meaning in the moving design

disclaimer:
I usually try to clean up my writing before broadcasting... but this is about 6 months old and I'm kind of mad at my own lazy lack of productivity, so I'm just lettin' 'er go*.

Michael and Ba
We tramp down the hill in search of a coffee shop. A man comes out of a nearby house waving emphatically. "You turists?" he asks. We explain that we'd been hiking the East Coast Trail and that we were in town for the night. He slams the porch rail enthusiastically and invites us in. "Ba!" he calls into the house. "We got guests! They're turists!"

Inside the house, a toothless man sits at the table in a simple kitchen. A few slabs of unidentifiable grey meat are sizzling in a pan next to a pot of boiled potatoes, and a half-drained bottle of rum sits on the table. The waver's name is Michael. He greets us with a combination of cheek kisses, hand-holding and fist pumps. The toothless man is Michael's uncle, whom he calls "Ba" but isn't actually related to him at all. Michael keeps apologizing because Ba is drunk... even though Michael is clearly drunk too. He chastises Ba with stern little speeches. "You can't be drunk, Ba. We got turists here. You're lucky to have turists in yer home like this. No more drinkin', ok? Tomorrow we stop drinkin'"

"Weeengshmaaaa," gurgles Ba.

Ba has the unfortunate disposition of being entirely incomprehensible. Three main factors contribute to this:
1. He's drunk
2. He's toothless
3. He's a Newfie

Ambivalence.
I think that's my favourite word. Or at least based on my definition of it. Ambivalence, the way I intuit it, is not about uncertainty, it's about feeling strongly about two opposing concepts. I imagine a line, or a metal pipe. I imagine bending it in ways that purists and bureaucrats would frown on, until the two ends meet, tensely, but with intention; the poles perspiring in resistance. I like being there.
But that was a tangent. This post isn't about ambivalence. It's about action. It's about my ambivalence to action.

I kind of straddle the line between being really active and really... not. Most people who know me would probably say I'm pretty active, and in broad strokes it's certainly true- I'm constantly squirming to do something or go somewhere, I work multiple jobs*, I have a really short attention span, I get depressed when I'm bored...
But I surprise myself constantly because in all these little ways, I am consistently able to do nothing for long periods of time, and do it really well. In fact, I often find myself actively seeking this out, clearing my schedule and opening up a time and space to do nothing. Everyone thinks that travel is so adventurous, so "active," but one of my favourite things about it is getting on a bus for 8-10 hours and dedicating half a day to staring out the window. When I go to visit my grandparents in Etobicoke, I don't even bring an mp3 player for the 1.5 hr commute, I just sit and stare at things: people, passing trees... poles. I savour these quiet times between places, when there are no distractions and I'm forced to shut my mind off and just enjoy the ride.

All my hobbies operate on the same ambivalent principle. I've come to recognize them as experimental adventures in stillness; activities of non-activity. They are pastimes that teach me how to live in real time.

Take scuba diving, for instance. Diving is the only sport I know of where the less energy you exert, the better your perform. It is a sport that's about 10% physical ability and 90% mental fitness. It has two golden rules: Remain calm and Breathe. If you don't remain calm, you run out of air and have to surface. If you don't breathe, or try to hold your breath, your lungs will rupture and you die. So, as in life, remain calm, breathe, and you'll do just fine.
Diving also has the added bonus of making you feel like you are One with the Force, it's the best real life example of positive thinking I know of. When you want to descend, all you have to do is think it. Think down, and exhale deeply... and down you go, like magic. Think up and inhale, magically you rise...

I take to hiking and canoeing for the same reasons, it's moving meditation for the body that teaches me something, in this case, how to focus mentally. It's about planting feet and oars, one step at a time. It's about the mindlessness of repetition, an appreciation for muscles and ligaments, focusing on the minute, the trivial, the inconsequential. It's a mindlessness that is decidedly different from just relaxing with a book on the beach. It's that metal pipe of ambivalence again; pushing your body so hard that your mind goes comatose.

I've just spent the last 3 hours applying for jobs, and I have to say- minus the prettiness and the physical exertion... it's kind of the same. Mindless, trivial, inconsequential. You forget yourself. You go on Auto Pilot and just do it for the sake of doing something. And you know that all this time and effort could be for nothing, but you're ok with that. It's almost... meditative.
There's supposed to be a line there; there's supposed to be a mindlessness that's good and a mindlessness that's bad, and I'm supposed to know- to feel- the difference... but all my definitions are blurry; I don't seem to discern.

I think I'm too in love with the Process. I honestly get no satisfaction out of whether anything ever materializes**... maybe that's dangerous, but I guess I just never feel like the result adds to or takes away from what I've put into something. And I guess that's why I never get anything done... I'm just Sisyphusian by nature. (Note to Self: pick up a copy of Camus' Myth of Sisyphus... I think he's onto something)

But but... Then I recognize that I'm actually like this when I'm focusing on work too. You get into a zone.... mindful mindlessness. Doing something starts to feel like doing nothing. The ends of the metal pipe are kissing again.


* ... or none, as the case may be
**A few notes on The Process:
1. I am writing a lot these days, just not finishing anything... (this entry itself feels like a bunch of parts that don't quite make up a whole...)
2. I'm getting too enamoured with the Process of job-hunting, should try to, uh, set a goal or something

I really had no idea how much sweat my body was capable of producing until I came to Borneo. It's mind boggling, really. I mean, I don't want to turn this into a big philosophical thing, but there's a certain zenful rite of passage that everyone travelling through the tropics must undergo. You go from furiously wiping your brow, your neck, your upper lip and any other part of you that's publicly acceptable to wipe, to just letting the sweat slide gracefully off your chin (sometimes into your dinner); from being completely disgusted with the smell of your sweaty, rank body to recognizing that smell but accepting it as your own. eau de you.

There was a plan. The Plan was to hike into Batad, a small rice terrace village only accessible by foot, and then spend a few days going further afield, staying in remote villages and traveling deep into the valley before popping back out onto the main highway. The Cordilleras in Northern Luzon is a beautiful stretch of eye candy; a mountainous region shining an unreal neon green. What's most amazing about this place is that its beauty is entirely man-made. Thousands of years ago, the Ifugao people of the region started hacking into the hills surrounding them and planting rice. They devised an ingeneous irrigation system and in the process created hill after valley after hill after valley of terraced neon green fields.

I woke to the sound of Tim discussing the weather situation with the Germans*. "It's the worst of the worst," one declares. Cloudy, rainy, foggy morning. If I'd thought the day before had been bad, well. We took our time with breakfast and started out once the downpour was down to a drizzle. It wasn't so bad, actually. Aside from occasionally having to brace myself against the punishing wind, and, well the last hour, the way down was kind of fun.

Trails always look different on the way down. It's a challenge of a different kind, it's no longer about endurance and stamina, it's about balance, weight distribution and minimal impact. The trail becomes a jigsaw puzzle for the feet. It's a game of brain not brawn. If going up is the mindless zen of planting feet and just keeping the pace, going down is the thoughtful process of planning ahead- left foot pushes off here so that right foot can use this foothold... Working my way down a trail always gives me a serious appreciation for that ever-underrated art of trail making- all those artfully or randomly distributed rocks and logs and leaves that all do their little part to ensure that you don't go sliding down on your ass for 3000 metres (... although that might be kinda fun too). Not only did a few good folks take the time to haul several giant rocks and whatnot partway up a mountain, but they really thought about how to lay them down properly. That's a beautiful thing, that is.
Onwards.
After a longish slog, we get down and are met with the hospitality of the Siangyang police. They are about to have lunch and insist that we join them. When I refuse, they say "hey, we are police. We must take care of you." After Tim and I get over the shock of hearing this, (I mean... they're cops) we sit and relax with tea, food, and a bit of rice wine.

After lunch and mounds of tea, we head to Lidao, descending into the fog. At some points, vis was a mere 10 metres ahead. In Lidao, we park the car and look around for a homestay. Walking down the street, we're met with a chorus of "Hello friend!". A massive group of Bunun aboriginals (ones we later learned we'd passed on our way up from Jiaming) were celebrating their mountain descent in a big way. They'd slaughtered 2 pigs (or rather, were in the process of slaughtering [the two decapitated heads were facing us, their expressions something between solemn and bored]) and had been at it for 2 days. We joined them, drank, and were merry. They laughed a lot, which made us laugh a lot, and best of all, they told all their jokes in Mandarin and I understood everything, which made me laugh even harder.

Lidao sits low in a valley below the mountains. Everywhere about is forest and bamboo and green and green and fog. It's apparently a town of 300, and evidently Bunun. Also evidently poor for the most part. Houses are makeshift- some are sheet metal shacks, some towers of tile, some take the remnants of old brick walls and tack on some corrugated metal to fashion a roof. Everywhere we turned, there seemed to be some form of innovative architecture at work. A cool town, indeed.

Back at the homestay, Tim and I sit down for tea with an oldish Taiwanese lady who'd been living in Virginia for the past 38 years. In the midst of our lengthy conversation, she taught us the finer points of deer hunting (she's got a 2-barrel rifle and a sharp eye), did an awesome Chinglishstrian impression of Arnold Schwarzenegger, and tried to turn us against Darwin and evolution. She was... interesting to say the least.

The next day, Tim and I decide to relax with a trip to the hot springs. We have our choice of a few, but us being us, we opt for what I can only call "the adventure springs." (Neither of us have this "relaxing" thing quite... figured out, exactly.) The Lisong Hot Springs are natural sulphur springs that run down to the river. To get to them, you have to drive to Motien, walk 2km down along a gravel road, cross a farmer's field, hike (or, if you're in sandals, slide) down a super steep forest trail of leaves and trees and giant boulders, cross the river, and scramble over some rocks. Then you're there. And man, is it fucking cool. Getting there was half the fun- especially the rock scrambling. Here's an artist rendition (that's me suspended horizontally using a giant log to get over these giant rocks):


The river itself was freezing cold, and the hot springs were, well, really hot. To get that real "ahhh" feeling involved a carefully maneuvering of rocks, allowing just enough cold water in so as not to burn, but not enough to totally cool down the water. We soon discovered that our talent in mixology was... not that great. Often we'd find half our bodies totally scorching while the other half shivered with goosebumps. Midway through conversation, one of us would interrupt with "burning... burning". and so forth.

We ended up accidentally staying the entire day. When, after several attempts to leave, we finally made it out, I wondered why it looked like it was getting dark. Turns out it was close to 6pm and we had been in the springs for over 6 hours. Driving back, I discovered yet a new record for bad vis- I couldn't see the road at all. Somehow, we made it back, crawled into bed and promptly passed out.

There is a difference between living somewhere and travelling somewhere. They are two very distinct paths, present two pictures of the same place, each with very specific trade-offs. We only get a glimpse of life in the places we travel, and we never seem to travel the places we live in. I lived in Taiwan for 15 months, and I've just traveled it for a week and a half. I felt like I was in two different countries, but in any case, I'm glad I got to see them both.


*The Germans are 3 dudes we met en route, hereafter known as Hardcore (he was rather.. hard), Mediumcore (our favourite), and Vertigo (so named because he was afraid of heights)
**more pictures of Lisong and Jiaming can be found here.

I woke before my alarm went off. My cell phone read 3:55am. Still dark out, but the adrenaline was pulling me out of bed. After coffee, breakfast, and a bit of stumbling around, we set out at daybreak. Well, sort of. The thick blanket of fog only let in a wee little bar of light, but it was pink and pretty and enough to make my heart swell and sigh in a satisfied "aahhh" kinda way.

The path to Jiaming Lake is, for the most part, a long narrow trench cut along the side of a ridge, dipping up into peaks and down into the valleys for about 5km. When the fog opens up (or on a clear day) the view of the surrounding mountains and the valleys below are just amazing. I also love the vegetation at these heights. Toughened by the cold and wind, the grass, the trees, even the rocks have a different kind of character. It's vast, barren, rocky terrain- totally my thing.




.... Jiaming Lake?



Tim insisted that we were in the right place, so we sat around and stared at the fogged out hole while the wind blew mercilessly at our backs. After a while (admittedly a long while [let us not speak of lost hours of sleep]) the sun blessed us with a few clear moments, enough to snap off a few impressive shots before the fog rolled back in. It was actually a lot more exciting this way, like it sort of gave the lake a magical mystique; it shone brilliantly but only at certain special moments. As we were joined by more people, a chorus of excitement would rise up around the lake whenever the sun came out, which pleased me immensely. [Much in the same way that plane rides in South Asia do, how everyone onboard breaks out into relieved applause when the plane lands smoothly. Like, hooray! No one was maimed or injured! and so forth. That might've been a tangent, but in my brain, it connects.]

After making our way back from the lake, we chilled out at the cabin for a little while. In the late afternoon, I ventured out for another walk. The 2km before and after Jiaming Cabin was probably my favourite stretch of scenery of the entire trek. Part mossy green forest, part barren golden grassland, the landscape made me feel very far from home... which, incidentally, is a feeling I really like.

Not 3 minutes from the cabin, I spot an animal in the trees below. It had the face of a raccoon, but a yellow stripe and a long bushy tail. Here is a picture I attempted to take while running with my camera. You can just maybe sort of make out the, um, tree:

Here's a better photo. It's a Formosan yellow-throated marten (黃喉貂). We're especially tight because we have the same family name. Whattup, coz.

All in all, it was a pretty kickass day. Tim and I were both happy that'd we'd chosen to stay the night and didn't have to rush back from the lake, pack and slog our way down the mountain. Night set in, and after the bustle of dinner, everyone settled into their sleeping bags. Unofficial lights out, some time around 8pm. Party hardy.

Taiwan is almost entirely mountainous in nature. Once upon a time, the plates around the South China Sea trembled and pushed inwards, resulting in the long range of central mountains that run the entire length of the island. There are 3 cross-island highways, each twisting and turning through the country's mountainous interior before flattening out to reach the coast. Only two of these highways actually make it to the other side; the Central Cross Highway was taken out of commission by a devastating earthquake in 1999 and has remained like the elevator-to-nowhere ever since.

I'd heard that the South Cross Highway (Hwy 20) was the most beautiful and least trafficked, and so it began. After a year of feeling trapped in Taipei, I was finally going to be able to a) stretch my hiking legs and b) (arguably more exciting) experience Taiwan on a weekday, without the hoards of people that had disappointed many a weekend of the past. The plan was to rent a car and drive across the island, from Tainan to Taitung, with a few stops in between to hike the surrounding peaks, including a 3-day jaunt up to Jiaming Lake.

I'm going to pause here to give a hearty thanks to Richard from Barking Deer. I had trouble finding English info on the hike, and I threw out a posting on the Formosa forum (which is a great resource for hikers in Taiwan, btw). Richard served me up a whole bevvy of it, not just on Jiaming, but about other hikes off Hwy 20 as well. What a star! I never got to meet him or treat him to the beer I'd promised him, but he incredibly helpful in planning the logistics of our trek, down to the tiniest detail- from weather and permit info to trail descriptions and choice camping spots. Much obliged, thanks Richard!

From Tainan, we made it to Meishankou by early afternoon. The friendly police processed our permits on the spot, one for our day hike to Guanshanlingshan and one for our 3-day trek to Jiaming Lake. By 4pm, the fog had set in, giving the forested scenery between Tienchi and Yakou an atmospheric mist a la Lord of the Rings. On the other side of the Yakou tunnel, it was as if someone had turned the fog switch off. The climate was completely different- the air was crisp and dry, not wet and misty, and the sun even looked like it'd been out and about. At the lookout, we gawked at the infamous Sea of Clouds, a phenomenon whereby all the surrounding peaks look like distant islands washed over by wave after wave of puffy whiteness. At over 2700m, Yakou is the highest point on the SCH, and as such, probably the stupidest place to choose to camp. But we were high on scenery adrenaline and the promise of a beautiful sunrise was too much to pass up, so we secured our tent and settled in under one of the lookout gazebos. That night, I froze....
Onwards.

Jiaming Lake is one of the youngest meteor lakes in the world, a crater bowl set amongst alpine grass in a rolling mountainous valley 3300 metres up. The trailhead starts on the back end of the Siangyang Forest Recreation Area, on Hwy 20 just east of Yakou Tunnel. From here to Siangyang Cabin it's a gentle switchback trail through a beautiful mossy forest. The path is of the soft, spongy forest floor variety, with the usual confusion of tangled roots for steps. Could've all been nature's design, for all I could tell. I was especially happy that the trail is made with special care to those of us with short legs. As a small girl, I tend to... not so much hike as shuffle along a path, trying to exert as little energy as possible. Normal steps for other people can end up feeling like hurdles for me, and can really kill my stamina on long hauls. But the Jiaming trail is perfect, easy on the legs... well, at least for the first hour.

From Siangyang cabin, the trail climbs steeply. I have to admit that for this stretch, I was mostly doing one of 3 things: looking uphill, looking at my feet, and asking everyone that passed me how much further to the next cabin. The path here is a little more savagely cut; we were scrambling up long narrow ditches cut by rock slides, mercilessly steep and somewhat precarious at points. As we climbed, the altitude began to take effect. I felt like I was hyperventilating every 5 minutes, the cold air just couldn't feed my lungs fast enough.
The scenery changed too, the alpine climate gave rise to a rougher tougher breed of plants- bonsai variations, gruff porous pines, and my favourite, the white trees. Trunks burnt hollow by forest fires, the dead and naked. There was something about the bareness of the forest that really struck me, always does. I had old imaginings of the forest in action, of the trees in dramatic pose, communicating elaborate messages to me and each other. As the wind grew stronger, I saw my old green-haired goddess friends stretched in yogic prostration, reaching out to wrestle the wind.

The 2km before Jiaming Cabin was awingly beautiful, even despite (or especially because of) the fact that the fog had set in and everything beyond a couple hundred metres was completely whited out. Naked bushy-haired bonsais bowing low amongst yellow alpine underbrush, along a dramatic ridge down down down into the fog. After 7 hours and about 500m gained in altitude, we arrived at Jiaming cabin. I was achy, exhausted, and filthy. But fuck, was it beautiful.

Jacques Cousteau once called Palawan, "The Last Refuge," a pristine island of lush rainforest, towering green-tinged limestone cliffs, and countless deserted islands and undiscovered beaches. And while Palawan does indeed have all of the above, Cousteau's vision of a remote and unspoiled island off the beaten track is well, so 10 years ago.

It started promisingly enough. My first stop was Sabang. After a strenuous week of deadlines and mad overtime, I left Taipei on a Saturday, but still had to endure two transit days (one night in Manila and one full day getting to the West coast of Palawan) before there was any fun to be had. After the bustle of planes, taxis, more planes, and one rollicking jeepney ride that left me looking the colour of dust, arriving in Sabang felt a lot like coming out of a banging club and witnessing the eerie silence of morning.

Sabang is a small, coastal town fringed with mountains and rainforest, and a famous nearby river that runs emerald green. It's literally the end of the road, and totally feels like it. Despite quite a bit of evidence of tourism (most notably felt in the price of food), the town has managed to stay pretty low key, endearingly awkward with a pinch rustic charm.

I stayed at the far end of the beach (left, if facing the water) at a place called Alpuerto Escapade. If there were an invisible set of train tracks dividing Sabang, I would say I was on "the wrong side of town." To the right lay uniform huts on manicured grounds and resort attendants busily attending to tourists. To the left, town- where the people of Sabang lived. In the center sat a cluster of restaurants, the Sabang visitor center and the town pier. Sabang reminded me of other places I had visited in Asia that were just beginning to recognize the draw of tourism and trying to perfect the formula, the one that's turned Thailand into something of a McDonald's version of backpacking. The way Sabang is laid out, I'd say they're about halfway there...

It wasn't that I chose or didn't choose to stay where I stayed. I was actually looking for a room at Blue Bamboo, but they were full (or at least that's what I was told) so I was shooed off to the place next door. I ended up with a cute little seaside nipa hut on stilts. And by seaside, I mean that when the tide came up, I was a little nervous. Interestingly, the sea-facing side of the hut was... how shall we say.. "open concept." There was no wall, per say. Just a few wooden slats going across, and no shutters or windows to keep anything out. The nice part was that I didn't need a fan, the ocean breeze kept the room extremely cool through the night. The downside was that it rained, so the ocean breeze became a bit of an ocean gale. I thought the shower curtain in the room was there as a safe refuge from peeping toms, but apparently it had more practical uses. Nothing like a little ocean spray in your sleep to keep you young! It was pretty amusing, actually.

The next morning, I took to the trail, towards Sabang's famed Underground River. If you go to the river (and chances are, you are only in Sabang because you plan to go) DO NOT miss the trails. The peace of the rainforest, the wild monkeys, and the sound of birds and cicadas made the hike one of the highlights of my trip.

I paired up with a Finnish girl, and we did the Jungle Trail there and the Monkey Trail back. Both trails consisted of wooden or stone blocks framed by a confused tangle of vines and roots, with a few short sections up and down proper wooden staircases. The Jungle Trail (going towards the river) was a super gentle hike, capped off with a brief uphill scramble up a rocky forested hill. I really liked doing this trail to get to the river, but the downside is that the Monkey Trail can be a little difficult coming back. Come high tide, the beach disappears, so we were forced to do some innovative rock climbing. At an incredibly chill pace with plenty of stops for pictures and monkey watching, it took about 2 hours each way. If you are going to cheat, I would recommend taking the Jungle Trail there and catching the boat back. But don't cheat, it's beautiful both ways. Both trails were very well marked and blissfully empty. In fact, we didn't see anyone until we got to the Underground River and encountered the hoards of people waiting for the boat to take them back.

I was almost going to conclude this post without saying anything about the Underground River. Here's my two-cents: Yeah, it was cool.

Here are a few pics.





My only regret about Sabang is that I didn't stay longer. The rainforest in the area and the mountains nearby would've made for an incredible trek. The river falls under the auspice of St. Paul's Subterranean River National Park, and I'm sure guides are available to take you out to some of the more unexplored terrain in the area. Don't do what I did and rush out to El Nido. Trust me, Nido can wait.

The Useful Bits
Room: Alpuerto Escapade, P300
Food: Avg P150 (Go to Dab Dab's for their Fish Curry mmmmm!!)
Jeepney from Puerto: P150
Underground River: P200, more for boat transport; trails are free

*Apologies for writing like I actually have a captive audience... just thought it might sound better.