Mountains & Water

Beside my bed the bright moonbeams bound

Almost as if there were frost on the ground

Raising up, I gaze at the mountain moon ,

Lying back, I think of my old home town.

-Li Po: Quiet Night Thoughts

I spent my childhood surrounded by the orange and brown hued desert of Southern
California. The sun bleached hills and tall mountains fringing the L.A. basin were
carpeted by acres of dry chaparral and low tinderbox oaks. Each winter during January, a
thin carpet of grass germinated along the undeveloped ridge lines below a sapphire blue
sky. During July and August, a dim smoggy, gray haze enveloped the hills and sky
erasing the view of 10,000 foot Mount Baldy to the north. My exposure to inclement
weather consisted of the seasonal changes between a warm, windy dry winter and a
sweltering, dry summer marred by fire and smog. The season of fire, which lasted from
April to October was often made worse by the Santa Ana Winds, bone dry winds that
swept out from the sandy flat lands behind the mountains bathing us all with dust and
static electricity. If the L.A. basin received ten inches of rain we called it a wet year. No
one ever worried about water for our plants and crops because an endless supply was
imported from the east via the Colorado River or brought down from the north via the
California aqueduct. We watered our lawns and emerald green tropical plants without
worry while the city municipalities irrigated the Oleander bushes along the freeways. The
only green vegetation I ever saw came from a sprinkler system.

In October, the overcast skies of Taipei opened and the city was deluged with water of
Biblical proportions. I skipped across gushing rivers of dirty water flooding the streets. I
misplaced countless black umbrellas in sidewalk buckets provided by stores all over the
city. The sky was incessantly sunless for weeks with dark gray storm clouds that
drenched the landscape with more inches of rain than I had seen over an entire lifetime.
The heavy drops of rain tapped and pinged against the metal patio roof as I slept and the
rhythm continued as I gazed out windows in astonishment. The rain was wet and humid
imbuing bed sheets, towels and jackets with the putrid smell of mildew. My hair, flat and
strait in So Cal morphed into an array of spiral waves as if I'd gotten an expensive perm.
My skin was moist at all times, negating the need for the lotions I'd regularly used back
in the dry climes of Southern California. The black, heavy eyeliner and mascara I
habitually wore melted into a blur around my eyes forcing me to abandon makeup
altogether during the day. I looked in the mirror and saw blotchy, red skin breaking out in
pimples across my chin and forehead.
One night as I lay in bed listening to the immutable tapping of falling rain, I was
overcome by sadness. I felt so detached from my family and friends back in California.
Letters took weeks to travel between the two counties. A phone call cost about two
dollars or more per minute and I had to travel across town in a taxi to a foreign call center
just to place an international phone call. I had received a couple letters from my parents
and one postcard from my college roommates, but other than that, I was completely out
of contact with anyone I loved. There were no computers with instant messaging across
the Internet or text messaging on cell phones then. When I left the county I sacrificed all
communication with loved ones. The only people I knew in Taipei were fellow students I
had just met about a month ago, I had yet to form a real friendship with anyone. I was
surrounded by millions of Chinese who spoke very little English and couldn't care less
what happened to an American woman in this vast city. I listened to the endless
downpour of water outside my window and thought of the dry, windswept beaches
framed by cliffs back in Santa Barbara. I envisioned the evening sunset in my mind and
joined the groups of students standing on cliffs and balconies watching with reverence as
the sky transitioned from red and pink to purple and gray. There were no kaleidoscope
sunsets in Taipei. I had never spied a rainbow because the sun so rarely penetrated the
curtain of clouds overhead.

I cried into my pillow that night feeling isolated from my loved ones and fearful of
spending an entire year in a foreign country alone. I desperately missed sitting on the
lawn gabbing with my pals. I missed the jokes and teasing, the underage drinking and the
loud rock music blasting through the house. I missed the Halloween madness of Isla
Vista when students dressed up in silly costumes and burned old couches in the streets. I
missed seeing the dolphins jumping in the waves and making fun of the boys surfing the
small swells that rolled into Santa Barbara's south facing shore.I missed walking on the
beaches looking for junk that had been deposited by the tides. I missed the quiet, dark sky
with stars and the echo of waves. I missed driving my 1972 Nisson 240 Z down Highway
101 parallelling the Pacific from Goleta to Ventura. I missed riding my bike along
designated paths crisscrossing the university campus. I missed everything about my
family: their faces, their voices, their conversations, their love.

One drizzly Sunday afternoon, I wandered aimlessly with three fellow students along
a busy street: Clark, a music major, Wayne, an international business major and Craig, an
economics major. After walking for around for half and hour we saw a Taoist temple
compound hidden behind a brick wall and surrounded by tall trees. We dodged a barrage
of motorbikes to cross the street and walked through a narrow gate opening up to a
rectangular courtyard. Inside rested a large boxy shrine surrounded by stalls housing
eight foot tall wooden statues resembling Chinese men dressed in colorful robes. People
were chanting discordant prayers, holding incense sticks and bowing low before the
colorful gods. We wandered around trying to be respectful as we gawked at the
worshipers. I noticed in my peripheral vision a wiry old man watching us with a stern
look upon his face. I was worried that we were infringing upon this sacred site and
offending the people.
We circled the temple a few times then left, crossing the street to visit a Chinese style
garden with green lawn, ponds and stone paths. A group of children greeted our arrival
with a chorus of, "hello!" and "How do you do?" One little girl helped her one year old
brother wave our direction.
The stern man from the temple ran across the street to confront us. I was afraid he
would yell at us for desecrating the temple. He approached us and looked at us with an
intent expression. My heart beat with anxiety but he didn't yell or say anything out loud.
He beckoned us to follow him. We did not flee his steely gaze but obediently followed
him across the street back to the temple. He led us inside and marched us across the
courtyard to a stone table where he signaled us to take a seat. Next to the table sat a large
cauldron of broth with thin noodles. He picked up bowls from the ground and ladled the
soup for us one at a time. He showed us how to drink from the bowl by slurping loudly. I
was afraid to drink anything from a community pot as I had only been in the country a
week and was not yet immune from the local bacteria and germs. I pretended to drink the
soup and wondered if my friends were actually swallowing the luke-warm concoction.
We smiled and said, "thank you, shei shei" several times in Mandarin Chinese. As we
stood to leave the man grabbed Clark's arm and signaled that we must visit the gods first.
He directed us to wash our hands in a sink then he handed us a few sticks of long, thick
incense. We followed him to the central shrine housing the largest statue. People were
chanting and clashing cymbals before the god. Our guide demonstrated bowing three
times then placed a stick of incense into a large black cauldron filled with sand. We
imitated his motions then moved toward the entrance to visit a tall wooden male god. We
bowed three times then placed a stick of incense into the nearby cauldron. We proceeded
to the other statues in a clockwide direction and repeated the acts of devotion and prayer.
We cycled through all of the red and gold statues before we waved good-bye and left the
man who had introduced us to the Chinese way of worship. The four of us walked home
in a sort of mystified awe over what had just happened. A small part of me felt remorseful
for bowing before idols, I had after all, been raised a Christian.

***

The Asian faces I saw on the streets from teenage boys and girls to grandmothers and
middle-aged men had smooth complexions, prominent cheekbones and a variety of
almond shaped eyes with the epicanthic fold. After observing Chinese faces for months
my mind became accustomed to seeing inky black hair, creamy skin, wide faces and side
lips. The Asian faces without a nasal bridge seemed gorgeous to me compared to the big
noses, blotchy freckled skin, and variety of hair colors manifested by foreigners. In the
past, the Chinese had slandered European foreigners by calling them hairy barbarians,
big noses, or foreign devils. Over time I felt self-conscious about the high bridge of my
nose, uneven skin tones and tall spindly limbs. When I went to get my teeth cleaned the
dentist attempting to maneuver a scraping tool around my tall nose abruptly asked in
irritation, "Is your nose real?" I had to assure him that yes it was, thanks to my Germanic
northern European ancestors.
I stood out like a light house beacon as I walked along the streets of Taipei. Once while
shopping with Mandy, a taxicab screeched to a halt next to us. Out popped three friends
from the California program, Wayne, Craig, and Dan. They strode along side us laughing
at our chance meeting in such a bustling city,
"You stand out like a basket ball player! We saw you from blocks away," they informed
me with hilarity.
"Great," I noted bleakly, "the whole city is probably watching my every move."
Another time as I was strolling the streets with Clark, a friend from Orange County, we
passed a clump of middle school girls sporting jaw length haircutswearing and wearing
crisp white shirts and blue uniforms. Upon seeing us, they became ecstatic, covering their
mouths and giggling with delight at their good fortune in encountering two towering light
haired Americans.
Clark, an advanced student of Mandarin eased dropped on their comments and
translated with a smile,

"They think you are Madonna."

Small children who laid eyes upon me were either terrorized or enamored. One
afternoon I climbed aboard a bus and made eye contact with a small child. He gazed at
me in wonder then hid his face against his mother's body. I heard her say,

"It is just an American."

"It is a ghost!" The child cried peeking out from his mothers embrace.
One afternoon on my way home from class I encountered a waist-high child who made
me feel more like a guardian angel than a hungry ghost. Crossing the street in Taipei was
always a life-threatening endeavor. Cars had the right of way and pedestrian were
obstacles to be avoided. Stoplights and one way street signs were merely suggestions. As
I stood on the corner of a bustling intersection, a waist high child marched up alongside,
glanced up and smiled with surprise. We stood side by side, waiting for a momentary
break in the heavy stream of motorbikes and taxis. The child reached took my hand, and
we sprinted across the road before a speeding motorcycle or maniacal taxi driver could
sideswipe us.

Taipei came to life on the hot summer nights. It was so stifling hot and humid during
the day that most people stayed indoors just to avoid getting heat stroke. When the sun set
behind the distant mountains, families emerged to visit street vendors and night markets.
Teenagers met each other at one of the many night markets to eat snacks or buy clothes
and school supplies. The largest night market in Taipei was the Shin Lin Night Market. It
was a city block of tables and awnings, resembling an American style swap meet or flea
market. One section of the market was reserved for selling meat. Shoppers could buy
freshly butchered meat, poultry or seafood. Beef slabs were lain out in the open alongside
whole fresh fish covered with ice. Next to the fish vendors were the seafood vendors
selling live crabs, squid and other soft fleshy ocean animals such as, sea cucumbers and
eels. Across from the meat aisle were the vegetable vendors offering an assortment of
tropical fruits such as guava, mangoes, leechie nuts, durian and star fruit, shaped like an
elogated long five pronged star. One area housed all of the snack food stalls. One night, I
tried Taiwanese omelets made of runny eggs, oysters, green onions and a spicy sauce.
Away from the farmers market were the clothing stalls selling lingerie, dresses, blouses
and men's clothing.

As I was wandering along the stalls piled high with makeup and shampoo, a four-year
old girl ran to me and stood at my legs gazing straight up into my face. She stared at me
with a serious expression and then held her arms up for me to lift her. I patted her on the
head and smiled at her mother and sisters who were giggling and hiding their faces
behind their hands. The little girl threw her arms around both my legs to prevent me from
leaving and hugged me tightly. The mother and sisters continued to smile and laugh with
embarrassment at the little girl's affectionate display toward such a bizarre looking
foreigner.

I continued along to the section selling school supplies and children yelled at me in
astonishment. I got used to feeling like a famous person and let myself enjoy the attention
rather than resent it. I waved at children and called out, "Hello!" Children giggled with
happiness that I did not ignored them. I was greeted with choruses of, "Hello!" and,
"Coca-cola!"

Later that week I visited the Chiang Kai Skek Memorial, a huge park built around a
large shrine to commemorate the Generalissimo. As I passed under the giant arches
surrounding the complex, the military guards standing at attention guards relaxed their
rigid faces and smiled at me. It was as if the appearance of a tall, gangly, freckle faced,
big nosed foreigner was such an exceptional event, that even highly trained gun-toting
soldiers had to laugh.

***

Animals abounded within the city limits. One day a truck pulled up next to Wu Tai
Tai's house holding cages of birds and monkeys. The animals squealed and rattled the
cages creating an uproar that reminded me of a trip to the zoo. Another day while trying
to visit a friend, I accidentally knocked on the wrong door. A stooped over, skinny old
man answered the door wearing a monkey around his neck. He smiled and offered to let
me hold his little pet while his dirty brown dog bounded out onto the street and sniffed
around my feet.
As I walked along brick side walks that paved the city's streets, I heard hundreds of
birds screeching a cacophonous song in the trees overhead. I passed yard with cages of
chickens and saw stores hawking live frogs and even snakes, which had medicinal value.
A visit to snake alley was a must-see for all of Taipei's visitors. Snake alley was a
brightly lit red, shopping district that offered snakes as food and as medicine. Most locals
saw it as a bizarre tourist attraction rather than an actual night market. The alley was
filled with vendors milking snakes of venom and blood. Snakes hug from hooks and lay
dissected on counters under bright lights. I wandered down the middle of the lane more
disgusted than curious and quickly left before anyone could badger me into buying a
bizarre goblet of snake blood.
On yet another rainy day as I made my way home from school, I was outraged to
discover four huge birds of prey clasped to a sturdy wooded hitching post with heavy
steel chains. All four were as large as an Osprey or a California Condor. One was a hawk
with a white breast and brown flecks. Two were eagles with dark brown feathers and
yellow eyes, while the fourth looked like a falcon with a white crest of feathers atop its
head. I stopped in astonishment and pulled out my camera to record this environmental
crime. The birds were obviously endangered species, unlike anything I had ever seen. A
man, standing nearby holding a falcon on his wrist rushed out of the shadows and yelled
at me, "no pictures!"
I knew his commodities were illegal but there was nothing I could do to protect the
birds. I walked away without a photo but I later told Amy about the birds and she was
able to secretly snatch a photo of them from across the street using her telephoto lens.

***

Before our university classes began, our group of thirty students from California
enjoyed a guided bus tour of the island. We boarded a white charter bus with soft seats, a
bathroom and televisions and pulled out of Taipei onto the north south highway and
headed south for several hours. On board, an attractive stewardess walked up and down
the aisle serving tea and dispensing wet clothes used to wipe our face and hands. After
watching several American movies, we arrived in the southernmost tip of Taiwan in
Kenting National Park. The area was a tropical paradise of empty white sand beaches and
tropical palm forests. One day we rented mopeds and raced along the highway enjoying
views of the ocean and green hills. We hiked through the national park surrounded by
palm trees of a variety with smooth green trunks and tall delicate fronds waving gently in
the ocean breezes. One day we trekked across a wide pearl white beach to the sea where
we dipped our toes into the Luzon Strait dividing the waters of the Phillipean Sea and the
Strait of Taiwan. Jessie, our Taiwanese program coordinator warned us not to swim in the
water because there were dangerous rip currents and piles of jelly fish ready to sting
swimmers. I think he was actually more worried that the hungry ghosts visiting this
month would pull us under. No Chinese visitors were present anywhere on the sand or in
the vicinity of the beaches. Asian women were so worried about keeping their skin
creamy white they never spent a day lying in the sun. On any other island from Bali to
Maui a beach of such pristine surf and sand would have been overrun with high rise
hotels and western tourists. But we stood alone on the magnificent Hengchun Peninsula
of southern Taiwan. It was the kind of place where you could imagine yourself living in a
shack, sitting in a hammock, listening to reggae for several years.

I loved the natural environment just outside the city proper. I was enchanted by the
green hills, the high pitched buzz of tropical bugs and the jagged mountains surrounding
Taipei. Because I lacked a guidebook for Taiwan and never thought to buy one so I was
always I at a loss for where to go or what to do. Fortunately for me, others in my party
were better equipped and when invited, I was always ready for weekend travel. My
parents, who loved the natural environment had raised me hiking through snow, deserts
and forests so one of the few items I had thought to pack was a sturdy pair of well worn
hiking boots. These boots accompanied me all over the island from muddy trails to the
cross-island highway trek of Taroko Gorge.

Clark was the only person in our group who came to Taiwan equipped with a Lonely
Planet Guide. He organized a hiking trip to a mountainous area called Shitou Shan, or
lion head mountain, a sacred mountain interspersed with a ancient and modern Buddhist
temples. One weekend four of us took a bus from Taipei to the mountain range. After an
hour drive the driver dropped us off on the side of the road at a trail head marked by a
brick archway. There were two trails up the mountainside, one easy and one difficult. As
youthful adventurers, we chose the road less traveled, the more difficult path up the
mountain. Our group of four blazed up the steep stone staircase into the dense forest
toward our first night's destination at the summit. For the first hour I was in point
position, totally engrossed in the mountain scenery and the comfortable conversation
among friends. Suddenly, a 5 foot long, wide brown snake sprang from a bush and landed
on the trail just in front of me. I startled and jumped away certain I would be killed by the
poisonous viper. My heart was pounding in my chest as everyone stopped short then
started to laugh. The guidebook had warned us that Taiwan had 37 types of snakes and
that over a dozen were poisonous. Taiwan was home to cobras, pit vipers, and coral
snakes. Clark took the lead after that and I hung back for the rest of the hike.

That night we ate vegetarian food prepared by the Buddhist nuns. The women allowed
visitors to stay in the guest house overnight for a small fee. The room we entered
contained a raised tatami mat as a sleeping area. There were no cots or beds. Exhausted
from the hike through humidity we unrolled our sleeping bags and slept spread out across
the straw floor.

The next morning I woke to the chanting of nuns. I sat up, pulled on some clothes and
crept out into the cool morning to watch the nuns worship. I was too timid to stand in the
door so I approached a window and peeked inside. Three lines of nuns sat on their knees
facing a large, bronze statue of Buddha. They chanted in unison while banging on gongs.
The worshiping Buddhist nuns outlasted my attention span and as I left I saw one young
nun wink and smile at me.