. You'd think the guards might spend a little time doing it up since they spend 8 hours just sitting around but apparently it isn't in the job description. However, since the building goes no higher than the 10th floor, I guess that means we live in the penthouse. "You heard me right Weezy, we got ourselves the penthouse", I can just hear George Jefferson exclaim.

The bottom floor consists of the aforementioned soon to be dubbed the Cafe Del Merde chill out room plus another room, yet to be gutted, painted and transformed into an arts room for Michele and the numerous projects she's got bubbling and simmering in her soul but ain't got the time for right now. There is a decent-sized kitchen that spreads out into the salon where we watch ancient episodes of Seinfeld and SCTV on dvd. From the entrance, if you don't go straight into the appartment, you can take the stairs up to the this very little enclave where the computer is set up. Take a left from there and enter the sizeable master bedroom and adjacent bathroom. Outside our room, you can step out onto a massive, tiled rooftop deck which we plan to clean up and maybe set up a garden. After a typhoon, you can see mountains!
Not a bad pad for roughly 350$ Canadian per month, n'est-ce pas?
I'm very happy and excited with this new beginning. Good habits that I've felt I've needed in my life have already started forming, like cooking and cleaning for example. And most of all, I'm living with the girl who brings daily sunshine in my life. Sure, it was a little weird at first but every change for me is strange at first. But then I settle in and get my groove on and it's all good. It's my pattern.

I want to end on that high-pitched note so let's revert back to the mosquito. When I was travelling through Thailand several years ago, I met this hippie-ish traveller who acted as though he had become enlightened because he refused to kill mosquitoes. He said to even hurt these pesty creatures was equal to murder in karmic terms. Another friend who was there jeered and scoffed when he heard this; I was sympathetic to his ideology but also wondered whether he was taking it a bit far. Now I regret not standing up for him. Sure I slagged them blood-sukers to start this off, but that's exactly where the lesson lies. Their annoyance is their lesson just like every bad driver, every tragedy and every perceived mistake you encounter out there. He started to think with his heart and that's what made him see the world in a different light. It's not a better light, but it is a more appropriate, eventually leading to a higher consciousness; a higher form of evolution beyond petty human concerns. Hold on a second, there's something nibbling at my ankles, making it hard for me to type. Slap! Got it! Shit, no killing.

Baby steps, baby steps, baby steps...

oj