Once out of the valley (Taipei), we are amidst the mountains which imprison our anything-but-humble and totally r�n�o city. These cascade on for the duration of a whole small island, what could one day even be called a country.
Resurfacing city-wise in Keelung, a fishy port town where Paul and I spent more hours being lost than enjoying the sights, we lay track onto the coastal highway. A beautiful ride.
Lush green mountains abound to one side, the wide Pacific spanse to the other. Small towns dot the coast and hillsides. Chiufen, an historic mining town built onto the hills stands nearby with its old houses, narrow alleys and stairways, giving a very European feel at times, though one beset with red Chinese lanterns and plagued with teahouses.
After numerous coastline photo-op stops and the terminus of a brief rainstorm, Fulung makes itself known. The seven of us � alphabetically: Alya, myself, Lynn, Penny, Sally, Winnie, Yng (the latter two Lynn�s old college roommates) � were first to set up tent in the small campground at Fulung Beach. Little did we know there would be more to come...many more.
As I�ve heard, the Taiwanese are not big swimmers, despite living on an island. After walking a long bridge across a small river, one reaches the main beach. The swimming area is roped off to a fairly small section of the beach. Not too deep. Not at all. I learn why. Now I know what undertows feel like. I�m ignorant of the physics of riptides, but it was an experience to see a wave collide into another seeming to come back from the shore. Bodysurfing took on a new dimension as, as soon as the wave (breaks and then) breaks down, you are suddenly sucked back out seaward from the undertow. The short leash on swimming �grounds� is perhaps a safe idea.
Still, the beach stretches far off to the West, and the populations dwindle. Our return will probably find us there. The oceanside accommodations are cheaper (id est free) than the private campground.
Shortly after erecting our tents, the Christians arrive. A whole mass of them. Numerous tents go up, right next to ours. One bright fellow finds it a good idea to move the conveniently place garbage can to the far end of the site, where we can no longer reach it at all. I-O! More and more arrive. Only the boys carry stuff. The girls sit around. Several people stretch a giant net between two poles and then tie a sign to it (and this takes them nearly two hours). They are from Tai-Da University. That brings me to the limits of my knowledge of Chinese characters. Lynn expands this to tell us that they are from a Christian club within the University. They have generators. Super. Sally, who is a Christian, doesn�t look impressed. There�s at least 60 of them. They�re an odd lot. They begin taping large collages and posters to their tents. What does it all mean?
Dusk brings more folks. More folks, but the same tents. Perhaps there was a sale, or there was a regional standardization of tent style conferring they all be one of three sizes of yellow-topped, blue-bottomed four-pole dome tents. A group pitches a tent near the tree-lined edge at the back of the campground. Whether mosquitos or some other strange force, they decided to relocate, to the other side of us. (Well, we did pitch center-stage and all, what could we expect?). What is most peculiar about this repositioning is that, rather than simply pick up the tent and relocate, the campers actually took the entire tent down just to be put back up in the new locus fifty feet away. Sometimes so-much-more efficient than the Western world, and sometimes completely ass-backward, this is the Taiwanese way.
As friends of these people begin putting up their tent, Alya set off in search of food (Note: see prognosis/outcome dichotomy). I find a �road-crab� on the way. A small stream runs beneath the street and all kinds of crabs scuttle about the roadside. I put him in my pocket. Later, while paying for a can of squid, it jumps out of my pocket. The cashier doesn�t notice this, but does notice my awkward efforts scampering about on the floor for something. I eventually recapture the crab and show the woman, who doesn�t seem the least bit phased. I guess they�re fairly common, (perhaps a la Maybe he came in to buy some potato chips!�).
When we get back to the campsite, crustacean still in check, the tent-erectors are still busy at work nextdoor. Penny and Sally go in search of food. Coming back an hour later, the tent-erectors are still busy at work nextdoor. I eat some squid soup, watching the futility before me. Another half-hour goes by. I finally ask Sally to go offer our help. Some other observers get the same idea and beat us to the role of belated and bemused good samaritan. The tent goes up without a hitch after that.
