Taiwan Today

TWO DOZEN MOTOR SCOOT­ERS surrounded me. Ahead, three buses revved worn engines, expelling clouds of choking fumes from their exhaust pipes. A student darted among the sea of rubber wheeled vehicles, finally finding safety on the sidewalk. Then the traffic lights turned green, and suddenly the world broke loose. In the oppressive heat of a summer's afternoon, I had arrived on the outskirts of Taipei on a bicycle. Not for the first time, I questioned my sanity—maybe I should begin looking for a psychiatrist's clinic rather than a hotel. A cycling journey in prospect brings visions of serendipitous passages through shady parks or along green river banks, beneath glorious blue skies, inhaling nothing but the purest, most invigorating air. Covered in sweat now from panic, and dirt and grime from the busy roadway, peering through a haze of exhaust fumes, I fought back tears forced out by the sudden thrust of reality. I had, previously, only half­-surveyed my all-Taiwan road map. But even though I had now survived my Taipei traffic initiation, I no longer felt very enthusiastic about the planned cycling weeks which lay before me: Perhaps it would be better to settle for a bus-­tour around the island.... But not the type to give in so quickly, especially after a good night's rest, I once again braved the predatory Taipei traffic and headed vaguely through the city to the northeast. An hour and a half later, the vehicular tidal wave behind, I came in sight of the white sands and sparkling blue ocean of Fulung Beach and knew I had made the right decision. Taiwan on two wheels—what better way could there possibly be! One of the greatest joys of cycle-touring is the intimate relationship you enjoy with the landscape. From the plush velour seat of a Mercedes tour bus, you can not ever hope to feel so "within­-the-scene" but have to accommodate to being a sort of TV-window spectator. My bicycle presents no tinted windows, snoring companions, or heads of other tourists to challenge the view and mood of surrounding landforms. You smell the flowers, the fragrant crops and trees, instead of the "Airwick" formula that flows through the air conditioner of the bus. You feel the heat of the sun, experience the height of a hill as you climb it. The most thrilling of all my cycling experiences, here and elsewhere in Asia, has to be that along the acclaimed Taiwan Eastcoast Highway from Suao, and then to the Taroko Gorge. With my heart pounding high in my throat, I cautiously pedaled along an airborne roadway literally chiseled from the cliffside. With no guardrails for protection, the one-bus-width pavement snaked for 100 kilometers, several hundred meters above a cystal-clear Pacific Ocean. Landslides are not uncommon and often after major storms, the dramatic roadway is closed. But a bicycle, of course, is free to go around or over most earthy obstacles with just a bit of careful negotiation. The stretch of coastal curves, twists, blind corners, and pitch dark tunnels came to an end at the Taroko Gorge. But the thrill and exquisite beauty of Taiwan's landscape had really only just begun as I turned my wheels inland to venture up the 20-kilometer Taroko Gorge to Tienhsiang. Here again, the roadway was a brilliant engineering feat, carved straight across the sheer sides of a marble-walled gorge, vaulting countless bridges across the rugged riverbed; waterfalls dangled like fine silver threads from soaring, distant peaks. The air was alive with the shrill of merry swallows, nesting in narrow grottoes high above the white waters of the river. As the odd bus labored past, I noted in overpowering moments of smug­ness, the occupants straining for glimpses of the scenery thrills outside. Despite their absence from my realm of physical effort and discomfort, I could never be envious of their luxury. I, alone, was at one with the environment. Another major benefit of being on a bicycle is the direct contact that follows with the local people: For me, an essential part of exploring another land is experiencing its lifestyles, customs, and culture first hand. So often, Taiwanese families would stop me on the road and invite me into their homes for the evening. One old man patiently tried to teach me the rudiments of calligraphy; another, how to ingest a delicately-flavored snake soup without piercing my tongue on the million-odd bones lurking within. Along the way, townspeople, proud of their national artforms, took me along to street performances of opera and puppetry. Others taught me how to prepare Taiwanese foods, to worship Taiwan-style in temples, and to shop in local marketplaces where stall proprietors looked me over with as much curiosity as I did their provender. The colors, smells, sounds, and textures of Taiwan's nightmarkets are nothing short of amazing. Many people ask how I could possibly cope with the language barriers such interaction inevitably erects. Its quite simple: I've become an expert in mime (Move over, Marcel Marceau!). And for more involved situations and banter, my two-way language dictionary serves me well. Contact with townspeople also means introductions to places overlooked in the illusive array of guide books designed for comfort- conscious tourists. It was on such special local advice that I wheeled into the wee township of Juisui at 8 a.m. one morning. An hour later, I was decked out in a lifejacket aboard an eight-man rubber raft, contending with the first of twenty-three rapids along a rhapsodical, if hurried river. By chance, the seven other foolhardy crewmembers were En­glish and French majors at Taiwan's Tunghai University. So we were all young and strong and obviously crazy—without an ounce of whitewater-running experience among us. Victims of the force and direction of the flow, we were tossed and flipped along the turbulent waterway for three exhilarating hours. My bicycle had traveled ahead by truck and was now waiting to meet me at the mouth of the river. And after basking in the glow from having conquered the mighty torrent, and recounting the most memorable moments with my companions, I said my goodbyes and continued south. Tropical warmth, quiet beaches, and an endless backdrop of jagged mountains were left behind as I rounded the island's southern tip and cycled north along its western coast—visibly the more populated half of the isle. A smorgasbord of man-made stimuli here replace the natural beauties of the east. Heavy industry is basically confined to just one major, isolated area, easily avoidable on any form of transport. So for the astute traveler, the western side of Taiwan becomes a succession of interesting towns and ports and beautiful emerald paddyfields, all punctuated by graceful temples and constant activity. Cycling hazards multiply as dogs, cats, chickens, motorbikes carts, and over-burdened old ladies compete with autos, trucks, and bus traffic for rights of way on the busy main-drags of the small towns. Market stalls spill out onto the pavements of narrow roads, and everything from freshly har­vested rice to squid and cuttlefish is spread on roadside mats to dry in the sunshine. The country roads, far from being confined to traffic, are for almost every conceivable daily activity related to life on Taiwan. Returning to Taipei, I abandoned my bicycle. The central spine of the island, the majestic, pristine mountains, was best explored on foot. Notably, if you have the energy to cycle, you certainly have it also for hiking; and no matter how much effort it takes to secure the necessary permit to trek into the mountain reserves, it is well worth it. Climbing 3,977 meter Yushan (Jade Mountain), reaching its summit before daybreak and watching the sun rise through a distant cloud membrane along the horizon, is transcendently beautiful—compelling beyond description. Many miles from the chaos of the city, the swelter of the island's tropical summer, and the thousand thoughts of home, the experience cemented itself in my heart. It also symbolized the end of my visit to Taiwan—through its north, south, east, and west, and now in the middle, atop its highest peak. I have cycled extensively, also, in Japan, Korea, Hongkong, and Macao. But Taiwan, with its ups and downs, buses and motor scooters, mountains and coasts, rivers and hotsprings, villages and sprawling cities, receives my number-one vote. And cycling...well, that almost goes without saying—for me, total freedom. I don't contend with timetables, wait for overflowing buses, push my way ahead in queues, or suffer the long waiting-­hours from frustrating cancellations of transport. My journeys are not restricted to monotonous major highways and railways or their destinations. Free to wander, I can wheel where I choose. Marry the two together, Taiwan and a bicycle, and you will have not only the tour-experience of your life, but a life more wonderfully lived.