A Memory of a Better Time

Have you ever been to a broken down amuse- ment park and just feel the sadness rush over you like a heavy blanket? I don't think there is a better way to describe Muzha and parts surrounding it. Asia has some of the most beautiful scenery in the world; and then the locals go and ruin it with the ugliest shtik imaginable.

My Saturday ride began with an impromptu stop in Shen Keng's old street. No more than 30 minutes from Taipei's downtown, this picturesque little outcrop of a city has some old world charm to it. Complete with tofu icecream, handmade muaji, and honest to God old fashioned water pumps, it's easy to be transported back to easier times.

My stop here was brief but enjoyable. I tried some of the deserts and delicacies before I took off for parts farther south. My bike ride brought me, eventually, to a spot just past the Kwan Yin Dripping Water Cave, where I had that nasty run in with the Black Widow, to Shi Fen. This little village has the most wonderful town center I have seen in Taiwan complete with cafes, running streams, cobblestone walkways, and the old Pingxi train line running through the heart of it.


Knowing the train doesn't come that often, I hopped along the tracks until I reached the entrance to the Shi Fen waterfall. Or actually, if I am to be entirely precise here, the entrance to the entrance to the Shi Fen waterfall. Ridiculous, I know, but then again, it is Taiwan.

The entrance opened up to a well kept path and two impressive suspension bridges turned pedestrian paths. One path followed right along the old railway line. At the base of the second suspension bridge was the Spectacle Caves waterfall- a waterfall slide that runs over two caves formed conspicously behind it. However, the true falls, in fact north Taiwan's largest waterfall, was right behind me and was only waiting for me to see it.


I crossed the bridge with a thrill only to find the second entrance to the waterfall closed. I had come here specifically after the great typhoon last weekend to see the waterfall in full flood. But to my awful luck, it was apparently closed due to damage caused by that very same typhoon. I joined in with the chorus of disheartened onlookers trying to spy in through the grass and bush just to catch a glimpse of this magnificent cascade. Frustrated, I returned back to my motorcycle and continued on to Barbarian Valley. A five minute ride up the road, I pulled into a failing and decrepit parking lot. Literally, it is what Disney Land would look like if it were a drug addict.

I looked at the main ticket entrance with a full scale map of Barbarian Valley. Filled with pictures of busses of tourists, happy families shooting archery or riding rowboats, and young couples admiring the falls, I knew this valley was no longer what it once was. I walked up to the gate entrance and there sat an old man smoking a cigarette, listening to a song on his radio that was fading in and out of static far too often to be even remotely enjoyable.

I asked him if this was Barbarian Valley. He told me it was. I asked him for one admittance. He just shook his head, waved his hands, and that was that. I would have tried to sneak in, if it wasn't for the large number of stray dogs circling about and my desire not to be their dinner. I hopped back on my bike and jetted out of that ghost town, back to Taipei, where I had a great dinner with my former landlady. (And by the way, I stopped back at Shen Keng to pick up some of that delicious muaji as a present to her!)


The following day, I spent with friends riding go-karts in Jongli. I snuck away for a while and hit a few dozen golf balls at a local driving range before I returned to take the old cart around the track a few more times. Again, these activities reminded me of a time when I was younger, on the karts up in Salsibury before my dad and I got an ice-cream on the way home.

There was icecream this time as well, oh yes. And it was Coldstone ice cream no less; so maybe these times are quite good too. From your speed demon racer of the karts and bikes, Michael.

The Midwest Blues

It occurred to me the other day that Taiwan is like the Midwest in Asia. Everything about it fits perfectly (except for the very large number of Chinese speakers, of course). And to prove my point, I have compiled a list of top ten reasons why Taiwan is in fact the new Midwest.

10. Everyone, and I mean everyone, wears trucker hats.
9. Way too friendly. Try looking at a map and time how long it will take for ten people to crowd around you ready to give you directions.
8. They like meat. A lot.
7. Their airport is in a field.
6. Everything has to be big- world's largest building and the largest IMAX screen in Asia are two perfect examples.
5. Prawn fishing (basically you just sit around a pool filled with shrimps and you fish them out). Clearly the final product of beer and too much time.
4. Their most popular singer just released a really bad country album. Wait, sorry. Just a country album.
3. Elections are all screwed up.
2. The Taiwanese are afraid of the ocean.

And the number one reason that Taiwan is exactly like the Midwest...

1. Taiwan (The Midwest) will never be as powerful as its neighbor, China (East Coast)!

The Rice Terraces of Banaue

After an eight hour bus ride, I arrived in the small town of Banaue in the Ifugao province in Northern Luzon of the Philippines. Basically, it’s just half an inch north of Manila on a map. This area is known for its delicate hand-carvings, remote tribal villages, and above all else, its majestic rice terraces- a UNESCO World Heritage Site.


Although it was early in the morning, I arrived at the Banaue View in, quickly freshened up and took my continental breakfast. Then, with no moments to spare, I hired a guide and we were off to explore these tributes to the town’s ancestors. My guide and I hopped onto a tricycle (a little carriage attached to the side of a motorcycle) and we went as far as the road could go. Eventually, the road came to an end and my guide informed me that the rest of the journey would have to be made on foot.

We took a shortcut over the first mountain and reached the summit within thirty minutes. Drenched in sweat, we took this respite in good measure to admire a most spectacular view. Imagine taking the green of Ireland and infusing it into the mountains of Machu Picchu- that might do some justice in depicting the image before us. The mountains looked like the wood carvings on sale in the town of Banaue, enough that one could be led to believe that even God is a woodcarver himself.


But with a full day of hiking ahead of us, the view was briefly enjoyed before we were back on the trail. On our way down the mountain, into the village of Batad, I learned quite a bit about the village and the region. One thing that was rather obvious was that this was a difficult climb and no roads connected the village of Batad to the rest of the world. In fact, I learned, in order for the villagers of Batad to reach Banaue, they have to trek on foot for about one to two hours until they reach the lone jeepney that shuttles back and forth between Banaue and some middle point along the road.


During the hike, we ran into men and boys carrying goods like sugar, beer, and other items down along the path. At one point, two young boys who had since joined us, my guide and I came across a red horse on the path. My guide and I passed by nonchalantly just as the horse let out an angry grunt. The two boys, in a display of panic, threw the beer onto the trail and ran away screaming. Noticing that my guide was laughing, I asked him what just happened. Apparently, the two boys were teasing that horse the other day and got it fiery mad. When it started kicking its hind legs, the boys knew they were no longer in favor with this temperamental steed. So now, even the smallest snort, like the one we witnessed that day, was enough to send these boys running for the hills, literally.


We arrived at Batad and saw what many people come here to see- the glorious amphitheater rice terraces. Built about 2,000 years ago, these structures are easily the oldest and most impressive structures if have ever witnessed. Held up with stone, they house hundreds of individual rice terraces still cultivated and harvested today. The engineering marvel that is the rice terraces is obvious upon first glance. No matter what pre-conceived idea you have of them, I guarantee, they do not disappoint.


We hiked down a number of steps through the ancient village of Batad. Most people still lived in traditional houses with grass roofs and Tiki-style huts designed to house both people and rice. We passed by children on their way to school, old women harvesting the crops, young boys pounding and preparing the rice, and , of course, the countless numbers of obligatory clucking and screaming roosters and chickens.


Upon reaching the other side of the village, we descended into a gulley where a river had carved a deep and powerful gorge. A few hundred meters down and we were face to face with Tappia Waterfall- a magnificent fall that descends into a crystal pool fit for a swim. After such a long and arduous hike, this swim a refreshing addition to an otherwise relentlessly steamy afternoon.


However, the pain of the hike had not reached its climax because instead of climbing up to reach our destinations the entire time, we were descending into the village and waterfall. With the sites behind us, we then had to climb back up under the heat of the baking Asian sun. And I hate to report, but the Philippines is no different from Taiwan in their trail construction as they, too, just build stairs straight up instead of pursuing a zig-zagging pattern along the mountainside. Honestly, I am a bit surprised the heart-attack rate is not higher in Asia.

We returned back to Banaue, utterly exhausted, ate dinner, and ordered cheap foot massages at 300 pesos a piece- a very good investment after an arduous day of hiking and climbing. It also prepared me for a second day of equally exhausting and energy consuming trekking around the terraces of Banaue the following morning.

I arose early in the morning for my breakfast again and met my same tour guide for another glorious “stroll”. We took a tricycle up to what’s called “The Viewpoint” for it’s commanding views of the rice terraces. The view is so beautiful that the Filipino Government even decided to put its image on the 1,000 pesos bill. We began our trek up and down the terraces, sometimes even over very narrow ledges. Now, for someone who is prone to accidents while hiking, I am happing to tell you I fell off the terrace ledges into the rice paddies only twice. Wet, and a little scraped and bruised, I avoided major injuries each time.


But while in these rice terraces, we were given our first treat by a small patch of women working in the fields. Since they were right up close to us, and were not there for show, I asked if I could take their photograph. They agreed, I took a couple of shots, admired how they cultivated the rice, and said, “munhana” or “thank you”. To harvest the rice, they pull of one strand of rice at a time ann hold it in their hands. Eventually, the strands build up until a bundle, too large for their hands, is formed. That bundle is then tied together, placed on the pathway, and they continue to harvest more rice. I could have stayed there all day to watch these farmers work, but alas, we still had a ways to cover.


Climbing both terraces and mountain ledges, we traversed over this exhausting terrain. As we descended into another village called Bocos, we noticed two men carrying a boar up the trail, tied by its feet on a long wooden pole. I was very surprised to discover that, as they passed us, the boar snorted at me indicating it was still alive. And thus, being no more than twenty meters outside the village when the two men arrived, we certainly heared the boar let out a deafening scream as the village people slaughtered it. The noise an animal makes as it faces death is a sound that will stay with you for the rest of your life.


Lunch time! After lunch, I said goodbye to my tour guide in Banaue and opted to explore a bit on my own. I traversed this path to another village called Tam-an where I was invited in by a local family into their house. We began talking, and I discovered that this town has a special burial ritual unique only to them. When their ancestors die, they take them up to the mountain and bury them. The body lies there for two years before the skeletal remains are exhumed and brought back to the village where they are celebrated and wrapped in a ceremonial cloth. This family extended the honor of taking out their ancestral bones and showing them to me. The body they took out was that of their Great-Grandfather who died in 1945 during the Japanese occupation of the Philippines. Wrapped in the ancestral cloth, the bones were remarkable well kept.


The father of this particular family is a well-known woodcarver. Perusing some of his work, I picked up a special little item for a very close member of my family. I hope she knows just what lengths I went through to pick this up for her. After thanking the family and paying them for the priceless item I was now carrying with me, I continued on to explore the rice terraces on my own, being sure to watch out for snakes and water buffalo. I passed by several people hiking the trail between Tam-an and Poitan, two remote villages, and I always made sure I was heading the right way.


I returned back to the town of Banaue and had a little bit more time to kill. I got some limited work down at a make-shift internet cafe, had a great dinner and chat with this woman who owns a restaurant called "Las Vegas Cafe" and got front row seats to Banaue's edition of Street Olympics.


Eventually, I arrived in Poitan, which is noted for the huts built on top of a rock cliff. It was done so to protect its villagers from warring neighbors (such as those from Batad or Tam-an) in years gone by. Today, the villages a very peaceful and the only warring is done over tourism business.

The beauty of the Rice Terraces is in the landscape itself, but you can’t help but admire their age as well. Massive terraces built right into the sides of mountains over 2,000 years ago is one thing, but to see them still maintained and harvested today is another. However, their majesty is threatened as more farmers turn to the more lucrative and less backbreaking work of tourism. While the funds from UNESCO certainly help what is understandably called the eight wonder of the world, I can’t predict what will become of them in the future. That’s why I say, take the word of a man who has traveled around the world, that these rice terraces is one thing you don’t want to miss.


From your rice trekking, terrace eating, no wait, strike that, reverse it, adventurer of the Ifugao Province in the Philippines, Michael.

What's all the Hull-a-Balut?

This would mark my second trip to one of the happiest countries in the world: The Phil- ippines. In March, I fell off the beaten path (which is rather easy to do outside of Boracay) where I swam with Whale Sharks, camped on an active volcano, and was accosted by young children with a crab. I also got grotesquely ill from a Wendy’s frosty, which goes to prove you really ought to steer clear of fast food joints on the other side of the world, and to an extent, at home as well.

But my illness had more devastating effects on my itinerary. While I originally had a rather aggressive plan laid out in March, many items had to be left of the check list and moved back to the “to do” list. Well, this time around, I was finally able to do what I originally started six months ago.

I arrived to blue skies and hot weather. I checked into my hotel, the Pension Natividad, and was delighted by clean, bright rooms. The owner was quite forceful when she informed me that visitors were not allowed in this once-upon-a-time-catholic-church-now-turned-hotel. I assured her I had no intentions of bringing back any guests and wondered just what part of town I was staying in. When I booked the hotel, it was the first place mentioned in the Lonely Planet guide at a reasonable rate, so I booked it without much thought to the location. The Pension Natividad is in a part called Malate, which was once home to the Manila’s seedy reputation in the 1980’s. That reputation, I am here to say, continues to survive in Malate.

I am curious as how I always end up staying in the red light districts by no effort on my own! So, with eyes on the straight and narrow, I went to dinner, got some drinks at the Hobbit House (where the waiters are all “little people”, if that is the politically correct term now) and then went straight to bed.

The following morning, I woke up and went to a local café to get some breakfast and conduct some interviews for work. After that, I went over to the Taiwan Consulate to work out some visa issues. However, I was frustrated to find out that all visas had to be applied for in the morning, making my arrival one hour too late. I did find some comfort in the irony that the Taiwan Embassy was located right next to the UN office of the Philippines. So close, yet so far away!

After lunch, I began a run-around journey across Manila to the Auto Bus in Sampaloc, where I bought a ticket up to Banaue. The current time was 4:30 and the departure time was 10:45. Therefore, due to the facts that I had lots of time to kill, and that the only available seat at the make-shift bus station was next to a very raunchy, outdoor male public urinal, I decided to go to an internet café to do some more work.

A few hours passed by and it was then time for diner. I went to a little burger stand next to a cage of men playing pool. I sat down next to two old men being served by a young lady and entered into the conversation. In Taiwan, the first thing people ask me is if I am an English Teacher. Here, they looked at me and asked if I was a missionary. Then comes, universally, the question of whether or not I have a girlfriend. After getting my two-for-one cheeseburger deal, I then asked my new comrades where I could get a rare and special delicacy only had in the Philippines- Balut!

My plans for trying Balut were thwarted in March due to my gastro-intestinal issues and inopportune bus routes. Therefore, my first night hanging around a bus station was not going to be wasted without trying this famed, nighttime snack.

But what exactly is Balut, you ask. Fair question, I say. I first learned of Balut while watching a special on the Travel and Living Channel about the world’s strangest food. Beating out the worm in Tequila and chocolate covered scorpions, Balut ranked in at number one as the strangest food in the world. Do I have your attention now? Balut is, essentially, a partially developed duck fetus. Incubated perfectly to either 17 or 18 days for the best quality (i.e. reducing the risk of finding a feather or a beak in your Balut) these fetuses are steamed up and served right in their shells.

At 18 days, the duck has developed enough where you can start to see the shame of an animal start to take form (although, at this point, it could turn into some horribly mutated creature and you probably wouldn’t be the least bit surprised).

So there I was sitting at this burger stand, listening to plenty of vendors passing by shouting out “Balut”. I knew I had to try it. I asked my friends where I could get some good Balut and they immediately pointed to this man right down the street. They said he was the best. (Best? How do you become a master of Balut? I wonder if he sat on the eggs himself.) Well, I followed their esteemed local advice, and walked over to the Balut Vendor.

He sat their, relaxed in his fold-up lounge chair, reading a book while his daughter was playing on a rusty bicycle next to him. In front of him was his basket of steaming Balut, which to the untrained eye, would appear to just be a batch of hard-boiled eggs. On the cart were two large jars of vinegar, and several bowls of table salt. Of course, I needed lessons on the proper way to eat the Balut.

With a few other gentlemen huddling around, digging into their Balut, they helped guide me along. I learned that first you tap the bottom of the egg on the table and peel away the cracked shell to make a small hole. From the hole, you then slurp out the juice like taking a shot of duck fetus slime. Surprisingly, the mixture was salty and tasted just like chicken soup! (Sorry, I hope I didn’t turn you off of Campbell’s permanently.)

The next stage includes the consumption of the Balut fetus itself. Once the juice has been slurped clean, you then peel off more of the shell to reveal a grotesquely formed fetus. Now time to think about the decision you made earlier as you tap on some vinegar, rub in the necessary quantity of salt, and then take a bite out of it. At first, it’s like eating chicken, then wait, no, just like an egg. Wait a second, we’re back to tasting chicken… hmm, then a taste you don’t recognize props up, panic sinks in, and then, ah yes, chicken again. The texture is probably the most awkward part of eating Balut. First, it starts off as a drink. Then, very smushy like the white of an egg. The yolk has since gotten very hard, so it’s almost like eating a hard candy. So, what exactly is the texture of Balut? Well, quite literally, everything!

Once I pulled away the last of the shell and I plopped the rest of the Balut into my mouth, I turned to the owner and gratefully said to him, “masarab”, which means “delicious”. He looked at me with a sideway glance, smiled, and said, “You know, you are the very first foreigner to try my Balut.”

And then I got on the bus.

Stay tuned for part two of my trip to the Philippines from your pro-choice for ducks advocate in the Philippines, Michael.