Globetrotting '06: Senegal, Tahiti, and Taiwan

My Book, STOKED ON LIFE, Is Now Available!!

2008-06-14T03:53:00.002+02:00

STOKED ON LIFE: IN PURSUIT OF ADVENTURE, DISCOVERY, AND THE ENDLESS ADRENALINE RUSH...

Get Your Copy Today!

In addition to many of the most popular sections of the blog (now polished, edited, and hopefully error-free), STOKED ON LIFE also features photographs taken throughout my eight months of adventure. Please visit one of the sites below to learn more:

*Lulu (the publisher): http://www.lulu.com/content/1819439
*Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Stoked-Life-Adventure-Discovery-Adrenaline/dp/1435707680/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1213049627&sr=8-2
*Barnes & Noble: http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Stoked-on-Life/Alex-Gould/e/9781435707689/?itm=1

STOKED ON LIFE is also now available in the Washington and Lee Bookstore in Lexington, VA. Additionally, a downloadable PDF version is available from Lulu for just $5.95 and can be read right on your computer screen. Don't miss out...get STOKED ON LIFE today!

Concluding Thoughts

2007-01-22T23:57:00.000+02:00

“By the Numbers”

8 months of globetrotting
66,000 kilometers
5 continents
4 languages
6 surfboards
1 world’s most dangerous wave

24 instances of pretending not to understand a language
251 instances of actually not understanding a language
15 times when I began speaking in the wrong language (eg. speaking French in Taiwan)
50,000 Chinese characters
14 variations of the phrase “I hate Chinese” in my Google search function’s history

1 world’s tallest building (1,676 feet tall)
41 earthquakes (over a 4 month period)

1 near-wife
5 sacrificial cows (in exchange for marriage)
1 girlfriend
187 girls who asked if they could touch my “golden” hair

1,568 photos
13.5 minutes on the “big screen”
300 pages of rambling

90 miles per hour top-speed on my motorcycle
87 red-lights completely ignored

31 laws broken
0 times caught

18 people who thought I was French
1 person who thought I was Chinese/Taiwanese (myself)
0 people who thought I was Senegalese

73 instances of being “pretty lost”
16 instances of being “totally lost”
3 instances of being “somebody shoot me, I’m so lost”

4,872 drivers propositioned for hitchhiking
82 drivers who pulled off the road in response
54 drivers who allowed me to get in even after seeing my surfboard (leaving 28 who frowned/scoffed/laughed and drove off)

3 cases of bronchitis
1 case of influenza
1 case of food poisoning
4 cases of traveler’s diarrhea
1 dog bite (Doberman)
2 motorcycle accidents
49 sea urchin spines pulled out of my body with tweezers
4 sea urchin spines pulled out of my body only after first using scissors to cut the skin
33 reef cuts
2 tubes of superglue used to seal those cuts
1 black eye
2 bruised bones
1 damaged eardrum
914 times I’ve been called crazy (over an 8 month period)

15 minutes to learn the Wolof/Arabic greetings
15 days to forget almost everything else

22 times almost used my left hand while eating tieboudienne
153 times forced to use a squat-toilet
151 times remembered to bring toilet paper
2 times reminded why eating with your left hand is forbidden

2 unforgettable host-families
1 unforgettable surf crew
1 ridiculously long list of unforgettable friends

5 times a day the Muslim call-to-prayer startled me
38 instances in Tahiti in which I thought I was dreaming and actually pinched myself to determine whether I were awake

11.5 hours of new music added to my ipod
6,724 people on rooftops who watched me attempt to do an African dance during the Labor Day Parade

3 instances in which I found myself in the midst of a mob/protest
1 instance in which money that had previously been in my pocket was not there afterwards

8 months of living in the tropics
5.5 days per week, on average, spent surfing (for 8 months)
23 typhoons (over a 4 month period)
5 professional surfers who have stayed in the same Tahitian bungalow I called home
1 country in which I am now officially recognized as a professional surfer

40 showers taken with cold water
3 showers taken using a bucket and watering-can

612 mosquito bites
2 friends who acquired malaria

6 feet between me and an 8-foot-long eel while scuba diving
12 feet between me and a wild rhinoceros on an African game reserve
2 sharks spotted while in the water
10 seconds of deliberation before deciding to continue surfing despite the presence of those sharks

12,966 ft. above sea level
97 feet beneath the surface of the water

303 fresh-fruit smoothies/juices drunk (over an 8 month period)
1,220 dumplings eaten (over a 4 month period)
6 Senegalese meals eaten which did not contain fish (over a 1.5 month period)
24 instances of intense craving for lasagna (over an 8 month period)
19 instances of intense craving for eastern NC barbeque (over an 8 month period)

61 times I’ve told girls I surfed Teahupo’o
44 times I’ve told girls I’m friends with the famous Asian band Wu Bai & China Blue
0 times either of these techniques has produced any real results

25 aloha signs waved on an average Tahitian day
15 bows performed on an average Taiwanese day
4.5 minutes of handshaking engaged in on an average Senegalese day

3.5 minutes of exposure before I’d begin to sunburn in any of the places I visited

1 World
1 Life
1 Chance
…to be Stoked…

STOKED ON LIFE.

“With Words”

“This is my pride: that now, thinking of the end, I do not cry like all the men of my age, [who ask] ‘but what was the use and the meaning?’ I was the use and the meaning. That I lived and that I acted.” – Ayn Rand

“What did you learn?” This is, perhaps, the most important question I can ask myself as I look back on my eight months of adventure. To find my answer, one need look no further than the very beginning of my blog and the Ayn Rand quote which has been there from the start – a quote which has, until now, gone unaddressed. The most important thing I learned during my travels is – ironically – something I already knew. But it’s a lesson not easily retained. No, I’ll go even further: it’s one with an inherent tendency to be forgotten – so much so, in fact, that I don’t believe I would be mistaken to say that each and every time I climbed a mountain or surfed a wave or made a new friend or offered a helping hand – each and every time – I was learning this lesson from scratch.

We begin to die the moment we are born. We all know this deep down, whether we wish to admit it to ourselves or not. We’re frightened by how fast life passes, and we’re frightened by our inability to know what lies ahead. We’re frightened by our powerlessness.

We all face the temptation to surrender. To run away. To hide. To fall to our knees and beg for deliverance. We all wish to know more than anything else that our lives have meaning – that, even in the grand scope of the universe, the little specks which are our existences hold significance… that they don’t go unnoticed.

Many people never find meaning. A few find it in others. Some find it in God. But in a world of doubts and uncertainties, there exists in each man’s life only one Being with the power to bring light to what was previously dark, to convey substance to what was previously empty, to transmit meaning to what was previously absurd – himself.

The fact that life has no easily discernible meaning is our saving grace! It’s what makes us free. It’s what makes us human. We’re not powerless – we’re powerful beyond measure! Our existences are living works of art, and we are the creators – no one else. We wield the brush ourselves. We are free to make mistakes; we are free to fail. But so, too, are we free to innovate and explore, to be bold and daring. We are free to conceive beauty, to pursue the aesthetic. We are free to create works of exaltation. Like Icarus, we are free to build wings. We are free to leap. To soar. To fly.

~FIN

Final Pictures

2007-01-22T23:54:00.000+02:00

Final pictures from Taiwan (several hundred) will be uploaded to Webshots in the near future: http://community.webshots.com/user/mistaajg.

Also, information on how to purchase my book STOKED ON LIFE will be posted on this blog soon.

Thanks!

The Currents of Life

2007-01-22T23:50:00.000+02:00

“A Bittersweet Goodbye”

“Shijian guo de hao kuai…” I say softly – sadly – as I look down at my feet. “Time goes by so quickly.” I immediately decide this was a stupid thing to say and simultaneously tighten my grip on the carry-on luggage I’m holding and shift my weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. My hands are clammy, and my head feels like it’s half-full of helium. I haven’t slept in three days, and I’m still wondering how I managed to pack my entire life as I’ve known it for the past four months into one backpack, one suitcase, and one – albeit enormous – surfboard bag. But as happy as I am to have made it past the check-in counter without being accosted by any power-tripping, tape-measure-toting agents with a hatred for surfers, I’m awash in melancholy. Memories are flashing across the little movie screen in my head, one after another, and I feel myself withdrawing from everything around me and becoming transfixed by my subconscious’ latest creation.

I see myself exiting an airport in the middle of the night, greeting an old friend, and speaking timidly in a language that is not my own. I see myself stumbling across a busy downtown intersection with my friends after class, unable to walk straight I’m laughing so hard. I see myself grinning madly and screaming unintelligible elongated vowel sounds like a chimpanzee in the front seat of a roller coaster while I watch a surfer go flying by me, perched precariously on the nose of his longboard… Then the screen goes black for a moment before slowly fading in, and I lean forward with anticipation in my intra-cranial armchair. I see myself on an almost-deserted beach under a beautiful, star-lit night-sky. A gust of wind born miles away, somewhere out over the dark ocean at which I now stare, sweeps across vast expanses of water as if propelled by fate. Under the cover of darkness, it creeps up on me, tip-toeing weightlessly across the soft white sand. At last, the film begins to zoom in, gradually and deliberately, and I see what I already knew was going to happen. I shiver. It lasts for but a split-second, this shiver – gone in the blink of an eye. But she notices it. Slowly, carefully, she unravels my rolled-up shirtsleeves, one at a time, and rebuttons them around my wrists. I shiver again, but this time not because I’m cold. I seem to be debating whether I’m still staring up at the stars or if they’re staring down at me, having somehow danced their way down from the heavens and into her eyes. Her hand is warm in mine…

Suddenly my movie screen goes black. I blink and look down at my hand. Hers is still there. “Shijian guo de hao kuai,” I think again. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to say good-bye. Then I remember something she had once written – she, the poet, who could capture a lifetime in just a line: “Gei wo yi ge wen / bu yao zaijian.” “Give me a kiss / not a good-bye.” I turn from her and do not look back. I’m swallowed up by the crowd. I know she can no longer see me. It’s not until I’m taking that final and most irreversible step, until I’m crossing that most consequential threshold which separates airport from airplane – one heart from another – that I realize she is still with me. Two stories above the concrete of the runway, straddling a dream-like abyss – my feet in two vastly different worlds – I close my eyes, and time screeches to a halt. I can still taste her bittersweet good-bye.

“Cerulean Dreams”

I’m curled up in the fetal position and gasping for air. As I claw at the dirt in anguish, tiny pebbles trickle off the two-mile vertical cliff in front of me. I need to stand and work-out my cramps, but I don’t dare lift my head above the small bushes that conceal me from the trail. My half-erect tent which looks ready to heave itself off the mountain and the sound of boiling water on my miniature stove both call my attention, but the thought of attending to either sends me into a frenzy of coughing and wheezing. Steam is rising from the stove, though, so I get to my hands and knees and manage to crawl my way over and turn off the gas, cursing my stupidity all the while. “I might as well have shot off a flare!” I think to myself as I peek through the bushes and listen for approaching footsteps. Nothing. I exhale a sigh of relief and refocus my attention. The smell of food alone is making me gag, but I haven’t refueled all day; I need to eat. I can’t spend more than five or ten seconds working on my tent without collapsing in exhaustion, but I need shelter; I need sleep. And as clouds roll into the valley below, I can’t help but cast an apprehensive eye on the ten-foot-tall lightning-rod which towers over me. “What the **** am I doing?” I ask myself. But then I look out at the distant horizon – at the sharp, foreboding mountain peaks all around me – and I feel a jolt of energy. I glance back at the lightning-rod and grin, wondering if it could possibly conduct the kind of electricity powering me now. I’m over 12,000 feet above sea level on the tallest mountain in Northeast Asia, I’ve managed to evade police and park rangers for two days, and I’m just hours from reaching one of the most remote summits in the world. This is life as I love it most. This is what drives me.

I wake up sweating and breathing heavily. “Wow, what a dream,” I think to myself. “Climbing Yushan, the tallest mountain in Asia outside the greater Himalayas…the fourth tallest island peak in the world… and doing it solo no less – without the required guide or permits! How insane!” As I fluff my pillow and roll over in my comfortable bed, I think to myself that maybe – just maybe – my blog readers would enjoy this dream, too. “You can’t be prosecuted for doing something illegal if it’s all just a dream!” I realize triumphantly just before drifting off again…

“God, I hate bureaucracy,” I think to myself. “We’re sorry, but we’re unable to process your request for a permit in time,” they told me. I clench my fists with frustration. “And, even worse, they want to require me to hire a guide!” I think. “As if we need the government to dictate what risks we should and should not take. Do we not have the right to lead our lives as we choose provided we don’t hurt others?!” I ask myself fervently. The answer seems so clear to me; I just can’t understand why people sacrifice their freedom. Then I smile and wonder if Taiwan’s bureaucracy just might prove to be the impetus for one of my greatest and most outlandish adventures. I glace up at the luggage rack above me and mentally catalog all the gear I’ve brought with me. The latest weather reports are calling for freezing temperatures and a chance of ice and snow; I think back to Aorai and reassure myself that I learned my lesson: mountaineering on tropical islands does not necessarily mean warm weather. I pull out my map and guidebook and review my plan for the nth time. I connect the dots of the circle I’ve mentally drawn from my home in northern Taiwan, down the west coast, up into the mountains, and finally back to the North. It’s a wild shot, sure, but I’ve poured over the details for the past week, and I know it’s my only hope for climbing this peak.

The conductor comes by to clip my ticket, and I cringe as he glances – suspiciously, it seems to me – at my backpack and the mountaineering gear hanging off it. I’m barely out of Taipei, and I’m already expecting my cover to be blown at any minute! As he continues down the aisle, I review my modus operandi for at least the tenth time of the morning. No conversations. No talk of Yushan. Minimal Chinese… Low profile, low profile, low profile, I say over and over to myself. I go over the details of my cover story yet again. Just a quick trip up to the mountains… maybe take in a sunrise if it’s possible. I think over my Plan B and Plan C strategies. And I run a few lines of French and Spanish through my head just in case it comes to that. If I really find myself in a jam – cornered by someone with good English, say – I can always pretend I’m from Europe and don’t understand. I stare at my reflection in the train window as the scenery outside flies by with a blur, and I can’t help but chuckle; life is everything it’s cracked up to be and more.

Someone is tapping my shoulder gently and speaking to me. A flashing alert light goes off somewhere in my brain, but my senses are still numb and I can’t think clearly. It’s dark and cold, and I desperately want the shoulder-tapping to stop so I can go back to sleep. At last, I begin to come-to, and I realize that I’ve made a careless mistake. I think back on the day’s events and try to remember how I wound up like this… After riding the train out of Taipei and down the west coast for several hours to Jiayi, the jumping-off-point for almost any excursion into the mountains, I had deboarded and changed trains. I had managed to keep my cool as I waited for the train with all my gear in front of the police station – the police station I knew to be the official overseer of permit applications for Yushan. If anyone knew the rules and regulations for climbing Yushan, it would be the officers inside that station, so I had been on high alert and in no mood for conversation. Fortunately, the xiao huoche had soon arrived, and I was able to embark on the next leg of my journey. This particular xiao huoche – or “little train” – is a technological marvel which uses a highly sophisticated series of switchbacks and hydraulics to ascend the steepest stretch of narrow-gauge train tracks in the world. Originally designed for the Alps, this technology had somehow found its way to Taiwan, and I had been intrigued since I first learned of it. It’s on this xiao huoche that I have made my careless mistake.

I played it cool at first, pretending not to understand much Chinese and listening to my ipod to ensure I wouldn’t have to speak to anyone. As the train made its way out of town, the scenery changed rapidly from coastal to mountainous. Soon, cliffs dropped vertically downwards just feet from the edge of the tracks, and dark, winding tunnels led us through massive granite outcroppings. It wasn’t long before we encountered our first switchback, though, and it proved to be a surprise worth waiting for. The grade of the tracks had been increasing steadily as we traversed steeper and steeper terrain, and I wondered how we could possibly go on. At last, we came to a gradual but complete stop, and, then…we began rolling backwards. First, slowly; then faster; and faster, and faster, and faster. Glancing frantically at the exit door, I did some quick calculations in my head to estimate my chance of survival were I to jump; I had read about this special switchback system, but I just hadn’t expected anything quite like what I was now experiencing. Could this really be safe?! I was careening through a dark, overgrown, seemingly enchanted forest littered with hidden cliffs and precipices on a train better suited for an antique museum than the steepest train tracks in the world…and I was doing it in reverse! I felt as if I were stuck in some wild fantasy novel! Just when I had decided a premature deboarding from this possessed train might be my only option, I realized we were rolling uphill again. Still in reverse, but definitely uphill. The next thing I knew, we had stopped and were moving forward once more. The train was using gravity to propel itself up the mountain, taking one step back for every two steps forward, yet nevertheless making progress! Having been a train enthusiast since I was a little kid, I was pretty impressed and spent the next few minutes thinking about how cool this whole switchback experience was going to be. Gradually, though, I realized I wasn’t feeling so great from all the wild careening through the woods, and I determined that if this most recent bit of insanity were indeed the first switchback and if my guidebook were correct in asserting that there would be over thirty switchbacks altogether…well, by the end of the journey I might not be the same train enthusiast I once had been. So, with this thought, I dug through my med-kit and popped a Dramamine in my mouth…and effectively severed my ties with the conscious world.

I’m finally beginning to feel alert as the Dramamine wears off and I regain my senses. I’m on the back of a motorcycle, riding through a freezing-cold rain in the small mountain village of Alishan. I can’t remember what exactly I said to the people who awakened me at the end of the train journey from Jiayi, but I feel fairly confident I didn’t give away any details about my plans. I’m in the vicinity of Yushan now, and I don’t want to draw attention to myself (“Nice job passing out from a tiny anti-motion sickness pill,” I think to myself). The driver of the motorcycle owns a local inn, and she has agreed to take me there without forcing me to commit to a room. She doesn’t speak English, so I’m forced to play my hand and use Chinese. The inn is quaint and cozy with hardwood floors and ceilings, and I’m happy to see an electric blanket on the bed. There’s no sense in drawing even more attention to myself in this tiny village, so I pay her for a room and settle in with my gear. It’s late in the evening, though, and I still haven’t arranged the most crucial part of my trip. “This could be interesting…” I think to myself.

A somewhat quirky yet nevertheless important component of Chinese culture is a reverence for mountain sunrises. Most likely as the result of Buddhist influences, the number-one priority of almost every Chinese or Taiwanese person who ventures to the mountains is to watch a beautiful sunrise. Because of this, a number of locals in the Alishan area run “sunrise-tour” vans every morning to nearby scenic overlooks. I had done my research long before journeying to Alishan, and I knew that at least one of these overlooks was at the mountain pass of Tatajia, not far from the base of Yushan. The road between Alishan and Tatajia is the highest in Taiwan and often is made impassible due to snow, ice, and landslides; there is no bus service. Therefore, just reaching the trailhead for Yushan is a nearly insurmountable obstacle for the solo mountaineer without an SUV. But I had a plan… “I’d like to watch the sunrise tomorrow morning,” I say to the inn-keeper. “Oh, I can help you arrange that. There is a nice overlook just outside of Alishan,” she responds. “Umm…actually, I was hoping to go to Tatajia to watch the sunrise…would that be possible?” I ask with an all-too-mischievous smile.

“I think our American friend wants to climb Yushan,” the van-driver says in Chinese to everyone. I sink down in my seat and feel my pulse quicken. “Why can’t he just drive and not talk so much?” I mumble to myself. It’s 4:30 AM, and I’m sitting in the front of the sunrise-tour van I had lined up the previous night; seven or eight Taiwanese are sitting in the rows behind me. I’ve told the driver only that I want to get out in Tatajia, but he’s suspicious and suspects my real motive. I was forced to speak Chinese to arrange the early-morning pick-up, so he knows I understand his questions, and I can’t easily deflect them. He has already warned me about the dangers of the mountain, the possibility of snow, and the fact that park rangers inspect climbers’ permits. Until now, my only responses have been a chuckle and a “You’re crazy, man,” but I realize I’m in need of local beta, and I admit to myself that my cover is just about blown anyway. So, at last, I confess, “Yea, I might try to climb Yushan…got any advice?” The back of the van suddenly bursts into life and I’m floored by a symphony of “Yi ge ren?! Yi ge ren?! Yi ge ren?!” “By yourself?! By yourself?! By yourself?!” This phrase will prove to be a recurring leitmotif throughout the climb. I manage to calm the Taiwanese – who, although slightly more independent-minded than the mainland Chinese, rarely do anything more dangerous than tying their shoes without the supervision of a professional and the support of at least fifteen friends – and ask the driver if he can drop me off at the trailhead instead of the scenic overlook. “You don’t care about the sunrise?” he asks with a grin. “Ehh, not really,” I stammer. To my dismay, he tells me his van can’t make it all the way to the trailhead but that he will drop me off as close to it as possible; unfortunately, my DZ happens to be directly in front of the Tatajia police station.

“Hellooo!” the policeman shouts to me for the second time. “Just keep walking. Just keep walking,” I command myself. The van driver had given me little warning before dumping me off in front of the police station. Anxiously watching a nearby group of guides and park rangers in his rear-view mirror, he had urged me to hurry, explaining that I needed to make it past the police station and to the trailhead before the rangers or I’d be in trouble. I’d barely had time to put on my pack – much less stretch or take a drink of water – and I’m already out of breath as the policeman calls to me. I’m wearing sunglasses and a hat pulled down low around my eyes, but I know I’m still recognizable as a foreigner, and the policeman’s greeting confirms this. I fight a sudden urge to dash from the officer at full-speed and focus on controlling my breathing instead. After he calls to me for the second time, I give a quick wave and nod politely, but I make no attempt at conversation. I remind myself that being able to pretend I speak neither Chinese nor English may eventually be my only way of avoiding jail. I can feel his eyes boring into my back as I pass slowly by and continue up the road and towards the peak which calls me.

“Ahhh…” I exhale contentedly as I set my overstuffed backpack against a tree and curl up next to it for a bit of rest. I’ve been hiking for several hours now, and this is the first break I’ve taken. The covert nature of my adventure is taking a toll on me, and I feel physically and mentally drained. I think back to the hike from the police station to the trailhead and shake my head with dismay. Not once, not twice, but three times I had been forced to dive off the road and into the woods! Three separate expedition teams – complete with rangers and guides – had passed me in their SUVs as I was hiking the steep mountain road which connects the police station with the trailhead. By the third time, I was beginning to go delusional. “They’re on to me…they’re out looking for me…they’re gonna find me!” is all I could think. But I kept trudging onwards, knowing full and well I may never even have a chance to step on the trail to Yushan, much less its summit.

Eventually, though, I do find myself at the start of the trail. The sun is just beginning to rise, and the world is awash in a beautiful orange glow. I notice that the climbers and guides who had passed me in the vans are standing around stretching and making final preparations before heading out. A few rangers are on hand, checking permits it appears. I know this is it. I have to act quickly and decisively. I approach the trailhead with my back to the others, pretending to be admiring the sunrise. No one notices me at first, and I move slowly closer. Suddenly, a head turns – no, two! – and I hear someone whisper something about “foreigner.” I can see someone pointing at me in my peripheral vision. My heart is pounding. I know I have to make my move. I think of the possible repercussions of what I’m about to do. A hefty fine. Jail-time. No chance of ever being given a job at the State Department. I tighten the shoulder-straps on my pack, take a deep breath, and set off at a half-jog down the trail. If they want to stop me, they’re going to have to come and get me…

Footsteps. Voices. I curse my bad luck. I’m still sitting against my pack – taking my first break of the day – and someone is coming. I didn’t even get two minutes to relax. I quickly repack my things and prepare for trouble. It’s a large group with a ranger. I realize they must have already summitted; they’re on day two of the climb and are heading down. They don’t notice me, of course, until long after I’ve spotted them, so I think I might be able to squeeze by without having to answer any questions. The ranger is at the back of the group, though, and he seems especially surprised to see me. He at first appears more concerned than suspicious, however, so I explain with simple Chinese that I’m fine and that I was just resting for a moment. This, needless to say, is a mistake. The rest of the group, upon hearing my Chinese, screeches to a stop and begins spewing forth a deafening barrage of questions. Everyone seems to know the question of the day – “Yi ge ren?!” – and everyone desperately wants to know if I’m trying to climb Yushan by myself. I’m watching the ranger carefully, and I can see the gears in his head beginning to grind. I know once again that I must act decisively. I quickly buckle the straps of my pack, mumble some unintelligible Chinese with a big smile, and set off down the trail once more. “I really hope he doesn’t have a radio,” I say aloud a few minutes later, suddenly glancing nervously over my shoulder. But the only reply is a bird’s cackle and the soft rustling of the wind in the trees.

I roll over and take a sip of water from the bottle on my nightstand. “This is an intense dream!” I think. “Some of my readers might even think it’s real. I could get into trouble!” But the more I ponder my dilemma, the more convinced I become that no one could possibly confuse this dream with reality. I mean… camping underneath a lightning-rod?! Please…I’m just not that type… As sleep overtakes me once more, I’m swept away on a wispy mountain cloud, and I find myself floating higher and higher and higher…

“Higher. It’s time to go higher,” I tell myself. It’s 1:30 AM on Day 3, and I’m standing outside my tent a few feet from the two-mile-high cliff that I’ve called my front doorstep for the past eleven hours. I take a deep breath of mountain air and look up at the imposing face of Yushan, silhouetted by the night sky. I feel stronger. My nausea seems to be gone. My legs feel reenergized. The air still seems thin, but at least I can breathe now. I’ve made it through the night without being detected, and I feel thankful for small miracles. My mistake from the previous afternoon is still fresh in my mind, and I think back to how it played out… I found a rhythm after my first ranger encounter and hiked fast, not giving passing hikers (who, having just finished climbing the mountain, were not especially predisposed to talk anyway) much of a chance to ask questions. I began making frequent use of the phrase “Jia you! Jia you!” – a friendly cheer of encouragement which literally translates to “Add fuel! Add fuel!” This phrase falls under one of those categories of quirky Taiwanese behavioral norms I discussed in my last post, and it’s expected that the person being told to “Add fuel” will smile and then reply with the same words of encouragement. Realizing this, I became remarkably polite all of a sudden. If I were passing a group of eight climbers, for instance, I would typically say “Add fuel” sixteen times. They would then say “Add fuel” sixteen times, everyone would exchange big smiles, and by the time the ritual was over, I was out of sight! And you thought that the cultural analysis section of my last post was pointless…

Ah, but my dream digresses (dreams are difficult to control, after all). I’m about to survive my closest call yet. I’m at the end of Yushan’s approach trail, where it leaves the woods and rises above treeline; a steep cirque of cliffs presents a brilliant panorama, and Yushan’s rocky summit soars magnificently above it all. To continue along the trail, however, I’ll have to pass through a bottleneck at this spot, and I’m worried there may be rangers. A Taiwanese flag comes into view, then a ranger cabin and a small shelter I know to be Paiyun Hut. I’ve been dreading this spot since I set out from Taipei, and I don’t know how I’m going to get through undetected. What I see next, though, triggers more cerebral panic alarms than I knew I possessed: “WELCOME TO PAIYUN HUT. PLEASE PRESENT YOUR PERMITS IMMEDIATELY UPON ARRIVAL FOR INSPECTION.” No, that’s not translated. This was in English. And it was printed in huge letters on a giant sign that would be impossible to miss. “Not good…this is not good,” I think as I make my way towards the bottleneck. Another climber is sitting outside the hut when I arrive, and he – like everyone – seems surprised to see a solo mountaineer climbing Yushan. I’m still brainstorming for ideas about how to get through the bottleneck as he tries to start a conversation with me, and I don’t pay him much attention. I’m lost in my thoughts as he rambles on about his climb, and I respond a few times without really thinking. At last, I jolt back to reality and realize with horror that I’ve been talking to this climber in Chinese for several minutes. I’ve told him that I’m climbing alone! I’ve blown it this time for sure! I tune back in and realize he wants to know whether my permit allows me to spend the night in the hut or whether I will have to camp outside next to it with the majority of the other climbers. Suddenly, I realize what I have to do. I think for a moment and then respond in Chinese, “Actually, I hear this hut can get pretty crowded. Maybe I’ll go find somewhere a little more quiet.” He immediately tells me that this is the only bit of flat ground on the upper mountain and that there’s nowhere else to go. I glance around and decide he may be right, but I know I can’t stay here. While trekking through a 15,000-foot-deep gorge near Tibet I had once been forced to sleep on a seven-foot-long by two-and-a-half-foot-wide rectangle of dirt miles above the raging river below. If I could find flat ground there, I could certainly find it here. “Oh, I’m sure I can find something,” I assure him as I shuffle off into the woods before anyone else sees me.

“Man, I’m lucky,” I think to myself as I take one last look at the lightening-rod above me. This had been the spot. My only alternative to camping with the rangers. It was small, it was uncomfortable, and it was definitely high-voltage, but I had grown fond of it over the past day. I’d grown accustomed to moving around on my hands and knees, always staying concealed behind the bushes as if I were playing some elaborate game of hide-and-seek. And I’d dug out a little spot in the dirt where I would curl up in a ball and gasp for air each time my altitude sickness spiked; I would miss that. Most of all, I would miss that crazy lightning-rod, which watched over me like a sentinel throughout the night and resisted what surely must have been a mighty temptation to make me famous: “American Climber Killed While Camping Illegally Beneath Lightning-Rod on Northeast Asia’s Tallest Peak.” “But enough of this,” I tell myself. “It’s time to climb. It’s time to climb higher.”

I’ve loaded the majority of my gear into a trashbag, which I’m planning to stash somewhere near the trail bottleneck at Paiyun Hut. It’s still not even 2 AM, so I’m hoping I’ll be able to pass by the hut under the cover of darkness without being stopped. If all goes as planned, without my heavy gear I’ll be able to move fast and bag the summit before anyone knows what’s going on. Then, provided I make it back into the woods without being caught, I’ll retrieve the trashbag and head for freedom. I finish loading my summit pack and wave goodbye to my friend the lightning rod, bushwacking my way back to Paiyun Hut and the trail. Despite the early hour, people are already up and about; in fact, a number of summit teams appear to be making final preparations before setting out. “I guess alpine starts aren’t just a Western mountaineering strategy,” I think to myself. I’m using the lowest beam on my headlamp to avoid drawing attention to myself as I clamber through the trees with my gear. My adrenaline is pumping, but I feel confident that I can slide past everyone without being noticed. I’m just a hundred feet from the hut now, and everything is coming into view. Suddenly, a terrible ripping sound. I look down and see that my gear-laden trash bag has burst open; the contents are scattered all over the place. An expletive drifts through the still night air like a shooting star. I have no time to lose. I quickly pick my gear up off the ground – praying that I haven’t missed anything I’ll later need – and stash it in some bushes. I don’t care if they find it. I don’t even care if I get caught any more. I just want to reach that summit. After that, they can do with me what they will. Carrying just my lightweight summit pack now, I try to regain my composure. There’s more activity than I had expected at the hut; in fact, it looks like almost everyone is awake and active. Guides are urging climbers to find their groups, headlamps are flashing everywhere, and chaos seems to be reigning supreme. I make a spur-of-the-moment decision to change my strategy. Rather than trying to sneak by, I’ll simply blend in. I’ll go right past the rangers with one of the organized groups. I quickly pick out a group that appears ready to depart and deftly maneuver my way over, falling into line three spots back of the guide. We begin marching towards the bottleneck, and I’m flooded with excitement. Smooth, oh how smooth! Suddenly, the guide tells us to stop, and he turns around. He’s forgotten to do a roll call. The person at the front of the line shouts “Yi!” and the next person follows with “Er!” I realize I may be in trouble now. “Oh, it’s worth a try,” I decide. “San!” I shout out in unison with the person behind me. I feel a half-dozen sets of eyes focus on me at once. “Ughh…nimen hao,” I stammer. “When in doubt, don’t look back,” I think. I take off for the bottleneck. No one stops me. I climb quickly into the woods and am soon hidden in darkness. I feel strong. I feel fast. I’m heading for the summit.

I’m flying. I’m falling. I’m being swallowed up by the beautiful blue which surrounds me. That beautiful blue hue of the stratosphere, of the air which so few people ever have a chance to breathe. Suspended above the masses – suspended above the world – untouched and pure. It’s like a drug to climbers. We risk our lives for just a taste of it. And, now, that same blue surrounds me again – soothing and comforting – and easing my pain. Yushan is but a distant memory; I’m in a new world now. I hover weightless in the blue. I can still see the sun rising out of the ocean, I can still hear the earth’s pre-dawn sigh. I reach out and part the blue with hardly any effort at all; it seems to take shape around my outstretched hand. Life is a dream, and I have control of it. I propel myself upwards through the blue. I breathe. Yushan is but a distant memory. It’s over. It’s finished. I climb back into the small rowboat. She’s been watching me. We stretch out on the bottom of the boat and allow the currents to determine our destiny. Everything seems bathed in blue – even the mountains, bounded by blue sky and bluer water. The Taiwanese call this place Sun Moon Lake, and for good reason; earth and sky meet here, beneath the planets, amidst the cosmos. Yushan is but a distant memory. I stretch out my arm and dip my hand into the icy water. The liquid blue molds around my fingers as we drift along. “Streams and torrents flow into rivers and oceans, just as the world flows into the Way,” I quote to myself.

“But what about mountains?” I suddenly wonder. Such tenacity, such perseverance they exhibit. Such contempt they hold for time – for mortality! They persist for centuries in the face of wind and water, wearing down slowly, never giving in. They defy gravity by their very nature, towering over the earth with pride! Testaments to our spirit – that’s what they are. They invite us to dance, to dance on their highest reaches. They invite us to fulfill our potential as humans, to grasp the power of the human spirit. They lead us to the realization that limits are what we make of them. The world is boundless; it’s ours for the taking. Our own fear is the only thing which holds us down. Free yourself from it. Tear off your shackles. Reach for the heavens!

She strokes my arm, and I awaken abruptly. We’re still drifting in this celestial cerulean lake. The mountains appear even bluer than before. I stare into the hills and remember how my journey ended…

Once past the bottleneck at Paiyun Hut, I began climbing – truly climbing. I was leading the early morning charge on Yushan, and I was out front and on my own. I moved fast, steadily pulling away from the hordes of climbers plodding through the darkness below me. I emerged from the cover of the forest to find myself alone in an extra-terrestrial landscape. No trees, no noise, no life. A vertical world of rock and ice. Foreboding and ominous. And silently drawing me in… I jam my hands into a crack in the cliff and pull myself upwards. I’m no longer on the trail, which detours around this steep and dangerous pitch. The wind is howling at my back, and the straps on my pack whip against me mercilessly. My body is flooded with adrenaline, and I’m riding on a cloud of euphoria. I doublecheck my foothold before committing any more weight to it. I know that if it doesn’t hold me – if I lose my grip on the rock – I’ll plunge to my death. I revel in this simple thought. My existence is so pure in this moment – so liberated from pretense, so free of artificiality. I can feel the ice-coated rocks through my gloves, and I draw pleasure from this connection. The mountain has invited me to dance, and I have accepted. I’m waltzing in the stratosphere, I’m foxtrotting with the stars. I don’t notice the cold. I don’t feel the pull of gravity. I don’t fear what could happen. I climb higher.

I turn off my headlamp and cast my ear to the wind. I hear it once more – a sigh. A soft, sleepy sigh as the earth turns on her axis. A faint orange glow radiates above the horizon; the world is awakening. I tread carefully across a small patch of snow and clamber over a rocky ledge 12,966 feet above sea level. Epochs unfold beneath me. I see mountain after mountain after mountain rising from the earth in grandeur. The Pacific Ocean glistens in the early-morning light a hundred miles away. I can go no higher. I can go no further. I’m on top of the world.

“A blur. This life is but a blur,” I think to myself as I soak in the last rays of daylight. I’m still stretched out at the bottom of the rowboat; she’s still by my side. I try to replay the rest of the day’s events in my mind but can’t see through the blur. I remember turning my back on the sunrise – that brilliant mountain sunrise – as more and more climbers arrived at the summit. For the first time in three days, I had been alone and free and able to take in the beauty of the mountain without fear of persecution. But my reprieve was short-lived, and I’d been forced to take flight once more. I flew by them on the descent, reenergized by the beauty of the morning and feeling more alive with every passing moment. I reached Paiyun Hut and scampered by unnoticed. I felt so light, so fast, as I quickly repacked my gear and left the upper mountain behind. I had climbed this peak like a ghost, dancing in and out of people’s vision but never staying for long… I find a secluded spot down the trail where I cook my breakfast and plan my escape. A static-filled phone call to the number on a business card. A driver willing to meet me at the base of the mountain by lunchtime, willing to drive me across the mountains and away from this place. A remote bus-stop in the alpine village of Dongpu. A dirty downtown bus station in the distant city of Shuili. The pieces of the puzzle fall into place; my plan is working. With each leg of my descent – my descent from the pinnacle of Formosa – the air grows richer in oxygen. I can breathe more easily with every passing minute. I’m nearly there. I’m nearly safe…

At last, I’ve reached it. I’ve reached her. I dive into the blue once more, and the last of my worries vanishes with a sapphire splash. We have just the weekend to spend here together at this heavenly lake. The grays and browns of the real world will soon reclaim us. But for now I’m lost in the dream, and the future does not scare me. I’m lost in the beauty, I’m adrift in time. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I disappear into the blue.

“Let Me Count the Ways I’ll Miss You, Taiwan”

I’ll miss your garbage trucks, Taiwan. Oh, how empty life seems in the world of twice-a-week pick-up, how lonely it is! And how silent, too! Beethoven’s Für Elise will never sound the same again; your garbage trucks play it so beautifully – with such emotion – never tiring of the melody, not even after four straight months of playing it on repeat while moving slowly and methodically around my apartment building. 2:40 PM will find me forever at my window, straining to hear their beautiful cry, though I know in my heart they will not come. I’ll miss your garbage trucks, Taiwan.

I’ll miss your cat-ladies, Taiwan. Those delightful damsels selling lemonade in the nightmarkets, calling out to passing pedestrians with feline grace: “Meee-owww.” Nevermind that they may actually be saying “Ni-hao.” They think they sound feminine by speaking that way – by squeaking out greetings two octaves higher than normal. But my friends and I – we know the truth. We even renamed one of their streets: “Mao Mi Jie” – “Cat Alley.” I still hold the all-time purr record – five meow’s in one trip down Cat Alley. I’ll miss your cat-ladies, Taiwan.

I’ll miss your girls on motorbikes, Taiwan. My, oh my, how I longed to have a girl ride on the back of my motorbike when I first arrived. Everywhere I looked there were girls on motorbikes. My seat felt so empty. My extra helmet hung off the handlebars with dejection. I was so lonely. At last, I convinced a girl to ride on the back of my motorbike. “Just for ten minutes!” I had pleaded. I pulled up to the first red light and slowly lowered my shades, looking left and then right at the drivers around me. “Oh yea…” I had said to myself while revving the engine and flexing my biceps. I’ll miss your girls on motorbikes, Taiwan.

I’ll miss your trashcan raiders, Taiwan. Those sneaky buggers who stand around the train station pretending to be reading the newspaper when they’re really watching you. Oh, how sneaky they are! They converge the minute you drop that little plastic bag of garbage into the trashcan. If you look carefully out of the corner of your eye, you’ll see them digging and searching for their treasure; but the instant you turn around, of course, they’re reading their newspapers. I never did ask them what makes plastic trashbags so special. But I played along with their game, sometimes depositing my garbage in the bin only to remove it quickly and move on to another location. I’ll miss your trashcan raiders, Taiwan.

I’ll miss your stoplights, Taiwan. Those ingenious devices which seem to bring traffic to a standstill every time the waves are good and I’m in a hurry to beat high tide. Particularly the rural ones, which, for some reason, are always spaced less than a hundred feet apart. My favorites are the stoplights which only stop cars in two directions because there’s not actually an intersecting street. Safety first – I understand. But what I’ll really miss is plowing through those red lights without the slightest bit of guilt. Your own drivers tend to slink by, pretending they’re just pulling off the road (even though everyone knows they’re not) before speeding away at the last moment. I, on the other hand, have always just gone straight through your red lights at full speed. I’ll miss your stoplights, Taiwan.

I’ll miss your manners, Taiwan. Smiling at someone you’d love to punch in the face. Telling the driver who just ran over your foot “No problem – it’s really nothing.” Pretending you want to pay a dinner bill that you couldn’t afford in a million years. What will I do without your manners? I like it when people present things to me ceremoniously, using both hands. I enjoy being treated like royalty in restaurants, not having to pump my own gas at the service station. I need people to bow to me, dagnabbit! I’ll miss your manners, Taiwan.

“Golden Dragon + Little Tiger = Big Trouble”

The following is told from the point of my view of my little brother Harrison, a sixteen-year-old shaggy-haired, pink polo-wearing hooligan who agreed to visit me in Taiwan so he could miss a week of school. It is based on both my recollection of his visit and his personal account, recorded in a journal which he has graciously decided to share after making me wait for a number of weeks. But better late than never, I suppose, particularly in the case of slackers of his stature. The excerpts from his journal included in this narrative were all translated into intelligible English (by myself), though hopefully his voice still comes through.

Day 1:

I’m on the plane somewhere between Detroit and Japan. We have been flying forever! I just ate some chicken. I want to go to sleep, but Dad said I have to write this stupid journal, so I’d better write some more. Nah, I’ll do it later.

Day 1, Later:

I took a nap, and when I woke up they brought me some more chicken. It wasn’t as good as the first time. Then, I watched three movies in a row. I figured we must be getting close, so I just asked the stewardess how much longer. She said we’re only halfway there!! I can’t believe nobody told me Taiwan was so far away, man!

Day 2:

Man, I didn’t think that flight would ever end! Finally, we arrived in Japan, and I changed planes there. I tried to find some food in the airport, but all they had was rice. And chicken. The next flight was shorter, but it was weird because I was like the only white person on it. [I wonder if my brother will tell me that I should say Caucasian instead of white. Oh well, who cares.] I was sitting next to a hot Chinese girl – or Taiwanese, or whatever – and I tried to talk to her but didn’t have much luck. I did impress her by saying hello in Chinese. But I couldn’t think of much else to say after that since she didn’t speak English. Anyway, now I’m in Taiwan with Alex, and it’s late at night. Alex and Jackson, our friend, picked me up at the airport even though I got in pretty late. I was tired, but everything was so crazy and different that I felt really awake. There are scooters and motorcycles everywhere… I mean everywhere – like, I mean, it is seriously crazy. I’m at Alex’s apartment now, in some city called Danshui or something. It’s pretty cool and you can see the mountains lit up with lights across the river. But unfortunately he only has one bed and I have to sleep on the floor tonight. We’ve agreed to take turns sleeping in the bed. He’ll probably try to trick me somehow, but he knows I can take him, so I’m not worried.

Day 3:

Man, we did a bunch of stuff today. First, we got dressed and went out to a little café near Alex’s apartment. I think he usually eats breakfast there. Anyway, he ordered these awesome little dumpling things called xiao long bao or something, and they were amazing! I want to eat those like everyday! After that, he showed me around town and drove me on his motorcycle to the boardwalk area, which is pretty cool. It’s on the river and has lots of shops and restaurants and stuff. I bought an ice cream cone that was seriously like 2 feet tall, no joke. About half of it fell out of the cone, though, and Alex got really mad at me because I didn’t want to clean it up. I mean, yea, it was a pretty big mess right in the middle of the boardwalk, but it’s not like it never rains in Taiwan, right? I found some cool shops that sold really big knives and stuff like that, but Alex wouldn’t let me buy anything dangerous. I’ll probably sneak back later and get something. After we looked around for awhile, Alex took me to a foot-massage place. Apparently, foot massages are really popular in China and Taiwan. Alex said he’d heard it was kind of painful, but this was his first time too, so he didn’t really know. I was like “I dunno, man” but he said I had to try it because it’s a part of the culture, you know. Man, it was crazy! These dudes with canes (Alex told me afterwards they were all blind, I never really thought about it) made me sit down in a big chair and prop up my feet. Then they started pushing on all these pressure points in my feet and asking me stuff in Chinese. Alex was busy talking to a bunch of other people in Chinese and I was just like “Ahhhh, not so hard!” But of course no one understood me so I just sat there squirming around in pain and not really knowing what was going on. Finally, it ended and I got out of that place asap. Next, Alex drove me up to some really sweet mountain roads that didn’t have much traffic. They’re real narrow and weave through rice paddies that are way up above the river. The cool part is that I got to drive! Of course, Alex was afraid to ride with me, but it was still pretty chill and I got going pretty fast a few times. I went back and forth on the same little stretch of road a bunch of times, and the farmers were all just like staring at me. I’d like to drive the motorcycle in town, but I don’t really want to die – it’s definitely scarier than I expected. This evening, Alex and I rode the MRT subway into Taipei, where we met Jackson and his family. Today is Thanksgiving in America, and they wanted to take us out for a nice dinner. We went to this awesome restaurant that had everything from a complete assortment of sushi and sashimi to pasta and steaks. It was like an endless buffet. Plus they had this sweet little chocolate fountain that you could dip fruit into. I really liked that.

Day 4:

We got up pretty early today so we could go surfing. That is, of course, after eating more of those xiao long bao things at the breakfast place. Anyway, the waves were frickin’ huge! Alex took me to one of his favorite reef breaks, and it was just nuts. It was my first time surfing over a reef, and, well… yea, I was pretty scared. I only ended up taking a couple waves, but hopefully next time I’ll feel more comfortable. A couple times I got caught inside and was pretty freaked out. There’s a huge cliff that the waves eventually break against, so if you keep getting pushed in, there’s nowhere to go. You’d just like, get hammered against the cliff and drown. I did watch Alex surf for a long time from the top of the cliff. He’s gotten a lot better since the last time I surfed with him. I wish I could take 8 months off to surf some of the best waves in the world. I mean, give me a break, he’d better be pretty good after all this. What a chump. Anyway, after surfing we went home and changed and then met up with Alex’s girlfriend – Quan –and her twin sister – Xiao Tao – for dinner. That’s right, Alex has a girlfriend, can you believe that? Nope, I couldn’t either, but I think it’s for real. Anyway, she’s hot as [salami] (edited). When I heard she had a twin sister, I was like, “What!? You gotta hook me up man.” So we had dinner together – Alex ordered 50 dumplings just for the two of us – he’s frickin’ crazy – and then we all went down to the boardwalk together. Quan doesn’t speak that much English and Xiao Tao is afraid to try (even though I think she can), so it was a little awkward, but Alex tried to keep a conversation going using Chinese and a little English. They call me Xiao Hu – which means “Little Tiger” – and always giggle and tell me how “ke’ai” I am, which I think means “cute.” There’s some deal about the Little Tiger and the Golden Dragon (my brother), but I don’t really get it – some Chinese thing. Oh, and apparently Quan’s name means “doughnut,” and her sister’s means “peach” or something, but, again, I don’t really understand.

Day 5:

We had to wake up early again today because Jackson and his mom were coming to pick us up and take us to a village in the mountains. I was running late, and Alex got kind of mad, but I think everything calmed down after we bought some xiao long bao for breakfast. The village was called Yingge I think, and it’s famous for its pottery. So, one of the first things we did was make our own pottery, which was pretty fun. I made a vase, and Alex helped me write the Chinese character for “Love” on it. I’m going to give it to Xiao Tao and see if I have any luck. We also did a lot of shopping and played this really fun mini-basketball game. It’s cool because all over Taiwan they have the same exact mini-basketball game with the same rules. So you can keep practicing no matter where you are. I’m hoping to make it to Round 3 by the end of the trip. Anyway, we had a great lunch with the Changs in Yingge and then they took us back to Taipei this evening. They were so nice that they even took us out to dinner. It was my first time eating a real traditional Chinese meal, so I felt kind of weird just sharing all the food with everyone and reaching across the table with my chopsticks. Alex seemed pretty used to it, so I guess it just takes time. After that, Alex and I went to a theatre, where we watched a Chinese puppet show and a Beijing Opera. Chinese puppet shows have been around for like hundreds or thousands of years or something, so I guess it’s kind of a big deal. But it actually was pretty cool; the performers did some really amazing stuff like making the puppets blow fire and have swordfights and bounce things on their heads and stuff. I mean, you’ve gotta remember that the performer is doing like five different, really complicated things with just one hand. After the puppet show there was an intermission, and we got to meet the performers and take pictures with some hot girls all dressed up in costumes who were going to be in the opera. The opera itself was cool too with a bunch of swordfighting and stuff. Beijing Opera is really famous, and the performers have to start training when they’re only like 13 or 14 just to have a chance to be in a show one day. I hadn’t really been looking forward to the shows – I mean, I wouldn’t have to think very hard to come up with something I’d rather be doing – but, in the end, it was actually pretty cool.

Day 6:

We slept in today, which was nice, and then went out to the beach for some more surfing. This time, we surfed a beach break instead of the reef break, so I was a lot more comfortable. The waves were perfect – like head-high and really playful – and I surfed practically all day. There was a surf competition going on too, so that was pretty cool. Alex was a little annoyed that he wasn’t allowed to compete (they told him it was only for amateurs and that he’d been surfing for too long) because there were some really nice prizes, but I’m pretty sure he enjoyed just surfing for fun. Plus, he hurt himself pretty bad on the way out to the beach. We were trying to carry both of our boards at the same time on his motorcycle, and one of them got wedged between the handlebars. Alex couldn’t turn, and we went into a slide. Fortunately, I was able to jump off the back (so I was fine), but he went down with the bike pretty hard and slid along the road. It was kind of funny afterwards, because he was bleeding everywhere and I told him he needed to go in and get some help, but he got real mad and said he was going to go check the waves at the next break (where we’d been heading) no matter what and he didn’t care whether he was hurt. So he drove off really fast, trailing blood all over the road, to look at the waves. Apparently, there weren’t any because he came back pretty soon after that and started washing out the cut in his foot with water. The cut was really deep, like almost to the bone, and it had little pieces of asphalt all in it, but he had his first aid kit and has taken lots of medical classes and stuff, so he knew what to do. We surfed until it was dark and then went to the surf contest awards banquet, which was being held at a nearby seafood restaurant. There was a bunch of mystery food on the table, but it was all pretty good. I learned how to suck the juice out of shrimp heads, too. Once the banquet got going, I didn’t know what was going on (Chinese is such a crazy language!), but Alex’s friend ended up winning first place and everyone was pretty happy. Then, I snuck off and got Alex’s friend to drive me home in his car because it was raining ridiculously hard – I mean, you couldn’t see more than like 10 feet – and I didn’t really feel like riding home on the back of Alex’s motorcycle. I was laughing so hard as I watched him put on his poncho and walk out into the downpour from the inside of the car.

Day 7:

It was still raining today, so we didn’t do as much. We had a hotpot lunch with the girls, which was pretty fun. Hotpot is this crazy style of food where you choose different meats and vegetables and stuff and then cook them yourself in a boiling pot of soup with lots of spices. They also had free ice cream, so I was really happy. We spent the rest of the day with girls, just hanging out and having fun in town. I also tried duck blood and stinky tofu (which smells even worse than it sounds – it literally has to rot for like 3 days before it’s “ready”). It was good to rest a bit after all the surfing.

Day 8:

Alex was still tired, so I got up by myself and managed to take a bus from a nearby stop to the bus station. There, I met Quan and we rode a second bus out to the beach. I surfed the beach break for awhile with one of Alex’s friends, but the waves were really big and choppy, and I got worked pretty hard. Then, someone ran in and said the reef break down the road was starting to go off, so we got ready to leave. Alex came about this time on his motorcycle, and we all surfed the reef break together. The waves were huge and overhead again but perfectly glassy with offshore winds. I was feeling a little less scared this time and definitely got the biggest rides of my life. I also got banged up, though, and now have a bunch of cuts and bruises on my arms and legs. Surfing over reefs is so crazy – I mean, there’s rocks everywhere! Alex had a really close call, too, when he took off on one of the biggest waves of the day. There was someone paddling out in front of him as he went down the line, so he tried to do an air over the guy but lost his balance when he got above the lip. He was probably like 10 or 15 feet right above this guy – with rocks everywhere – and just hanging upside down it seemed. Somehow he came down on his head right next to the guy but nobody got hurt. For dinner tonight, we went with Xiao Tao and Quan to the Shilin Nightmarket, which is like the biggest nightmarket in Taiwan I think. They had everything you could possibly imagine, and there were so many people. I’m still working on Xiao Tao, but she’s a tough egg to crack…

Day 9:

Today was “Cultural Day.” At least, that’s what Alex called it. The waves were gonna be perfect – like double-overhead and glassy – but he said I had to see all this cultural stuff, and today was our last chance. So we got up early and took the subway towards Taipei. First, we took a taxi to the National Palace Museum, which contains the most famous collection of Chinese art in the world. When Chiang Kai Shek and the KMT party fled the communists and moved to Taiwan, they basically stole all the famous artwork and stuff, which is pretty funny actually. They put thousands of pieces of pottery and stuff on ships and brought it over here to Taiwan, and, amazingly, not a single piece was damaged. I’m not really an art buff, of course, but I have to say that it was kind of cool to be looking at stuff that was like thousands of years old. I mean, America is just a little baby compared to China if you’re talking about history. Next we stopped by Alex’s school – the national university – and he showed me the campus. He also took me to see Howard, a security guard at a nearby apartment complex. Over the years, Howard has managed to teach himself English, and Alex says he now regularly quotes Winston Churchill and other people I’ve never heard of. Even crazier, this guy is in the process of writing his own book! Every single day, he sits in his little cubicle and works on his book, which is for Chinese-speakers who want to learn English. Alex edited a section of the book for him, and they became close friends. Alex says this guy represents the spirit of the Taiwanese people or something, and I have to admit that Howard seemed like one of the nicest, most hard-working people I’ve ever met. Our next stop was the Chiang Kai Shek Memorial, a huge structure built to honor Taiwan’s most important historical figure. The memorial takes up several city blocks and is located next to the National Theatre, too. Lots of artists and writers and musicians come to this area to do their work, so it was a nice, relaxing place. At this point, I was getting tired, but Alex said we still had a lot to do. He had a stupid little checklist that he kept pulling out of his pocket to make sure we didn’t forget anything. Ahh, he can be weird sometimes. Anyway, the next thing we did was visit some of his friends from school at a KTV place, which is where you sing karaoke. They were all singing in Chinese, so I felt a little weird, but his friends were nice. We stuck around for a little while and then left to go to our next cultural attraction. Quan met us about this time, and we all went together to Longshan Temple, one of Taiwan’s most famous temples. The temple is built for Daoism, Buddhism, and Confucianism (wow, I feel really smart; Alex keeps quizzing me on this stuff, and I think I might actually remember some of it), and it’s gigantic. There were lots of candles and people praying and stuff; it was actually a really memorable experience. After that, we went to Snake Alley, a nearby nightmarket where you can watch people tame and play with snakes. After they’re finished, of course, you can eat the snakes if you want. We didn’t eat any snakes, but we did see a lot of them. And Alex made some restaurant owner mad when he asked what the little bunny rabbits were for. I think he may have called her a bunny-killer or something, but I’m not sure. After that, Alex and Quan left in a cab to go to some concert downtown. I took a combination of several trains and busses (yea, I’m starting to figure this whole Taiwan thing out, you know) to get back to Danshui, where I met up with Xiao Tao. This was my big opportunity, of course, but unfortunately nothing much happened. We did have a really good time, though, mainly because she likes to play video games almost as much as I do, and Alex’s friend is letting him borrow an X-Box and about 100 different games. I was in heaven…

Day 10:

Alex slept in again since he was out so late last night, and I got up and went surfing on my own. It was kind of rainy, so I didn’t surf that much and spent more time hanging out with one of Alex’s friends, who owns a surfshop at the beach. After that, I went back to Danshui and had a hotpot lunch with Alex and the girls. We spent the afternoon bowling and playing pool at a really cool place near Alex’s apartment, and then we all drove to Fisherman’s Wharf [at least, I think that’s what it’s called – I originally thought it was “Dwarf,” but Alex laughed at me, so I don’t think that was right] for dinner. This is about 10 minutes from Danshui, and, as opposed to being on the river like the boardwalk area, it’s on the ocean – right where the river meets the ocean. There’s this really pretty bridge called the Bridge of Love and lots of good restaurants. We ate at a fancy place with live music and everything, and I had a wonderful roasted duck. We were all pretty sad and spent a few hours just strolling along the water and looking out at the sea. It was hard to believe how fast the trip had gone by. I honestly didn’t want to leave. I don’t say it often, but Alex was right: Taiwan really is a special place. I’m going to miss it so much.

Day 11:

Jackson volunteered to drive me to the airport today, even though we had to leave at 4:00 in the morning. He is just ridiculously nice. And Xiao Tao and Quan even decided to go with me, which I couldn’t believe. They’ve got to be like the nicest girls ever. They even gave me some gifts this morning before I left. Alex is really lucky to know them. Anyway, not much happened I guess, other than that I got to eat at Burger King at the airport, which was the first time I’d eaten American food in a while. Alex made me promise I wouldn’t turn my hat sideways and listen to my ipod while walking through customs like I’d done when I arrived in Taiwan. I don’t really see the big deal, but maybe that’s just me. I’m on the plane now, and I think I’m gonna go crazy this flight is sooooo long! I ate chicken again. I’m pretty sure I’m already tired of airplane food. Oh, and there’s another hot Taiwanese chick sitting next to me. I’ve actually picked up a good bit of Chinese in the last week, so I’ve got my hopes up. Oh snap, she just woke up! I think I’m gonna make my move now. This is Xiao Hu – Little Tiger – signing out.

“A Farewell to the Crew”

Seasons change. Swells come and go. Good times must eventually end. But friendships formed in the water…friendships formed on surfboards – they’re like set waves on an offshore day. They don’t last forever; they too eventually spit you out with amusement… or maybe slam you on the reef if you pulled in too deep. There are no eternal tube-rides. But they’re so special – so extraordinary – that the impact they make on you is indelible in the fullest sense of the word…and it’s most definitely waterproof.

We may surf in different seas. We may ride different waves. But one man’s hurricane is another man’s typhoon, and no matter which way you look at it, you’re going to have waves. So, with this in mind, I raise my glass (of coke) to you guys and say, “To the good times. To the endless ride. To the Baishawan Crew… and may its memory never fade…”

to the CROW: Because of your antics, half the surfing community in Northern Taiwan thinks I’m your son. Little “Junior.” The resemblance is striking, sure, but do you really look that old? Maybe so. Tell a story or two (or three) in my honor, and try to avoid dancing shirtless in the street too often – it frightens the old ladies driving by. Thanks for loaning me your longboard and expanding my surfing experience to include the realm of the “glide” – I never did fix that ding, but I don’t think anyone will notice. Be careful on the reef, and don’t corrupt your kindergarten students with dirty vocab words. I’ll be back one day, and you’d better be ready. I might even buy you a coke if you promise not to drive.

to the CRANE: Eric the Red with a nipple ring. This was one of my very first thoughts upon arriving in Taiwan, thanks to meeting you so quickly. You introduced me to the Crew, you showed me the ropes. You even took me to a “secret spot” …although, with fifty surfers in the water, I suppose it wasn’t really so secret at that point. But regardless, you were always there – offering advice, doing your crane dance, walking the board with style. Best of luck with all your dreams – spread your wings and fly.

to the RHINO: You knew all along I was using you, yet you still treated me like a VIP fan. The way I’d drop your name with a casual shrug in the presence of attractive women – “Yea, we’re pretty tight. I just had dinner with the band the other night…” – it was so wrong. But you always looked down from your star of fame and smiled. Man, it was cool knowing a legend. I’ve still got your autographed, sweat-stained concert towel – I’m never going to wash that thing. You’re on Wikipedia, dude – how hot is that?

“The Currents of Life”

We’re sitting side-by-side on a deserted beach once more, absorbed by the moment, lost in our thoughts. The ocean has become our outlet, a sort of conduit between us that renders speaking unnecessary. The water simultaneously energizes and calms us, and we both feel intensely connected to it – she being a swimmer and I, of course, a surfer. A full moon casts us into a dream-world – suspended between night and day, its future uncertain. Trailing plumes of spray in the wind, waves rear like snow-white stallions taking their final breath and crash down upon the shore with finality. Our tent sits tucked away in a moonlit cove, reminding us that this life is but a sojourn and tomorrow we’ll be gone…

My eyes follow a sparkling river of moonlight to the horizon, and I remember a star-lit night from long ago. I remember a gust of wind, unforeseen. I remember a shiver that changed the world…

Suddenly, I feel the weight of time. I feel the burden of space. We’re lifetimes removed from that little beach in the North, from that star-lit night of ages past. We’ve fled our fate, if only for now. By train, by bus, by foot we escaped. And here on Taiwan’s southernmost tip we’ve found refuge for a week – nearly surrounded by water, hidden in an aquamarine world. Kenting – its name alone conjures images of paradise. Of a palm-fringed planet with turquoise seas. Sultry, sunshine-filled days. Waves that define perfection. I don’t want any of it to end.

“This is the burden I bear. This is the life I’ve chosen,” I tell myself. My eyes focus on the horizon once more as the sparkling river of moonlight in front of me again draws me in. I can feel its pull. I can feel its power. I’m paddling furiously against its current, trying to stay in place, though I know I’ll soon be swept away. “Alas, it is the Romantic’s destiny to feel the pain and ecstasy of an enchambered soul, a blessed curse that separates him from this world yet allows him to explore, to imagine, to dream.” I know I can’t stay. I know I must leave her.

My life has become a voyage with many new beginnings yet without any end – a journey with rest stops yet without a final destination. To see, to experience, to learn – this is my fuel… this is what drives me. This is what keeps me going, even when it hurts. With every stop on my journey, I lose a part of myself – I leave something behind. The beauty tears at me; there’s simply too much of it to remain unscathed. A mountain-peak soaring upwards into wispy clouds. A glassy wave curling upon itself over an offshore reef. A starry-eyed girl with wind-swept hair taking my hand in hers and offering her heart in return. But it’s my own heart which I suddenly take note of. I can feel it being torn – torn to pieces by the beauty. My burden has grown heavy before, but never like this. I’ll be leaving behind a piece of my heart this time, heaving it into the sea with abandon – with catharsis. Where the currents of life shall take it I do not know.

"Globetrotting '06" In the Bookstore?!

2007-01-01T05:02:00.000+02:00

Believe it or not, this is much closer to reality than you might have guessed. …Than I might have guessed, even. As I explained in my introduction to this blog – and have reiterated since – I write primarily for myself and not for others. I write so that I can capture and hold onto my most extraordinary memories, some of which, sadly, may otherwise fade with time. But what exactly is a writer without any readers, I wonder? I have been quite surprised by the number of people who have read at least part, if not all, of this blog; and I have been even more surprised by the feedback they’ve given me. To my astonishment, multiple readers have urged me to publish this blog in book-form; in fact, the strongest encouragement actually came from a couple individuals already highly involved in the publishing industry. So, what else is there to say? You can’t get enough of “Globetrotting ‘06”? Buy your own copy, and you can fall asleep with it every night! More detailed information will be posted in the near future about how you can get your copy, but – for now – look for these upcoming posts:

1. A link to my last batch of pictures, once they have been uploaded to Webshots
2. My final post about Taiwan
3. A short conclusion to my epic

Following this, much of the blog will be taken down in preparation for publication in February. Again, details about this will be posted soon. Until then, enjoy my movie (which includes a promotional segment on the book, whose working title is currently STOKED ON LIFE), have a wonderful holiday season, and cherish these last few weeks in the life of “Globetrotting ’06.”

A Christmas Surprise

2007-01-01T04:57:00.000+02:00

Well, I promised you a “special surprise,” and here it is. Over the last couple months, I’ve been working on my first-ever movie – that’s right, “Globetrotting ’06” has taken to the big screen! The final product - LOSING FACE - is about 13 minutes long and combines photos and video from many of my adventures over the past 8 months, with particular focus on the surfing. I will apologize in advance – I lost a lot of video quality when I uploaded to the internet due to file size restrictions. A DVD-quality version is available; if watching that is an option (ie. you live near me) and you’re interested, just let me know – it makes a huge difference. Either way, enjoy the show!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o3awreES7Cs

The Ancient Golden Dragon Takes Taiwan By Storm

2006-11-05T14:29:00.001+02:00

“This is Formosa”

Warm, tropical, aquamarine seas. Breathtaking, mile-high seaside cliffs. The tallest mountains to be found anywhere in Asia outside the Himalayas. A surfing location so ideal that typhoons face week-long waiting lists before they’re even allowed to visit the island with gifts of swell and long, barreling waves for their kind hosts: the beach, point, and reef breaks of the North Shore. This is Taiwan.

The finest and, very possibly, the most affordable assortment of Asian cuisine to be found anywhere on the planet. A deep-rooted commitment to welcoming visitors with displays of kindness and generosity so unrivaled as to be considered institutions in themselves. A fascinating, hybrid culture in which East meets West and the result is simply spectacular. This is Taiwan.

Ornate, dream-like temples perched on cloud-kissing mountain precipices; state-of-the-art, record-breaking skyscrapers towering over the second most densely populated sprawl in the world. Traditional teahouses tucked away in tranquil back-alleys; glitzy Starbuck’s springing up at every major intersection. A pace of life matched only by high-speed public transportation, super-savvy computer users and the latest in technology, and a convenience store on every corner; indigenous tribes still subsisting off the land and sea and relying on centuries-old tools and techniques. Pollution so horrific that surgical masks are a standard fashion accessory; pristine wilderness so widespread that 58% of the country is covered by forest, 20% is protected by the national park system, and over 1,000 plant species can be found here and nowhere else. This is Taiwan.

A people without a nation yet nevertheless full of energy, full of pride, full of life. A land suspended between tradition and modernity, between the ways of the old world and those of the new, yet nevertheless forging ahead to the tachycardic beat of twenty-two and a half million hearts. A place so unique, so special, so unlike any other I’ve ever visited, that using complete sentences to describe it would be simply too conventional. This is Taiwan. This is Ihla Formosa. This is “The Beautiful Island.”

“200 cm ≠ 200 inches”

To follow up on my earlier recommendation that surfers try, whenever possible, to fly Air France (no extra fees for surfboards!), I’d like to recommend that they avoid Northwest at all costs. The one exception would be if the said surfers are also comedians or screenwriters and happen to be looking for new material:

[Alex approaches the ticket counter with all his documents in hand and his rolling boardboag in tow]
Agent: [eying the boardbag with a malicious grin on his face] Ooh, you’re gonna haf ta pay fer that one, boy…
Alex: [slightly taken aback] Yes, I believe the extra charge, according to your website, is $75.
Agent: [after weighing the boardbag] Haha, ‘fraid not sir, that’s gonna cost ya at least $400.
Alex: [shocked] Excuse me!? I think you need to consult your company’s website.
Agent: [after typing on his keyboard for at least 5 minutes] I’m ‘fraid that’s just how it is, sir. Says right here that baggage as heavy as yours can’t be taken on domestic flights. See, I’m bein’ nice just allowin’ ya to take it.
Alex: What!? First of all, I already told you I’m flying to Taiwan. That’s not domestic. Secondly, you’re looking in the wrong place. Try clicking where it says “Surfboards.”
Agent: [after clicking on “Surfboards” and taking another 5 minutes to read his computer screen] Yep, yep, I see here where it says $75… “regardless of weight” … but yours is just too heavy, see, and I’m gonna haf ta charge ya fer it.
Alex: I’m afraid that’s not your decision, sir. Why don’t you give your superiors a call.
Agent: [feeling challenged] Alrite, Alrite, I can do that…
[proceeds to talk in hushed tones on the phone for approximately 20 minutes]
I know that’s what it says, but this dang surfboard is heavy I tell ya!
[long pause and then more hushed wispers]
Alrite, alrite…[hangs up the phone]
Alex: [looking at watch] Excuse me sir, but I’m really going to miss my flight….
Agent: [with a blank stare] I know you are…
Alex: Can you please just charge me the extra $75 and let me go on my way?
Agent: ‘Fraid not, we’re gonna have to figure this out.
Alex: What is there to figure out!? Your company has a policy on this!
Agent: [excitedly, having just thought of a new idea] I know what we’re gonna do. I’m gonna go get me my tape measure. Accordin’ ta my computer, if this here surfboard is more than 109 inches, it’s an extra fee fer ya ta pay, mister.
Alex [quickly doing the math in his head] It’s not over 109 inches.
Agent: Well, that’s what ya tell me, but I’m gonna see for myself, alrite?
[saunters casually down the aisle to find his tape measure and returns about 5 minutes later]
Agent: [having measured the boardbag] Ahah! This here surfboard is more than 200 inches! Oh, I’m gonna get ya fer this one!
Alex [momentarily baffled] What!?...
Alex [amused, having inspected the tape measure] Um, sir, you just measured in centimenters.
Agent: [haughtily] That’s right. You’re over 109. You’re gonna pay!
Alex: No, the limit was 109 inches. 200 centimeters is less than 109 inches!
Agent: Nope, ‘fraid 200 is more than 109.
Alex: [becoming perturbed] Centimeters, do you understand? It’s not too long!
Agent: [beginning to doubt his reasoning] I’m gonna haf ta discuss dis matta with my col-leagues…
[saunters down the aisle exactly as before, converses with another agent for several minutes, and then slowly makes his way back]
Agent: It a-ppears… that yer surfboard ain’t too long.
Alex: [rather annoyed at this point and looking back at the long line of people waiting anxiously behind him] Sir, I really think you better let me go.
Agent: [appearing to be thinking deeply] How ‘bout this… We’ll just say ya got two surfboards in there, and I’ll charge ya for that…let’s see, $75 times 2…that would be…
Alex: [wondering what the agent would do if he looked inside the boardbag and found that there were actually four boards inside] That’d be $150. Here’s my credit card. Now please let me go.
Agent: [speaking slowly, wondering if he has somehow been duped] Alrite, alrite, I’ll let ya go. But I got yer information right here, and I’m gonna do me some more research on this. I’m not gonna let it go just yet.
Alex: [pocketing his boarding pass and turning to go] Yea, you do that…

“Around the World in 8 Months…Twice”

After a brief stopover in Japan, my plane at last touched down at Chiang Kai Shek International Airport in Taiwan, bringing my air mileage since April to approximately 33,480 miles (the circumference of the earth is 24,900 miles) and my continent count to 5 (if you take the liberty of lumping French Polynesia in with Australia…I mean it’s gotta go somewhere, right?). Long-time readers may remember from my “Adventures in China and Taiwan ’05” blog the absolutely wonderful Chang family, whom I consider to be some of the nicest – if not the nicest – people in the world. Well, they struck again this year, and my first few days in Taiwan were an unending lesson in generosity. My good friend Jackson picked me up at the airport in the middle of the night, hauled me and my crazy boardbag (with four, not two boards inside!) an hour and half into town, and helped me settle into a hotel with all my luggage. The next day, he and his mom helped me begin the search for an apartment so I would be able to settle in as soon as possible. I had done quite a bit of research before I came and had pretty much settled on a general area where I wanted to live, but I never could have achieved alone the kind of slam-dunk success we were able to have working together. In one day, we had driven all the way to the north coast, toured apartments and eventually chosen one, settled on the terms of the lease, written up a contract, paid the rent in-full, arranged to have high-speed internet installed, and completely furnished the place. On day two, I awoke with a vicious case of jet-lag, gathered all my luggage together, and once again loaded up Jackson’s car for the trip north, this time to move into my new place for good. Before we could leave the hotel, though, several employees, having finally gotten up enough courage to ask, timidly inquired as to what might be inside the 8-foot-long monstrosity I had left sitting in the middle of the hotel lobby (as I was told to do) for everyone to gawk at. The most common guess seemed to be some type of boat, which I suppose is closer to the truth than the guesses I heard during my Senegal trip – most of which involved some sort of weapon or missile. If it’s possible for a boardboag to be personified, then I think it must rank as one of the most important characters in my story.

“First Impressions”

It’s always interesting to reexamine first impressions, particularly when they pertain to your new home:

hey mom and dad,
just wanted to let you cool cats know i've made it to taipei okay. jackson met me at the airport and everything, which was great. then, yesterday (my first full day here), he and his mom spent the whole day with me, and we actually found an apartment. they said i got really lucky; they expected it to take a week or so. it's in a brand new building (which is good not only bc/ of its appearance but also bc/ of fire and earthquake standards) in danshui (the place i told you about) which wasn't even available until yesterday. it's in the area of danshui's university (which has over 17,000 students), so mainly students live in the building, which is nice because it should allow me to have a group of friends at that school as well as at Shi Da (NTNU) in downtown Taipei. plus, i'm one of the only foreigners anywhere in the entire area, so it's no english for me! it's a small studio apt. with a TV, refrigerator, etc and is furnished. high speed internet, air conditioning, indoor parking garage (i'm probably getting a motorcycle), security guard, locked entrance (w/ swipe card) to the grounds, laundry facilities, rooftop sitting area. my place is on the top floor (7th) with a view of the mountains. 5-10 minute scooter ride to the MRT subway, then 35 minutes (no need to change trains, and, bc/ danshui is the end of the line, i'll always get a seat) to downtown where NTNU is. 5 minutes from the water; 20-25 minutes to good surfing breaks; 10 minutes to acres and acres of hiking/running trails, hot springs, and mountains in Yangmingshan National Park. danshui itself is a nice place, much more relaxed than downtown taipei but still full of energy, bustling food markets, etc. the large student population gives it a nice feel too, and there's plenty of restaurants and stuff around my apt. there's also a river/ocean-front boardwalk/Old Town area lined with food stalls.

the computer people come on Monday to set up my internet. i'll probably send you another email sometime after that's finished. until then, i'm just trying to get settled in, beat jet lag, resurrect what knowledge of chinese i used to possess, and prepare for a busy sur...ehem, i mean studying schedule. okay talk to you soon, love
alex

“Self-Esteem”

Things were going well. They really were. I was starting to get my bearings. Enjoying the food. Meeting people. Then…then, there was the test. Having waited until the last day of the registration period to finally visit the school where I would be studying (I had been having conflicts with my surfing schedule), I showed up just in time to fill out the required forms, take a brief oral exam, and select a class. The school is National Taiwan Normal University, also known as NTNU or Shi-Da, and is the second most prestigious school in all of Taiwan, the first for students studying to be teachers (which is what the “Normal” means, of course); so I was bit surprised when I found that not a single person in the entire registration area could speak anything close to fluent English. In fact, I don’t think I saw a single non-Asian person anywhere in the room. Nevertheless, I squeaked out some Chinese and made my way station-to-station, filling out forms. The oral exam lady seemed to have heard all she needed to hear when I told her I’d studied Chinese at a university for two years at fives hours a week. I guess it didn’t occur to her that Americans, particularly those in the Southeast, don’t typically have a lot of opportunities to practice Chinese; studying for five hours a week in America is quite different than doing it in an Asian country. She signed me up tentatively for an advanced class and told me when to return for my written placement exam. I was a bit annoyed that I was going to have to take a 2 hour placement exam but was feeling pretty decent about my Chinese, so I spent the next few hours reviewing my old materials and psyching myself up to ace this test. Well, the time came, and I sat down to begin working. Um, yea… Let’s just say that by the tenth question, I couldn’t even spell self-esteem. After cursing my way through the vocabulary (“Why can’t it just be matching?”), oral (“Another!?”), and grammar (“Just choose the one that looks the most complicated”) sections, I arrived at the reading section, which constituted a whopping 40% of the exam. Even if I had known more than 20% of the words, it would have taken me days just to translate the five pages of hieroglyphics that were so small my dad wouldn’t have been able to see them with his glasses on…not to mention answer each paragraph-long question (in Chinese, of course). So, without a second thought, I folded up my exam, gave a confident “Oh, yea, baby, I aced it” nod to the other students taking the test, handed it to the proctor, and headed for freedom. And the dénouement, you’re wondering? My self-esteem wavered between the pits and the garbage for the next few weeks, until one day when, mid-conversation, I was asked by an astonished professor, “You took that test!? That’s the most difficult one we offer!”

“A Red-Headed Chinese Person?”

So, admittedly, I have been known to tell a certain, slightly controversial joke to my good friends, who understand that it’s a completely good-natured, innocuous attempt at humor. It goes something along the lines of, “Yea, I’m a hardboiled egg…[feign seriousness]…yep, white on the outside, yellow on the inside…” Unfortunately, this joke doesn’t translate well into Chinese, so my typical response to the near-daily question of “Oh, how long are you staying in Taiwan?” is “What? I live here! I’m Taiwanese.” No, that one doesn’t usually work either, but it does exemplify a certain mindset I’ve come to take during this segment of my globetrotting. Relative to your typical tourist – who backpacks through Europe, spending a few days in each country, or hibernates in a Jamaican or Hawaiian resort for a week – I almost always travel on a more long-term basis. Whether I’m living with local families or backpacking solo, I try to learn as much as I can about the local culture, integrating myself into it in the process. But in Taiwan I want to go a step farther. I really do want to become a red-headed Chinese person.

Perhaps this is a good time to explain the title of this blog entry: “The Ancient Golden Dragon Takes Taiwan by Storm.” I am the Golden Dragon. I am the Ancient Golden Dragon. Hear my name and bow before me. Why? Ok, so you think there’s nothing much to a name, right? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet, right? Not in Taiwan. Names are very important in Chinese culture because every Chinese character (every symbol) has a meaning. Therefore, unlike an English name such as Alex, for example, which has no obvious meaning in and of itself, all Chinese names (which are typically comprised of 3 characters, the surname being the first one) have a meaning; this meaning is, in fact, equally or perhaps more important than the sound of the name itself. Thus, obtaining an authentic, appropriate, and hopefully memorable Chinese name is the first step to becoming a Chinese person. I began with the sad, sad, oh-so-sad name of 古艾利, pronounced Gu Aili, which was bestowed upon me without my consent at the beginning of my studies of Chinese. According to my translation, this name means “Ancient Profitable Mugwort.” Yes, “Mugwort”… the weed. Not surprisingly, locals I met in China last year typically appeared puzzled, amused, or both after they heard my name. Fortunately, the family I lived with there helped me to acquire a new name and, thereby, a new identity. With their help, I selected… 古金龙，Gu Jinlong… a classical, an authentic, and – to the people who know – a very powerful name. Best of all, this name holds great meaning: “Ancient Golden Dragon.” Since Chinese-speaking people call “red” hair “golden” hair, the deal was sealed – a simple “…because I have golden hair…see? [playful grin]” follow-up explanation after introducing myself, and the ice is always broken immediately. More importantly, the girls find the golden-hair/golden-dragon “coincidence” charming and delightful. What can I say? Could you resist the Ancient Golden Dragon?

Back to becoming a red-headed Chinese person. The mindset I’ve adopted here in Taiwan centers around doing everything the “local” way. In the past, I’ve made strong efforts to do things this way, but I’ve never been forced to. If I committed a social gaffe and strained my relationship with a local shop owner or never bothered to figure out the local bus system or ended up having to rely on a third-party friend to communicate through a difficult-to-explain problem, it didn’t really matter; I would be leaving in a few more weeks and wouldn’t see the shop owner again, wouldn’t need to use that bus system any longer, and wouldn’t have to bother my friend a second time. But I’m not just visiting Taiwan, I’m really living here for awhile. And, for that reason, I’m going about my daily life as if I planned to live here permanently. I’m developing strong relationships with the locals, supporting the local businesses and getting to know their owners, learning not just how to get from Point A to Point B but also the “shortcut way” from Point A to Point B. I own my own means of transportation, I have a landlord, I have a local cell phone plan, I have bills to take care of, I speak the local language regularly, and I take care of my passport and visa issues with the police on my own. A lot of my American friends are surprised when I tell them these things. They ask, “What program are you doing?” and I always respond, not really sure of what to say, “I’m not doing a ‘program.’ I’m just studying abroad, at another university.” That’s how it should be, I think. I’m not trying to take anything away from study abroad “programs,” but how “abroad” are you really if you’re with a group of students exactly like you – if not from your own university than from one just like it – in a safe, supervised, and structured environment? Undoubtedly, you’re experiencing new things but always with someone holding your hand. That was never what I wanted, and I’m very happy with the amount of freedom I have here. Not only was there no one at NTNU to help me find housing or a motorcycle, to show me how to get around, or to help me renew my visa, but I’d go so far as to venture that, on most days, there’s not even anyone in NTNU’s main office who speaks fluent English. I’m really on my own out here. And I love it.

One final point. Not only have I been trying to do everything the “local” way but also I’ve been trying to do everything the “hard” way. What does this mean? I’m in a part of the city I don’t know, and I need to travel several miles. Empty taxis are waiting in a long line next to me; a bus stop sign displaying at least twenty different numbers, in various colors, stands in front of me. My Chinese is obviously good enough that I would have no problem hopping into a taxi and simply telling the driver my destination. But I choose the hard way. I study the bus route map, hail down the one I think I need to take, dash through traffic to board it, make myself look stupid by trying to pay when I get on instead of waiting until I get off, cringe as the eyes of everyone on the bus bore into my back with curiosity as I sit staring out the window, and finally realize that I’ve gotten on the wrong bus altogether and am heading in the opposite direction I want be going in. Then, I balance in the aisle trying to explain my mistake to the bus driver as he swerves through traffic, attempt to make sense of the directions he gives me in supersonic Chinese, get off the bus – this time forgetting to pay – reboard the bus embarrassed and flustered only to find that my swipe card isn’t working and I don’t have correct change, and finally head off in search of a new bus station. The hard way brings with it anxiety, embarrassment, frequent sweaty palms and headaches… but it also yields extraordinary rewards. The next time I need to travel that route, not only will I be to identify one bus as not the one to take but I’ll remember to wait until I’m getting off to pay, I’ll have correct change, and I won’t feel quite as nervous talking to a bus driver in the middle of rush hour traffic. It’s a slow process, integrating oneself into the local culture. But, for me, it’s the only way. It’s the only way to prove that you truly respect the local people and their customs. It’s the only way to earn their respect. It’s the only way to really learn. The other day, I received in the mail a water bill for my apartment. It totaled a whopping 3.50 USD (I don’t really like to shower, haha), and – get this – like almost all bills in Taiwan, it can be paid in cash at the nearest convenience store (they’re so far ahead of us technologically)! I was so tempted to just walk across the street, pay the bill, and be done with it; but I couldn’t make myself do it. According to our contract, the water bill is supposed to be paid by my landlord. So I took a few deep breaths, wiped the sweat off my palms, and called up my landlord – who speaks no English whatsoever – for the first time. He didn’t remember who I was at first, not even when I explained that I was “the American living in Danshui.” At last, he remembered. Then, I had to figure out how to explain the situation – which required some fairly advanced vocabulary – without offending him or making him think I was upset that I had received the bill. Before I knew it, he was apologizing for the mixup and explaining that he’d be right over to pick up the bill and take care of the whole matter. I had done it. Just as any Chinese-speaking person would have done it. Only…I had done it with red hair.

“Road Rage”

“What’s the most dangerous thing you’ve ever done?” I’m often asked. “Skydiving?” “Bungee jumping?” “Surfing Teahupoo?” Well, I used to think these things were bold and death-defying. I’d mention off-handedly, “Yea…I’ve surfed Teahupoo…” and wait for the girls to flock to me. But, now, I scoff at these sissy sports. I’ve driven a motorcycle through rush hour traffic in the second most densely populated city in the world. Beat that.

Northern Taiwan – and Taipei, in particular – is a claustrophobic person’s worst nightmare. Traffic, pedestrians, and commotion everywhere. The Taiwanese are always in a hurry; they’re always on the move. Taipei has barely been around for a century, and its residents are anxious to make up for lost time. Their answer to the traffic problem? Scooters. Scooters, scooters, and more scooters. Taiwan has more scooters per capita than any other country in the world. Anxious to be more Chinese, of course, I had to buy a scooter. And this is how my “Road Rage” began…

I should clarify: scooters and motorcycles fall under the more general category of motorbikes – bikes with engines. Scooters have smaller engines; motorcycles have larger ones. The bike I ended up purchasing I call a motorcycle for several reasons. First, because if I say “scooter,” most of you will imagine a dinky little 25 cc Vespa for cruising Italy or a little moped for puttering around Bermuda. My bike has a very nice 125 cc engine. In the US, you’re required to pass a motorcycle test and have a motorcycle license to own a bike over 50cc. (Technically, that means my International Driver’s License isn’t really valid here, but I’ll get to the subject of legality later). Secondly, the engine on my bike has been tweaked and modified by some very knowledgeable mechanics. What this means is that it’s capable of exceeding 85-90 mph. Interestingly, I didn’t realize this at first because the speedometer is in kilometers per hour and I was underestimating the conversion. When I finally converted the speeds I’d been traveling at, I was just kind of like “Whoa…cool.”

I found my motorcycle online and ended up buying it from the Canadian who had posted the advertisement, thereby perpetuating the life of yet another “foreigner’s bike.” Here’s how the process works. A foreigner living in Taiwan who already possesses his national identity card buys a bike. He uses it throughout his time in Taiwan but eventually decides to return home and, obviously, wants to sell the bike. He comes across another foreigner, this one not yet possessing a national identity card (and therefore unable to buy any kind of motorbike). Feeling a bit sorry for his compatriot, he sells the bike to him and passes on the registration materials that were made out in his name. The bike has now become an illegal “foreigner’s bike.” When this new owner of the bike decides to leave Taiwan, he has only one option as far as selling it: another foreigner without a national identity card (who else would buy an illegal bike?). And thus the cycle continues until the bike has been passed down generation to generation, still retaining its original, outdated registration information. This is how I came to own an illegal motorcycle (with illegal registration papers), which I drive with an illegal license. But I’m still not quite ready to go into the laws of the road…

I had my super-modified, totally pimped-out ride. But was I content? Of course not. The main reason I wanted a motorcycle in the first place was to give me a way to hit up the coast and go surfing. But can I really weave through traffic at 85 mph with a surfboard under my arm? I think not. This is where the surfboard rack attachment comes in. After much research and investigation, I made contact with a mechanic/welder in Xizhi who could build a surfboard rack on the side of my bike for me. Unfortunately, Xizhi is over an hour and a half away – totally on the other side of the city – and requires driving through the downtown area to get there. At the time I was preparing to drive to Xizhi, I had only driven a motorcycle for two days – and strictly on uncrowded roads. I was repeatedly pressing the horn when I intended to press the indicator button, was having trouble making a u-turn without veering off the road, and was still occasionally hitting the gas when my mind was saying “Brake!” To complicate things further, the mechanic in Xizhi spoke not a word of English and couldn’t give me very detailed directions. Nevertheless, I set out one day on my bike, head bent over the handlebars, trying desperately to hold a straight line in the far-right lane as traffic sped by me. After only six or seven u-turns, a few phone calls, several map consultations, and more close-calls than I’d like to remember, I found myself at the mechanic’s shop in Xizhi. My mind was immediately put at ease when I saw three surfboards mounted on the wall inside the shop; the mechanic’s sketch of what he was planning to build showed me that he knew exactly what I wanted. A few hours later, my ride was more pimped than ever. I mean, I was stylin’! Only problem: it was now 5:30 PM – rush hour. I was still considering the mechanic’s parting words “Be careful! (as he examined how far the surfboard rack jutted out)” when – not five minutes since I’d left the shop – a scooter pulled off the sidewalk and veered into the traffic, the driver not once checking behind her (yes, it was a female driver…need I elaborate?). I immediately swerved to my left – a pretty good reaction, actually – and this allowed most of my bike to get around her. However, the surfboard rack didn’t quite make it, and it just barely clipped the front of her bike. Some plastic came flying off, and we both screeched to a stop. I went into conniving-mode right away. The accident was absolutely, in no way my fault whatsoever, and there was no way I was going to get duped into paying for damages or anything. Most importantly, though, I could not allow the police to be called in, as this would mean my registration papers being examined and possibly my getting into big trouble. So, what did I do? First, I took off my helmet as quickly as possible to show off that brilliant golden hair that only a foreigner could have. Then, “Ohhh, I’m sooo sorry. No, no, I don’t understaaaand. I’m so sorry. [lots of stupid-looking hand gestures] No, you hit me. I’m sooorry. [big grin and continued hand gestures] Nooo, no Chinese! No understandy! I’m so sorry!” You want to know the rules of the road in Taiwan? This is the rule of the road. When in doubt, don’t speak Chinese. The lady finally gave up trying to make me understand that she wanted money and drove off. “Well, getting into my first accident sure didn’t take long. Wish I could have this kind of luck with everything…” is all I could think as I drove off as well.

So, “Road Rage.” Yep, driving in Taiwan is absolutely nuts. I’ve come a long way from those first days and am now a pretty confident (though no less nervous) driver. I’m much better at anticipating the stupid things that Taiwanese drivers do on a regular basis, so I usually have more time to react. Example one: anytime a driver is on the sidewalk and pulling into traffic (into your lane), get out of their way. They will not look. Ever. Example two: Your light is green. Expect someone to run the red light on the intersecting street. Red and green both mean “go” in Taiwan. Example three: You’re driving down the road when, suddenly, you see someone driving directly towards you. No, you’re not crazy. Driving against the traffic is perfectly acceptable in Taiwan. You’re expected to turn either left or right and get out of that person’s way. Seriously, driving in Taiwan is the most dangerous thing I’ve ever done. I’ve had so many close calls. Close calls on motorcycles means inches. Centimeters. Really close. One of Taiwan’s top surfers, an American my age, died just last year in a motorcycle accident. Driving here is something I take very, very seriously.

At the same time, though, driving a motorcycle is one of the coolest things I’ve ever done. Almost everyday, before or after class (or sometimes during!), I strap on my backpack, load my surfboard into the rack, and race out of town towards the coast. I have two options – the coastal road and the mountain road – both of which are much, much less crowded than the insane streets of Taipei. This means, especially at off-hours, that I can really test that modified engine – if you know what I mean – leaning into turns and flying through the countryside. There’s one stretch of coastal road that’s way up on a cliff next to several gigantic windmills. I will forever have etched into my memory images of cruising that stretch of road at 85 mph – wind howling in my face; windmills whirling on one side; a gorgeous, tropical blue ocean far beneath me on the other – breathing the fresh air, studying a breaking wave out of the corner of my eye, and cruising, cruising, just cruising into a brilliant golden sunset. The accelerator turned as far as it will go, maxed out, full throttle…living on the edge, living fully, living within a blur of passion and energy. Living at terminal velocity. And enjoying every minute of it.

“Introducing… ‘The Baishawan Crew’”

Even if you know me only through this blog, you have undoubtedly come to realize by this time that I’m a lone-wolf kind of guy. I consider myself a soloist when it comes to adventure, travel, and exploration and carry out most of my extreme antics alone. In Taiwan, however, I have reneged ever so slightly on my commitment to solo adventure. Perhaps my impetus was knowing that I’d get the inside scoop on all the secret-spot surf breaks. Perhaps it was the small bit of rationality still left in me, keeping me alive against all odds. Or perhaps it was my secret desire to be like Bodhi, the quintessential surf figure from Point Break (one of the greatest movies ever). Most likely, though, I reneged on my commitment for the simple reason that I met a group of likeable, interesting, and – most of all – highly eccentric surfers who never allow life to become dull. That’s right, I’m now part of a Taiwanese surf crew. Introducing… THE BAISHAWAN CREW:

* ****** "*-***" *********; a.k.a. THE CROW: A 250+ lb monster by Taiwanese standards, clearly looking the part of the U.S. Marine he used to be. Lays claim to no single place as “home,” having traveled all over the world for most of his life. Speaks a number of languages, including Chinese, Taiwanese, Thai, and Japanese. Served as a Marine officer in East Africa, where he survived direct-hit bullet wounds. Previously a university professor, singer, and actor. Found his niche in the movie world as a gun-toting villain and worked with Steven Seagal multiple times. Currently runs an English language school and owns the beachside coffee shop “My Café,” home-base for the Baishawan Crew. Listen to him talk for five minutes, and you’ll understand why he’s called The Crow.

* Kenn “Q-mo” Loewen; a.k.a. THE CRANE: Like The Crow, a monstrosity of unconventionality compared to the native Taiwanese. At 6’6” with long, curly red hair and a nipple ring, he has little trouble bargaining with local vendors. A free-spirited individual who traded in his previous life in Canada as a marketing analyst for an outdoor gear company for the life of an English teacher and surf instructor in Taiwan. Helped to develop – and now implements – an IQ test hailed as a more practical alternative to many traditional ones. Also uses his background in art to manufacture his own line of skimboards. Watching him noseride his longboard with that clearly identifiable, crane-like posture only he can demonstrate, it’s not hard to see how he got his nickname.

* Dino “Da-li” Zavolta; a.k.a. THE RHINO: Long time drummer for the world-renowned band “Wu Bai and China Blue,” considered the most famous rock group in Asia. When not recording a new album, filming a music video, or playing in Taipei, he lives the life of the rock star-on-tour, playing for stadium-size crowds in China, Hong Kong, Singapore, Japan, Malaysia, USA, Australia, and Canada. A native Southern California bodyboarder, he powers through the water with rhino-like legs to catch waves with ease and has even been known to pull into a barrel or two.

* And then there’s me, the Golden Dragon. Based on my earlier self-acclaim, one would think that “Golden Dragon” should certainly do as a nickname. It was decided, however, that, being half the age of the oldest member of the crew, I needed something slightly different; and thus I became known as JUNIOR.

Surf crews are all the same. The “Strapped Crew” in Maui (Laird Hamilton’s group), the “Mavericks Crew” in California, the “Ex-Presidents” in Point Break (you have seen this movie, right? Keanu Reeves and Patrick Swayze as adrenaline junkies… surfing, skydiving, and bank robbing…do plots get any better?)…they all share certain characteristics. First, crew members typically have a nickname which says something about them. The Mavericks crew has “Flea,” for example; as his fellow crew member explains, “He’s a little guy who drops in on really big waves…he’s a flea.” Clearly, the Baishawan Crew has not hesitated to concoct very telling nicknames. Secondly, surf crews are typically at the top of the hierarchy at their local break. For instance, Bodhi (Patrick Swayze) and cohorts don’t hesitate to keep things in line at their break, and they’re both respected and somewhat feared for this. Likewise, the Baishawan Crew pretty much runs Baishawan Beach. We dictate where people are allowed to surf and whether they’re welcomed into the local scene and invited up to the café or given the cold shoulder. We also save more lives than the lifeguards themselves (who do little more than take an occasional stroll down to the water’s edge to retrieve their dogs’ frisbees), which is really saying something considering how dangerous a beach Baishawan is (an average of 8 people die there every summer). Lastly, surf crews illustrate a unique attribute of the sport of surfing – something that is often referred to as its “tribal” nature. Surfers around the world form a closely-knit group, like a tribe, regardless of whether we know each other or whether we have anything in common besides surfing. The simple love of waveriding is so powerful that it’s enough to unite us. Because of this, surfing with friends seems – to me – uncommonly natural compared to engaging other sports with friends. Surfing solo brings with it certain amazing experiences and feelings that you just can’t have if you’re with others – and, for this reason, I still do it often – but, at the same time, surfing with friends creates a certain variation of stoke that you just can’t feel alone. Like two completely different forms of music – each beautiful in its own way – surfing alone and surfing with friends are truly distinct experiences from one another, yet both are infinitely satisfying. The “surf crew” as a recurring archetype in surfing culture clearly illustrates this. Each surfer is his own individual, catching waves for his own pleasure and no one else’s; at the same time, though, his stoke combines with that of his friends’ to form a bizarre, seemingly amplified stoke which permeates the water and becomes as powerful as the liquid energy from which it was born. Oh, sorry, I forgot; members of surf crews also tend to use the word stoke frequently.

So, back to my highly unlikely decision to join a surf crew. Here’s how it played out. Being my typical self, I was spending an inordinate amount of time online researching extreme sports possibilities in Taiwan before I came here. I traced one lead to some Canadian living in Danshui and claiming to be a surf instructor of all things (“I thought all they did was play hockey!”)…the Crane. A few days after I arrived, the Crane took me out for my first session in northern Taiwan, and, afterwards, we stopped by “My Café” and he introduced me to the Crow. The Crow then introduced me to the Rhino. Following that, we took an end-of-summer (metaphorically, at least…it’s always 85 degrees here) road trip to the east coast. Though the waves weren’t stellar, we had fun, and the guys decided that the crew could probably benefit from the additional females surely to be drawn in by adding to it a “hot young shortboard-ripper” (I’m not going to argue with that one). Additionally, they came to the conclusion that I am absolutely, without-a-doubt destined to be the next consulate or head of the embassy (called the AIT for political reasons) here in Taiwan…and that certainly could work to their advantage. So, before I knew it, I’d received my honorary nickname and was heading out to “My Café” for daily surf sessions. The café is the perfect homebase – it’s located not fifty meters from the water with a perfect view of the whole Baishawan (which translates to “White Sand Bay”) coastline, features a surround-sound stereo system for pre-surf pump-up music, has a shower and water hose, is home to a rag-tag crew of awesome dogs (including Barney, Dooby, Halley, and all the rest), and lays claim to the best mango smoothie this side of Keelung. Additionally, its only employee happens to be a charming twenty-one-year-old Taiwanese girl named Quan. Sorry, that’s all the details you get about that… Next-door is the seafood restaurant where we traditionally have lunch after surfing, and two doors down is Baishawan’s surfshop, owned by one of the coolest and most stylin’ surfers in Taiwan, A-Shi. Watch him surf, and you’ll know why we call him AC – cooler than an air conditioner. Last but not least, there’s Coolie, who is perpetuating the “slacker” image surfers have to fight by taking three attempts to finish his Master’s thesis at Tai-Da. I should note, however, that Tai-Da is the most prestigious school in Taiwan and that Coolie is not only of the country’s top students but also one of the nicest surfers on the North Shore.

The last thing I should mention (actually, I probably shouldn’t mention it, depending on who is reading this) in my introduction to the Baishawan Crew is “Surf Day.” That’s right, every Tuesday is officially Surf Day. The Crow doesn’t work until the evening, and the Crane and The Rhino have the day off. I, of course, don’t have the day off, but that doesn’t stop me. See, the first thing I figured out when I arrived in Taiwan was how much class I’m allowed to skip. After reading all the fine print and consulting several sources I concluded that I’m allowed to miss 10 hours of class a month. That means that I can miss one day of class a week, plus two days in one week once every month. Thus, taking Tuesday’s off to surf is no problem! What? Homework? Tests? What does my teacher think? Not a problem! My teacher happens to agree with my philosophy that, provided I do the work and earn the grades, I’m entitled, as a mature, responsible adult (sometimes), to make my own choices. I fully believe that, should I skip class on a test day, I deserve a zero; should I fail to turn in homework for the day I skipped, I deserve a zero; should my grades suffer as a result of skipping, I don’t deserve a curve. That’s always been what I’ve believed, and that’s why, since middle school, I’ve skipped class whenever I’ve felt like it. I do have to be careful here in Taiwan, though. If I miss more than ten hours of class in one month (and they do keep a very detailed record), I am immediately kicked out of the country by the government. So, let’s assume (just hypothetically…), that right now, since it’s the end of October, I’ve already missed my ten hours. That means I absolutely cannot get sick until November 1st. Scary thought considering my track record! The government also gives me the boot if my grades drop below 60%, but – knock on wood – that hasn’t been a problem yet. So, for now, Surf Day remains a weekly tradition. The Crow, The Crane, The Rhino…and Junior…ripping it up – Baishawan style.

“Blowin’ Chunks” [Caution: slightly graphic material ahead]

Getting sick is a fundamental part of world travel. New foods, new smells, new daily routines, new strains of viruses. No matter how hard you try, it really just can’t be avoided. And when it happens, you feel more alone than ever – with no one to take care of you and nowhere to go where you’ll feel truly safe – and all you really want to do is cry for your mommy. Getting sick in foreign countries is definitely not fun. Blowin’ chunks in foreign countries is even less fun. But, in the end, you usually survive, and you roll out of bed to find that the world hasn’t stopped, the sun is still shining, and you will indeed live to see another day. You feel strong, victorious – almost reborn. And then there are the stories. The ones that are as funny as they were once frightening. And they’re always best told in the vernacular:

hey wassup bro. yea I’ve been kinda sick. check this out, here’s how it went down… so i was riding home on my motorcycle from the beach and knew i was gonna blow chunks but thought i could make it home first right? well there's this one section of the highway where you can't pull over and there's lots of traffic. i was like whatever you do, don't get sick there! well, of course, minute i get there i know it's gonna go down. plus, keep in mind that i wear a full face helmet with visor. so it's REALLY not gonna be pretty! [you're laughing now, right?] so, i'm like trying to tug my helmet off as i drive through all this traffic but can't get it off right, and i'm getting all freaked out and thinking if i blow chunks inside this helmet and on my face i'm just gonna go ahead and crash my bike intentionally bc/ i'll be better off that way. but i can't get it off, so i rev and i'm goin like 90 mph trying to get past this section where you can't pull over. finally make it, swerve off the road, tear off my helmet, and just blow everywhere with like 20 cars lined up at a red light and watching me. hahahahahahahahah. i really hope that made you laugh. it's a good story i guess…

“You’re a Student?! I Thought You Were Just a Surfer!”

Let’s see, what did I bring to Taiwan to use during my study abroad experience here? Well, for starters, 4 surfboards (6’0” shortboard, 6’4” Simon Anderson pintail mini-gun, 6’8” epoxy, 7’3” funboard), extra leashes, an extra sets of fins, a wetsuit, wetsuit accessories (definitely not necessary), reef booties, super glue (for reef cuts), boardshorts and rashguards, a ding repair kit, a boardbag, and lots of wax (both the “tropical” and “warm water” varieties). That’s enough to set most people off: “You brought what?!” But I also brought rock climbing gear; SCUBA gear; backpacking and camping gear (including freezedried food and a backcountry stove); water purification systems; 2 Camelbac’s; running apparel and shoes; hiking boots; navigational equipment; and a variety of state-of-the-art, synthetic outdoor wear. If this were all you knew about me, would you assume I came to Taiwan to study?

Unfortunately, I did, and I do. Class two hours a day, Monday to Friday. Well, okay, not including Tuesdays. Two hours a day might not seem like much, but it’s important to remember that I’m speaking Chinese virtually around-the-clock here and I’m surrounded by Chinese culture the minute I step out the door each morning (on second thought, before that even; curse those construction crews building a new high-rise next door!). Further, if I were at W&L, I’d be taking only 3 hours of Chinese class per week, and, more importantly, it would be English-based. Class here is faced-paced, intense, and entirely in Chinese.

I started out in an advanced class called “Xinwen”; its focus: enabling students to read a Chinese newspaper and to understand Chinese news broadcasts. It was the perfect class – extremely practical and highly interesting – and I was (am) in love with the teacher (that’s another story); but it proved to be simply too frustrating. Much of the class was devoted to repetition, so the teacher would spout out complicated, sometimes paragraph-long sentences, and then we would take turns repeating individually what she had said word-for-word. What frequently happened is that I would not understand several or many of the words she used and thus would not really grasp the meaning of the sentence. Therefore, when I began repeating the sentence, I had absolutely no memory aid (not even meaning – the most fundamental of all) on which to rely. Imagine yourself in this position, albeit a condensed version of the one in which I often found myself – someone recites the following sounds to you with rapid-fire speed: “cha women gen mai benlai ta pang ban chang ching qin tu bobo relie canting wan mei baba gubo sanshi xuangzhang ni kan yixiar.” These sounds obviously have no meaning to you. Next, you’re told to repeat them back sound-by-sound; everyone in the class is staring at you attentively. Your mind races back to the beginning of the sentence and you remember “cha women gen mai…,” and then it goes blank. Yea, sounds scary, right? The only thing I haven’t told you is that each of those sounds has one of 5 different tones (variations in pitch); you also have to register and remember the tone of every single one of those sounds or what you say will take on a meaning completely different from its original one. My test grades in the Xinwen class were decent, but I just became too frustrated with the difficulty I was having with day-to-day in-class conversation and drills. Additionally, though I obviously enjoy being around people of other nationalities and backgrounds (and often actually prefer this over being around people like me), the fact that the overwhelming majority of students studying Chinese at NTNU are Asian proved to be rather problematic. Native Japanese speakers are already capable of reading and grasping the general meaning of written Chinese. A Filipino whose parents were born in Taiwan and regularly speak Chinese is going to have much less trouble understanding tones than an American who has never listened to a tonal language in his life. Even the occasional American I do come across at NTNU… almost always huaqiao, “overseas Chinese people,” simply trying to reconnect with their roots and better understand the language they hear their grandparents speak everyday. My point: the playing fields are unequal. An Asian student who says he speaks “intermediate” Chinese is not going to speak the same level of Chinese as an “intermediate” level Caucasian. The way of thinking is completely different, the culture is completely different, even the brain structure – I would so venture (as an ex-neuroscience major) – is completely different. Needless to say, I became extremely frustrated and discouraged. The teacher noticed this (was my daily scowl a give-a-way?) and told me that, though I was doing fine and was welcome to continue with the Xinwen class, I might be happier and more comfortable in a less advanced one. Thus, I began my search for a new class.

The one I ended up in (after a very long and tedious search) and am still in today is perfect. It’s an intermediate level class with no specific focus – covering vocabulary dealing with everything from international business to environmental protection to dating. The teacher – Chen Laoshi – is apparently one of the top professors at the school and has authored one of its textbooks. Her teaching style is very laid-back and casual, and much of the class revolves around conversation not directly related to the textbook. I’m constantly picking up new useful words and expressions and multitask among scribbling a barely legible mix of Chinese, English, and pinyin in my notebook; looking up words; and trying to follow the fast-paced and often joke-laden conversations we have. I also bought a Palm Pilot and installed on it special Chinese language software called PlecoDict that I found online. I can’t even begin to explain how much this has helped me. The software allows me to write any character I want on the Palm with my stylus and then receive instant feedback with the definition, pronunciation, and uses. I will discuss the difficulties of Chinese later (in a section filled with far more hatred, disgust, and self-pity), but for now, I’ll just mention that to look up a single Chinese word in the dictionary takes me an average of 7 minutes; furthermore, about 20% of the words I attempt to look up, I never find. Yea, now you see why PlecoDict has changed my life. This tool literally has the ability to revolutionize the way students learn Chinese – if I had owned it when I began studying, my Chinese would be several levels higher. And, no, I’m not getting paid to plug this company; it’s seriously just that good. Interestingly, I'm not the only one who has figured this out. Matt Worley, a fellow victim of the inadequacies of Chinese pedagogy, came to the conclusion that he could do better and has decided to put his MBA to use. He recently started a school, the Chinese Language Institute in Beijing (http://www.1monthchinese.com/About_Us.html), that provides every student with a Palm and the Plecodict software and whose curriculum is actually based around these tools. I wouldn’t be surprised if my frustrated self ends up there one day! Back to my new class, though… Perhaps the most interesting part of it is that I am – for better or worse – most definitely the center of attention. As in my first class, I’m the only non-Asian student. While several nationalities are represented by the six other students (Korea, Japan, and the Philippines), the fact that I’m an American definitely makes me stick out (big surprise, right?). Just as I know more about Mexico and Canada than I do about most Asian countries, the Asian students in my class are already very familiar with their neighboring countries’ cultures; they want to know about mine! So, with almost every topic that arises in our daily conversations, the end result always seems to be “And America…? What about in America? [all eyes turn to me]” Not surprisingly, then, I have ample opportunity to practice my Chinese in class. Explaining subtle cultural differences, controversial political views, and complicated social norms has proven to be one of the most challenging things I’ve encountered in my language studies, and my speaking ability has increased tremendously as a result. Perhaps even more interesting, though, is the fact that I’ve come to represent to the other 6 students and the teacher the “typical American.” Yes, they now believe that the “typical American” prefers sleeping outside to sleeping indoors, likes to hurl himself out of airplanes and off bridges and cliffs, speaks 4 languages, reads Nietzsche in his spare time, doesn’t drink alcohol, and is actually interested in the rest of the world. Um, yea, can you say “deluded”? …The students’ – and especially the teacher’s – most obsessive interest in me, however, actually concerns my “extreme lifestyle.” Ever since they learned what I brought to Taiwan, they have asked me daily, “Will you be going surfing today? Skydiving? Mountain climbing?” Then there are the follow-up questions: “But isn’t the water too cold? Will you go fast? What if you fall?” We often discuss my adventures for a good portion of the class period. I spent almost an entire hour of classtime one day trying to explain why off-shore winds are the most favorable for surfing. Knowing that I skip class regularly to surf, the teacher has come to conclude that American students, though they may be successful, prefer to put “play” on-par-with – if not ahead of – “work.” Once, when we were discussing the high suicide rate among Asian students applying to college – a rather somber subject actually – the teacher suddenly turned to me, paused for a moment with a mischievous grin, and announced to the class, “And then there are the Americans…”

“After-School Activities”

While much of my non-academic life revolves around surfing, of course, a good portion of it is dedicated also to seeing the sights, experiencing the local culture, and – well – just goofing off with friends. Fortunately, I’ve gotten to know several absolutely wonderful people at NTNU, with whom I’ve now shared many memorable experiences. There’s Johnny, a Filipino who speaks at least 5 languages fluently, is destined to become CEO of a major hotel chain, and is as committed to his weightlifting as I am to surfing; Jocelyn, a feisty Singaporean with whom I at first got off to a rough start (she annoyed me by telling the “Xinwen” teacher she was already capable of reading a Chinese newspaper and just needed to fulfill a few more university credits; I annoyed her by asking why the Singaporean police cut off your hands if you litter) but have since become her “well-sculpted, polite young man with great dance moves” (or maybe she was describing someone else…); Kaori, whom I could accurately represent by taking one of those colorful little bouncy-balls that you win in arcades, writing “Cute” and “Made in Japan” all over it, and tossing it into the air while waving both hands at the same time and saying “bye-bye!”; and the ever-popular Thai, Li Jun, who has been ignoring me since I disregarded her daily pleas and went ahead and had my hair cut (function before fashion, sorry ladies). Like the Baishawan Crew, we constitute a motley bunch, overcoming cultural and language differences (bridging even the occasionally difficult Sinaporean-English/American-English divide) to learn about one another’s homes, backgrounds, and life plans. Along the way, we also manage to have way too much fun…

Daily Lunches – I accuse everyone of discrimination against America because they make me eat Asian food every single day and refuse to go to Subway; then, I realize that the choice between Asian food and Subway isn’t really a choice at all, and I lead the debate over whether to visit our favorite Chinese, Taiwanese, Thai, Korean, Cantonese, or Japanese restaurants. Jocelyn makes a comment in English that I find completely incomprehensible, and I ask her if she’s speaking English or Chinese; she proceeds to whack me. Li Jun sees some of her other friends and apologetically ditches us. Johnny and I crack inappropriate jokes in Chinese; fortunately, Kaori doesn’t get the double-entendre. After lunch I buy my first of two fresh-fruit smoothies for the day; the girls ask me for at least the third time of the week how I can possibly not get diarrhea from drinking so many smoothies. Johnny starts laughing for no apparent reason.

Danshui – The girls and some of their other friends join me for a night in Danshui and a ferry-ride across the river to the town of Bali. I laugh at the “Dumb and Dumber” style mini-motorbikes Taiwanese adults are riding around the boardwalk area, but no one else seems to find them amusing. Jocelyn introduces me to the word bimbotic (apparently the adjectival form of bimbo). I drink my third smoothie of the day.

KTV (trip #1) – Kaori almost has a heart-attack when she learns that I’ve never been karaoke-singing at a KTV club; then she actually does have one when I tell her that KTV doesn’t exist in America. I arrive at Partyworld in Ximen (one of the ritziest districts of Taipei) to be escorted to our private room on the twelfth floor by two “attendants” in tuxedos. They bow to me approximately every 8 seconds, refuse to walk ahead of me or look me directly in the eyes, and continuously ask if there’s anything they can do for me. Once in our suite, I’m pretty impressed by the elegant sofa, surround-sound setup, fancy decorations, and private bathroom; but I opt to inspect first the gourmet menu and place a quick food order using our in-room phone. Kaori and Jocelyn are already singing a duet, and it doesn’t take me long to realize that karaoke in the West is definitely not the same as karaoke in Asia. These girls are not drunk, are not acting stupid, and are singing so beautifully that I’m not positive if it’s really them or a recording. I am eventually persuaded to sing a couple songs, including the classic Chinese love-song “Yueliang Daibiao Wo De Xin” (“The Moon Represents My Heart”). Jocelyn tells me “Good attempt,” and I go back to eating my banana split and dim sum.

Tai-Da and Political Rally – The motley bunch makes it way to Tai-Da, Taiwan’s most prestigious university, for a leisurely stroll through its campus. While in the university library, I am attracted by a large sign saying “No telephones” and displaying a picture of a phone with a red slash through it. I immediately whip out my cellphone and pretend to talk on it in front of the sign as Johnny takes pictures; university security kicks us out within 30 seconds. Our next stop is the presidential palace, a hotspot of activity as political tension has reached its highest level in years and tens of thousands of protestors have been taking to the streets daily (more on this later). I manage to navigate through truckloads of newly arrived barbed wire to shoot several good photos but in doing so attract the attention of an undercover cop; we quickly exit the area. Now at the center of the political rally, I work the scene with my Canon 20D DSLR camera pretending to be a professional photojournalist. The rest of the gang dons symbolically red headbands calling for the resignation of the president, but I opt to stick with the white clothes I’m wearing, citing possible political ramifications for the future.

Baishawan – I convince my cohorts, along with the bubbly Korean Jiangmei, to join me for an afternoon of surfing at Baishawan. Jiangmei is particularly excited, telling me how she’s always wanted to try surfing, and then adding as an after-though, “It doesn’t matter that I can’t swim, does it?” After teaching the newbies Surfing 101 on the sand, I help each of them get their first rides (even Jiangmei, albeit in the shorebreak); there’s definite stokage in the air afterwards.

Sun Yat Sen Memorial Hall and Taipei 101 – We begin at the memorial dedicated to the “Father of Modern China” and the founder of Taiwan, witnessing an elaborate and fascinating changing-of-the-guards ceremony in the main hall. A tourist from Beijing (you could hear his “narrrrr’s” and “yidiarrrrrr’s” from a mile away) proceeds to engage me with a standard 35 second-long “Look at the chimpanzee in its little cage” stare, but Johnny, already aware of my biggest dislike of mainland-Chinese behavior, comes to my rescue and stares the man down until I’m left alone. Now in the vicinity of Taipei 101, the tallest building in the world, we enjoy what has become known as Taiwan’s “Manhattan,” a sparkling new district that just screams “upscale.” After having lunch in what has been called the best Asian food court in the world and catching a movie at the fabulous Warner Center Village, we take a trip to the top of the world. From the 1,676 ft. high observation deck of Taipei 101, we’re treated to a stunningly beautiful nighttime view of Taipei. I’m even more impressed than the others, as I discover that a mere two guards patrol the observation deck; BASE jumping this landmark is highly feasible (wait, did I really just write that on the internet?!).

Liang Jing Ru Concert – Already amused to learn that one of the most famous singers in Asia chose as her English name “Fish Girl,” I prepare myself for a night of cultural barriers, not the least of which is Asians’ love of everything “Pop.” Girly songs, bubbles, excessive animation, the list goes on and on. At one point, Liang Jing Ru invites a little boy and a little girl up onto the stage; they sit on either side of her, each holding a giant artificial flower (one light orange, one pink), and sway back and forth to the beat of the music. That little boy might one day wish guns weren’t illegal in Taiwan… There is one nice perk to listening to pop music, however; you always know in advance what the songs are about. After one song, Jocelyn asks me if I have understood the lyrics; I respond confidently, “Of course I understood… the girl is upset and heartbroken because the boy she has always loved left her for someone else…she’s singing about how she must find a way to move on and perhaps find love again.” Jocelyn is very impressed and exclaims “Wow! You really did understand!” She doesn’t realize, though, that I would have given this same answer for every single song I’ve heard, and I would have been correct probably 95% of the time!

“Face…and Losing Face”

I mentioned earlier that there is a seemingly endless list of social gaffes contained within Chinese culture. Many of these faux pas exist only in Chinese (or perhaps Asian) culture and are not widely known in the West. Because of this, I’ve found adapting to the Chinese/Taiwanese way of life to be quite challenging, even considering the experiences I had last summer. That’s not to say that I often feel uncomfortable or resented in Taiwan – not in the least! – because the Taiwanese are exceptionally welcoming and forgiving. But, as I’ve already indicated, my goal is to be treated the way any normal Taiwanese person would be treated. I don’t want preferential treatment because I’m an ignorant or unaware “foreigner.” Thus, I must think constantly about the dos and don’ts of Chinese culture. Maybe the following pointers (some of which are adapted from Lonely Planet) will help you too one day; at the very least, I bet you’ll glean something from them that you didn’t already know:

- When beckoning to someone, wave them over to you with your palm down, motioning to yourself (yea, it looks really bizarre).
- If a Taiwanese gives you a gift, put it aside to open later to avoid appearing greedy (and don’t be offended if you give someone a gift and they barely take the time to glance at it).
- When someone presents you with a business card, never put it in your wallet and then put the wallet in your back pocket. To do so implies that you want to sit on that person!
- Be very careful of the symbolic implications of color. Writing in red ink, for example, (other than when correcting an exam) implies protest. Gifts that are white can imply death or mourning.
- Don’t give someone a clock. This implies they will die soon.
- Giving someone a handkerchief implies that they will soon have reason to cry.
- Never, ever, hand anyone anything with just one extended hand. Always grasp the object with both hands and present it with a slight bow of the head. This shows that what you are offering is the fullest extent of yourself.
- Never, ever brag about anything. If someone compliments you, do not say “thank you.” Instead, critique yourself and attempt to change the subject (example: “Wow, this dinner you cooked is wonderful!” “Oh, no, no, I’m really a terrible cook…” Seriously.)
- On the same note, flattery=the Chinese way of life. Regardless of what you really think, always compliment people. Even if their English is terrible, tell them it’s wonderful (hey, they tell me my Chinese is great, so I don’t mind reciprocating).
- Smile. Always smile. Even if you’re upset or angry with someone, do not display your true feelings; this is considered a sign of extreme weakness. Instead, smile, and attempt to resolve your differences diplomatically.
- Use back channels. Because face-to-face confrontation is a major no-no, problems are often resolved with third-party intervention, including aunts, uncles, and close friends.
- When eating, hold your bowl of rice close to your mouth and shovel food in with your chopsticks. Place bones on the tablecloth.
- Never refill your own teacup without first refilling everyone else’s.
- Never, ever suggest “going Dutch.” Never, ever allow someone else to pay the bill without first arguing and protesting. Ultimately, the eldest person will typically pay, but everyone else must first pretend to want to pay (it’s a psychological game of sorts).
- Don’t even think about sticking your chopsticks into your rice so that they stick out vertically or near-vertically. It doesn’t get much worse than this. Doing so resembles the incense sticks stuck into ashes by Buddhists and is an omen of death. Always rest your chopsticks horizontally across the rice bowl.
- At a banquet (considered the “apex of the Chinese dining experience” and the primary venue for clinching important business deals), never ask for rice (this is the one time rice is not offered); this would imply that the food provided is insufficient. Do not drink alone; drinking is conducted by frequent toasts. Raise your glass with both hands in the direction of someone, cry “Gan Bei!” (“Dry the Glass!”), and drain your glass in one hit. Do not clink glasses. If the banquet is being held in your honor, you will be applauded as you enter; you should applaud back.

The four fundamental parts of Chinese culture are harmony, flattery, guangxi, and face. China’s history is one of the most ancient in the world and its culture has come about as the result of centuries and centuries of upheaval and change. As a result, harmony – getting along with others for the sake of society as a whole – is a central concept…and hence, the importance of smiling and avoiding confrontation. Likewise, flattery contributes to this notion of unity. Accepting someone’s compliments and thereby allowing yourself to rise above others is out-of-line (though with Western influences, this is perhaps less rigidly defined than in the past); vehement denials are the best response. Guangxi is the art of giving and receiving favors. Chinese culture is grounded in traditional Confucian concepts of tight family and friend networks. Thus, making “contacts” and helping others (so that they will later be obliged to help you) is paramount. Lastly, the most important aspect of Chinese culture: face. Face is the most crucial, and potentially the most frightening, concept a foreigner must understand in order to fit into Chinese or Taiwanese society. Chinese culture is built upon the notions of appearance and façade (smile even if you’re angry, compliment even if you’re unimpressed, criticize yourself even if you don’t mean it); thus, face – as in “face value” – is how things are judged. Acting in a way that makes others feel embarrassed or uncomfortable (or in any way that detracts from the overall sense of harmony) causes you to “lose face,” the ultimate social gaffe. I’ll never forget how I first learned this principle. In my first year of Chinese studies at W&L, I forgot to turn in a weekly homework assignment on the day it was due. I had completed it on time but had simply forgotten to hand it in. When I handed it in the following day, I explained what had happened to the TA, and she immediately responded “Oh, no problem, don’t worry about it.” I took this to mean that no points would be deducted for turning it in late. However, when she returned it to me, I had nevertheless lost a letter grade. Thinking she must have forgotten my situation, I approached her and asked her why she had taken points off. The situation immediately became awkward and I got the sensation that I was doing something wrong. At the time I was like most Americans and didn’t understand how incredibly powerful this idea of face is in Chinese culture. Looking back now, I understand that my TA’s “No problem” response is what she was supposed to say, not really what she meant – in Chinese culture, appearance is everything; truth is often hidden beneath it. Further, I committed a major faux pax by actually confronting the TA – both an elder and a superior (as a teacher) – about her decision; certainly not expecting this, she simply didn’t know how to respond. This anecdote constitutes one of the clearest and most rewarding cultural revelations I’ve ever had and has served as a constant reminder of how I should act when around Chinese, Taiwanese, or perhaps Asian people in general. Learning about other cultures is difficult, time-consuming, and often embarrassing; at the same time, I find it infinitely rewarding. Changing your behavior or mindset to mimic that of another people’s doesn’t mean sacrificing your values or becoming someone you’re not. I will always be American, and I will always have certain innate tendencies and eccentricities which I simply can’t hide. But by stepping into someone else’s shoes for awhile – even for just a moment! – you open the door to so much discovery. The minute I go into “Chinese mode” or “West African/Muslim” mode… “French/islander mode” or “Latin American” mode…I suddenly begin seeing the world from a completely new perspective. I’m not really African, French, or Latin American – not even really Chinese, as much as I hate to admit it – but face value isn’t everything. As Chinese culture teaches, the truth often lies somewhere beneath it all – cloaked in disguise – and discovering it can be as simple as changing your shoes.

“Formosan Wave-Riding”

I’ve already discussed the Baishawan Crew, but I believe a bit more on Formosan wave-riding in general is in order. So, surfing in Taiwan? You’ve never heard of it, right? “They have waves over there?!” The funny thing is that most people ask that question if you tell them you surf anywhere other than California, Hawaii, or Australia. Here’s a little secret: the vast majority of places that touch large bodies of water…have waves. The East Coast has waves. The Great Lakes have waves. Even non-coastal areas that have major rivers have waves (tidal bores). If a place has waves, it can most likely be surfed. The only question is how often the waves come and how long they stick around.

Here’s another secret. Taiwan is an island. A tropical island. Like, not that far from Indonesia. Moreover, it’s smack dab in the middle of the Pacific typhoon alley (NB: typhoons are exactly the same as hurricanes; they’re just called by a different name in the Eastern Hemisphere). During the late summer and fall months, typhoons brush by (or collide with) Taiwan week after week after week. As of press time, Taiwan had already been affected by 19 (yes, nineteen!) typhoons this year (this summer/fall). If you know anything about surfing, you know that typhoons and hurricanes = waves. Big waves. So it really shouldn’t come as a surprise that the surfing in Taiwan is phenomenal. Nevertheless, as human beings, we are lazy, apathetic, and afraid of new things; and thus very few people have bothered to venture to this beautiful island for the purpose of surfing. In February of 2006 Surfing Magazine became the first major publication of which I’m aware to document surfing in Taiwan…I beat them by a full 7 months with my article on http://www.funinchina.blogspot.com/. And the really funny thing? They conclude – completely amazed – that Taiwan has some of the best surfing in the world. Nah, ya think?!

One of the best things about surfing in Taiwan, of course, is that there aren’t very many surfers, so if you’re some foreign surfer reading my blog and thinking of using it to plan your next trip here, you can forget about it. I’m not even going to begin to give away the locations of secret spots or anything. If you want to find them, learn Chinese, get to know the locals, and venture out. I will tell you this much: the coastline is still completely unexplored, and there are literally limitless possibilities for surfing world-class waves with not another soul in sight. If that’s not enough impetus for you, then stick to Huntington.

With the constant barrage of typhoons, the surf is consistently large. Sometimes too large for most, in fact (I said most, not all, haha). The one variable, however, is that with the typhoons comes lots and lots of wind. Here on the North Coast, it’s typically onshore, which can turn overhead perfection into a stormy, choppy deathtrap. Baishawan, my home break, has some of the nastiest rips I’ve ever encountered. During one of my first weeks here, I paddled out in huge double-overhead, choppy surf at Baishawan only to get dragged back and forth across the bay in several different rip currents. Just as it was getting dark and I was planning to come in, I got sucked directly out several hundred meters and just pinned in a sort of “hole.” It was a complicated scenario with several rips converging in this one spot, and no matter how hard I paddled I just couldn’t get out of it. With darkness descending quickly and not a single person on the beach (not that they could have seen me or even done anything if they had), I started to panic. I’ve become pretty good at keeping my cool in extremely hairy situations, so when I say I was starting to panic, I mean I was really scared. Fortunately, an outside wave eventually came along and I was just barely able to fight the current long enough to catch it. It was probably the biggest closeout I’ve ever ridden, and I just raced it straight towards the beach, a deafening freight train of whitewater bearing down on my heels. It eventually overtook me and held me down for quite some time, but by then I had moved out of the rip current “hole” and gotten closer to the beach. A new rip grabbed me, though, and before I knew it was headed horizontally across the bay at what seemed like about 20 mph and directly towards the rocks. I angled across the rip and paddled like crazy, not working my way out of this rip until I was a mere 10 meters or so from the rocks, which were being bombarded with huge waves. By this time it was completely dark and I paddled in shaken and stunned, fortunate to have escaped one of the heavier experiences of my surfing career.

We do get glassy, clean conditions, as well – most often in the early morning when 99.9% of the surfers here are asleep. Thus, I’ve made it a sort of tradition to camp out at least once a week at the beach and wake up around 5:00 for the dawn patrol session. Since I don’t live that far from the beach, I also wake up in the early morning darkness sometimes and drive out for my solo session. Yes, it’s always solo, because no else ever cares enough to wake up for the waves. That’s probably my conclusion about the local surfers – yes, there actually are local surfers. In the past couple years, surfing has started to take hold in Taiwan, and now quite a few locals call themselves surfers. The important thing to note, though, is that many of them are far more interested in wearing surf-company clothes, being part of a “surf club,” and hanging out at the beach than actually surfing. That’s not to say that there aren’t good local surfers. A-Shi is one of the most stylin’ longboarders I’ve ever seen, Coolie is always up for a session, and there’s this old guy…get this – this older guy who rides a wooden longboard – and he’s probably one of the most stoked surfers I’ve ever seen. He reminds me so much of the Tahitians. He doesn’t care about the clothes or the hype or the rest of the bs that’s somehow become a part of surfing as most people know it – he’s out there surfing just because he loves it. We always exchange huge smiles when we see each other in the water, because we share this mutual understanding. For lack of a better word, it’s all about the stoke – and words just aren’t necessary.

So, with most of the local surfers being…well, let’s just say that your typical Californian surfer would undoubtedly call them “kooks” (until I’m on the pro tour, I’m not calling anyone a kook)…an interesting contradiction comes into play. When I first arrived in Taiwan this year, it was the end of summer (Taiwan’s flattest months as far as waves), and the more popular North Shore beaches were absolutely packed. Packed with…yes, the “k” word. I’m talking about a hundred people on longboards and funboards paddling for the same 2 inch ripple not ten feet from the beach and all of the ones who actually know how to paddle standing up at the same time and then collapsing in a single heap in the shorebreak. Oh, and, not that it matters, but the style, oh the style! The lack of style, I should say. In Taiwanese culture, being tan is a bad thing. The paler a woman is, the more beautiful she supposedly is (yea – really proves that beauty is in the eye of the beholder). So, even when the temperature is topping 100 degrees and the water temperature is in the upper 80s (I’m not kidding, one day it was so hot I had to repeatedly dive to the bottom to cool off), your typical Taiwanese surfer is wearing a wetsuit. I swear I saw one lady – on a 100+ degree day – wearing a full wetsuit (black); wetsuit booties (black); green boardshorts (over the wetsuit); a pink rashguard (over the wetsuit), pink gloves; sunglasses; and an orange, wide-brimmed hat. The truth is I really don’t care what you wear to surf and I would never call this lady a kook just because of what she was wearing, but this is very likely the most hilarious thing I’ve ever seen on a beach in my entire life. Anyway, despite the absurd conditions when I arrived, everything changed once typhoon season arrived and the waves got bigger. Once the waves reach chest-high or so, everyone literally disappears. The local surfers who “sort-of” know what they are doing tell everyone “Dangerous! Dangerous!” and the Taiwanese – ever afraid of the water (the vast majority can’t swim) – flee back to the city. And, thus, I get the waves all to myself. I’ve also become known as “The Crazy Man” to a number of local surfers because I paddle out pretty much regardless of the conditions. Sometimes the conditions really are dangerous (see above story), but often we’re talking about semi-choppy head-high surf and I’m just like “C’mon guys, do you want to improve or not?” Surfing has the slowest learning curve of any sport in existence (think about it…depending on the conditions, I may only be able to get 3 waves in a single 2 hour session – for a combined surfing time of maybe 12 seconds at best. If you were trying to learn how to play golf and your instructor handed you a bag of balls and said, “Here, you have 12 seconds to learn as much as you can,” do you think you’d improve very quickly?”), and if you want to get better, you have to commit yourself fully. I just don’t understand how so many of these locals are content to stick with longboarding/funboarding and just paddle out into the shorebreak (if they paddle out at all) any time the waves top chest-high. It makes me kind of angry, actually, but who I am to judge others? Ultimately, I always end up just focusing on myself, paddling out, and giving it my all regardless of what the rest of the koo…I mean, surfers are doing.

Baishawan Left, Secret, Baishwan Middle Peak, Arches, Fisherman’s Point, Birth Control Beach, Mary’s Beach, Straight-a-Ways, Jinshan the Point, Qianshuiwan, Baishwan the Point, Jinshan Middle Peak, Jinshan 2, Canting, Chaofan, Activity Center, Atomic, Xiao Yeliu, Green Bay, Spacewalk…there are so many options on the North Shore. Several of these places have been surfed by no one in history besides me (and, if you couldn’t have guessed, a lot of these names are my own creations, as well). No one else knows where they are, either. One of the greatest parts of surfing, in my opinion, is the quest – the quest for waves. Whether it’s wandering through downtown Dakar in the African desert searching for a taxi or riding my motorcycle through rice paddies and tiny coastal villages in Taiwan, the quest for waves is what it’s all about. I’ve also started using the latest in technology to aid me, utilizing satellite photography to study the details of the northern coastline of Taiwan, offshore buoys to monitor changes in swell and wind, and a variety of wave and surf forecasting tools for fisherman and boatmen. The end result – approximately 5 days of surfing a week with enough stoke to get me through my two rest/study days.

“Why Chinese is the Hardest Frickin’ Language in the World” [Caution: Extensive Whining Ahead]

As I mentioned earlier, there was a time not long after I arrived here in Taiwan that I was extremely depressed about my Chinese. What I didn’t say is that I was so depressed I was literally contemplating the thought of throwing in the towel. Of giving up. Of conceding that I’m just not intellectually capable of learning Chinese. If you know me at all, then you know I’m not one to give up easily. In fact, I can’t actually think of any time in my life when I’ve ever given up on something. Chinese is seriously that difficult and that frustrating.

It was during that time that I discovered a certain online article which I suppose helped me cope with my frustration just a little bit better. In a late-night fit of anger, I began performing Google searches for several variations of the phrase “I hate Chinese.” Eventually, I came across an article titled “Why Chinese is So Damn Hard,” published by someone at the Center for Chinese Studies at the University of Michigan. I was immediately interested.

Don’t get me wrong – the article wasn’t some heavenly bit of salvation that has since gotten me back on the “Chinese Gung-Ho’!” train – but it did, along with my class change, help convince me not to quit studying Chinese (at this point at least). I would describe my current state as post-depression and stable; I’ve scratched through all the goals I had for my language learning in Taiwan and set aside any dreams of being able to speak fluently in the near future, but I’m still trudging along, slowly but surely. I’m certainly no longer naïve. All the magazine and newspaper articles that you see these days urging people to study Chinese (“It’s the next big thing!”), which report that “…although there are approximately 50,000 Chinese symbols, one needs to know only 2,000-3,000 of these to read a Chinese newspaper”…Hogwash! The faculty at your school showing you videos of foreigners winning Chinese-language contests and filling your head with visions of Chinese fluency…Hogwash! If you are a student considering studying Chinese for the first time, listen to me carefully. Listen to me very carefully. March yourself over to the Romance Languages Department this instant and enroll yourself in Spanish or French. If you’re a hotshot and want to be cool, enroll in German or Russian. Whatever you do…whatever you do…and I don’t care how smart you are or how many languages you already know…do not try to learn Chinese. It is a deathtrap. By the time you realize how impossibly hard it is, you will have already devoted too much effort to it to quit. It’s a sick, sick phenomenon. It draws you in like a Siren with its beautiful script, its promise of job opportunities, its exotic history…as it lures you deeper and deeper into its cavernous bowels you begin to feel disoriented, but you are foolish and in love and you march on and on, deeper and deeper…and then one day you wake up and realize you’re so deep that you could never in a million years find your way out, and what you thought was love was really a sick masochistic desire to torture yourself, to torture yourself forever and ever, and that’s where you suddenly find yourself, a torture chamber with no exit, with no stop button, with no way to escape, a dream, a nightmare, a ghoulish fantasy not even Poe could imagine. And there’s pain. Oh, there’s so much pain…

If you are thinking about studying Chinese, I beg you to consider something else. Anything else. I would not wish my fate to befall even my most despised enemy.

I decided that detailing exactly why Chinese is so hard might make me feel a bit better. So, with a little help from David Moser, the author of “Why Chinese is So Damn Hard,” I’m going to explain to you why Chinese is the hardest language in the world (for a native English-speaker to learn):

1. The Script

Right… Chinese script. Those funky little symbols you see on your placemat at the local Chinese restaurant. Have you ever wondered what it would be like to actually be able to read that stuff? I mean, really study those symbols the next time you eat Chinese food – they’re tiny, extremely complicated, and so involved that your head will probably start to hurt after looking at them for more than a few seconds. That’s Chinese. This is the first thing you must understand. When you meet someone Chinese and he writes his name as Chang Tsien-Tzu or something…that’s not Chinese. Show that to a typical Chinese person, and he’ll have no idea how to pronounce it. The words Beijing, Shanghai, Guangzhou…these aren’t Chinese either. Go to China and show your cab driver one of these words written down and they’ll have no idea where to take you. Chinese is characters – those crazy little characters (北京，上海，etc.). That’s the only thing most Chinese people can read, and if you want to be able to say you know Chinese, you have to learn them.

Yes, as today’s “Learn Chinese” magazine articles report, there are over 50,000 distinct characters. In fact, there are so many that no one is quite sure how many exist. Chinese is the most ancient script still in use today – characters were originally genuine pictographs, and they evolved over time to become what we now know as Chinese. Despite what some people will tell you, knowing 2,000-3,000 of these characters is not enough to be able to read a Chinese newspaper. In fact, it’s often not even enough to be able to read the headlines of a Chinese newspaper. I supposedly knew 2,000 characters as of the end of last year, and I still need a dictionary and at least an hour of time to read a simple, 3 paragraph-long newspaper column. There are several reasons for this, the most important being that to say you know a character doesn’t really mean you “know” it: “The Chinese script is ridiculous…beautiful, complex, mysterious – but ridiculous. The more you learn about Chinese characters the more intriguing and addicting they become. The study of Chinese characters can become a lifelong obsession, and you soon find yourself engaged in the daily task of accumulating them, drop by drop from the vast sea of characters, in a vain attempt to hoard them in the leaky bucket of long-term memory” (Mosser). I can literally study a new character and write it over a hundred times…and then wake up the next morning and have no clue whatsoever as to how it is written. Characters drain out of my brain the way sand drains out of a clenched fist. The harder I try to hold onto them, the faster they slip away. It’s absolutely sickening. After committing two years of my life to studying Chinese and working harder at it than at anything I’ve ever attempted, I took five months off to work on my French and live in French-speaking countries. Immediately afterwards, I arrived here in Taiwan to find myself struggling to read even basic Chinese. It’s a strange feeling – I can tell that there’s something up there – some remnant of past knowledge – but it just doesn’t want to resurrect itself in the same way that my Spanish or calculus or American history do when I’m forced to draw on those memory banks.

Aside from the obvious “because they’re ridiculously hard to memorize,” there are a number of other reasons why Chinese script is so hard to learn. First, consider that every character fits into a square – what this means is that, while they vary in complexity, they all have exactly the same proportions. Further, no spacing is used when writing Chinese. Thus, all these characters line up next to each other, and it is impossible to tell where one word ends and another begins. Additionally, Chinese can be written left-to-right, right-to-left, top-to-bottom – it doesn’t matter. Half the time, it takes me awhile just to figure out where to start reading. Because Chinese words are typically comprised of more than one character (usually two to four) and there is no spacing, even if I can pronounce every single character in a sentence, I may have no idea what the sentence means. It’s like some bizarre puzzle, trying to figure out which characters combine with which characters and how each of their meanings changes depending on how they are combined.

Next, consider what those little characters really are. They are frickin’ works of art (example: 蘔髊). The next time you go to a Chinese restaurant, see if you can copy just one of those characters. I mean, you won’t even know where to start! And that’s a major problem in and of itself to Chinese learners. English, Spanish, French…even languages like Greek, Hindi, and Russian…these require no more than a couple dozen characters total to be able to write! Further, even the most complicated characters (hmm, is it “E”?) require no more than 4 pen-strokes to write. Now, consider that not only do you have to know thousands of Chinese characters to be able to write Chinese but also that many of these characters have in excess of TWENTY (20) penstrokes! Disregarding the fact that the only way I can fit twenty-plus strokes into a microscopic little box is by writing with the precision of handicapped five-year-old, how am I supposed to remember all those stokes? We’re talking about something in the ballpark of 3,000 times 20…over 60,000 strokes! I must be joking, right!?

No, unfortunately, I’m not. Now add to our steadily-growing list of obstacles the fact that Chinese has not one, but two scripts. That’s right, the “simplified” (“Simplified, my butt…”) and “traditional” versions. Mainland China (PRC) uses simplified; Taiwan (ROC) and Hong Kong still use “traditional.” These two scripts are overlapping, but they are nevertheless distinct from one another, and anyone who really wants to know Chinese has to have at least a general understanding of both. I’ve already been spun around in the confusion-machine a few times. I studied traditional characters during my first year of Chinese. Then, the faculty at W&L decided they should teach simplified, so, during my second year, I learned simplified characters (I had to relearn many of the characters I had learned during the previous year). Now, in my third year, I’m here in Taiwan, where everything is back in traditional characters. This time, I’ve opted to learn every new word in both simplified and traditional characters. Yea, piece of cake, right?

Concluding this diatribe against Chinese characters, I’d like to present a simple scenario and pose a simple question. Moser, the author of “Why Chinese is So Damn Hard,” relates an experience he once had at Peking University (“the Harvard of China”): unable to remember how to write the word for sneeze, he asked his three friends – all native-Chinese, Ph.D. students in the Chinese department – for help. Amazingly, not one of them could remember how to write sneeze in Chinese! What would you think if you asked 3 native-English-speaking Ph.D. candidates in the department of English at Harvard University how to write the word sneeze, and not one of them had even the slightest clue as to how to begin? This instance is not an isolated one. Native Chinese people forget how to write simple, simple words all the time! So my question is this: is it just me, or is there something seriously wrong with the crazy language we call Chinese?

2. The Tones

When you learn a new word in English, all you have to do is remember how it is pronounced (occasionally, a tricky word might necessitate remembering an unusual spelling as well). This is not the case in Chinese. Not only do you have to remember how a word is written (using characters) and how it is pronounced (because the characters themselves are not phonetic; unlike our alphabet, they have no built-in clues as to how they should be pronounced), but you must also remember its tones. Every single sound in the Chinese language has one of five (5!) tones, or variations in pitch. 1st tone is flat and high like you’re singing a high note; 2nd tone is steadily rising; 3rd tone begins slightly higher than average, falls to a low tone, and then climbs back up to a slightly higher than average tone; 4th tone is a sharp falling tone like you’re yelling at someone; 5th tone is a neutral, softer tone. Thus, if I want to memorize a word that has 3 characters, I will have to remember 3 different tones, 3 different sounds, and 3 different characters (for a total of perhaps more than 60 pen-strokes). How is it that shu1xue3 means “blood transfusion” while shu4xue2 means “math”? That guo4jiang3 means “you flatter me,” while guo3jiang4 means “fruit paste”? Oh, the horror!

To complicate matters, native Chinese-speakers don’t really understand the tonal system. Since they’ve grown up speaking Chinese, they simply learned the tones naturally and instinctively change their intonation when speaking. Thus, if I try to tell someone I study shu4xue2 and he hears shu1xue3 (and therefore thinks I’m saying blood transfusion), he won’t think, “Oh, he must have mixed up his tones...he probably means “math”). Instead, the Chinese person will be completely confused and have no idea what I’m talking about. I just can’t tell you how frustrating that is – when you’re actually able to remember the sound… maybe you’re even able to remember the characters as well! – but you simply can’t remember the tones, and because of this simple slip-up, your communication is brought to a screeching halt. Or, perhaps even worse, you can remember the tones, but as a native speaker of a non-tonal language, you’re having trouble saying the right tone and no matter how hard you try, you just can’t hit the right note. You can picture the word as it would be written in Romanization with its pretty little numbers representing the tones, but like a tone-deaf musician, you just can’t make anything happen.

To further complicate matters, even if you do begin to master the tones, an even more involved problem inevitably presents itself. Let’s say you want to tell someone “Hey…that’s my fried rice…get away!” In English you would instinctively stress the word my for emphasis. But in Chinese, doing so would indicate a 4th tone (instead of the proper 3rd tone) and render your sentence meaningless and incomprehensible. Thus, it is extremely difficult to express yourself in Chinese because the tools you’re used to relying on – stress, pitch, meter – are suddenly taken away from you. Your hands are tied behind your back, and its seems impossible to put any real feeling or passion into what you say.

3. The Romanization

It has been said of the different Romanization styles for Chinese that “there are too many of them, and most of them were designed either by committee or by linguists, or – even worse – by a committee of linguists” (Moser)…and this could not be any more accurate. Romanization refers to the rendering of Chinese sounds into “words” using the English alphabet. Thus, you see Chinese people’s names and Chinese cities occasionally written with “words” like Zhong, Chang, Tsien, Tzu, etc. These aren’t really words because they don’t belong to any official language – they’re simply the products of Romanization.

Romanization was developed to aid non-Chinese speakers. If the only way Beijing was ever written was in its true form (北京), most non-Chinese speakers would have no idea how to pronounce the city’s name. Amazingly, though, the creators of most of the Romanization systems in existence today opted to make things as hard as possible for non-Chinese speakers. Consider the capital of Taiwan, for example: Taipei. Ask any Chinese-speaking person how to pronounce the name of Taiwan’s capital, and they will say “Taibei” (tai, as in to tie your shoes; and bei as in to swim in the bay). There is no [p] sound whatsoever. The creators of Taiwan’s most frequently used Romanization system, however, decided to write the [b] sound with a p. Now why would they do this, I wonder? The [b] sound in Taibei already exists in English and is represented perfectly by our own b. Why confuse English speakers by using a p? Consider Beijing, previously known as “Peking.” Mainland China previously used the same Romanization system that Taiwan now uses (the Wade-Giles System); thus the [b] sound was approximated with a p, and the [j] sound was approximated with a k. Thus, English speakers began referring to Beijing as “Peking.” Fortunately, China eventually adopted a slightly more sensible Romanization system (called Pinyin), which calls for Beijing to be written as one would expect it to be written, and Westerners now call the city by its real name. The Romanization chaos is absolutely outrageous and only further contributes to the stress of learning Chinese. In Taiwan many street signs are written in both Chinese and Romanization to aid foreigners. However, several different Romanization systems are used (meaning that even if you do happen to understand all the major ones, you can’t necessarily be sure about which one you should be using), and systems such as the Wade-Giles are so counter-logical that completely mispronouncing a word because of the very tool which is supposed to make its pronunciation easy is extremely common. The city where I’m currently living, for example – Danshui – can be written as “Danshui,” “Tamshui,” “Damshui,” or “Tamshuie.” What a mess.

4. The Dictionary

Mosser hits the nail on the head: “Chinese is not exactly what you would call a user-friendly language, but a Chinese dictionary is positively user-hostile.” I already explained that it takes me about 7 minutes, on average, to look up a single Chinese word. This is ignoring the fact that 1 out of every 5 words I attempt to look up, I never find. So, you want to know why Chinese dictionaries are so complicated? Just think about it.

English-, Spanish-, and French-language dictionaries are all organized by something we call alphabetical order. We have approximately 26 characters and thus an easy method of categorizing every word in our languages. But the Chinese have no alphabet; instead, they have over 50,000 distinct characters, remember? How to organize them, how to organize them…now that’s what you call a dilemma.

The solution most dictionaries rely upon is extremely complicated, and I will not delve into it in detail here. Basically, just know that it requires a fair amount of prior knowledge (a first-year Chinese language student is not really capable of using a dictionary), a ton of patience, and an eye for detail (analyzing the minute differences which distinguish characters from one another). Add to this the fact that the contextual nature of Chinese requires multiple dictionaries (most professors and scholars profess to have 15 to 20 or more; I currently use 4), and you’ve got yourself a real problem. Having to resort to a dictionary in any language is annoying enough (I mean, what it signifies is that you don’t know something you wish you knew), so you want the process to be as painless and fast as possible. But with Chinese, the process is the most painful thing of all, and many times it doesn’t even yield a single result! Lastly, as I’ve mentioned, word boundaries are not defined in Chinese; this wreaks absolute havoc on dictionary users. Consider how difficult it would be for a non-native English speaker to look up words in a dictionary if English were written without word boundaries: “FEAR LESS LY OUT SPOKE N BUT SOME WHAT HUMOR LESS NEW ENG LAND BORN LEAD ACT OR GEORGE MICHAEL SON EX PRESS ED OUT RAGE TO DAY AT THE STALE MATE BE TWEEN MAN AGE MENT AND THE ACT OR 'S UNION BE CAUSE THE STAND OFF HAD SET BACK THE TIME TABLE FOR PRO DUC TION OF HIS PLAY.” Fortunately, I now have PlecoDict, but I still need to use paper dictionaries at times, too, and the process is nearly unbearable.

5. The Culture

“Language and culture cannot be separated, of course, and one of the main reasons Chinese is so difficult for Americans is that our two cultures have been isolated for so long. The reason reading French sentences like ‘Le président Bush assure le peuple koweitien que le gouvernement américain va continuer à défendre le Koweit contre la menace irakienne,’ is about as hard as deciphering pig Latin is not just because of the deep Indo-European family resemblance, but also because the core concepts and cultural assumptions in such utterances stem from the same source. We share the same art history, the same music history, the same history history -- which means that in the head of a French person there is basically the same set of archetypes and the same cultural cast of characters that's in an American's head. We are as familiar with Rimbaud as they are with Rambo. In fact, compared to the difference between China and the U.S., American culture and French culture seem about as different as Peter Pan and Skippy peanut butter.

“Speaking with a Chinese person is usually a different matter. You just can't drop Dickens, Tarzan, Jack the Ripper, Goethe, or the Beatles into a conversation and always expect to be understood. I once had a Chinese friend who had read the first translations of Kafka into Chinese, yet didn't know who Santa Claus was. China has had extensive contact with the West in the last few decades, but there is still a vast sea of knowledge and ideas that is not shared by both cultures.

“Similarly, how many Americans other than sinophiles have even a rough idea of the chronology of China's dynasties? Has the average history major here ever heard of Qin Shi Huangdi and his contribution to Chinese culture? How many American music majors have ever heard a note of Peking Opera, or would recognize a pipa if they tripped over one? How many otherwise literate Americans have heard of Lu Xun, Ba Jin, or even Mozi?

“What this means is that when Americans and Chinese get together, there is often not just a language barrier, but an immense cultural barrier as well. Of course, this is one of the reasons the study of Chinese is so interesting. It is also one of the reasons it is so damn hard.” (Moser)

- Conclusion

Moser says he was once told that learning Chinese is “a five-year lesson in humility.” He reports that “I used to think this meant that at the end of five years you will have mastered Chinese and learned humility along the way. However, now having studied Chinese for over six years, I have concluded that actually the phrase means that after five years your Chinese will still be abysmal, but at least you will have thoroughly learned humility.” As the arrogant scholar I am, I might have assumed previously that our Mr. Moser of the University of Michigan just doesn’t have the right knack for languages. I would have thought, “I can pull it off…Give me four years, and I’ll be speaking fluent Chinese, no problem, dude.” After two and half years of studying Chinese – of “banging my head against the Great Wall of Chinese” (as he puts it) – I’m wiser, less naïve, and more mature. Chinese is really, really hard. The hardest thing I’ve undertaken in my entire life, and I’ve undertaken a lot. I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished so far – I mean it’s not like I can’t speak Chinese at all; based on what I’ve already reported in this blog, it should be fairly obvious that my Chinese is not completely abysmal. Even if it were completely abysmal, though, I’d still be proud of myself – I’ve honestly given it a 100% day in and day out. That’s all I can do. And, for now, I’m going to keep going. I’m going to see where it takes me. I still have another year and half in university – maybe I’ll make some great breakthrough; if not, there’s always graduate school or another trip back to Taiwan – both of which sound far more intriguing than entering the workforce. If I’ve learned anything from my studies of Chinese, it’s this – there are some things you just can’t rush. There are some things for which there really are no shortcuts. Hard work, dedication, and perseverance are the only way. It’s not easy, and it’s not fun. And it really isn’t so different from a terrifying Edgar Allen Poe nightmare at times. But I’m pretty sure I can see light at the other end of the tunnel; in fact, I don’t think I’ve ever completely lost sight of it. And if – when – I reach that light, I’m pretty sure I will look back into the darkness and remember my voyage as one of the most rewarding I ever took. The most difficult things in life are always the most rewarding. They’re always the ones we look back on and think “Wow, it’s great to be alive.” Because if life were always easy, what point would there be in growing, in learning, in living fully? Struggling to overcome obstacles is the quintessential antithesis to stagnation; it’s the most fundamental meaning of being alive. Maybe that’s the meaning of it all. Maybe that’s why we have a language which can’t even be remembered by its own native speakers. Chinese…the ultimate in trials and tribulations. The ultimate in hardship. The ultimate test. Take it, if you dare…

“Corruption – Not Just an American Value”

Politics…you just can’t escape it. No matter where you go, there’s always something happening in the world of politics. Living here in Taiwan and being able to follow closely both global and Asian politics has been quite interesting because I’m really forced to view things from a new perspective. A Taiwanese declaration of independence from Mainland China has far more severe ramifications for me personally now than it would if I were living in America (“Bombs-away!”) Whether I like it or not, I am intrinsically bound to the political welfare of Taiwan until the end of December. Thus, the North Korean nuclear crisis…The coup d’etat in Thailand…the Japanese change of leadership …these happenings have all taken on far more significance to me here in Taiwan. And then there’s Taiwan’s own political crisis – and the political tension which has remained an integral part of my Taiwan experience from the beginning.

You probably know the basics of the situation since it has been covered pretty thoroughly by world media, but, in case you don’t, here’s the situation. Chen Shui-Bian, the Taiwanese president (from the Democratic Progressive Party [DPP], Taiwan’s anti-reunification [with China] party) has been accused of massive corruption. First, between the months of May and July his son-and-law was convicted of insider trading. At the same time, allegations surfaced that his wife had been accepting department store vouchers in return for her influence. Lastly, Chen’s use of a secret presidential fund for overseas work came under scrutiny, and officials have recently accused him of misuse of state funds (totaling more than 500,000 USD). Though Chen has ceded some power, the opposition Kuomintang (KMT) party is not satisfied, nor are the majority of Taiwanese, many of whom have been taking to the streets for months and calling for his resignation. The “Depose Movement” is being led by Chen’s old friend Shih Ming-Teh, who insists he wants nothing more than a peaceful change of leadership to rid Taiwan of these latest bouts of corruption. In traditional Chinese fashion, the movement has taken the color red as its symbol; so for months images of tens of thousands of protestors clad in matching red shirts and headbands, repeatedly giving the thumbs-down sign, and shouting in unison, “A-Bian…Xia tai!” (“A-Bian [Chen’s nickname]…Step Down!”) have dominated local news. But it’s more than just a breaking news story…I’m living in the middle of it, so it’s actually quite real. During the height of the protests, I had to avoid certain areas of the city, I had to allow extra time to commute to school, and I had to be cognizant of what color clothes I was wearing (the pro-Chen movement has taken green to be its symbolic color). Though the situation has remained mostly peaceful, there have been incidents of violence, and there is most definitely an aura of tension. Barbed wire surrounds the presidential palace, police are everywhere, and leaders of both the anti-Chen and pro-Chen movements have repeatedly pleaded with their followers to remain non-violent.

Political discussion is extremely open in Taiwan (even more so than in America; for instance, it’s perfectly legitimate to ask someone outright, “So who did you vote for?”), and I’m often asked what I think of Chen. My answer is always the same: “Wo shi waiguoren – wo shenme dou bu zhidao” (“I’m a foreigner – what do I know?”). I’ve worn white clothes anytime I’ve visited the protest areas, as well. The fact of the matter is that I don’t have strong feelings about the situation. I think it’s interesting that Chen has received so much condemnation based on several matters which do not even concern him personally (but rather his family). This, to me, illustrates the important Chinese concept of guangxi – as I explained earlier, in Chinese culture, you are intrinsically tied to your family and friend networks. They can help you with favors, but they can also bring you down with misdeeds. Perhaps the most important thing I’ve gleaned from this whole mess is this: Democracy is alive and well in Taiwan. Ironically, some of the anti-Chen protestors have claimed as their slogan “Democracy is dead!” to convey their denunciation of corruption. Here’s what I say to them: “You think democracy is dead in Taiwan? Then go to Mainland China and walk around holding a sign and whining about corruption. See where that gets you.” The very fact that the Taiwanese are able to voice their opinions so openly, whether supporting or condemning the president, is evidence that Taiwan is doing something right. It really is a beautiful thing, freedom – without it, who are we?

“White Dove”

This blog is not the proper forum to discuss China-Taiwan relations, if for no other reason than because there is a fairly decent chance I will one day work in a governmental position dealing with China and Taiwan. With this said, there is one thing I would like to note. I have now lived in both China and Taiwan; I’ve seen both major cities and the most rural of areas; and I’ve met and befriended doctors, teachers, farmers, factory workers, and fishermen alike. I’ve had a lot of time to ponder the similarities and differences between China and Taiwan. And my conclusion? While Taiwanese society undeniably is rooted in China’s history and cultural framework, it has positively developed its own unique identity as well. There’s just a completely different atmosphere in Taiwan. The vibe – the aura – of the place is different. I don’t really know how to describe it, but there’s just a sensation of freedom – of pride – here that China lacks. Taiwan has been back-stabbed by almost every single member of the world community in the last half century (several of its only remaining allies are in the process of switching allegiance to China as I write, in fact). At the same time that the United States was going to incredible lengths to preserve democracy in Vietnam and Korea, Taiwan was left out to dry. It stood up for its democracy, and what was its reward? Losing its seat in the United Nations, increased health problems for its people as a result of being barred from the World Health Organization, and not being able to send its athletes to the Olympics as representatives of their country (they must attend using a different name). I recently came across a Wu Bai piece called Bai Ge (白鸽) – White Dove – that has become one of my all-time favorite songs. The Chinese lyrics are even more powerful, but the English translation, too, truly captures the essence, I believe, of what it means to be Taiwanese in today’s world.

“White Dove”

Straight ahead, without direction, body unclothed,
Blood oozing from my wing, my tears thoroughly soaking my chest,
Soaring in the air, bearing the wound, escaping from the hunter's gun.

Dearest mother, true friend, I can be strong, I will live well;
Silent earth, silent heaven, red blood continuously flows.

My feet have no consciousness, ice-cold snow falls in my heart;
Even though I carry everlasting scars, at least I still have freedom.

Soaring in the air, flying in the sky, against the merciless wind,
I will not be afraid, I don't have to be a coward, roaming everywhere by myself;
That is something to take pride in, carefree sunshine, white clouds sweeping by beneath my feet.

Withered figure, thin and pallid face, flapping my wings, never turning to look back;
Even though I carry everlasting scars, at least I still have freedom.

At least I still have freedom.
At least I still have freedom.

“Formosan Juxtapositions”

I alluded to the paradoxical nature of Taiwanese society in my introductory “This is Formosa” passage, and I’d like to delve a bit deeper now. Taiwan truly is a land of contradiction – of fascinating juxtapositions. Four juxtapositions that have leapt out at me during my stay here involve dichotomous relationships between slow and fast, tradition and modernity, East and West, and truth and façade.

Hop on the ultra-clean and efficient MRT subway on the coast here in Danshui, and you’ll find yourself in downtown Taipei in 35 minutes. There, businessmen will brush by you in a hurry to make their next meeting on time, taxis will screech to a halt as you wander across the street without looking both ways, and vendors will offer you food and merchandise from their carts while simultaneously making change for a previous customer and accepting money from another. As Lonely Planet says, the animated little green men on the “Don’t Walk” signs don’t just begin walking when it’s ok to cross the street – they run. Taiwanese society is always on the move, and it’s always on the run. Life here is most definitely fast-paced. At the same time, though, almost 60% of Taiwan is wilderness. Undeveloped beaches and mountains constitute the vast majority of the country’s land. Escape to these areas, and you’ll find yourself amidst incredible serenity and peace and quiet. But leaving the city to find a slower-paced lifestyle isn’t even necessary, as a matter of fact. Just wander down a back-alley, make a few turns, continue walking away from all the noise…and soon you’ll find yourself in a quaint little residential area with a tiny pond spanned by an ornate, classically Chinese bridge. A traditional teahouse might sit tucked away in a small park, and elderly men and women will be resting in the shade of a sprawling tree and playing mahjong or go. Alternatively, drive to the top of any hill near the coast – prime real estate territory which you would expect to be teeming with resorts or upscale housing developments – and you’ll most likely find nothing more than a mausoleum or a simple grave site. The Taiwanese believe in feng shui – harmony with wind and water – and this remains forever paramount in the development of the island. The spirits of the deceased will only be content if they are left somewhere with a view – somewhere with wind and water. Likewise, no matter how clustered downtown Taipei becomes, harmony must always prevail. Taipei 101, the tallest building in the world, rather than towering above the city like some obscene monstrosity instead rises gently like a stalk of bamboo, loops of ribbon tied around it and rising gracefully towards its pinnacle. Taiwan has its ugliness, its pollution, its crowds…but it simultaneously retains dignity, cleanliness, and beauty. It’s a living, pulsing paradox in the truest sense of the word.

Taiwan is a lesson in reconciling tradition and modernity. Unlike China, which is demolishing its centuries-old traditional hutong neighborhoods in Beijing in favor of new high-rises and destroying Tibet’s culture for the purpose of assimilation, Taiwan is managing to balance a quest to modernize with a desire to preserve the traditional. Everything in Taiwan at first seems modern, fast, efficient, state-of-the-art: the MRT, Taipei 101, Warner Village (“The Manhattan of Taiwan”). Everything is computerized, digital, convenient. You can pay your bills in cash at the nearest convenience store. Busses, the subway, and even parking garages all use the same swipe card, to which money can be added in a mere 10 seconds. Closed-circuit cameras are everywhere you look – in elevators, at intersections, in every corner of every store. Teenagers and grandparents alike talk on the latest and most advanced cellphones, and if you don’t have a computer-camera for real-time video conferencing with your friends you’re definitely out of the loop. At the same time, though, traditional funerals still process down major roads and highways at 10 mph, backing up traffic and congesting cities while musicians ride along in the elaborately decorated trucks banging Chinese gongs and playing brash, ear-splitting traditional melodies. Within one block of even the ritziest Starbucks chances are you’ll find a Buddhist, Daoist, or Confucian temple with locals praying or arranging incense sticks inside. Directly in front of an all-glass, super-modern skyscraper housing a multinational franchise, you might see a group of Taiwanese crouched around a small fire and tossing paper “ghost money” into it for the well-being of their ancestors. Every time you begin to think you’re living in a society ten years ahead of the rest of the world, you see something which takes you back ten centuries, across the Straight of Taiwan, back to ancient China…and you realize that you’re in neither a land of the future nor a land from the past but a land suspended in a fantastic dream-world somewhere between the two.

Nowhere have I seen East meet West with such intensity – the two worlds intermingle, intertwine, and produce a hybrid offspring like no other. The realization begins, of course, with language. Billboards advertising the latest in cosmetic products feature catchy English slogans intermixed with mind-bogglingly complicated Chinese script. “Bye-bye” has overtaken “Zaijian” as the conventional method of saying farewell, and English-teachers are in higher demand and paid better here than in any other country in the world. Nevertheless, hop into a cab in downtown Taipei and tell your driver your destination in English, and he won’t even leave the curb. Don’t even think about trying to leave Taipei if you don’t speak Chinese. Old men still wear their traditional Chinese outfits and slippers and stroll through traditional parks with the help of their canes while the younger generations sport the latest fashion-wear from Abercrombie, Gucci, and American Eagle. Classical Confucian emphasis on family, friends, and respect for ancestors pervades the culture, but so too do American tendencies towards independence, self-interest, and personal freedom. The collectivist practices of China still retain a slight grip on the island, but western capitalism is without a doubt at the helm and in control of its future. Christianity is a noticeable part of modern-day Taiwan, but the real fabric of society is made up of a syncretic, multi-faceted devotion to Buddhism, Daoism, and Confucianism. Many women still fulfill the roles defined for them by Confucius and stay at home to cook, clean, and nurture, while others attend the most prestigious universities and lead the most powerful corporations; Taiwan’s vice president is currently a woman. Eating traditionally around circular tables in large groups is still common, but ordering dinner “dai zou” (“to go”) is equally normal; even McDonald’s has worked its way into the local dining scene. Cappuccinos and lattés are as common as green and oolong tea, and Jay-Z and the Black Eyed Peas are as well known as Zhou Jie Lun and Tao Zhe. All in all, a Westerner living in Taiwan can’t possibly feel that he’s at home here, but, at the same time, he can’t feel completely estranged from the things with which he’s familiar either. It’s a truly unique thing, this hybrid culture, one which, in many ways, joins the best of both worlds.

Lastly, there is an obvious dichotomy between truth and façade. As I explained in my section on cultural norms, appearance is everything in Taiwan, and truth is often hidden or disguised. Things can’t always be taken for their face value, although that is how they are judged. When someone tells me my Chinese is fantastic, I know there is no real meaning in the compliment; it’s more of a conditioned – or perhaps instinctive – response… not a lie, not an act of deception, simply an extension of who that person is and who he will always be. But when someone tells me that he’s sincerely happy to have met me and to have been able to welcome me to his country, I very well might believe that these words really do carry weight. How can I tell the difference? Truthfully, I suppose I can’t, but herein lies the paradox. Taiwanese culture is the product of both self-serving, artificial hogwash and the most sincere and genuine exhibition of kindness I’ve ever seen. Hospitality in Taiwan is literally unparalleled in today’s world, and foreigners are treated day after day after day as VIP guests who are more important than the Taiwanese themselves. So I ask myself: how can a country which places so much emphasis on meaningless, artificial social norms remain simultaneously so committed to genuineness? To this I must confess that I still have no answer. I go on watching, listening, interacting… and nearly everyday I ponder my paradox as I find myself immersed in the fascinating and idiosyncratic culture of the wonderful people we call the Taiwanese.

“Food, Oh Glorious Food”

Oh. My. Goodness. If you like to eat…If you like to eat Asian food: Come… to… Taiwan. This place has the most ridiculous assortment of Asian food to be found anywhere on the planet. Chinese, Taiwanese, Thai, Korean, Vietnamese, Japanese, Philippine… Hotpot, dim sum, shabu-shabu, teppanyaki, teriyaki, noodes, rice, soup… The list goes on and on. And the best part? You can eat 3 incredibly filling, practically-gourmet meals a day for well under $10. Oh, you’re still hungry? Want another huge plate of rice with a half-chicken and a heaping of vegetables? That’s going to cost you a whopping $1.50. The food here is outrageously cheap and outrageously delicious.

Aside from the standard Asian cuisine I mentioned above, there are several local specialties. Biandang is a lunchbox of sorts that is the perfect to-go meal. It usually cost about $1.25-$2.00 and is enough to fill even me. Inside is a healthy and delicious rice- or noodle-based dish with meat, vegetables, and probably some tofu. People laugh at me about it, but I’m not ashamed to admit that I eat biandang almost everyday. Then, there’s shuijiao. Oh, shuijiao… I fell in love with these little pork dumpling creations last year and eat them all the time here in Taiwan. I will never forget the day I found the shuijiao place near my apartment. I walked through the streets afterwards like I was drunk or in love, simply unable to stop smiling. I truly am in love with these things. I eat 20-30 at a time (completely gorging myself) on a pretty regular basis (yes, I have been known to eat them for 4 or 5 straight nights). Lastly, there are the fruit smoothies which I mentioned earlier. Tell me where else in the world you can buy a fresh-fruit juice or smoothie (I’m talking mango, papaya, guava, banana, watermelon, cantaloupe, anything!) for under a dollar on almost any street corner? I’m completely obsessed with these drinks; life just wouldn’t be the same without my daily post-lunch trip to visit my favorite “smoothie-girl” downtown and then my dinnertime trip to the nearest smoothie stand here in Danshui (which I’m pretty sure I single-handedly keep in business). There’s also the renowned dragon-fruit smoothie – which I tried for the first time here in Taiwan – made from a bizarre fruit that has spines sticking out it in every direction; the resulting drink is an iridescent purple and simply divine.

Taiwan has it all – from tasty breakfast shops serving pork and egg hamburgers and xiaolongbao (basically shuijiao with soup inside…yea, I eat these on regular basis, too) to night markets with everything imaginable…from upscale, fine dining establishments to quaint little family-run chaofandian’s. Chicken, pork, duck, seafood, beef, lamb. Every vegetable you can think of. Fresh fruit galore. Real Asian rice (which I will miss more than anything when I leave this place). Soup with every meal (a relic of the Japanese Occupation period). Ah, life is good, isn’t it?

“Firsts”

- First earthquake. Having been studying Chinese intensely for several hours, I was already feeling a bit nauseous. Suddenly, the world started spinning before my eyes, and I felt a strange sense of disorientation. Being on the seventh floor, I even felt as if my building were blowing in the wind or something. Then it hit me: an earthquake. Taiwan has earthquakes almost every week. Sure enough, I checked online, and that’s what it was. A really fascinating experience actually – I could feel the energy pulsing around me in a very similar way that I can feel the increased energy in the ocean when a long-period swell is just off-shore and about to arrive.
- First time eating duck and pig blood. Yea, an interesting delicacy. The blood clots together so it looks a lot like tofu, but when you eat it, you can tell it’s something else. I give it a 5 out of 10.
- First time making a left hand turn on a motorcycle. So, one thing I didn’t mention in my “Road Rage” section is that Taiwan has special rules for making left-hand turns on motorcycles. You can’t just turn through the intersection like all the cars do. Instead, you have to go straight and then circle around and get in line with the motorcycles at the light on the intersecting street. There’s a box painted on the street where you wait for the light to change, and then you proceed straight across the intersection. Anyway, no one told me this at first, and I simply couldn’t figure out how to make a left hand turn. I was terrified of getting into an accident, so, each day before I headed out, I would plot my entire route (particularly if I were planning to run errands and make several stops). This route always moved in a clockwise direction around the city so that I would make nothing but right hand turns. Fortunately, I eventually figured out how to turn left and now save myself a good bit of time.
- First VIP tickets to a major concert. That’s right, Wu Bai and China Blue had an exclusive, private show to debut their latest album, and my surf buddy Dino hooked me and the rest of the Baishawan Crew up with free VIP tickets. We hung out on a special balcony reserved for the media, and, afterwards, Dino came up to chill with us. The crowd was going crazy taking pictures and shouting “Dino, Dino!” so I just stood there on the balcony wearing my Wu Bai t-shirt and acting cool, pretending I was a part of the band or something. I’m in every single one of those pictures that were taken. The crew and I concluded a very late night after the concert by having dinner with the whole band, including Wu Bai (yea, you know you’re jealous).
- First time seeing my Chinese TA’s in a really long time. Yep, I’ve gotten to spend a little time with the TA’s from both my first and second years of studying Chinese in America, and it was great to catch up on life. It was especially rewarding because I was able to converse with them entirely in Chinese, which is how it should be, I think, considering the fact that I’m now in their home country.
- First kiss – Haha, yea right.

“Lasts”

- This was an extremely (and I put the extreme in extremely, don’t I) long post…I hope you enjoyed it.
- This really is the last thing I’m going to write.
- There will be at least one more post about Taiwan plus some sort of conclusion to my epic.
- Stay tuned for a special surprise. It’s not a post but something else –something completely different that I think you’ll really enjoy. I’m not sure when I’ll be finished with it, but check in every once and while, and I’ll update the blog with an announcement and a link when my surprise is ready. Until then, I leave you with my best wishes from the Far East – Golden Dragon, signing out.

1,000 Blog Readers and Counting!

2006-10-09T16:21:00.000+02:00

"Globetrotting '06" just welcomed its 1,000th visitor to the site, and that number continues to rise! This, then, is perhaps an appropriate time to thank everyone who has followed along with the blog, whether it's been for just a post or two or since the beginning. Most of all, thanks for putting up with the occasionally long delays between posts and checking in regularly. I'll do my best to continue bringing you the best in adventure, cultural insight, and everything extreme for these last few months of the journey, and I hope you'll stick around...we're in the home-stretch now, and I'm going full-throttle 'til the end. Carpe Diem!

Taiwan Pictures!

2006-10-09T16:13:00.000+02:00

Sorry for the longer than normal hiatus, but the waves have just been too good to write. You know how it is. Anyway, this isn't the beginning of a 20 page post, just a short note to let you know I've uploaded my first batch of photos from Taiwan to http://community.webshots.com/user/mistaajg. They're in the "Taiwan '06 I" Album. Enjoy this little taste of Asia while you wait for my first real post, which is in the works and should be online within days. Until then, eat some dumplings for me and have a nice Mid-Autumn Moon Festival...wait, you probably don't celebrate that. Have a nice day, then. Peace.

Tahitian Dreaming

2006-08-05T18:58:00.000+02:00

“I’m having a dream…I must be having a dream,” I can’t stop thinking. I’m in a world I once knew but had since forgotten…a world disconnected from its natural rhythm and out of touch with its very essence; full of whiny, possessive East Coast locals who threaten to fight visiting surfers over their sad two-foot waves. High-strung businessmen who check their watches, pagers, and email incessantly. Reports of hatred, war, and death on the news each night. A constant barrage of high-pitched cell phone ringing at every turn. The noise, pollution, and collective hubbub of cities, the artificiality and hypocrisy of undying materialism, and – most irksome of all – the fact that a shirt and shoes are “required attire.” But, alas, I am awake, and – though I did in fact find my paradise on earth – I can return to it now only by dreaming…only by dreaming those sweet island dreams of yesterday…those sweet dreams of Tahiti…

Sadly, I’m once again writing from the US as I take some time to rehash great stories from my last trip and prepare for my next. It’s been a tough couple weeks not only because of the adjustments I’ve had to make but also because I’ve been dealing with some fairly serious and very nagging illnesses. As if I needed to be reminded that I was no longer in Tahiti and eating the truly unearthly poisson cru, I had some raw tuna on my second night home and was soon beset by a fabulous case of food poisoning. Even more annoying, though, the bronchitis I developed in Senegal – which never totally went away – started bothering me again, and I reached the point where I was coughing nearly continuously. Further, I acquired yet another ear infection as well as a damaged eardrum from scuba diving (details to follow). All in all, my time at home so far has seen me be bounced around among doctors, lab technicians, and specialists; waste away in front of the TV watching all the movies I’ve missed in the last 3 months and the entire first season of 24; and completely lose my tan. So maybe you can understand why I’m dreaming those sweet dreams of Tahiti. Nevertheless, I’m persevering as always, starting to feel better thanks to a host of medications, and, for the time being, enjoying a little East Coast surf trip to stay in shape for the 20+ ft. typhoon waves Taiwan has been seeing and should continue to see throughout typhoon season. I’ve traded out my LP French Polynesia guidebook for the LP Taiwan guidebook, my French dictionary for my Chinese one, and my Tahitian wave-forecasting models for my Taiwanese ones. I’ve memorized all the key dates and events in Taiwanese history, have reviewed the seemingly endless list of social gaffes present in Chinese culture, have attempted to relearn the 2,000 Chinese characters I’m supposed to know, and have begun my search for that perfect Taipei apartment I’ll call home. But I’m getting ahead of myself…because what I’ve really been doing since I returned home has nothing to do with the future and everything to do with the past. I dream not of what I hope to find in Taiwan but of what I did find in Tahiti: unforgettable, beautiful people; heavenly landscapes and lagoons; and a door to adventure and knowledge which remained always open. If you’ll permit me to do so, I’d like to lead you now on a brief journey through that door…

Though I continued to surf almost daily during the second part of my trip to Tahiti (the days following the second broken board), I also managed to fit into my busy schedule a few additional adventures. The first – and perhaps most exciting – was an ascent of Mt. Aorai, at 6,818 ft. the third tallest mountain in French Polynesia and one of the tallest in Oceana. Aorai, unlike peaks in the southeastern US, is a steep, jagged volcano with just one potential summit route: the Northwest Ridge. Additionally, unlike peaks in the American West whose base elevation is often 8,000 ft. or higher, Aorai begins at sea level. Because of these factors, as well as the atrocious weather which engulfs the peak’s upper reaches everyday by 10:00 AM or sometimes earlier, Aorai turned back countless summit attempts by experienced climbers until well into the twentieth century. Today, a via ferrata, or “iron way” – a system developed in the Alps which uses ropes and cables bolted into the mountain to aid climbers – exists on some of the most treacherous sections and makes the climb significantly safer. Nevertheless, nearly everyone who heard of my plans to solo the mountain tried to discourage me, and Papa Teva simply let out a low whistle and shook his head with dismay. Undeterred, I took a bus from Teahupo’o to Pape’ete and began my approach to the mountain. I had some trouble finding the correct road leading to Tahiti’s interior and ended up hiking several steep miles only to realize my error and have to start all over again. Eventually, through a combination of hiking and a bit of hitchhiking, I found myself at Le Belvedere – basecamp per se – at 1,980 ft. By this time, the weather had already moved in, and a steady rain was falling. I put on my raingear and covered my pack with a trashbag and marched steadily onwards. I passed some soldiers at the army base who stared at me curiously, wondering what a solo climber was doing on this challenging peak which they use for mountain warfare training. A bit later, I reached the Hamuta Col at 2,970 ft., where I picked up the approach trail and began heading towards Camp 1. The trail was easy to follow and, with the exception of the wet conditions and horrific stretches of mud, not too difficult. About halfway up this section, I was joined by two friends – two canine friends, that is. To this day, I have no idea where those dogs came from or where they live, but they seemed to know the mountain well and led me excitedly up the trail. I spent the afternoon making my way steadily up the trail and arrived at Fare Mato/Camp 1 (4,620 ft.) and the start of the Northwest Ridge by dusk. The clouds had cleared a bit, and I could just barely make out the beginning of the obstacle I would have to tackle in the following morning’s darkness and for which I had been mentally preparing myself for days: Rocher du Diable - Devil’s Rock. A tightrope walk over an abyss, stretching into the clouds ahead, Devil’s Rock and its staggering cliffs held my attention for minutes. Finally, I forced myself to turn away and begin preparations for the night and for the next morning’s climb.

By 6:00 PM it was already becoming cold, and in my rain-drenched clothes I knew I was in for a tough night. The shelter perched precariously on the ridge at Camp 1 is nothing more than four walls and roof and, though it blocked the wind, it could keep me only so warm. After eating a quick dinner of crackers and an energy bar, setting my alarm for 3:45 AM, and putting on all my warm clothes, I curled up in my bivy sack to get some sleep before my alpine start the next morning. Originally, I had thought I’d overpacked with my polypropylene layers, a fleece, a fleece hat, and wool socks – I mean, I was in Tahiti for crying out loud! – but, as the night wore on, I realized I was definitely not prepared. Trying to be as minimalist as possible, I had sacrificed my thermarest and sleeping bag for just a thin bivy sack which would protect me from rain in the case of an unexpected or emergency bivouac on the mountain. The bivy sack provided no insulation from the hard wood floor of the shelter, though, and before long I was shivering uncontrollably. I considered sleeping on the grass outside, but fierce winds were tearing across the ridge, so I ruled out that option. Desperate for sleep, I was forced to improvise. I emptied my pack of every single item I’d brought and studied each for any possible use it might have. Ultimately, I ended up using a water-filled Camelbac, two guidebooks, my shoes, a trashbag, and the empty pack itself as a groundpad. It was about the most uncomfortable thing I’d ever slept on in my life, but it did provide some much needed insulation. I then put socks on my hands, tucked my head into my fleece, and zipped myself inside my condensation-lined bivy sack for a restless night. The ungodly wake-up time was more of a relief than a nuisance, and I quickly prepared to resume the climb. Having realized also that I had not brought enough food, I ate just a small snack and headed out into the darkness. I was quite nervous about taking on Devil’s Rock in the dark but knew that an alpine start was the only way I could reach the summit and begin my descent with a reasonable margin of safety before the late morning weather arrived. I turned on my headlamp, shouldered my pack, and left the relative safety of Camp 1 and the lower mountain. Immediately, the trail narrowed to just a few feet in width, and my pace slowed to a crawl. By the time I hit the first via ferrata section, vertical precipices plunged downward on either side of me. I moved slowly through the via, trying to maintain three points of contact whenever possible and testing each bolt before committing any weight to it. I arrived at the crux of the first via ferrata section and could only shake my head as I looked up at a fifteen foot vertical climb. The trail had withered to nothing more than a few footholds carved into the cliff, so a slip would mean falling thousands of feet. I found a solid handhold and leaned back over the abyss, feeling my pulse and breathing quicken and reveling in the moment. Curious about the extent of the drop beneath me, I grabbed a nearby rock and tossed it off the cliff, waiting expectantly for a sound of impact several seconds later. But the rock seemed to be swallowed by gravity itself, and the only sound which answered was a low moan of wind and the rustling of my rope against the cliff. For all intents and purposes, I was alone in the world, and my survival would depend entirely upon my decisions and judgment. Every ounce of intellect I possessed was telling me to turn back and wait for daylight, but some more deep-rooted instinct required that I press on. Stars were beginning to poke through the clouds, a cold breeze was blowing at my back, and a silence so thick it seemed almost tangible enshrouded the mountain like a cloak. I was completely engrossed by my every action, climbing in rhythm to my breathing, contemplating each hold and each step without ever really thinking, knowing that to think was to doubt and to doubt was to die. I was hyperaware of the abyss and of the consequences of any mistake, but my conscious thought would not veer from the beam of my headlamp and the path directly in front of me which it illuminated. I pressed on in the darkness…

At last, first light. I had made solid progress and no serious mistakes. With my headlamp now turned off, I pulled myself up yet another muddy pitch using a pre-anchored rope. As I reached the top of the pitch, I saw it: Fare Ata/Camp 2. At 5,940 ft., the sunrise was spectacular. The sky was mostly clear, and Tahiti’s lagoon sparkled a brilliant blue far below. The island of Mo’orea and its own beautiful lagoon were visible in the distance. Even the green knife-edge of Devil’s Rock radiated splendor in the morning light. I paused for a few minutes of rest at Camp 2 but knew better than to ignore the puffy cumulus clouds visible to the east. I was tired, dirty, and hungry, but I forced myself to continue the climb; even from my current vantage point, the summit ridge ahead did not look conducive to a rapid, weather-forced descent. It was obvious that the summit receives daily rain, as the trail was nothing more than a long stretch of mud. I used any roots or rocks I could find for leverage, but the going was tough. The trail also narrowed much more than I had expected, in many ways topping even Devil’s Rock in terms of danger. Here, a slip would mean falling at least a vertical mile. Though I had eaten an energy gel during my rest at Camp 2, I was becoming increasingly malnourished from being forced to ration my meager supply of food. I had my sights set on the summit, and my adrenaline was pumping, but I began to lose my focus. With the increasing altitude, the sleep deprivation, the prolonged exertion, and – most of all – the continuous exposure, my insufficient calorie intake began to affect my climbing. My breathing was coming in quick bursts as opposed to the steady rhythm of the early morning, and my head was simply swimming. Though I had enjoyed tremendously the challenge of exposed climbing thus far, I was beginning to have my fill of it. Certain sections of the trail were so narrow that I had to take a deep breath, hold out both arms for balance, and walk quickly across, one foot in front of the other; on other sections, I crawled. The power of gravity was overtaking me and filling my thoughts; I just couldn’t stop looking down. All around me sheer cliffs plunged to the verdant valley floor; I felt myself being pulled to the edge. Just when I thought I couldn’t go on, it appeared – the summit. Powered by adrenaline alone, I scrambled over a few last boulders and emerged to a stunning 6,818 ft. high panoramic view of green volcanoes, puffy clouds, blue sky, crystal-clear lagoons, distant islands, offshore reefs, and brilliant sunshine. In the time it took to shoot my summit photos, though, clouds began to envelop the peak from the east. Clearly, I had arrived not a minute too late. I scrambled off the summit and began my descent; it was a race against the weather, and losing would entail serious consequences. About halfway down the summit ridge, however, my adrenaline high wore off, and my nausea returned. I struggled to stay focused on the three-foot-wide muddy ski slope of a trail ahead of me, and I knew I was in trouble. I slipped several times and self-arrested only just before sliding off the edge. My legs had turned to gel and were quivering uncontrollably like a sewing machine. Finally, I knew I’d reached the end of my luck, and sheer will and determination alone were not going to get me off that summit ridge alive. Disregarding the strict rations I had established for myself and the incoming weather, I sat down in the middle of the trail – my feet hanging off a cliff six and half thousand vertical feet above the valley floor below me – and ate the remainder of my food. I realized that I still had half a day of climbing left ahead of me – including Devil’s Rock – and that the descent would be even more treacherous than the ascent because of the slippery conditions. But I also knew that I had to face the reality of my situation; I would deal with the consequences later. Ten minutes after beginning to eat, I was feeling better and continued making my way down the dangerous summit ridge. By the time I reached Camp 2 again, the summit was completely covered in white-out, and the wind was steadily increasing. I started for the trail down to Camp 1 but, as an after-thought, backtracked to the shelter at Camp 2 and peeked in. There, in the corner, were stashed two small cans of beans. I immediately reached for my Swiss army knife, popped out the can-opener, and devoured the cold beans straight from the cans. Reenergized by this stroke of good luck, I headed down from Camp 2, followed closely by the clouds and rain. The downclimb, as I had expected, was far more dangerous than the climb had been, and I simply could not stay on my feet as I lowered myself down muddy pitches and over slippery ledges. Soon I was covered from head to toe in mud, and my hands were cut and burned from rappelling sans ATC down the via ferrata sections. When I finally reached Devil’s Rock, the clouds had caught up to me, so, once again, I couldn’t actually see the extent of the drop on either side of me. I pondered whether this was for better or for worse as I made my way gingerly through the section. At last, Camp 1 came into view and, beside it, my two canine pals waiting expectantly for me and yelping with glee as I emerged. Despite being great climbers, they had been unable to continue past Camp 1 with me due to the technical nature of Devil’s Rock, but they had nevertheless waited patiently so they could accompany me back down to basecamp. I was exhausted at this point but so happy to be off those two insane ridges that I was temporarily impervious to fatigue. I cranked up the volume of my ipod and made solid time down the switchbacks of the lower mountain with the dogs. Just before reaching Le Belvedere, the dogs came to me for one last behind-the-ear scratching and then disappeared into the woods as mysteriously as they had appeared. I questioned a few of the soldiers at the army base, but they said they had never seen any dogs on the mountain. I didn’t visit any marae in Tahiti so I’m not exactly sure what the mana which many people profess is emitted by these ancient Polynesian religious sites feels like, but I must admit that I felt a strange sense of protection being with those two dogs. Mt. Aorai is located in the heart of the Tahitian interior, towering over the volcanic crater from which the island itself once emerged. In its remoteness and inaccessibility, it remained mostly protected from the foreign traders and missionaries who did so much damage to Polynesian culture and to the sanctity of the Polynesian way of life. As with my unforgettable encounter with the apes on the holy Buddhist mountain of Emei Shan in China, I can’t help but wonder if I connected with this mysterious place in more ways than one. Whether I was being watched over by some ancient mystical energy force or I was just being used as a source of amusement for two frisky pups, though, ultimately I survived one of the most intense climbs of my life, overcame serious mental and physical challenges, and gazed down upon Tahiti and all her glory from high above in the South Pacific heavens.

A second non-surfing adventure I enjoyed during the latter half of my journey to Tahiti takes us back to the water…for scuba diving! Now, I earned my open water diving license in high school and since then had done a couple simple dives in a local rock quarry/scuba park, but – to be entirely honest – I never really “got” scuba diving. I enjoyed being in the water and swimming around and thought it was pretty cool to be able to breathe underwater, but I never really understood how so many people (my instructors, for instance) become addicted to diving in the way that I am addicted to surfing. Well, in Tahiti, that all changed… I made a last minute reservation with Iti Diving International in nearby Vaira’o and showed up with my gear ready to do my first tropical (and therefore, by default, my first “real”) scuba dive. I’m not sure about the whole “International” thing, but the company seemed to be pretty low-key – run by a single divemaster on a when-he-feels-like-it basis out of a wooden shack. I was made slightly more uneasy when he told me that we’d be diving to 97 feet, well below my recommended depth limit as an open-water diver of 60 feet and only just barely within my absolute depth limit of 100 feet. Even crazier is the fact that I had never dived below 33 feet, and, even at that depth, had once had a slightly traumatic experience (though this was due primarily to cold water). Nevertheless, the divemaster did seem knowledgeable, so I put my equipment together, threw on my wetsuit, and hopped in his boat with four other divers. We motored out of the lagoon and along the reef until we came to Le Vavi, a famous wall dive. Tahiti-Iti is known worldwide for its wall dives, and I was going to be treated to one of its best in perfect conditions with near unlimited visibility. Our divemaster was the quintessential Frenchman if I ever saw one, and his heavily accented (I requested English due to the technical vocabulary of diving) pre-dive briefing was a bit difficult to follow. The two things he clearly emphasized, however, proved to be important points. First, he went on and on about the incredible eels at Le Vavi and instructed us to stay well aware of our appendages in the case of a sighting, lecturing, “Zee eels…zey like zee armz…” He said that the eels can be aggressive if they feel threatened and will pursue a diver who remains over the reef; thus, it is necessary to swim towards the open ocean if pursued. Next, he reviewed out-of-air procedures, and made sure I understood how to read my SPG. After the talk, I put on my BCD and tank, sat on the side of the boat for a moment admiring the beautiful green mountains on the other side of the reef, and then somersaulted backwards into the ocean. We dropped down to a ledge at 18 feet, and – sure enough – the very first thing to come into sight was an eight-foot-long (yes, eight!) eel, slithering gracefully through the water like a snake with those menacing yet beautiful fangs. I tucked my legs in and moved quickly into deeper water, chuckling to myself at the thought of the divemaster trying to say “The eel.” After the eel sighting we angled downward and headed for our maximum depth. As we swam gradually deeper in an out-and-back route along the wall, we encountered two other especially memorable sea creatures: first, a five foot long shark (which was the first time I had ever seen a shark from underwater) and, then, a gigantic sea turtle (which reminded me way too much of Finding Nemo and had me mouthing into my regulator, “Dude, watch the shell…just waxed it”). Of course, we also saw an incredible number of fish, amazingly colorful coral, and some interesting caves in the wall. I think the point when I realized just how quickly I was falling in love with scuba diving, though, was when the divemaster motioned for me to swim up next to him by the wall. He was holding out his finger to an itty-bitty little orange fish who was nibbling away at it. The curious little fish couldn’t seem to decide whether it should stay hidden in the psychedelic looking plant it apparently calls home or come out and play with the strange visitors making bubbles outside its front door. I looked up almost 100 feet through the clearest water I’d ever seen, took advantage of my weightless condition to do a backflip, and then regulated my lung volume to hover motionless while sitting indian-style an inch or two over some coral. This was scuba diving! …After we finished our route at 97 feet, we ascended back to the ledge at 18 feet for a mandatory safety stop (to allow the nitrogen gas our bodies had accumulated to decrease to an acceptable level). The pressure at 97 feet is 4 times what it is at the surface, so proceeding directly to the surface would be extremely dangerous and life-threatening. Anyway, none of this would have been a problem except for the fact that my air supply was becoming dangerously low. Because I was a less experienced diver than the others, I was less adept at maximizing the efficiency of my breathing, and I was quite a bit ahead of them in terms of consumption. I signaled to the divemaster several times, and he assured me that he was aware of the situation, but I was becoming increasingly worried as the needle on my SPG ventured farther and farther into the red zone. The divemaster just didn’t seem concerned and instructed me to relax and continue my safety stop at 18 feet. I was beginning to wonder how legitimate a diving outfit run out of a dilapidated shack could be anyway when, at last, he signaled us to make the final ascent. Just as I approached the surface I felt my breathing become more strained, and, when I looked at my SPG after surfacing, I noticed that I was indeed out of air. I climbed back into the boat a bit disconcerted by the sketchiness of the dive, but that feeling only lasted about 30 seconds…after which, I could remember only the incredible sense of awe I felt as I played with a tiny orange fish and did weightless somersaults a hundred feet under the ocean in the middle of the Pacific. I had already decided that I want surfing to be an integral part of my life no matter what I eventually do…well, now I think diving is going to have to be a part of that plan, too.

Back on land now, we venture to the remote Grotte Vaipoiri, a water-filled, subterranean cave located on the east coast of Tahiti-Iti and accessible only by boat or on foot. This area of Tahiti-Iti is famous for hiking due to its lack of development, and I had been looking forward to exploring it since I arrived in Teahupo’o. Never doubting Lonely Planet’s claim that the cave is just 2 easy kilometers from Teahupo’o, I packed light, left in the early afternoon, and took my time walking. After I’d gone a pretty good distance, I asked a fisherman about the cave and was told “C’est luin!” (“It’s far!”). I extracted an estimate of 12 kilometers from the man – and I wasn’t even in Teahupo’o at that point – so, subsequently, my mantra for the day became “What was LP smoking?!” The hike was more difficult than I had expected, and I found myself constantly increasing my pace as the sun moved across the sky, until I realized eventually that I was going to have to break out the headlamp one way or another. Numerous river crossings – including three which required me to balance my pack on top of my head – slowed me down, as did countless aggressive dogs. I can now add “animal bite” to the long list of injuries I’ve accumulated in my travels, as a huge Doberman charged out of nowhere, leapt for my head (I sidestepped it), and then turned and clamped down on my thigh. I ended up running into the ocean, where I waited for its owner to come out. The man apologized but said also that the dog had attacked only because I had appeared afraid. I didn’t argue, though I wondered what emotion I should have conveyed as I watched the beast eye my throat while charging at full speed. Nevertheless, the next time a dog began to charge, I stared it down with my meanest Clint Eastwood face; surprisingly, this technique worked, though it may have been helped by the sturdy walking stick I’d since found and was holding in front of me like a bayonet. I did finally reach Grotte Vaipoiri and enjoyed wading into its ice-cold waters, although the cave’s darkness (which was so thick even my headlamp was rendered useless) deterred me from swimming very far from the entrance (I’m still afraid of the dark, I suppose). While the cave was technically the goal of the hike, however, I think it actually paled in comparison to the uniqueness of the journey itself. Despite the dogs the hike was one of the coolest I’ve ever done. It wasn’t exceptionally long, and, of course, there was no altitude gain, but it was as close to a lost-on-a-desert-island expedition as one could possibly get without actually marooning himself somewhere. I passed the occasional one room bungalow (most without electricity or running water and owned by families or individuals dedicated to living off the land and the sea…absolutely fascinating existences, in my opinion), but mostly it was just deserted, white-sand beaches bordered by jungle, towering mountains, and waterfalls. I sauntered along beneath the palms, contemplating what it would be like to relinquish everything and begin anew in a beautiful, remote place like this. Such freedom and purity there would be! I probably shouldn’t disclose this, but I did, as a matter of fact, take the time to scout out a few plots of land…you know…just in case…

My final little mini-excursion involved a 2 day trip to Tahiti’s sister island, Mo’orea. I had considered going to Rangiro’a, but that would have been a longer and more involved trip which would have interfered with my surfing; plus, with Lonely Planet deeming Mo’orea “the island paradise you’ve been dreaming about all winter,” I figured there was no need to go anywhere else. Surprisingly, though, I was not pleased with what I found in Mo’orea, and it remains the one thing I saw in French Polynesia which I would have to give a negative review. Sure, I agree with Lonely Planet that Mo’orea is an absolutely gorgeous island with soaring green peaks and aquamarine lagoons, but it is also 100% inundated with tourism. Almost everyone I encountered there spoke English, hordes of Americans wandered around in groups, “ATV rides,” “Parasailing!” and “Boat Rentals – No License Required!” signs appeared everywhere I looked, and ridiculously artificial five star resorts lay sprawled across ridiculously artificial white-sand beaches and green lawns with their cookie-cutter bungalows almost touching one another. All in all, I was more than ready to hop the ferry back home to the authentically Polynesian culture of Tahiti-Iti. Actually, I would argue that even Tahiti-Nui is less touristy than Mo’orea. Many people assume that Tahiti is over-developed, but, from what I saw, outside of Pape’ete and a few of the more popular beach areas, much of Tahiti is actually relatively unspoiled by tourism. Regardless, Tahiti-Iti and Teahupo’o are undeniably off-the-beaten-path, and I was never more satisfied with my homestay than when I arrived in Mo’orea.

Despite my disappointment with Mo’orea, I did make the most of my stay. I saw both Cook’s Bay and Opunohu Bay and stayed in Hauru Point. Still buzzed about my last scuba dive, my intention was to organize a dive for the next day. However, I wanted to do not just any dive but a shark dive! Mo’orea has long been famous for its shark dives, in which divers gather in a semi-circle around their divemaster, who pulls out a large chunk of fish. Sharks then rush in from all directions and devour the fish in a violent feeding frenzy just feet away from the divers. I was a little nervous but very excited about doing a shark dive and figured I would have no problem arranging one since Lonely Planet listed four companies on the island who make shark dives their specialty. However, when I arrived in Mo’orea and began calling around, I received nothing but negative answers and evasive explanations. One lady tried to tell me that my guidebook must be out of date because shark dives of that kind haven’t been done in a long time in Mo’orea. I was quick to respond that the book had been published just two months earlier, and she finally admitted that some new government legislation prohibits shark diving. She did not explain whether the new law stemmed simply from increasing support for the position that shark feeding causes sharks to associate humans with food or from some other, more serious occurrence. In the end I decided I’d rather do something else if I couldn’t do a shark dive, so I arranged to rent a kayak for a half day and spent that time exploring Mo’orea’s beautiful lagoon and the motu (small islands) within it. I took my snorkeling gear, too, and enjoyed some spectacular underwater exploration as well. Unfortunately, it was here that I injured my eardrum. Having not equalized sufficiently during my deep dive at Le Vavi, my ears were apparently already at risk. When I made a quick freedive descent from my kayak without immediately equalizing, they suddenly popped, causing moderate pain and a significant loss of hearing. Fortunately, the damage is only temporary, and, though even now I’m not yet allowed to dive, my ears will eventually heal completely.

I mentioned in my last post about Tahiti that it appeared I would be unable to surf Teahupo’o again after breaking my second board. Unfortunately, that expectation proved to be correct, as I simply couldn’t find a way to challenge the beast one last time. I contemplated paddling out on the epoxy board on my final day, but the waves were going off, and even Papa Teva warned me that I would find myself in deep “caca” if I paddled out. So, I suppose the only thing left to say about Teahupo’o is that it continues to affect me even now, even when I am halfway around the world. Because it has acquired such notoriety in the past few years, a fairly large amount of information about the wave exists online, and I have spent the past couple weeks sifting though this. Interestingly, the deeper I dig, the more fortunate I feel to have survived my tangos with death. When I was writing my descriptions of surfing Teahupo’o, I worried that I was sounding too melodramatic and that what I was saying would be assumed to be exaggerated; now, I realize that I probably downplayed the wave too much and really didn’t give it its due in terms of the sheer respect it commands in the surfing world. I also learned some things about the wave that I had noticed but not fully understood while I was there. For instance, the reason surfers’ speed often decreases suddenly at the bottom of the wave is because the wave itself – truly a mutant beast – is actually below sea level. Thus, the water being sucked off the reef and up the face of the wave is actually being sucked downwards, resulting in an incline for a surfer at the bottom of the wave traveling forward. Another interesting tidbit: the jet of water I described shooting out of the barrel at Teahupo’o is created by an actual shock wave which takes place inside the barrel when the lip of the wave crashes down on the reef. Finally, I viewed several series of pictures depicting surfers wiping out on the wave in exactly same way I wiped out when I broke my board. Below the pictures, captions relay the importance of getting down the face of the wave before the “U” shaped bowl section – otherwise, a washing machine style flip is in store. If only I had known that earlier… Coincidentally, I ended up spotting the guys I surfed with during my first successful go at Teahupo’o here at the VB 1st Street Jetty the other day and learned that one of them became very sick with a staph infection from the injuries he acquired at Teahupo’o. I also found out from doing a little research that the guy I met in the airport and surfed with during that first tow-in session is a pro who nearly beat world champion Andy Irons this year, that the guy on the jet ski who rescued me after my leash broke is also a pro and is considered the best Teahupo’o surfer in the world, and that Bobby Martinez and the Hobgood brothers enjoyed staying with “Mama Teva.”

Since I wasn’t surfing Teahupo’o, I began surfing some of the other breaks in Tahiti during my final sessions. Papara, despite being crowded, offered up some fun waves, and I also enjoyed watching a competition there, during which the French surf commentary caused me to drift off to my contest in Senegal. Perhaps the most memorable session, though, occurred on my final day, the day the waves were going off at Teahupo’o. I hitched to Papara, planning to surf there, but the wind was sideshore and no one was out. I had been riding with this huge, jovial guy in a monster dump truck for the past half hour, and he assured me that the waves would be a solid 4 meters and clean at Pa’ea, further up the road. I asked him suspiciously if he were a surfer, and, patting his belly, he said “before I got this.” Trusting the dump truck driver’s judgment, I continued my long trip in search of waves, enjoying my new friend’s conversation and his frequent aloha waves to women walking on the side of the road and to every single truck driver who passed. When we arrived at Pa’ea, I realized he had been right and thanked him profusely for his help; huge, double overhead waves were lined up and rolling into this unique rivermouth break. The waves were breaking in a horseshoe-shaped cove and exploding against a steep concrete bulwark below a large crowd of onlookers. I didn’t like the looks of the cove because riding too far in or falling and being pushed in would mean a very hairy situation from which climbing up the concrete wall would not be a likely escape route. Despite this, the waves looked really fun – being the first waves I’d surfed in a while with really serious size yet without the killer power that waves at Teahupo’o literally possess – and I leapt with my board from the wall, having timed the jump to coincide with an incoming wave. I was a bit intimidated by the vocal crowd and the very talented surfers in the water, but I started things off with a huge right on which I aired about fifteen feet off the back as it closed out. I surfed all day long and got a ton of good waves, so, when the sun began to set, despite being sad that my surfing odyssey in Tahiti was over, I was far too stoked with the waves to be upset and far too satisfied that I had avoided breaking a third board to complain about anything.

Well, I’ve written a lot about the waves, the mountains, and the lagoons of Tahiti…but I would be remiss if I did not dedicate at least one passage to Tahiti’s most spectacular treasure: its people. When I first met the Rochette family, I think they expected me to act like the typical visiting surfer and show little interest in their culture. When they realized what my intentions really were, though, they opened up and accepted me as part of their family. When Teva’s aunt passed away towards the end of my stay, he invited me to join the family for a large lunch. We ate together under overcast skies, and he explained that Tahitian legend holds that the skies must remain dark until a funeral ceremony has been completed. Additionally, because Mama and Papa Teva’s twenty-something-year-old son is studying in Spain for the year, I think I became something of a surrogate for them. I asked Mama Teva if I would be able to find a “Teahupo’o” t-shirt at the airport in Pape’ete, and, not one hour later, she returned with two gift-wrapped shirts for me. The generosity of my family in Teahupo’o defined my stay there; no matter where I go, I don’t believe I’ll ever find another Mama and Papa Teva.

The kindness and laid-back attitude of the Tahitians were, in fact, the defining element of my experience in French Polynesia. If the grin of little Gnagna – representing strength, beauty, and courage just dying to burst out – is the single most vivid image I take from Senegal, then the aloha sign of a passing bicyclist is what I take from Tahiti. There is so much warmth contained in that simple gesture and, at the same time, so much contentment. It’s as if the passing bicyclist is saying to me, a visitor in his country, that he welcomes me with an open heart regardless of whether I have anything to offer him because he is content with life as he knows it. Poverty most definitely exists in Tahiti, but there is not the sense of a struggle to overcome it. In fact, it is often easy to overlook the fact that many Tahitians do without things that Westerners would consider basic necessities. Why is this so easy to overlook? Because of that aloha sign. Because no matter how poor a Tahitian is, he is never too reluctant to tuck a white tiare flower behind his ear. Because no matter how tough things may be, a Tahitian never fails to smile one of those great big smiles that only an islander can ever really know. Because at the core of a Tahitian’s existence lies an understanding that for every bad wipeout and for every reef cut there will be a picture-perfect tuberide. For every dog that bites there will be a dog that protects and befriends. For every crowded man-made beach there will be a real one lined with palm trees, just waiting to be explored. For every five-star resort dripping with veneer there will be a little bungalow by the lagoon and a friendly local family welcoming you to it. For every near-drowning experience there will be a cute little orange fish and a graceful sea turtle named Crush to remind you that life above water is only half the fun. Because the Tahitians, more than anyone else I’ve ever met, have discovered what it means to be stoked. Not simply stoked on surfing or stoked on diving or stoked on climbing. They’ve discovered what it means to be stoked on life. And to this I raise my glass and say “Manuia.” To good waves, to great friends, and to being stoked on this crazy thing we call life.

Back at you from Taiwan in the near future. Aloha.

Tahiti Pictures!

2006-07-22T22:47:00.000+02:00

My photos from Tahiti are now posted online: http://community.webshots.com/user/mistaajg! Kick off your shoes, put a little umbrella in your drink, and drift away to paradise...

Relaxation, Redemption, and Rediscovery of the Real Meaning of GNARLY

2006-07-04T01:06:00.000+02:00

Please note that this is the second entry being posted at this time. You’ll need to scroll down to read the first post, and then you can scroll back up to read this one.

Ok, so I’m sitting here on the deck of my over-water bungalow with a rainbow filling the sky to my left, huge waves crashing on the reef out front, and a sailboat anchored in the lagoon to my right. I’m wearing nothing but a bathing suit, I’m sipping fresh mango juice, and I’m chilling out to the soft melody of a ukulele wafting in with the breeze from next-door. I have no idea what day it is or what’s going on in the world, no recollection of what winter feels like, and no concept of the significance of the words hurry or worry other than that they rhyme. But wait just a minute, now, before you start muttering expletives about what a chump I am! I have nasty, bleeding wounds all over my body; my top-of-the-line surfboard rests next to me in two, tragically separated pieces; and each day I find myself confronting head-on my previous failures, my greatest fears, and my very mortality. Ok, so maybe I can’t convince you that I’m not living in paradise – because I am – but it is, I promise, a unique variation of the paradise you probably imagine. Whether you want to believe it or not, I’m not staying at the Hotel Bora Bora; though my little bungalow is spectacular in its location and charm, life here on Tahiti-Iti is simple and unpretentious. Few people speak more than a couple words of English, so I’m faced with the challenge – as I had hoped – of speaking continuous French. Rainstorms mean hunkering down in my bungalow with a book for as long as they last, and sunset is the same as lights-out in this laid-back little village. Most uncharacteristic of the paradise you probably imagine, though, is the nature of the thing which drew me here in the first place: surfing. Surfing here is much more than recreation – it is, instead, a battle of epic proportions, a constant struggle to believe in myself and my abilities, to coexist temporarily with nature in its most violent and dynamic moment, and to cope with the realization that death has never before seemed so tangible. It is within this little paradox – this paradox which has allowed me to do more reading, learn more French, and place myself in more life-threatening, life-fulfilling situations than ever before despite the fact that I have forgotten what it means to hurry or to worry – that I have found my niche here… here on this magical, Polynesian dreamland of an island called Tahiti. Join me for a tour…

I suppose from the moment I stepped on that plane in Los Angeles I knew I was headed to paradise. The seats and wallpaper of the Air Tahiti Nui jet were various shades of tropical blues and greens, and the selection of movies included the latest surfing thriller May Days, which was, as a matter of fact, filmed exclusively here in Teahupo’o. With four seats entirely to myself, I stretched out for a nice long lap, and when I woke up, it was Hello French Polynesia. Things got interesting right away – which is how it always seems to be with me for some reason – when I found myself rolling that infamous, eight-foot-long boardbag along beside me through the Pape’ete airport looking for someone with a little sign saying "Alex Gould" or even just someone who looked like he too were looking for someone. But to no avail, and I finally admitted to myself that the odds of my new family showing up at 10:30 PM on that night after just one conversation with me, in broken French, over two months earlier probably weren’t so high. A guy working in the airport noticed my boardbag and chatted with me for a while about surfing – telling me he’d probably see me in the water that weekend at Teahupo’o because there was a huge swell on the way that he wouldn’t miss for anything – and then pointed me in the direction of the nearest, cheapest pension. I feigned excitement about the swell (you see, in Tahiti, it’s exactly backwards – people like me pray for small, small, small waves; and, when there are big waves, we pray for onshore winds or some other legitimate excuse for not being able to surf) – thinking slim chance he would see me in the water during a big swell – and headed for the pension, called Chez Fifi. As things would have it, Chez Fifi is located about halfway up one of the volcanoes by the airport, so I was completely drenched in sweat by the time I made it up the hill with all my luggage, and it was, by then, well after 11:00. Luckily, le patron was still awake, and, within minutes, I had crashed on a dormitory bed. When I awakened the next morning and sat up in bed, I realized I was next to an open window; I groggily put on my glasses and looked out and was just floored by the vista. Ocean, mountains, reef, sunshine… I knew suddenly that the second leg of my journey was underway and I was in for a treat…

I finally managed to get in touch with the Rochettes that morning and arranged to be picked up at the airport (I couldn’t take a bus because of my boardbag). Teva, the father, was fifteen minutes early by Tahitian time (meaning he was 45 minutes late by Western time), but I expected this and was just pleased to be hitting the road. Teva is a big guy, really nice and sincere, and, like every Tahitian, takes his time going about things. The 1.5 hour drive from Pape’ete to Teahupo’o became a 2.5 hour drive as Teva made a couple stops along the way, took time to greet people on the side of the road (he seemed to know everyone), and chatted with me about surfing (realizing that my French has improved dramatically since our pre-Senegal phone conversation). He, too, informed me that a huge swell was on its way to Teahupo’o – adding as a sidenote that some pros from Hawaii who had heard about it were currently in transit – and asking if I knew about the big "tuubes" (elongating the u in tube in kind of a goofy way) at Teahupo’o. I responded that I was well aware of the tubes at Teahupo’o but probably wouldn’t be surfing them if they were very big. He laughed and insisted that it wasn’t a big deal – that the Hobgood brothers, Bobby Martinez, "lots of other surfers…" – ride the tubes with ease every year at the Billabong Pro Teahupo’o Contest (one of the nine stops on the world tour of surfing) and that those surfers all stayed at his house too. Once I got over how cool it was that I would be sleeping in the same bed that C.J. Hobgood once slept in, I informed Teva that I was most definitely not a professional…well, except in Senegal, that is!!

Tahiti is shaped like a lopsided figure eight; the larger part, where Pape’ete (the capital of French Polynesia) and most of the other cities are located, is called Tahiti-Nui, and the smaller part, where Teahupo’o (pronounced "Choh-po’oh; the apostrophe indicates a glottal stop) is located, is called Tahiti-Iti or Le Presqu’ile ("almost island"). The two sections of the island are connected by a small isthmus at the town of Tarava’o. The interior of both parts of the island is volcanic, with jagged, verdant mountains rising to over 7,000 ft. Tahiti’s only real road, called La Ceinture ("The Belt"), hugs the coastline of the island, though on Tahiti-Iti it goes only as far as Tautira on the north coast and Teahupo’o on the south coast (the east coast remains accessible only by boat). Thus, Teahupo’o, where I am living, is nicknamed "The End of the Road," which, I must admit, helped to seal the deal when I was trying to decide where to spend the summer. Teahupo’o – and Tahiti-Iti as a whole – is much less developed than the rest of Tahiti. There are no real hotels here – just small, family-run pensions and homestays – nor are there banks, internet cafes, fancy restaurants, etc. Relatively few tourists come here, and those who do are not typically the type who vacation on Bora Bora; as Lonely Planet says, in addition to a "steady flow of surf pilgrims," Teahupo’o and Tahiti-Iti attract "independent, outdoorsy folk looking for a more authentic glimpse of Polynesia." I’d say I fall under both of those categories, wouldn’t you? My bungalow here in Teahupo’o, which I mentioned earlier, is located 1.5 km from the end of the road, on oceanfront property, propped up over the lagoon on stilts. It’s situated in a little cove, and the calm, turquoise water stretches out for over half a mile to the end of the barrier reef, where the lagoon ends and the open ocean begins. The bungalow is nestled under palm trees a few hundred feet from the house in which the Rochettes live. Teahupo’o itself is a charming little village with a rhythm unlike that of any other place I’ve been. I took a walk to the end of the road the first day I was here, and I found myself liking – and falling into – that rhythm very quickly. Kids playing football in the road stopped their game to shake my hand, girls riding by on bikes flashed me aloha signs, and women gathered at the local gossip hotspot paused to wave and grin as I passed. Tiny houses, many with nothing more than a curtain for a door, line both sides of the street; rushing rivers cascade down from the mountains and into the ocean; and a tiny wooden church, painted entirely white, sits tucked away in one of the valleys amidst a patch of wildflowers. I find so much beauty in the simplicity and slowness of life here. The way in which the white tiare flower is tucked behind the ear. The greeting of women with a kiss on each cheek. The nonchalant, relaxed peddling of bicycles up and down the street at all hours of the day. Even the long, patient waits at the snack bars and at the bank in Tarava’o. It’s as if the people here have realized that hurrying is pointless – that they’re all seeking the same things and headed for the same final destination and that all that really matters is the grace and elegance with which they live in the meantime. Most of all, the people here seem happy, happier than any other group of people I’ve ever encountered. The way in which children play half-naked in the ocean, in which fishermen unload their bountiful catches after a day at sea, in which families sit outside gazing at the sunsets and rainbows which so often fill the sky with color…even the way in which the untold number of canine residents of Teahupo’o run yelping through the streets as if they’ve found their own little doggie paradise. On my way back from that walk on the first day, I saw a pack of those dogs running, and I couldn’t help but see on each of their faces a big, slobbery grin; maybe it was imagined, maybe not, but – either way – I couldn’t help but grin myself, totally enraptured by life here at The End of the Road.

So, "What’s a typical day like in paradise?" you want to know. I wake up early – in fact, earlier than I have woken up since…well…probably since high school. Vaiani, my "mom" usually delivers breakfast to my over-water deck around 7:30, which is about the time I become fed up with trying to sleep through the cacophony of the roosters anyway. Vaiani is wonderful – both in terms of her personality and, more importantly (hehe), her culinary skill. I honestly think she could pass for a head chef in one of the top restaurants in Pape’ete. She cooks me breakfast and dinner everyday, though she makes so much food that there’s almost always enough left for lunch too (even the way I eat). She reminds me often to mangez bien ("eat well") and believes that a big breakfast is an important start to the day (and I concur)…so, breakfast, brought to me on a big colorful tray, is always comprised of a pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange, mango, papaya, or pineapple juice; a bowl of at least 5 different fruits; a French baguette; a cup of yogurt; and typically either a 3 egg omelet stuffed with all sorts of delectable treats, a huge plate of banana pancakes, or a giant breakfast sandwich on coconut bread. I don’t think I’ve had the same dinner meal twice, so I won’t list all the masterful creations I’ve enjoyed, but here are a few: grilled mahi-mahi with mashed potatoes and a gigantic bowl of soup (with fresh shrimp); an overflowing chef salad with several types of meat accompanied by an exquisitely seasoned steak and a vegetable medley; Chinese lo mein topped with grilled chicken breast and served with a bowl of sautéed shrimp and crab meat. Tahitian cuisine is the product of Polynesian, French and Chinese influences (France and China having made the biggest impact on the local culture; if you weren’t aware of the Chinese influence, you might be surprised to know that the Chinese horoscopes are read on the news every night, the vast majority of stores in Tahiti are owned by people of Chinese origin, and white rice and lo mein are two of the staples of Tahitian cuisine). All the meals, of course, include fresh French bread and often a helping of the local specialty poisson cru, which is raw fish mixed in mayonnaise and coconut milk. I was a bit worried the first time I tried this, but once I had tasted it I just couldn’t stop – it’s definitely the most amazing seafood dish I’ve ever had. The fish used for poisson cru is so fresh that it’s usually been out of the ocean for only a couple of hours, and the resulting taste is nearly addictive… Anyway, after taking my time with breakfast, watching boats go by, and checking the waves on the reef, I typically suit up and head out to surf (which is a major outing involving either walking several kilometers or hitchhiking and either paddling a couple kilometers or finding a boat and convincing its owner I’m a nice guy) or, if I can think of an excuse not to go tempt death, take a nap. After surfing or napping, it’s usually a little reading or studying French on my deck, then maybe some relaxing in the sun with Jack Johnson tunes playing on my laptop in the background. Once I’m tired of that, I might go for a walk down to the end of the road and chat with locals for awhile. Since Teahupo’o is so small that everyone knows one another, I guess I’m a little bit of a celebrity with some of the kids, so I never leave home without an entourage of bicyclists. I honestly don’t think the kids here ever go to school because I see them every single time I go out, no matter what time it is. Regardless, I enjoy hanging out with them, chatting about surfing, and reminding them all – but especially the kid who calls himself the Boogieman (he likes to boogieboard) – that I don’t have any stickers to give out (because of the sponsored professionals who come here, stickers sporting surf-industry names are a very hot commodity in Teahupo’o). I’ve gotten to know some locals who are about my age, too, which is especially nice because it means I don’t always have to surf alone. After the kids accompany me home and ride off on their bikes (typically in the opposite direction they were going when they saw me…what a life, I’m telling you!), I usually play with the Rochettes’ dogs for a bit. There are four awesome dogs, including two lovable, 4-month-old puppies named Chambeaux and Tysan, who are nearly identical (they’re brothers), inseparable, and by now completely attached to me. I usually conclude the day with a snorkel on the reef in front of my bungalow, freediving 10 to 25 feet down to explore the reef edge and look for hiding fish. Not that there’s any shortage of fish near the surface, of course. Just floating along, I find myself surrounded by angel fish, tube fish, eels; big fish, tiny fish, schools of fish; reds, oranges, yellows, and, of course, the amazing variations of blue for which the South Pacific seas are famous. When I venture out further in the lagoon, I attach the leash of my longboard to my leg and also take my very wicked dive knife, which makes me feel just a little bit better. I swim in just as the sun is beginning to set, dry off, and stretch out on my deck to find out what extravaganza of color the sky holds in store this time. I eat dinner either with the Rochettes or on my deck, do some more reading (it’s so nice to have a chance to read for pleasure…I’ve already sped through several books, including the 1200 page masterpiece Atlas Shrugged, which I believe I finished in 4 days), talk to the family for awhile, and then hit the sack early. The sun sets here at 5:30, and, as I said, that basically means lights out in Teahupo’o. Except for the roosters, it’s a sleepy village…and I kind of like it that way.

And now what you’ve all been waiting for…what you’ve all been dying to ask… "What is it like surfing the most dangerous wave in the world?" Teahupo’o, "Chopes," "Kumbaya." The wave which instills fear in the greatest surfers on earth. The wave which is heralded almost universally as the most challenging on the planet. Transworld Surf Magazine says it’s a "surreal, ledging left that looks more like an avalanche or a tidal wave than anything you’d think was surfable." Pro surfer Keala Kennelly says it’s the only wave in the world "with teeth." After barely making it out of the tube on an epic wave in 2000, Laird Hamilton, the greatest big-wave surfer in history and very possibly the bravest man alive today, sat down on his board and wept. And me? The guy who doesn’t even live at a beach and whose entire lifetime worth of experience on a surfboard is less than what most surfers accumulate in one year? I can give a one word answer: GNARLY. Yep, just take that old-school surfer word that everyone scoffs at, pump it full of steroids, repackage it, write Death all over it, and you’ve got Teahupo’o. The craziest, scariest, most frickin’ Insane with a capital i thing that I’ve ever seen in my life. You’re sitting there on your board in the most beautiful blue water you’ve ever seen, the ocean is as calm as can be, birds are flying overhead, fish are playing underneath you, a soft breeze is blowing against your back, and behind you is an unreal panorama of jagged green pinnacles soaring upwards into wispy clouds. All the world seems at peace. Then, you feel it coming. You hear it. You hear a jet-ski engine start up a hundred meters further out. You hear people start screaming and cheering on the dozen or so boats idling fifty feet away in the safety of the channel. You notice that the professional photographers swimming around in body armor have repositioned themselves. Then, you see it. A huge mountain in the distance and growing steadily larger as it eats up the distance between you and it. The ocean behind you is suddenly dropping away in a bizarre, unnatural manipulation of the laws of physics. The mountain is curving around the reef so that it’s taken the form of a "U," and it’s beginning to unleash its fury. A tow-in surfer pulled by the jet-ski you heard a few seconds ago has let go of the rope and is flying across the face of the wave, trying to outrace the aquamarine beast before it eats him alive and piledrives him into the jagged coral reef three feet below the surface. His face is contorted by the g-forces, the wind, and, of course, the fear; no one knows if he’s going to make it. Buried deep within the barrel of the wave, he flies by a few feet away from you, and you can no longer see him – you yourself blinded by the spray of water which shoots forty feet into the air and falls like rain for almost ten seconds. Then, you see the arms go up, the arms of all the people watching from their boats, and you watch as the surfer is spit out of the tube with a jet of water, his own arms raised in triumph and exaltation… Words don’t really do Teahupo’o justice. The best – and easiest – thing for you to do is just perform a Google Search – type "Teahupo’o + surfing" – and look at the pictures which come up. Then, remind yourself that the pictures don’t really do Teahupo’o justice either and that it’s ten times scarier and more intense when you’re actually there.

Here’s how Teahupo’o works. French Polynesia is the most remote chain of islands anywhere in the world. That’s the same as saying that the islands of French Polynesia are further from any continental landmass than any other point on earth. The island of Tahiti is surrounded almost entirely by a barrier reef. However, over time, parts of the reef are eaten away; the resulting channels which connect the open ocean to the inner lagoon are known as "passes." The pass in the reef over a half-mile off the shore of the village of Teahupo’o is known as Hava’e and is infamous because of the wave (which is also called Teahupo’o) it produces. The coral reef beside the pass – known for being exceptionally sharp and jagged – lies just 2 to 4 feet beneath the surface of the water. The seaward side of the reef, however, drops vertically downward hundreds and hundreds of feet to the sea bottom. Thus, the energy which has been traveling – and growing stronger in the process – for days across the widest expanse of open ocean in the world meets the shallow reef head-on with nothing to slow it down. The result is one of clearest examples to be found anywhere of the incredible power of nature. While Teahupo’o is not as big as some waves (though it is nevertheless enormous), it throws more water over the lip of the wave at any one instant than any other wave in the world. It is known for being as "thick" as it is "tall," and what this means is that there is a gaping hollow within the wave resembling the inside of a pipeline and called the "tube" or the "barrel." Teahupo’o was thought to be unsurfable until 1985-86, when surfers were able to ride it successfully by tucking into the relative safety of the tube to avoid the deadly whitewater flowing over their heads. Still, only a handful of people had ever surfed the wave until 8 years ago, when the ASP (Association of Surfing Professionals) found out about it and made it one of the nine stops on the World Tour of surfing, in which the 44 best surfers in the world surf the best waves in the world to fight for the world championship. Even today, Teahupo’o remains relatively off-the-map, and the few surfers who do make pilgrimages here are almost exclusively professionals and semi-professionals. To say that I’m out of my league is an understatement. In an article chronicling the histories of the 8 top surfing meccas in the world, the only thing Transworld Surf Magazine has to say under the "Surfability" category for Teahupo’o is this: "Don’t even think about it. Anything over three foot is not suitable for anyone but expert surfers." So what in the world am I doing here, you might wonder…

Basically, I wanted to spend this summer in a French-speaking country where I could surf. During the summer months the Atlantic Ocean is more or less flat, so that eliminated places like France and Senegal and basically narrowed my search to French Polynesia (Réunion and Mauritius are in the midst of an outbreak of the chikungunya virus; in simpler terms, you shouldn’t go there). My only other concern was finding some type of homestay that would allow me to experience the local culture. After weeks of searching on the internet, I noticed a footnote in an online article that mentioned something about homestays being possible in Teahupo’o because some of the families had begun hosting professional surfers for the annual contest. The footnote said to call the mayor of Teahupo’o and provided a number. It turned out that that number was incorrect and that no one seemed to speak any English, so the going was tough, but, with the help of one of my French-speaking friends, I was at last able to arrange the homestay with the Rochette family. I knew before I arrived that I was not qualified to surf Teahupo’o, but I figured, with good judgment and a little luck, I should hopefully be able to surf it on the "smaller" (that’s smaller; not small) days and survive. I came armed with three boards and a healthy dose of that "attitude of invincibility" that my mom always rags me about, but, at the same time, I wasn’t taking anything lightly. Somehow, though, I still managed to find myself right in the middle of things and asking, "Why does this always happen to me?"…

It was the first weekend here, the weekend of the big swell that everyone had told me about. I’d already told Teva that I was not going to surf during the swell, but he came and chatted with me after I had woken up and convinced me that the swell hadn’t really picked up too much at that point. He said it wouldn’t really arrive until the next day and that, though the waves were "building," they weren’t too big yet. So he said something to the effect of "Why don’t you hop in the boat with your board, and I’ll take you out there just to look. If you like what you can see, you can surf; if not, you can return with me." Thinking "might-as-well," I shrugged, went through an abbreviated stretching routine "just in case," waxed up my board, threw on my rash guard, and hopped into the boat. As we sped across the lagoon, people watching from the shore who probably figured I was a pro waved aloha signs and hollered, as if they were cheering me on to some unimaginable battle. When we got to Hava’e Pass, there were about a dozen boats idling in the channel, professional surf photographers swimming in the impact zone, pro riders – several of them wearing helmets – from a number of different countries in the water, and jet skis and tow-in surfers further out to sea (as a side note, tow-in surfing, in which surfers are whipped into waves behind jet skis as if they were water skiing until they catch the wave and let go of the rope, is the most recent innovation in surfing and is done regularly in just a handful of locations, places which feature the biggest and most challenging waves in the world). I was kind of dazed by all this, and I suppose my brain stopped working for a minute. Teva and I watched a few waves come through that actually didn’t seem too incredibly big, and then he turned to me with expectation. I sort of looked behind me to see if there were someone else in the boat for whom his glance was intended only to realize that I was alone and that he expected me to jump out and paddle into this lineup of world-class surfers challenging a world-class wave. He grinned and gave me an encouraging "Allez!" ("Go!"), and before I knew what I’d done I had dove overboard. I got sized up by all the pros and experts as I paddled tentatively towards them and was greeted by a series of terse Bonjour’s, La ora na nana’s, Hola’s, and What’s up’s. One of the coolest things about surfing a wave like Teahupo’o, though, is that everyone there means business. Everyone understands the risk and the danger, and everyone understands everyone else’s reasoning for taking on that risk and danger. The tangible solidarity which exists in the lineup is probably not all that different than the solidarity felt by soldiers heading to battle together. Additionally, even during a swell like the one we were experiencing, there were no more than 20 surfers in the lineup at any one time. So, as I figured out when I arrived in the lineup, the custom is for arriving surfers to go around and greet each surfer already in the lineup personally. This usually involves an aloha sign or the "palm touch followed by fist pound" which reigns as the handshake of choice for the younger generation here as well as the surfers. With these greetings comes a sense of community – the same sense of community I witnessed at the Pro Competition in Senegal, during the typhoons in Taiwan, and in the waters of Costa Rica – and I think its ability to unite people from diverse backgrounds and with diverse interests is one of the greatest aspects of the sport of surfing.
Anyway, I was in the lineup and "ready to charge" at this point and just wanted to wait and watch someone else take off on a wave. That’s when it happened. The first set arrived, and it was unlike anything I’ve experienced in my life. As I described earlier, the jet-skis revved up, the crowd went mad, and the paddle-in surfers around me began jockeying for position (the person closest to the breaking part of the wave always has priority) in case the tow-in surfers passed up a wave. And me? I just kind of sat there dumbfounded at the mountain rolling towards me, realizing that the swell had most definitely already arrived, and glancing back at the channel only to see Teva leaving in his boat! The next 3 hours were a mixture of awkwardness, awe, and conflicting desires. I had one of the best seats in the house for watching an absolutely unbelievable show, but, at the same time, I had to stay constantly aware of my position. The larger the wave, the further out it breaks, so sometimes very large sets would come through and everyone would have to paddle straight out as hard as possible to avoid being "caught on the inside" and destroyed. Those moments were my only real adrenaline rushes of the first three hours – and, believe me, it’s quite a rush to paddle head-on towards one of those mountains and then paddle straight up its near vertical wall of water when it is milliseconds from caving in and taking you backwards over the falls and into the reef – but the thought of trying to surf one of the smaller waves wouldn’t leave me. As he had promised, the guy I’d met in the airport that first night showed up after a little while and paddled over to me to shake hands and see how things were going. I confessed that I hadn’t taken a wave yet, and, though he reassured me that there wasn’t a single person in the lineup who wasn’t afraid, he also said, "You’ll never know if you don’t try." I was also under the mistaken impression that Teahupo’o would never be much smaller than this and concluded to myself that this day seemed as good as any to tempt fate. Finally, my chance came. A smaller wave – still larger than any I’d ever surfed in my life – and a nice, clean face that hopefully would give me time to bottom turn and tuck into the barrel. I paddled hard. It lifted me up and I almost had it…but it passed under me. One of the most pitiful things in all of surfing is getting "caught on the inside," particularly after having paddled for a previous wave and just barely missed it. That’s exactly what happened to me on that day. I turned around to see a huge set rolling in. Everyone else, fifteen feet further out, was already paddling out. Having just finished a sprint paddle, my arms were tired, but I paddled for my life nevertheless. A guy had been evacuated just a few hours earlier with a dislocated shoulder due to a similar scenario. The last person to die at Teahupo’o was impaled headfirst into the reef after being caught inside. As the wave reared up in front of me and the whitewater began falling in what seemed like slow motion, I knew I wouldn’t make it. The next thing I knew I was underwater, being pulled in, and my surfboard, clamped by a set of menacing liquid jaws, was torn away from me with no trouble. I finally surfaced to find myself intact, but the leash connecting my board to my leg had snapped and the board was nowhere to be seen. With more set waves approaching me, I swam for my life – pretty terrified – diving as deep as I could under each wave. I managed to survive the set and was picked up by one of the rescue jet-skis that wait in the channel. As I’d seen (in movies) my heroes like Laird Hamilton do after epic big-wave wipeouts in Hawaii, I grabbed onto the sled which is pulled behind the Red Bull jet-skis, hauled myself onto it so that I was lying on my stomach, and hung on for the ride – and when I say hung on, I’m talking about an iron grip. The ride itself was actually one of the most terrifying things I’ve ever been through, as the driver navigated through the impact zone, outracing incoming waves and dodging above-water rocks, at speeds of probably 50 mph – my face, all the while, just inches above jagged coral. Finally, he spotted my board, which I grabbed in-transit, and he then shuttled me quickly to land, anxious to get back to the break. I stood on the beach shaken and dazed, amazed at how quickly everything had happened and upset with myself about how my first attempt at Teahupo’o had gone but also feeling newfound respect for the power of the ocean and a sense of gratitude that I’d have another chance to challenge it…

After my first encounter with Teahupo’o I was humbled yet also made anxious, scared yet also infused with energy. I hung my broken leash over my bed so it would serve as a constant reminder of what I still had to prove to myself. The swell was neither the right time nor the right atmosphere for me to take on Teahupo’o. I knew deep down that if I waited, entered the right mindset, and charged on my terms, I was more than capable of surfing Teahupo’o. For the two days after my first incident, I didn’t sleep well at night, having repetitive nightmares about the wave. During the day, though, I practiced visualizing myself surfing it successfully, and I ran positive images through my mind over and over. I fixed the dings in my board, stretched a lot, and just tried to stay positive. Finally, the waves died down a bit, and, after a couple hours of procrastinating ("I think it looks like it might rain…"), I decided I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t give it at least one go with 100% commitment. I gathered my thoughts during the 2 kilometer walk to the spot where surfers begin the paddle out and was dismayed by how quickly the reprieve passed. Before I knew it, I was out there, back in the lineup, and, though the waves were smaller, they seemed to pack almost as much force as they did the previous session; additionally, the bizarre U-shape of the wave around the horseshoe-shaped reef was as pronounced as ever. Coincidentally, a couple of surfers from Virginia Beach were the only others out, and, though they were semi-pros who travel all over the world to surf, the fact that someone from my neck of the woods was surfing Teahupo’o made me feel slightly better. Before I knew what I was doing, I was paddling after another wave, and this time I made it! I survived the drop, bottom turned, and carved down the line a bit before tucking in as the wave started to curl up over me. I was pretty stoked and paddled back out quickly to get several more solid rides. Some guy in one of the boats in the channel said "Nice ride, dude" as I paddled past after riding one of the biggest waves of my life, and that simple compliment had me all smiles (though, of course, I had to pretend like surfing Teahupo’o was no big deal to me) until my last ride, when I took a bad fall and went down on the reef hard. I came up in a small pool of blood and realized that my feet, left leg, left arm, and both hands were cut up pretty badly. The paddle in – which takes 20-30 minutes of hard work depending on whether the tide is incoming or outgoing – was a little nerve-racking because I was trailing blood, and I kept checking behind me, but I made it in okay. When I got home and had finished cleaning out and superglueing shut (yes, it works) my wounds, I took down the broken leash from over my bed, wrote in bold letters in my little notebook "I surfed Teahupo’o," and went to sleep content with myself.

Since that time, surfing here in Tahiti has been a series of ups and downs, a cycle of encountering failure, coming to terms with it, and then redeeming myself. After successfully surfing Teahupo’o, I was on a high and continued to surf it well and gain confidence. I got my most thrilling ride yet a couple days later and was well on my way to riding with style. I dropped into a really good-sized wave, grabbed the rail of my board during the bottom turn, and – seeing the wave ahead of me really starting to pitch out – pulled up into the tube. It was a stand-up sized barrel – the first of my life – and for a second, I remember thinking "Whoa…I’m in the barrel at Teahupo’o…" Unfortunately, I didn’t actually make it out of the barrel, and it was lights out about 2 seconds after that thought entered my mind. Nevertheless, this was a huge achievement for me – I mean, you command instant respect from any surfer in the world if you tell them you got covered up at Teahupo’o, regardless of whether you made it out or not – and I was totally stoked. Unfortunately, it was also the apex of that particular string of successes. The waves were building continuously, and the offshore wind was increasing steadily as well, making the waves more and more difficult. The next wave I took was a monster as far as I’m concerned – a huge, dredging barrel that would have guaranteed me the tube ride of my life had I made it. Teahupo’o, as I mentioned earlier, is a left, meaning, as a regular-footed surfer (I stand with my left foot forward), I have to surf it "backside" (my back is to the wave when cruising down the line). Surfing backside is more difficult than surfing frontside, and, to complicate things, I have far less experience going backside (almost all the waves I rode in Senegal, for example, were rights). Had the wave I chose on that fateful day been a right, I think I would have made it, but it wasn’t, and I just couldn’t make it into the barrel. My drop-in was squeamish and I grabbed my rail to try to straighten out and get in the tube, but I sort of overcompensated and ended up riding too far up the wave. The tube caught up to me and just flipped me upside down washing-machine style, piledriving me downward. When I finally stopped doing back handsprings off the reef, I surfaced to find two thirds of my board gone. My 6’4" Cannibal work of art…the love of my life…destroyed! Though I brought two other boards with me to Tahiti, one is a longboard/funboard I’m using solely for paddling around the lagoon, and the other is a 6’8", very floatable epoxy board belonging to my brother and not intended to be ridden on anything remotely like Teahupo’o (plus, he won’t be very happy if I break his board…not that he can do anything about it though…). So my dance with Teahupo’o had ended. It was over. I returned home with both my board and spirit in shambles, once again defeated by Teahupo’o and the power of the ocean…

But then, once again, a light. Teva, feeling sorry for me (which was nice, because everyone else just wanted to console me by saying "Yea, I broke my board out there last week…"), led me into a guestroom in his house and pointed to the corner: a surfboard. Not a super nice one, but definitely one that could be ridden at Teahupo’o. Game on! I was reenergized and back in the hunt. Another day out on the reef and a day surfing the shorebreak at the end of the road, and I was again gaining confidence. Then, I made a huge breakthrough in hooking up with some of my local Tahitian friends who were heading out in their boat to spend the day surfing Vaira’o, a pass in the reef about 8 kilometers away that is realistically accessible only by boat. Though Vaira’o is also recommended only for expert surfers, it is slightly more forgiving and less intimidating than Teahupo’o. We flew across the lagoon at the boat’s top speed, with one of the guys sitting on the bow so he could indicate – by holding out either his left or right arm – which way for the driver to turn to avoid the coral heads which touched the surface. At last we arrived and were thrilled to see beautiful, glassy little lefts cranking out one after another. I was ready to rip, but these guys were automatic like machines, catching every wave that came through. Finally becoming a little impatient at having to concede wave after wave to surfers with priority, I paddled deeper into the impact zone and at last found myself in a position of having priority. The wave was bordering on close-out and normally I wouldn’t have taken it, but this was finally my chance and I had to go for it. I couldn’t really make it into the barrel and tried to skirt around the whitewater but got eaten up and went down on the reef, surprised by the power of this wave which had appeared much tamer than it actually was. Despite this realization, I still couldn’t believe my eyes when I came up: a second broken board! Once again in need of redemption, I paddled broken-heartedly towards the boat, where I watched my friends catch one awesome wave after another. We had lunch together and it was a fun day, but I was pretty upset. I couldn’t conceive of how this possibly could have happened again, particularly on the first wave of the session and in such a strange way. Once again, I found myself depressed in paradise, searching for answers…

There are only two real beachbreaks on the island of Tahiti and only one of these is realistically accessible from Teahupo’o: Papara. I’ve spent the past few days surfing there on board number three, my brother’s epoxy. The waves there, in all honesty, are better than most of the waves I’ve surfed in my life (head-high on average, fairly long), but the break is packed with people and it’s not really what I came to Tahiti to surf. Nevertheless, it’s been fun surfing there, and I’ve had some great rides. Additionally, hitchhiking to get there (usually via a 3 vehicle shuttle each way) has been very rewarding. I haven’t met any characters quite as eccentric as those I met while hitchhiking in Taiwan (read about them at www.funinchina.blogspot.com under the Taiwan section), but the drivers have been exceptionally nice and provide me a great means by which to practice French. Meanwhile, I bide my time and try to come up with a new plan for taking on Teahupo’o once again. I very well may be done surfing Teahupo’o, but, then again, Tahiti has been full of surprises thus far, so don’t count me out just yet. I think I’m beginning to realize, as well, that the battle was never really between me and Teahupo’o but was, instead, between me and myself. It’s a battle that took on epic proportions here at Teahupo’o but one that can continue to be fought elsewhere and is not limited even to the medium of waves. Though the wounds I received while fighting it here may never fully heal, I was never really beaten either. I was reminded of my limits and of the fragility of my existence but I was shown also just what I’m capable of achieving if I believe in myself. Courage – not even Teahupo’o can drown it.

In concluding this first post from Tahiti, I should note the amazing cultural experiences I’ve had out of the water as well as in it. Teva’s cousin visited last week with a cooler full of fresh fish he’d just caught and invited me to come check them out. I wasn’t really sure what he wanted me to do as he tossed them around, so I just sort of "ooh-ed" and "ahh-ed" each time he showed me one. Afterwards, though, I had no problem deciding what to do as we sat around watching the World Cup on TV while eating tons and tons of delicious fish. While the mahi cooked, we ate poisson cru – straight out of the ocean. The conversation eventually centered on the topic of sharks, and he and Teva seemed to find it hilarious how worried the visiting surfers – myself included – always are about sharks. They explained how two surfers at Teahupo’o had once paddled furiously over to their fishing boat and pulled themselves onboard, screaming that there was a shark in the water. Seeing it, Teva chuckled and told them to get back in the water; it was only 2 meters long. I kind of expected them to reassure me, "Oh, there aren’t any sharks here," which is the answer I’ve gotten in most of the places I’ve surfed, but, instead, they laughed and told me about all the varieties of sharks they’d seen – inside the lagoon and outside of it – and about the 3 meter plus sharks they occasionally see. As an afterthought, Teva’s cousin remembered that just that day he’d caught a white tip reef shark in the lagoon near where I snorkel all the time; he proudly led me down to the water and flipped it over so I could see all the teeth. It wasn’t until a few days ago that I saw my first shark in the water: a black tip, about 4 feet long, swimming a hundred feet away when I was out at Teahupo’o. There were a couple other guys surfing with me, and I pointed it out to them; they nodded with indifference, and we went on surfing… Another really cool cultural experience I’ve had occurred the other night. Some of Teva’s relatives were hosting a festival and celebration, and I was invited to join them. They grilled heaps of mahi-mahi and also barbequed a pig, so the food was outstanding. Even more interesting, though, were the dance performance and show that some of them put on. The dancing wasn’t professional quality, I’m sure, but it was nevertheless extremely beautiful. The motions are so fluid and exotic as to be almost hypnotizing. It was obvious that the performers – mainly young women – had spent a lot of time practicing, and the crowd of relatives and friends were very supportive. I have to laugh when I think about what I saw and juxtapose it with what I would have seen if I were staying at the Hotel Bora Bora (by the way, I don’t really mean to be ragging on Bora Bora). What I saw was an authentic performance – a little rough around the edges, perhaps, but full of meaning and pride and intended not for video camera-toting tourists but for the very families of the performers. I was so glad I had chosen to do another homestay. Moreover, when I was sitting there under the tent in the pouring rain watching the dancing and listening to three elderly masters of the ukulele play in beautiful harmony, I was hit by the scale of just how much I’ve seen in the past couple of years. No, I haven’t visited as many countries as a lot of people or even traveled as much, but I’m beginning to string together some pretty incredible experiences. Just a couple weeks ago, I was in Africa; last year I was in a tiny mountain village in China; the year before in Latin America; now I’m in Polynesia. Each experience is so vastly different from the others, and each culture is so unique. It’s not like comparing Britain with France or Spain with Italy. Though the list of places I still want to visit stretches on ad infinitum, I’m at last managing to piece together each corner of the globe into one coherent picture – piece by piece, slowly, making sure I understand before I move on. Putting together the pieces of my global puzzle means also putting together the pieces of my personal beliefs, my outward perceptions, and my self-identity, and I can feel myself becoming a more complete person with each trip. I just hope I’ll be fortunate enough to be able to continue this learning process for the rest of my life.

Thanks for reading; I hope you enjoyed it. I’ll probably make just one more post about Tahiti and may not finish it until after I return home in mid-July. Originally, I had planned to stay longer in Tahiti, but, because I leave in early/mid August for Taiwan and I’ve been gone so much, I want to spend a little time at home with the fam. I still have a couple weeks left, though, and plan to make the most of them. I’ve got a 2 day summit attempt planned for Mt. Aorai, Tahiti’s third highest peak and a classic climb. I also plan to visit either neighboring Mo’orea or the more distant Rangiroa, a coral atoll, where one of my new friends has a place. Stay tuned for the next update, enjoy life east of Eden, and keep on being Gnarly! Parahi nana and aloha.

Au Revoir Senegal

2006-07-04T00:55:00.000+02:00

I apologize for the long delay on this entry. Please realize that, when I do not have access to internet, there may be a significant lag between the time when I finish typing a post on my laptop and the time when I actually upload it to the internet.

What’s up; thanks for checking in. I’m currently writing from the United States as I enjoy a week at home before taking off again for the next leg of my journey. I write with renewed energy – not only because I’ve finally caught up on sleep or gotten over the bronchitis I apparently developed while surfing in freezing water but also because I’ve learned that a number of my friends actually read my blog! I find their criticism and comments – but mostly their criticism – to be highly interesting. It’s funny how some people enjoy reading my reflections or descriptions while others detest these and prefer my stories (and some, I’m sure, dislike all aspects of my writing). The bottom line is that I’m writing for myself above all else, and I find certain writing techniques better suited for capturing certain experiences such that I can sit down with my blog at a later time and really feel – with all five senses – those experiences as if I were truly reliving them. Plus, I’d like to think that taking a variety of approaches to writing this blog allows each reader to find something enjoyable. Regardless, I’d like to describe my final days in Senegal, offer some concluding thoughts about what I learned there, and transition to my next stint as a globetrotting fool…

The week and a half after the village stay remains nothing more than a blur of surfing; reading, writing, and research; and goodbyes…but I can probably remember a few details if I try hard enough. We returned from our respective villages on Tuesday the 16th, and all our classes concluded on the Friday of that week. Prof. Dickovick and Prof. Kamara (now teaching the Literature and Media class) did an excellent job of wrapping up the program and facilitating discussion of tough questions like whether – and, if so, how – Senegal/W. Africa/Africa had changed us and what – if anything – we feel Senegal/W. Africa/Africa needs most in the future. One thing I was really hit with during these classes was the notion that "Senegal" and "Africa" are most definitely not synonymous. Prof. Dickovick warned us that, when we returned to the US, our friends and family would almost positively ask "So how was Africa?" as opposed to "So how was Senegal?" For some reason, most of the West thinks of Africa as this one big, homogenous "Dark Continent," and I must admit that even I was probably a bit guilty of this before my trip. Prof. Dickovick’s prediction has proven to be true, and I can’t help but grin every time I receive that question from someone. I was stunned to find that even on Webshots, the website on which I post my pictures, no distinctions are made for individual countries in Africa. Before I can post pictures on Webshots, I’m required to select the category under which they fall…so, when I was posting my Senegal pics, I chose "International Travel"… "Africa" … and began searching for "Senegal." But, despite the fact that even the "Asia" and "South America" categories have individual countries listed as sub-categories, there was no "Senegal." In fact, there was not a single African country listed! What does this say about our perception of Africa and the African people? …Wolof class concluded in a surprisingly unpleasant way, as we learned that we would be given a final and comprehensive test…and that it would include not only a written but also an oral component! Apparently we had been warned at the end of the previous class, but I think I may have been surfing then so I missed out on that little news break. Nevertheless, after some cramming and a bit of panicking (though the results of the test wouldn’t have mattered because Wolof was not going to count towards our final grades for the program…I’m just kind of a perfectionist), I was ready and managed to conjugate correctly most of the verbs on the test and then survive a 10 minute Wolof conversation after that. My only real slip-up occurred with numbers; guessing that I probably would be asked my age in order to test my knowledge of the numbers, I figured out before my oral exam started how to say nineteen. I couldn’t repress my grin when I heard the question I was hoping for – "…And how old are you?" – and answered confidently, thinking I was home-free. Unfortunately, that question was followed by a request to count from 1 to 20 and an ensuing puzzled look on the teacher’s face as I sat there silently, knowing I’d been beaten. In the end I felt relieved but also quite pleased that I knew more Wolof than I had thought. Saturday through Tuesday were set aside as research days, during which we could write our final papers for Literature and Politics. Gnagna didn’t like the fact that I had to hibernate in my room and work all day long and began taunting me playfully with "Je dois faire mes devoirs…je dois faire mes devoirs" ("I have to do my homework…I have to do my homework") every time she saw me. Originally, I had planned to work hard on Friday night and Saturday and try to get my work done early so I wouldn’t have any worries, but one of the best swells of the trip arrived on Friday, and I couldn’t resist procrastinating. My mom invited two of the other students – Arie and Chris – to join us for dinner on Thursday night, which I thought was a very kind gesture. She had met them earlier and, to convey interest and concern, would ask me often "Harry et Creez…ca va bien?" It was nice to spend time with two of my friends within the context of my Senegalese home and to introduce them to my family. Sunday brought an interesting change of plans, as I was informed rather matter-of-factly that we (my family) would be visiting Lac Rose, the Pink Lake. I knew from analyzing offshore buoy reports online that Sunday morning was going to be the peak of the swell and that the wave size would be dying rapidly by the afternoon, so I had been prepared to get in an early morning session. I figured spending time with my family was more important, though, so I readily agreed to go along, actually kind of excited about seeing this famous lake which is said to radiate a pink glow due to some rare kind of microorganism that lives in the water. Well, let’s just say that when we finally got to the lake, my initial question to my family was "How much further to Lac Rose?" Madeleine pointed excitedly at the water and told me that it was exceptionally pink that day. I just sort of nodded and let out a muted "Wow," imagining what the waves were like back on the peninsula. I did manage to surf that afternoon and, on my way to the beach, was treated to a stunning surprise. As I was walking down one of the roads along the coast looking for a cab, a car honked at me and pulled onto the shoulder. I figured it was another ridiculous take-advantage-of-the-foreigner ploy but was surprised to hear my name called by the driver. It was Corinne, the Human Rights Watch leader who had sat beside me on the plane from Paris to Dakar! She let me cram into her car with my board and gave me a ride to the break, saving me the trouble of finding a cab. How such a coincidence could happen in a city of 4 million people I have no idea; what a small world… Another memorable event occurred that night, while I was enjoying some much-needed sleep after a great surf session. At approximately 3 AM I began having dreams about water; first, it was the lake, then the ocean, then rain. As I began edging slightly closer to consciousness, I became convinced that it had begun raining outside and that we were in the midst of a torrential storm. I was still totally out of it, and my next thought was that I was back in the village in my room with the holes in the roof, and I remember shaking my head at the fact that I would have to deal with getting rained-on all night. The sound of the downpour was becoming louder and louder, though, to the point where it was almost deafening, and I kept telling myself in dazed confusion, "I thought it was still the dry season…" At last, I bolted upright and realized that something was seriously wrong. A jet of water several inches thick – like what is emitted from powerful firehoses – was shooting horizontally out of the bathroom next to my room, hitting the side of my bed head-on, and sending a geyser up to the ceiling; the floor was already covered with a half foot of standing water. I ran out of my room and, not really knowing what to do, started knocking on doors; when asked what was wrong, my French was surprisingly comprehensible: "Il y a beaucoup de l’eau… dans ma chambre" ("There is a lot of water…in my bedroom"). Madeleine managed to stop the flow of water, which was coming from a ruptured pipe, and an hour later, after most of the water had been swept into the bathroom, I climbed back onto my wet mattress, indifferent to my exhaustion, thinking only, "This is one for the blog…" Monday was the much anticipated (by Gnagna) picture-day, when I was to take pictures of my family and have a friend take group pictures as well. As I mentioned in an earlier post, Gnagna became increasingly comfortable around me as my trip progressed. Since I was the first foreign student to live with the Cissé family, she was just a bit shy at first; by the end of the trip, though, she was completely attached to me and constantly played jokes on me, asked me to dance, and started games of hide and seek. Our little ongoing source of amusement was to take turns calling each other "fou-fou," something along the lines of "crazy person." Anyway, all day long on Monday she begged me to take pictures and only agreed to leave me alone at last when I promised emphatically that I would take pictures that night. Keeping my word, I announced to everyone after dinner that I was going to get my camera and would be right back; when I returned, I went straight to Gnagna, jokingly reminding her that I hadn’t forgotten and expecting her to start dancing or to strike a dramatic pose. Instead, however, her expression changed, and suddenly she burst into tears and ran into her mother’s bedroom, burying her head under the pillows. I guess it finally sank in that I would be leaving soon because she cried her eyes out for thirty minutes and wouldn’t even come back in for the family photo. I was totally shocked and genuinely moved – I know I’m going to miss her personality, smile, and impishness as much as nearly anything else about my time in Senegal…well, except maybe the waves.

That’s right, the final evaluation is in: Senegalese Surfing Rocks! Normally, I’d keep such information to myself, but I think the rabbit has already been let out of the hat so here goes. I scored some of the best waves of my life in Senegal, the locals were cool, the weather was perfect, and the cultural aspects of riding waves in W. Africa were totally unforgettable. Strictly in terms of the conditions, things couldn’t have been much better – out of all my sessions, the waves were only under head-high twice, it was never flat, and, because Dakar sits on a peninsula, at least one of the breaks always featured perfect offshore winds. But surfing in Senegal was so much more than just sweet waves. While we were waiting for our plane in Paris during the trip home, one of my friends asked me if my experience in Senegal really would have been that different had I not taken surfboards and spent so much of my time in the ocean. I was speechless – I just couldn’t think of a way to explain how…how intricately interwoven surfing had become with my journey to Senegal. I will forever look back and remember the experiences I had surfing off the Cap Vert Peninsula not as part of some greater experience I had in Senegal but as complete experiences in themselves. Contrary to what many people believe, I’m sure, surfing in Senegal wasn’t a diversion – a way to escape the rigors of class and cultural immersion; it was just the opposite: a unique and unforgettable way to engage the world around me. It was a way to meet locals, to speak local languages, to witness first-hand a merging of cultures and an exchange of information, to be awed by the natural beauty of a foreign land, to make new friends, and – perhaps most of all – to challenge myself. When I surfed with locals, I found myself in the unique position of having a shared passion like surfing to use as a medium for beginning conversations and exchanging ideas. When I surfed alone, I found myself in a sort of bubble, removed from all the clamor and commotion of Dakar yet still able to observe it – and able to contemplate all the customs, traditions, and wonderful eccentricities of its people. Ultimately, surfing and Senegal go hand-in-hand and will continue to go hand-in-hand for as long as I’m able to remember the brilliant journey that constituted the last six weeks of my life.

As I said, a major part of my surfing in Senegal was challenging myself. The challenges ranged from little things like bargaining in French for cabs (consider that, by the end of the trip, I was paying no more than 1300 CFA for the same trip for which I paid 4000 CFA on one of my first days in Senegal) and determining which breaks would have offshore winds (once, having realized I had made a poor choice after the cab had already left and not wanting to wait for another, I ended up having to walk over two miles) to the big things, like staying alive. Senegal was the first time I had surfed extensively over reefs, and the dangers posed by these underwater cheese graters constituted a real presence in my mind at all times. The last few days of the trip, in particular, brought huge waves and some seriously close calls. On Saturday, I rode the biggest waves of the entire trip at Club Med with just a few locals and visiting surfers. Two of my closest surfing buddies – a French guy and a Senegalese guy – and I were basically just taking turns catching wave after wave and watching each other get the rides of our lives. At one point, though, as the Senegalese guy and I were paddling back out to the lineup, I nearly witnessed a tragedy right in front of me. I looked up to see Pierre, the French guy, take off on one of the biggest waves of the day. He took off very deep, meaning he was very close to the initial impact area of the wave and thus over the shallowest and most dangerous part of the reef. The wave was steep, and he lost his balance right from the start, falling headfirst from the top of the wave and landing well in front of it, where the water was still shallow. I thought for sure he had broken his neck and began paddling over to help; to everyone’s relief, he somehow surfaced with just a few scrapes and was able to continue surfing… My own close call occurred the following Wednesday morning, during my final session of the trip. A fan of symmetry, I decided to return to N’Gor Island to conclude my surfing in Senegal at the place where it began. Before I hit the water, I laughingly mentioned to my friends that I hoped the symmetry of my return to N’Gor wouldn’t include a second encounter with the sea urchins…if only I had known. N’Gor is a very technical break, with two rocks – called "Mami" and "Papi" – protruding through the water where the wave breaks. Taking off on waves inside these rocks means some kind of floater or off-the-lip maneuver is necessary to avoid hitting the rocks as a surfer speeds horizontally down the line of the wave. Realizing the danger of this, I started off on the opposite side of Mami and Papi, catching waves once they had already passed the rocks. The downside of this, however, was that the waves were almost finished breaking by the time I stood up, and, thus, my rides were relatively short. Eventually, I became a little braver and decided to try a wave on the other side of the rocks, opting to paddle out further and wait for larger waves. Though choosing big waves brought with it added challenge, it also meant I might be able to avoid the rocks altogether, as larger waves occasionally break a bit further out to sea. The first wave I took was big but looked good, and I brushed aside the image of the reef ahead of me and stood up. Just as I began to drop in, though, it became very ledgy (meaning its steepness changed abruptly part of the way down the wave-face), and I flew off my board very similarly to how Pierre had wiped-out at Club Med. I fell at least ten feet but fortunately landed on my stomach instead of my head, though this knocked the wind completely out of me and left me gasping for air when the wave finally let go of me and allowed me to surface. I was intimidated but couldn’t let this be my last stand at N’Gor, so I paddled back out for one final go. I was pretty nervous so I waited for awhile before picking what would be the last wave of my trip. Finally, I decided they were all monsters and just picked one that looked somewhat rideable. I survived the drop and carved up the wave just in time to avoid the lip which came crashing down behind me. As I carved down the line on what was turning out to be not only the last wave of my trip but also the best ride of my trip, I started surfing more and more fluidly, propelled onward by nothing more than that oh-so-highly-acclaimed thing called stoke. Before I knew what I had done, I had completed my first-ever truly genuine roundhouse cutback, a maneuver which many surfers consider to be the bridge between intermediate and advanced surfing. So excited about this accomplishment, I lay on my board laughing for a few seconds after successfully exiting the wave. But when I finally got around to looking up again, my whole world came crashing down before I could even begin paddling. I noticed immediately that Mami and Papi were further out than I, and all I could see as I looked seaward was a series of behemoth waves lined up and rolling towards me. I knew from the start that I stood no chance of making it out beyond the rocks before the waves broke. As the water beneath me began receding in the wake of these huge waves, I realized I wouldn’t even be able to dive beneath them. I was left simply clinging to some rocks with my board trailing behind me as the horror unfolded in slow motion. The first wave crashed directly in front of me and sent me somersaulting backwards and hitting my head on the reef with each flip. Now that I was in the middle of the reef, the water became extremely shallow each time it receded, and I was forced to cling to the coral and rocks, which, of course, were completely covered with sea urchins – their five-inch-long spines protruding like daggers in every direction. The reef at N’Gor is expansive, and it took at least six or seven waves to knock me all the way across it. With each wave, the only thought which distracted me from the urchins piercing my body or the reef against which I was repeatedly thrown was keeping my surfboard leash from pinning me underwater each time it became tangled on a rock. Just when I started wondering how much more I could really take, I found myself floating in the channel on the other side of the reef, my hands bleeding, head throbbing, and wetsuit dotted with protruding spines. I looked up at the cliffs with dismay to find that not only had no one taped the incident but no one had even witnessed it, and I gingerly got back on my board and began the 10 minute paddle to shore. Reflecting later, I couldn’t help but wonder… if I had a chance to do it all over again, knowing what I would have to go through, would I still take off on that wave? Ultimately, I decided I probably would. Fear and pain are small prices to pay for the rush of being stoked – of knowing with one hundred percent certainty that you’re alive – and pursuing that rush is, I admit, a bit of an all-encompassing addiction. I do my best to take only calculated risks, to do so only after acquiring as much knowledge as possible, and to stay in top physical shape, but, certainly, I realize that things do go wrong. Acknowledging and respecting the gravity of this yet still accepting and engaging the incredible challenges offered by life, I believe, is the quintessential meaning – and beauty – of living and, indeed, of being human. I can only defer to the stirring words of Chris McCandless, one of my heroes, who died living out an incredible dream in the woods of Alaska: "So many people live within unhappy circumstances and yet will not take the initiative to change their situation because they are conditioned to a life of security, conformity, and conservatism, all of which may appear to give one peace of mind; but in reality nothing is more damaging to the adventurous spirit within a man than a secure future. The very basic core of a man’s living spirit is his passion for adventure. The joy of life comes from our encounters with new experiences, and hence there is no greater joy than to have an endlessly changing horizon, for each day to have a new and different sun."

I spent Tuesday tying up loose ends and also made a trip to the market to buy some artwork and gifts. I returned home only to be showered with gifts from my family – including ones to take home to my American family; the spirit of terranga (hospitality) is definitely still alive and well in Senegal. That night I took Basse and Gnagna to a little soirée which was being held at ARED for everyone who had contributed to the W&L program. On Wednesday I rushed home from my surf outing to N’Gor – still bleeding and nursing a bit of a black eye – had my final meal of tieboudienne, and exchanged goodbyes with my family. Basse and Gnagna had been allowed to skip their afternoon classes to see me off, which was amusing to us all since Madeleine had teased me the previous week after forcing me to confess, "Oui, j’ai seché les cours" ("Yea, I skipped class…"). Wednesday afternoon through Saturday morning were spent with the rest of the group at Toubab Dialow, a "resort" – though I prefer to call it a retreat – south of Dakar, on the coast. The only real obligations we had there were, on Thursday, to present (and, in some cases, defend) our theses in front of the rest of the group and, on Friday, to read a journal (or, in some cases, blog) excerpt for everyone to hear. Otherwise, we were free to relax, sleep in, enjoy the beach, and just reflect privately on what we had experienced in Senegal. It was a memorable way to conclude the trip, and the retreat itself was well-suited for the purpose. Described as "artsy" and "Tolkeinish," Toubab Dialow is truly a one-of-a-kind place, with unique architecture, cozy hammocks, and an endless supply of nooks and crannies. I really wouldn’t have been that surprised had a hobbit wandered through one of the dwarf-sized circular doors on the premises. I did have to spend much of my time using tweezers and scissors to slice into my fingers and feet and dig around for urchin spines, and then, as if I actually were trying to hurt myself, I also managed to electrocute myself while plugging in my laptop. Stretched out on the floor and trying to reach a plug under my bed, I somehow stuck my finger into the socket…Arie walked in just after my full-body convulsions had ended and wanted to know why I was lying on the floor with a stunned look on my face… I also developed what was later diagnosed as bronchitis, but, other than these things, I really enjoyed Toubab Dialow and the downtime I had there. The trip home was long and, by that time, everyone was a little tired of being crammed into busses and planes with our luggage – even Chun Yi, one of the nicest people in the world, got up and violently slammed the door of our bus in the faces of some cute little children asking for money and gifts. [Haha, I was told I must include that little anecdote in my blog]. When I stepped off the plane in Washington, though, I didn’t feel an overwhelming sense of relief; in fact, what I really wanted was to continue traveling. Despite the obvious challenges of adapting to Senegalese culture, I considered Dakar my home – at least temporarily – and never felt as though I were just trying to "survive" the experience – instead, I was constantly embracing it.

Of course, the ways in which Senegal changed and influenced me are far too numerous to discuss fully in this blog – and many of them, I’m sure, I have yet to realize – but there are three major things that stand out in my mind. The thing which I find most rewarding – though not necessarily surprising – concerns issues of race. This is a touchy subject, I know – even discussions of race in the classroom produced a good bit of tension – but it’s undeniably an aspect of the trip which can’t be ignored. In striving to treat all people equally, one issue I’ve always dealt with is whether or not, when I meet an African-American, for instance, skin color should come to mind at all. When I meet a Caucasian person for the first time, "He has white skin" obviously never enters the picture, so I debate whether the same should hold for meeting an African-American or whether failing to acknowledge that person’s different skin color is in some way failing to acknowledge an important part of who he is. Though I never really found an answer to this question in the classroom or while pondering it in my spare time, I believe I resolved the issue simply in the course of living. By the end of the trip I had become so accustomed to being around black people that issues of race seemed ridiculously irrelevant; at the same time, however, I felt as though I were somehow subconsciously granting to the people around me an acknowledgement that I recognized their differences and, moreover, respected them. I don’t think I can fully understand, at this point, the implications of what I learned by living for six weeks as a very recognizable minority, but I am led to believe that I grew in an exceedingly positive way, and I am bolstered in my belief that some of the world’s greatest problems could be solved if people were just a little more willing to break routines, stray from the comfort of home, and open their eyes to the reality of the diverse world in which we live. The next two ways in which Senegal influenced me have, I think, positive and negative elements, but ultimately both are important and both contribute to my worldview. First, I leave Senegal much less of a trusting person. I was really impacted by the way in which I was treated by some of Senegal’s con-men/entrepreneurs/whatever you wish to call them. I was especially influenced, for example, by the man who approached me at the beginning of the trip, put on an elaborate show of friendship, forced me to accept a "hand-crafted" gift (promising that he expected nothing in return), and then – ten minutes later – suddenly changed has act and asked for/begged for/demanded money or a gift. I don’t have a problem with cab drivers overcharging foreigners who don’t know what the price of a trip should be or shop owners trying to make a profit on their goods, but I do have a serious problem with locals taking advantage of foreigners’ willingness and desire to learn about and integrate themselves into the local culture. My first experience was not an isolated one, and eventually I simply grew accustomed to being propositioned with obvious ploys; unfortunately, what this did was to force me to take a relatively cold attitude towards strangers. By the end of the trip, anytime a stranger approached me I instinctively went on the defensive; only over time could anyone earn my trust. One of the other big impacts this trip had on me was convincing me to reconsider the idea of being judgmental of other cultures. Of course, as a philosopher, morality – particularly in terms of relativism and absolutism – is something I consider often, but I have in the past shied away from judging other cultures. I still take a very cautious attitude in considering the values of other cultures, but I can’t deny that I saw some things in Senegal which I really felt to be wrong. The treatment of women, in particular, bothered me throughout the trip (and I’m not typically one to focus on feminist ideals), as did the treatment of maids and servants and the exploitation of the talibés. I fully understand the historical significance of hierarchy and paternalism within West African culture, but I’m just no longer convinced that "Because it’s always been a part of our culture" is justification for morally questionable traditions. The issue of moral relativism is undoubtedly something which I will spend a lot of time considering as I continue to travel, and I’m glad I had a chance to experience the realities of West African culture. So often travel is associated solely with taking pictures, rest and relaxation, maybe seeing some wildlife or scenery…but, to me, it’s much more. In fact, I believe it’s the most effective way to reexamine one’s own values and those of his culture; without learning about the rest of the world, we can never really hope to understand our home, and, without learning about other peoples, we can never really hope to understand ourselves. This is probably the most fundamental reason why I like to travel.

Though some of the realities of Senegal bothered me, the collage of images, sounds, and experiences I walk away with is without a doubt overwhelmingly uplifting. As I write, the Senegalese music streaming from my computer beckons me, inviting me back to an unforgettable place where women in colorful boubous dance to furious drumbeats, old men meet beneath gigantic baobab trees to converse, and waves pound a rocky coast beneath mosques so unworldly they seem to have originated in a dream. Families gather around bowls of rice and fish and devour it with their hands in the midst of lively conversation until Arabic resonates through the streets and they retire with their personal thoughts and fears to their prayer mats. My collage of memories envelops all five of my senses: I can taste fresh fish and ripe mango, smell the incense burned after dinner. I can hear the laughter of children playing football in the street and the sound of waves breaking over reefs; I can feel the sand in my sheets – that desert sand that permeates everything and reminds me constantly of where I am. The equatorial sun is so hot it burns in minutes, but the ocean remains always cool. Nothing seems predictable, yet everything seems grounded in tradition. Each day brings new surprises and annoyances, but each evening I find myself shaking the hands of my family as I do every time I see them, and I find comfort in the rhythm. Noise and commotion define life in this city, but inside my home I am surrounded by the warmth and kindness of people who genuinely care about me. Yes, that’s what stands out most. When I set aside all the memories of surfing, of beggars, of noise, of poverty…I’m left simply with that impish grin of little Gnagna and all it represents. The sincerity, the compassion, the strength, and, most of all, the beauty – of the Senegalese people. I will never forget it.

Yesterday, Senegal; Tomorrow, Tahiti. The journey continues. I hope you’ll stick around. Au revoir.

Pictures!

2006-06-05T08:03:00.001+02:00

I have finished uploading my pictures from Senegal; check them out: http://community.webshots.com/user/mistaajg. The album titled "Senegal: My Favorite Photos" is the short and sweet collection, perfect if you're in a hurry or if you work for National Geographic and are interested in hiring a new photographer! Cheers.

Stars, Salutations, and Sacrificial Cows

2006-05-30T00:30:00.000+02:00

Salaam Malekum. Before beginning, I just want to point out that this is the second entry being posted at this time. You’ll need to scroll down to read the first post, and then you can scroll back up to read this one.

Picking up where I left off previously, I’m going to share some of my memories from the four day village stay I enjoyed in the Sine-Saloum delta of Southwestern Senegal. We left early on Saturday, May 13th, crammed into an absolutely hilarious, bright orange car rapide, on top of which were piled suitcases, backpacks, about 100 liters of bottled water, and, of course, one surfboard. Inside the orange bus were eight students (including myself), two Americans who had lived in the village previously, a local guide, and the driver. As we bounced our way out of Dakar on potholed roads – the driver’s prayer mat repeatedly falling from the little shelf, decorated with marabout images, where it was stored – we couldn’t help but notice the change in scenery. Buildings and shanty towns gave way to open landscapes and the deserts of the Sahel – baobab trees, with their gnarled, crooked limbs stretching always outward, beginning to dot the terrain in all directions. Small villages occasionally popped up in the distance, and sometimes children herding animals or women fetching water waved to us from the side of the road. We began to realize that, though Dakar is no less genuinely “African,” what we were seeing now was the Africa that everyone imagines. And, if this realization hadn’t fully sunk in after four or five hours of driving through the heat, what happened next surely reminded everyone of just what it means to be traveling in Africa. Having finally reached the delta, we noticed that the pot-holed, paved road had now become a dirt road meandering across expansive salt flats and tidal plains. Apparently, our driver was in the mood for some adventure because he decided (for reasons we still haven’t been told) that the dry road ahead looked less promising than the two feet of standing water (carried in by the tides) to the side. Off we went, and, not surprisingly, we made it exactly halfway through the pool of water before becoming stuck. The driver then revved the tires for a few minutes just to make sure they were buried extra-deep in the mud. Once everyone had filed out the back, the other three guys and I put all our strength into pushing the bus out but, despite a cheering audience of ladies, had no luck. So, standing in the 100 degree heat with no shelter – not even a tree – anywhere in sight, our feet covered in mud, we were barely even phased by the scene (or was it a mirage?) which unfolded. Out of nowhere, what had to have been an entire village appeared on the road, walking directly towards us. Most of them standing a half foot taller than the guys in our group, they gave the bus one shove and, with a bit of hooting and hollering, had us out in a matter of seconds. Barely allowing us time to thank them, the villagers abruptly turned around and began walking home; we could only stare at one another and grin as we ourselves recommenced our journey, truly excited about the new and unpredictable version of Africa which lay ahead.

At last, we saw it: Palmarin – our home for the next four days. Located beside the ocean, just north of the delta’s extensive mangrove swamps, Palmarin is a small, traditional fishing village. Virtually everyone in the village is related, and everyone, of course, knows one another. Being a Serer (the third or fourth largest ethnicity in Senegal) village, Wolof is not the predominant language (though it, as well as French, is generally understood). Also, the village is divided nearly equally between Muslims and Christians; one of its greatest sources of pride is that its small mosque and church stand almost next to each other, and everyone coexists peacefully. As far as work, the villagers divide their energy among fishing, collecting salt from the salt flats, and preparing the fish to be shipped inland. When our giant orange bus pulled into the village, we were immediately surrounded by at least fifty children who looked at us with curiosity and whispered to each other and giggled. One little boy got up the courage to come shake my hand, and, after I introduced myself and showed him my surfboard, the ice had been broken. Little Ousmane ran ahead of me, balancing the surfboard on his head, motioning to me to hurry as he led me to my new homestay at the residence of Abdoulaye Sarr and his family. Abdoulaye was immediately welcoming, and we were soon lost in a great conversation. Though he spoke no English, we got along quite well in French and had very few communication problems. The language element of the village homestay actually turned out to be one of the most rewarding for me because I was forced to speak literally nothing but French. In Dakar I’m around the other W&L students (most of whom don’t speak French) so often that I find it very difficult to maintain a French-speaking mindset. The constant switching back and forth really hinders my language uptake, as does my Dakar family’s frequent use of Wolof at home. That’s not to say that my French hasn’t improved tremendously in Dakar, but the village homestay really forced me to focus on it and, in turn, kind of jump-started my conversational ability.

One of my most unique memories from the village occurred after I asked Abdoulaye to show me the beach (it might not come as a surprise that I made this request about 45 minutes after arriving). After we had trudged down sandy paths for a few minutes, walking around animals and greeting children, the beach came into sight. Aboulaye, however, pointed out a straw hut to my right and said we should go greet the “grandfathers.” I realized that the “grandfathers” were basically the elders of the village, the men who make the important decisions and command enormous respect. As I slipped off my shoes and ducked into the hut, I was hit with a wave of greetings. In traditional Senegalese fashion, I made my way slowly around the circle to greet each of the ten or fifteen elders individually. My training at the Baobab Center fortunately came back to me, and I found myself instinctively grasping my right arm with my left hand as I shook the elders’ hands (as a sign of deference), bowing slightly and avoiding making prolonged eye contact, and – most surprising to me of all – shifting seamlessly among French, Wolof, and Serer to respond to salutations. Abdoulaye literally had just taught me the Serer salutations, but, despite feeling a bit flustered, I managed to remember almost everything. I exhaled a sigh of relief after I had shaken the last hand and gladly accepted Abdoulaye’s invitation to continue to the beach.

During our time in Palmarin, we enjoyed a variety of activities. Sunday began with a tour of the village and, quite memorably, was kicked off by the village chief himself. We all gathered into a small room, in which the elderly chief extended to us (by way of a translator) his best wishes and a warm welcome. We then sat in silence for a moment as he recited an ancient prayer for our safety and well-being. As we walked leisurely through the village and down the beach, huge crowds of kids fell in behind us, kicking soccer balls, shaking our hands, and laughing. They were so curious and attached that some of the local men on the tour felt obliged to shoo them away, though we tried to explain that such action was unnecessary. Sunday night was spent at a regional wresting match in a nearby village. We stopped halfway through the 45 minute trip to the village at a mango farm owned by the villagers and helped ourselves to delicious fruit straight from the trees. Wrestling is considered one of the national sports of Senegal, though it’s rather different than the wrestling known by most Westerners. The two fighters, wearing nothing but loin cloths and perhaps a few charms (grigri), begin by clawing at each other like cats, alternating hands each time. This continues until one of them thinks he sees an opening and he makes a move to take down his opponent. Sometimes, the wrestlers remain in a stand-off – each refusing to give up his current hold on the other – but eventually one of them is able to break free, make a violently quick move, and throw the other. Once contact with the sand is made, the match is over. The match we watched featured very loud drumming and African music throughout, and the audience included various sections of men and women dressed in elaborate, traditional outfits. In all, it was a bit chaotic and difficult to follow but definitely a unique experience. Monday’s main activity was a pirogue tour of the mangrove swamps. The guides laughed and called me Indiana Jones as I climbed into the narrow boat wearing my sunglasses and wide-brimmed safari hat. We rested contentedly as we motored through narrow channels among the mangroves; crocodiles didn’t present a problem, but the trip was still exciting enough. That night we attended a traditional drumming and dance exhibition performed by the women of Palmarin. The central meeting area of the village, called L’Arena, is a sand filled auditorium of sorts surrounded by baobabs. The other two male students and I – being guys – couldn’t help but pretend we were Russell Crowe in “Gladiator” and took pictures of ourselves kneeling dramatically in the sand. The drumming and dancing were amazing, and we each had a chance to join in. Basically, the dancing involves a whole lot of shaking of the booty (that was phrased politely, eh?) and stomping of the feet. The women were so coordinated that their movements coincided with the complicated rhythm of the drumming, but the students, for the most part, just kind of floundered. Two of us also managed to break a traditional, ceremonial fishing net used only for special occasions. In performing the ritual, after one of the women places a stick part of the way in the net, another woman creeps up carefully behind the stick, to the beat of the music, and then quickly snatches up the net, thereby “catching” the stick. Basically the Senegalese equivalent of a rain-dance, this ritual is supposed to bring the fishermen good luck. Well, hopefully, their fish supply hasn’t run out recently, because the two students who tried to mimic the ritual pulled too hard on the net and tore it apart. Oops.

Needless to say, living in Palmarin was very different than living in Dakar. One of the biggest changes was adjusting to having absolutely no privacy. My room, which basically was just a concrete cubicle with holes in the roof and two square openings in the walls for windows, was open to the public at all times, even at night. Abdoulaye ate all his meals with me in my room, and we sat on small stools around the bowl in traditional fashion. He also felt obliged to accompany me absolutely everywhere, so I literally didn’t have a minute to myself the entire day. My home also lacked electricity and running water, which certainly wasn’t a big deal to me but was nevertheless a change. For showering, one receives a bucket of water and a scooper with which to pour it over himself. The only problem I had with the outhouse was not knowing at first to lock the gate which separates it from the rest of the household; the goats which live beside the outhouse were all too eager to escape and wasted no time in heading for freedom. My apologies didn’t seem to carry much weight as they scampered out into the village, nay’ing mischievously. Breakfast each morning was a whole baguette eaten like a sandwich, with butter inside, and coffee to drink. Lunch and dinner were the typical Senegalese dishes – cheb., mafait, etc. Eating a lot of food is very important in Senegal, especially rural Senegal, so I was constantly being told “Mangez, mangez!” One of my friends, having visited several homestays during the evening, ended up being forced to eat four dinners in one night. At night the stars shone brighter than I could have hoped, and I was reminded of how much I enjoy the country. I do enjoy cities and all they have to offer, but I can’t help but prefer the tranquility and peace of living under the open sky.

As I mentioned earlier, surfing – as the pandemic it rightfully is – entered the village of Palmarin by way of myself. With a north swell predominating, Palmarin didn’t get much in the way of waves while I was there, but I didn’t regret for a minute taking my board. Basically, I had the chance to introduce the sport of surfing – the lifestyle of surfing – to a place it had never before touched, to a people who knew nothing about it. There were a few ripples on Monday, so I took my board out after lunch – of course, followed by an entourage of kids – and gave my first surf lesson. For some reason most of the students initially wanted to try to stand up on the side with the fins (the bottom of the board), which I found to be interesting. I also had to correct those who tried to paddle with both arms at once, which usually ended up in the board tipping over. In the end, there wasn’t a whole lot of surfing that went down (though I did manage to get a few rides), but there was a fantastic exchange of culture, and this made the trip to Palmarin all the more special.

My strongest and most cherished memory from Palmarin, though, is of the long, laughter-filled conversations I had there. My family and the family of Becky, another student, ended up spending lots of time together in the evenings, gathered around a candle talking well into the night. We literally exchanged stories, professed fears, and talked of hopes and dreams as if we’d known each other for ages. Becky speaks good French, so language hang-ups were few and far between, and I could feel my French improving by the minute. It’s amazing what you’re capable of doing when you’re thrust into a situation of having to “play up” to a higher ability level in order to keep up with others. As Becky and I told jokes in French and tried to explain and demonstrate American dances to our new friends, I could see cross-cultural bonding taking place right before my eyes. I couldn’t help but wonder whether, if I had chosen to come to Senegal on my own for a homestay experience similar to the others I’ve chosen, I would have found this very village and ended up living with this very family. It all seemed so perfect, so exactly in tune with what I always hope to get out of language and cultural immersion experiences. I felt almost as relaxed as I would at home in the States; that is, if it weren’t for Fatou…

Yes, one interesting, very memorable, element of the cross cultural bonding involved a beautiful eighteen-year-old girl named Fatou N’Dour. Fatou’s family – and my father Abdoulaye – decided early on that I was destined to be Fatou’s husband. Yes, you read that correctly. The introductions took place rather formally; Becky warned me about 10 seconds in advance about what was going to happen before Fatou appeared in front of the group, wearing her veil as usual, and was introduced to me. The jaws of the other guys in the group dropped, and they told me I’d better not pass up this opportunity. Nevertheless, after thinking the matter over I decided that, despite Fatou’s beauty and undeniable intelligence and charm, I wasn’t quite ready for marriage. After trying to convey this to the families in French, I thought the matter was settled. But, then, on the last night, just when I was relaxing into another great conversation, the sacrificial cows entered the picture. Yes, you read that correctly as well. Fatou’s family began reiterating how much they would love for me to take Fatou back to America. I stumbled through an explanation of how I couldn’t afford to buy her plane ticket, but, in doing so, I really opened up a can of worms. Abdoulaye suddenly piped in, promising me that he would buy the plane ticket. Then, he made the offer which he honestly thought would seal the deal: 5 sacrificial cows! Holy beef, an airline ticket, a beautiful bride…what more could I have possibly asked for? Still a bit ecstatic at the prospect of receiving those heffers, I simply couldn’t make my French work. Not a word. Fortunately, Becky came to my aid and tactfully changed the subject while politely declining the marriage for me. I don’t even remember what she said (“Man, that’s a lot of beef…”), but whatever it was, it apparently worked. As I rode off the next morning in my big orange bus, my face plastered to the window in order to steal one last glance at the bride who could have been, I couldn’t help but wonder… “Will she always be the one who got away?” This I may never know, but I am truly afraid that I’ll never really come to terms with my passing up the sacrificial cows…perhaps the greatest mistake of my life.

After a brief stop on Tuesday at a game reserve, at which we saw rhinoceros (very up-close!), giraffes, crocodiles, and many other cool African animals, we returned to find Dakar as loud and brash as ever. Though I do love Dakar and all its personality, I’ll always feel a bit of nostalgia for the laid-back, friendly pace of life in Palmarin. The friendships I formed there in such a short amount of time are truly a testament to the hospitality and openness of its people, whose memory I will long cherish.

Warning: Scholarly Material Ahead

2006-05-30T00:09:00.000+02:00

Greetings. I’m faced once again with the question of where to take this blog. Should it be academic and serious in nature, or should it recount only my humorous, entertaining, or near-death experiences (which some people seem to find entertaining)? Considering the way in which I engage very serious issues of culture and language using non-serious media like surfing, it should not come as a surprise that I want this blog to be both serious and fun. With that in mind, this post is going to fall mainly under the serious category. I’ve written several formal papers for my classes here in Senegal, and I’d like to share them – not really for the sake of inspiring literary or political debate but for the insights I believe they offer about Senegalese culture and about what I have been experiencing here on a near daily basis. I have copied and pasted a few excerpts from my two literary analyses and, following them, my final research paper for politics in its entirety. The politics paper, in particular, analyzes numerous aspects of Senegalese culture and offers my view on the status of democracy in this country. Though the oral presentation of my study resulted in a good bit of criticism, it inspired more debate than almost any other presentation, so I’m pretty sure I hit on something important. Additionally, the thesis I pose evolved from a very existentialist philosophical inquiry, demonstrating – as my friend reminded me – that the University Scholars existentialism class I took last fall “just won’t go away.” Read as much or as little of the following as you wish – I promise more entertaining stories with my next post, but I believe too that these analyses constitute a worthwhile read in themselves. Enjoy.

on Ferdinand Oyono’s Houseboy:

At the core of the West African storytelling tradition–and particularly evident in modern West African works–is a ceaseless struggle to define and, ultimately, to understand one’s self-identity. Truly spanning the ages, this struggle was instrumental in the rigidly hierarchical societies of centuries past and is equally, if not more, crucial for today’s generation of West Africans, which must at last move beyond the atrocities of the trans-Atlantic slave trade and colonial intervention and look ahead to a brighter future. Oyono’s Houseboy brilliantly captures this struggle for identity, particularly in relation to the clash between tradition and modernity, the interactions of religion and society, and the overriding importance of fate.

West Africa is perhaps one of the most “backward” yet simultaneously progressive regions in the entire world. Consider, for instance, the fact that Senegal, one of Africa’s most democratic nations, is bordered by Mauritania, one of the last countries in the world to outlaw slavery. In the streets of the region’s major cities, carts pulled by horses appear side-by-side with the newest and most expensive European and American cars. Off the coast of West Africa, local fishermen in hand-crafted pirogues compete against well-funded foreign fishermen using state-of-the-art equipment and boats. In every part of West African society, there exists an element of this clash between tradition and modernity, and it often makes defining one’s identity difficult.

Considering the importance of language–and the fact that particular languages not only express what one thinks but also how he thinks–how can West Africans living in Francophone (or Anglophone) West Africa truly understand their roots and, subsequently, their identity? Furthermore, how are French- (or English-) speaking West Africans to be called? In the beginning of Houseboy, a dying Toundi asks the narrator, (4) “‘Brother . . . Brother, what are we? What are we blackmen who are called French?’” With the advent of new languages and new cultures, many West Africans have become virtually nameless, lacking any genuine self-identity. Certainly, Toundi is not really a Frenchman as he says, but, having been in large part (though not fully) assimilated into European culture, he is no longer African in the traditional sense, either. Ultimately, the perplexed and disillusioned Toundi whom the reader encounters at the story’s outset, when Toundi is on his deathbed, reflecting on the tragic events which are recounted in his journal, is the embodiment of the West African without an identity. Perhaps a warning from Oyono to fellow West Africans or perhaps just a symbol of Africa’s lost generations, Toundi clearly illustrates the necessity of reconciling tradition and modernity in defining one’s identity.

on Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Purple Hibiscus:

In spite of the desolate villages of torn Africa
Hope was preserved in us as in a fortress
And from the mines of Swaziland to the factories of Europe
Spring will be reborn under our bright steps.
– “The Vultures”

Modern-day West Africa sits at a crossroads–its past as relevant to the present as its future, the memories which beg to be forgotten intersecting with the hopes for a brighter tomorrow. It is at this crossroads that today’s West Africans must forge a new identity for themselves, amalgamating their histories with their dreams and their indigenous traditions with those they adopted from others. This crossroads is characterized by a constant struggle for freedom–freedom from political subordination and cultural submission to foreign powers–for though West Africa’s governments have regained their sovereignty, its people still struggle to define their identity. Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s novel Purple Hibiscus, the coming-of-age tale of a fifteen-year-old girl named Kambili’s personal transformation as she comes to recognize and–ultimately–to free herself from the bondage imposed on her by her overly paternalistic, fanatically religious father, brilliantly captures the essence of the modern-day West African’s struggle for freedom. Both Kambili and the society she represents find themselves bowing to gods they love yet simultaneously hate, and only by rediscovering the meaning of freedom can they begin the slow yet necessary process of accepting the past, looking to the future, and regaining the happiness that both deserve. Throughout the novel freedom is most clearly manifested in terms of love, laughter, and courage–perpetually contemporaneous ideals which truly transcend cultural boundaries.

As the colonial powers did for West Africa, Papa makes many praiseworthy contributions to the life of Kambili, so she cannot help but feel a sense of attachment, gratefulness, and perhaps even dependence towards him. Nevertheless, she also cannot help but feel conflicting emotions–resentment, detest, hatred–for being physically battered and psychologically abused on a regular basis by the same person who brings her so much happiness. Being a father, to Papa, is like the enterprise of colonialism: “A civilizing mission that is portrayed as benevolent, benign, and sanctioned by God” (Cham 50). What both he and the colonial powers fail to realize is that they themselves do not have the ability to decide what is “sanctioned by God.” By playing God, not only do they impose on others their own ideas, beliefs, and desires but also they take from those whom–for the most part–they wish to help the freedom which constitutes the very source of happiness for those people.

I laughed. It seemed so easy now, laughter. So many things seemed easy now. Jaja was laughing, too, as was Amaka, and we were all sitting on the grass . . . [Obiora] walked up slowly, holding something that turned out to be a grasshopper. . . . He spread his palm and watched the grasshopper fly off. (Adichie 284-285)
Kambili’s laughter is liberating for her, and, though she does not yet possess the wings to escape captivity as the grasshopper does, she can at least momentarily free herself from reality. Her reliance upon laughter is perhaps representative of how West Africans have managed to cope with their injustices and how they can continue to do so as they strive for greater freedom and personal identity. Closely tied to–and, indeed, emerging from–the oral tradition, laughter seems to hold special significance within the context of the West Africa of both yesterday and tomorrow.

In conclusion, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Purple Hibiscus is a powerful story of change, both in terms of young Kambili and the West African society she represents. It is a tale of how blossoms of freedom can emerge in even the darkest of prisons and how, with love, laughter, and courage, enslaved individuals can triumph over their masters. Though West Africa has its political freedom, its people still search for an identity, living within a culture shaped by their own past as well as that of foreign powers. It is through coming to terms with this past and forging ahead with a new and unique sense of freedom that, like Kambili, modern-day West Africans can create for themselves the extraordinary future they deserve.

Politics: Final Research Paper:

A Culture of Car Rapides, Cadeaux, and Collectivism:
Impediments for Senegalese Democracy

Senegal, Francophone West Africa’s “beacon of democracy,” is heralded for having held relatively free and fair political elections and for having played host to not one coup since its independence in 1960. Likewise, the election of Abdoulaye Wade in 2000 and the alternance this entailed triggered worldwide optimism from democratic hopefuls. Further, in this day of religious intolerance and persecution, Senegal rests atop a pedestal as a model for religious cohabitation, particularly between Muslims and Christians. Unfortunately, however, upon closer inspection these successes constitute nothing more than a façade of democracy, beneath which exists many serious problems. Rampant corruption, the absence of a free press, gender inequality, widespread poverty, and, at times, nonsecular politics all stand in the way of democracy. This analysis holds that understanding why Senegal lacks a truly functioning democracy despite its history of political stability is as simple as hopping on one of the anachronistically comical yellow and blue car rapides which are considered a national symbol by locals and cherished as a fond memory by visitors. Unlike busses in the West with distinctly separate seats for each person, all of which typically face forward, Senegal’s car rapides consist of two benches facing one another and running from the front of the bus to the back. The result of this seating arrangement is overcrowded busses in which personal space does not exist and a collective mentality persists in its stead. It is this collective mentality, lying at the very core of Senegalese society and manifesting itself in all aspects of the nation’s culture, which is the most fundamental obstruction to democratic progress within the government. In this study evidence of collectivism and examination of how it encumbers democratic progress will be provided through an analysis of the religion, social and familial mores, and political centralization of Senegal, as well as a concluding look at the methodology of the analyses themselves.

Before proceeding, however, a note on the definition of democracy, as it will be considered in this analysis, is necessary. This study is not intended to be comparative in nature–simply juxtaposing Senegalese democracy (or the lack thereof) with American or European democracy–nor is it meant to be a purely theoretical inquiry based on a definition of democracy so rigid as to be unrealistic in any part of the world. Moreover, it is not meant to be perceived as a vindication for the spread of democracy; in fact, it is the author’s belief that the very reasons why Senegal lacks a functioning democracy perhaps also indicate that some other form of government might be better suited for the wellbeing of its people. Instead, this analysis will attempt to penetrate deep into the social framework of Senegal in order to understand better the collective mentality which unites its people and prevents its government from being able to establish a functioning democracy. Rather than navigating the intricacies of determining what truly constitutes a functioning democracy–in other words, what amount of socially redistributive political action is permitted before what was previously a democracy must be called something else–the emphasis of this study will be on the Senegalese people, particularly on instances or examples of their behavior and mindset which are undeniably collectivist in nature and therefore not conducive to democracy (however rigidly it is defined) on a political scale. It is the leveling nature of collectivist ideals which makes them incompatible with democracy; equality in a truly democratic sense champions the individual and his inherent right to pursue success without impediment. Rather than suppressing individualistic achievement to maintain social conformity, democratic equality exalts the personal freedom and self-determination present in a system which allows people to act out of self-interest. Freedom, individuality, and self-determination do not exist at the core of Senegal’s social framework, and, for this reason, close analysis of the mentality of the Senegalese people is more important than a meticulous, drawn-out study of the Senegalese government and its democratic shortcomings.

One of the most obvious ways in which the collective mentality of the Senegalese manifests itself is through religion, particularly Islam, which is practiced by approximately 95% of the population. Though Islam in Senegal differs greatly from that of much of the Arab world, in which fundamentalism is much more common, the core tenets of the religion are certainly present, and these were long ago identified as contrary to the basic spirit of democracy. Alexis Tocqueville, for instance, “had little confidence in Islam’s potential for fostering social equality and democracy . . . [and regarded it] as too detailed in its prescriptions and a rigid unbending fundamentalist religion where all the rules were clearly laid down and enforced by a theocratic state” (Sheldon Gellar 108). While it is important to note that Senegal is technically a secular state and that the vast majority of its Muslims are moderate and tolerant in their views, Islam is built upon a foundation of collectivism which does not readily coalesce with democracy. Consider, first, the principle of alms giving, which is one of the Five Pillars of Islam. Though an emphasis on charity is certainly not in opposition to the spirit of democracy, the notion that individuals are morally obligated to give a percentage of their wealth to those who have less not only is anti-capitalistic but is indeed undemocratic, as well. Democracy implies only equality of opportunity, and, further, it grants individuals the freedom to act as they wish provided that they do not infringe upon the rights of others. In Islam, though, everyone who is able is expected to partake in almsgiving, regardless of whether the beneficiaries are truly needy or, for example, they are “wealthy men who desperately need money to repay their debts to avoid insolvency and public humiliation” (Gellar 113). Such a system in which fiscal irresponsibility and lack of motivation are condoned and their consequences mitigated by a wide-reaching social safety net is perfectly antithetical to democracy and capitalism as they are known in the West. The situation is complicated further in Senegal by the presence of talibés, young children enrolled in Koranic schools who spend much of the day wandering the streets as beggars to provide the salaries of their teachers. This is a case not only of a collectivist mentality (in that people readily give these children money) but also of genuine exploitation, in which “democracy” allows for minors to be manipulated and taken advantage of in the name of religion.

One last aspect of religion in Senegal which serves as an obstacle to democracy involves the widespread participation in Islamic brotherhoods and allegiance to marabouts, the spiritual leaders of the brotherhoods. Linda J. Beck, a political pundit, explains that “Mouride marabouts offer a prime example of . . . the ‘decentralized despotism’ of customary authority. . . . Because recent efforts at democratization in Africa have largely ignored decentralized despotism, political reforms have failed to empower ordinary Africans” (602). Because members of these brotherhoods profess absolute, undying allegiance to their marabout, they essentially sacrifice the self-determination they should possess as a result of democratic politics. Further, by relinquishing their individual autonomy, they reject democratic ideals and instead emphasize “strong communitarian values that [stress] the subordination of individual preferences to community norms” (Gellar 109). Finally, the prevalence of the brotherhoods and power of the marabouts threaten democracy in a theocratic sense: “The separation of church and state has become more problematic since Wade came to power. One of Wade’s first acts as president was to go to Touba to ask for the blessing of the Grand Khalife and to reconfirm his submission to his spiritual guide” (Gellar 122). How can a democratic, supposedly secular government allow its leader to acknowledge publicly his adherence to the desires of a particular religious leader? There cannot be a functioning democracy in Senegal while religious leaders wield more power than the president, the vast majority of the nation’s citizens prefer microcosms of despotism over democratic society, and a collective mentality which relegates the significance of the individual remains so rampant.

The social and familial mores of Senegal–particularly with regard to the exchange of assets, the structure of home life, and the art of association–also illustrate the collectivist mentality which obstructs democratic progress. The widespread prevalence of beggars in the form of talibés has already been noted, but the problem extends even further to constitute what might be termed a “culture of cadeaux.” Caucasian visitors to Senegal automatically are perceived as rich and affluent and face the overwhelmingly unified expectation of locals to hand out gifts to new acquaintances and strangers alike. Using the Wolof word for “foreigner,” local children and even some adults repeatedly demand “Toubab, cadeaux,” expecting a gift on the basis of being less financially secure (or, at least, perceiving themselves to be that way). Again, how can democracy hope to exist in a society in which this mentality of expecting free handouts–ingrained in children from the very beginning–flourishes? It cannot, and, further, it faces the added problem of a widespread acceptance of the redistribution of wealth. Sheldon Gellar reports that the Senegalese “stress consensus over majority decision-making rules, the importance of sharing benefits and burdens over maximizing profits, and solidifying social relations and networks over attaining specific economic objectives” (171). Thus, the desires of the Senegalese seem far more conducive to some type of socialist government than to a democratic one. Lastly, in terms of this notion of the exchange of assets, the way the Senegalese exchange information also is not representative of democratic thinking. Radio trottoir, or “pavement radio,” a truly African phenomenon in which the radio is used to spread news, rumor, and gossip, is an inherently collective media outlet, and “it is for the same reason that, in less modern communities, gossip and indeed witchcraft allegations often have an egalitarian effect, punishing individuals who threaten to become too much more powerful than their neighbours” (Ellis 329). The image of large groups of Senegalese sitting around a single radio, acquiring knowledge from a single, unreliable source, brings to mind the oral tradition and the long history of Senegalese sitting around a baobab tree with a single griot–again, an uncontestable if not unreliable source of knowledge with the power to make or break individuals at his discretion. This lack of individual thought in the exchange of ideas–like the collective means of exchanging material assets–is not conducive to democracy.

The structure of home life also exhibits a spirit of collectivism. First, unlike the small, atomic families common in the West, Senegalese society is comprised of large, extended family networks that function according to principles of sharing and solidarity, which are clearly illustrated in the communal method of eating in Senegal termed “around the bowl.” Also, rather than exhibiting the post-materialistic attitude often found in developed countries, many Senegalese simply “accumulate basic necessities in order to survive and to have the ability to assist members of the extended family in time of need” (Vengroff and Magala 135). This, perhaps, explains why there are relatively few homeless people in the streets of large cities like Dakar, considering the country’s widespread poverty. Though this is certainly positive in one regard, one might speculate as to whether having to support relatives who otherwise would be homeless fetters the rest of the family to a destitute, barely sustainable standard of living, thereby essentially nullifying the benefits of democracy. Lastly, familial mores encompass an acceptance of both polygamy and the superiority of males. Polygamy is, of course, in itself a collective institution–in which women must share their husband with others–but its implications are more severe in that it clearly sanctions gender inequality. Thus, with the structure of home life in Senegal permitting inequality and preventing individualist achievement, democracy unsurprisingly fades into the background.

A final aspect of Senegalese social and familial mores concerns what political analyst Sheldon Gellar terms the “art of association.” While some degree of association amongst individuals is certainly necessary for the perpetuation of a successful democracy, too much emphasis on sharing–as was noted earlier–downplays the importance of the individual and thereby limits what can be achieved on both a personal and societal level. Gellar asserts that “old attachments to the values of mutual reciprocity and solidarity became an integral part of the notion of Demokarassi, the newly coined Wolof word for democracy. . . . [These values] obliged individuals to be prepared to contribute when others in their social networks expressed the need for assistance” (106-107). A good example of how sharing and associative living are overemphasized in Senegal involves tontines, associations in which women contribute a set amount of money on a regular basis and take turns receiving the lump sum. The idea behind tontines is that receiving a large amount of money on occasion allows people to solve problems or make investments that typically would be out of financial reach. Tontines can, in some ways, be interpreted as a highly creative way in which Senegalese can counter collectivist pressures and take financial matters into their own hands in the absence of a well-developed banking system. At the same time, though, something seems amiss in the irony of fighting collectivism with a collectivist enterprise. The crucial question, then, is why tontines prove to be necessary at all. If so many people are trying to fight against collectivism–first–why does collectivism still persist, and–second–why is there not a more individualistic alternative for fighting against it? If there exists such a high demand for banks, why has no one taken advantage of this situation and, out of self-interest, sought to supply the country with banks? Paradoxically, the democratic desires of the people who participate in tontines are what illustrate the undemocratic core of Senegalese society; not only does the need of these individuals for tontines point to widespread collectivism throughout society but also the fact that these individuals resort instinctively to a collectivist strategy as opposed to one more reflective of their fundamental intentions (which are supposedly grounded in self-interest) indicates a foundation of non-democracy which permeates their culture.

Political centralization is the third element of Senegalese society which must be addressed in this study of collectivism and its relation to democracy. First, one of the most fundamental concepts to be elucidated is that of clientelism. Senegal has a long history of patron-client relationships between the government and the common people, and, in modern-day society, this system presents one of the most significant problems for democracy. Gellar concurs in the following passage, pointing out some of the dangers which accompany clientelism:
Given the persistence of patrimonial mores, it should not be surprising that many Senegalese political leaders see criticism as personal attacks, have difficulty sharing power and delegating authority to others, and seek to win support and popularity by generously rewarding their followers and constituents with money, jobs, and other material benefits. (156)
It seems highly unlikely that true democracy can emerge from a system that fosters corruption and does not permit serious criticism of the government. Additionally, clientelism fosters what Gellar terms “democratic despotism”; he says that after independence, “Senegal’s new rulers succumbed to the temptations of power and sought to establish a state apparatus that was even more centralized than the state structures they had inherited, often at the expense of their people’s political liberty” (43). It seems very likely that the collective mentality of politicians is what makes them feel justified in centralizing power and depriving the people not only of their right to make decisions but also of their right to complain. How, for example, could the Parti Socialiste maintain control of Senegalese politics for forty years while so many of the country’s problems persisted? The answer lies in democratic despotism and, even more fundamentally, in the collectivist mentality which continues to interfere with and obstruct the traditional safeguards of democracy.

The final subject which must be addressed–at least briefly–in this study is the methodology of interpreting and deciphering elements of Senegalese society and culture. Numerous examples of Senegalese collectivism–and their relevance to democracy and non-democracy–have been discussed in the preceding pages. It remains important to note, however, that Senegalese society is not exclusively collectivist; there do exist cases of individualist behavior and even traditions which point to an individualist mentality. The goal of this analysis, though, was to dig beneath the superficial Senegal portrayed by Western media, to weed out the atypical and the outliers in order to focus on shared traditions and behaviors, and then to demonstrate that what remains is overwhelmingly illustrative of a shared attachment to collectivist thinking. One may point to the vendors in Sandaga Market and speak of laissez-faire, free-market economics operating in its purest form–and the vendors are, indeed, undeniably persistent, resourceful, and interested in making a profit–but, at the same time, what lies beneath their outward show of aggressive self-interest? Is there a distinct hierarchy in Sandaga Market with some vendors emerging as the Walmart superpowers and others fading into economic oblivion due to inaptitude? Do the vendors go home each night, count their money over and over, and then think of ways to reinvest it in their enterprises to make additional profits? To answer these questions is to return to the starting point: collectivism. Sandaga Market has no hierarchy; virtually every shop is similar to the one next-door. Vendors probably make roughly the same amount of money, and, even more importantly, they often work together in collectivist fashion. Often, for example, a customer paying for a piece of artwork will realize that the man he has just paid is the owner of a nearby shop, that the actual creator of the artwork is in someone else’s shop, and that the man who returned the change does not even appear to work in the market! The vendors in Sandaga Market, despite the hard-nosed capitalist mentality they feign, work together to subsist on a very basic level and share their profits. They go home at night and divide the money they have earned among a large, extended family and then give the remaining change to talibés the next morning. While certainly there are anomalies of individualist behavior and thinking, what unites the Senegalese more than anything–transcending religion, language, and ethnicity–is a shared fondness for collectivist ways of living.

In conclusion, despite many successes since independence, Senegal still struggles to show signs of having a functioning democracy. Though on the surface this failure appears attributable simply to governmental corruption and abuse of power, the true source of failure runs much deeper. At the core of why Senegal lacks a functioning democracy are simple and seemingly innocuous traditions and patterns of behavior like riding on car rapides and expecting cadeaux from foreigners. Such behavior is representative of a collective mentality which pervades both the people and the government of Senegal and serves to impede and to obstruct the progress of democracy, as was seen in the previous analyses of the religion, social and familial mores, and political centralization of Senegal. Despite all that stands in their way, however, if the Senegalese decide that they truly want a democracy, they surely are capable of forging ahead and creating one which is grounded in their traditions and past yet empowers individuals to pursue their dreams and create for themselves and their country the bright future that both deserve.

From Sea to Shining Sea

2006-05-17T15:47:00.000+02:00

As the sun is swallowed up by the ocean in an explosion of red and orange, I stare longingly into the distance, searching for one of those bulges in the horizon which, though nearly imperceptible at first, hold the promise of four or five or maybe six magnificent set waves. Looking left, then right, I still see nothing and continue to wait patiently. I look down and notice that I’m floating back and forth with the current over the jagged reef which is a few feet below my board, and I feel a quick rush of adrenaline shoot through my body. Small fish are jumping and splashing everywhere; I steal a nervous glance behind me and brush aside the image of razor-sharp teeth suddenly clamping down on one of my legs. Unfazed by my presence, a duck dives beneath the surface (giving new meaning to the term duck-dive) and reemerges with its evening meal, though it struggles to get the flopping fish all the way down. Overhead, hundreds of birds circle in the thermals, some searching for fish and some – I can’t help but imagine – simply playing. Cold and wishing I had worn my hooded vest under my wetsuit, I look back at the cliff-face where I stashed my gear, but the thought of paddling all the way back to the channel, letting the waves push me into the urchin-covered rocks, and then scampering quickly across them while trying to protect my board from the incoming whitewater deters me. The swell which has persisted for the last 8 or 9 days is finally dying off and there’s a long wait between sets, but I really don’t mind; it’s the first time I’ve had this break to myself, and the solitude is refreshing. I’ve already gotten several awesome rides, and I’m almost as content simply to sit on my board, watching the sun set and breathing the salty air, as I am to ride more waves. I close my eyes and have no trouble imagining I’m floating off the coast of southern North Carolina; I can hear the cawing of the seagulls, the laughter of children, the whistle of a lifeguard. Suddenly, it’s not the whistling of a lifeguard but that of some local kids on the shore which brings me back to reality – back to Africa. I look up at the horizon, grin, and begin to paddle…

Bonjour and salut everyone – thanks for checking in. Senegal continues to amaze me in so many ways, and I have a lot of great stories to share. The surfing has been unbelievable, with the session I described above being one of the most satisfying of my life. I’ll talk a little more about the surfing later, but first… some recent experiences on terra firma.

Monday, May 1st, found me and the other W&L students marching through downtown Dakar in the Labor Day parade with hundreds of locals. Constituting the one and only cluster of white in a long stream of Africans, we were easily noticeable for the thousands who lined the streets, leaned out of windows, and sat on rooftops. Reflecting on the experience afterwards, many of us expressed concern that our participation in the parade had been neither respectful nor tactful. Though it was perhaps amusing how our motley crew stumbled along without any semblance of order or unity in between groups of workers wearing matching outfits, carrying banners, and marching in unison; how the size of our group constantly fluctuated as individuals still not accustomed to the local food took turns dashing off for bathroom emergencies; or how, at the end of the parade route, the dumbfounded MC went silent – not knowing how to introduce us to the crowd – and the pens of the government ministers awaiting our requests froze in midair; were we really justified in taking part in this political and ceremonial activity about which we knew next to nothing? I think the original intent was for us to interact with local advocacy groups and to have a chance to decide, based on a tangible experience, whether the democratic process in Senegal is genuine or just a façade. In this respect, taking part in the parade was certainly beneficial, because we did acquire first-hand experience with Senegalese democracy. I’m still not convinced that we really should have been in the parade, but, based on some occurrences during the event, I’m fairly confident we didn’t do any serious damage to international relations. Most of the crowd actually got a kick out of seeing us – video cameras seemed to focus on us from all angles – and I received a standing ovation from several rooftops full of people when I accepted an invitation to join local dancers as the march paused at an intersection. Additionally, several of us were interviewed by enthusiastic and curious reporters (though the most intelligent thing I could think to say was “Go Senegalese football!”). Overall, our marching in the Labor Day parade wasn’t pretty – and may indeed have been slightly out of line – but it was definitely one of the most memorable and bizarre experiences we’ve had in Senegal.

After three weeks here, I’m really starting to settle in and find a rhythm. I’m more comfortable than ever in my homestay; having long ago switched from vous to tu when speaking with my family, I’m now on a very familiar level with them. Basse and I continue to hang out quite a bit, and, together with his cousin, we’ve watched several movies, gone to the internet café, etc. Gnagna, as I correctly surmised from the start, is a cute little ball of energy. She is constantly singing, dancing, or trying on new clothes in front of the mirror, and, to her mother’s dismay, she wakes up at 5 AM. Ironically, she usually limits herself to one word answers and a grin when I try to talk to her, but I think that’s beginning to change now that she is becoming more comfortable around me. She proudly offered me some Pringles today and has even agreed to show me her pictures from her recent trip to Turkey. In other homestay news, I was slightly mistaken when I reported earlier that we typically eat meals at the table. Actually, we eat quite often “around the bowl,” and though eating this way is a bit laborious for me (my legs usually become numb halfway through the meal because of the way you have to sit), I actually enjoy it and definitely feel more a part of the culture when I’m sitting on the floor with my family and their friends, eating with my hands (well, make that my right hand), and speaking in broken French and Wolof. The religious aspect of the homestay is fascinating. It’s not uncommon for me to walk into the living room to see Mme. Cisse watching a Catholic mass on television and, at the same time, several of her friends kneeling on their prayer mats and reciting Koranic verses. It’s also interesting to see the effects of Western values on traditional African and Muslim values. My family is in love with a French soap opera called “Un, Dos, Tres,” and we watch it every night during dinner despite the fact the nearly every episode has at least one scene which results in an awkward silence broken only by a playfully disapproving “Ooh-la-la…” from my mom. Similarly, Basse, like most Senegalese teenagers, is obsessed with the American rapper 50 Cent. The other day, in front of his mom, he handed me a page of lyrics for one of 50 Cent’s songs so I could doublecheck his pronunciation as he recited the words – I stopped him around the third line after maybe 8 or 9 curse words, professed that I saw real talent in his singing, and left things at that.

My infatuation with Senegalese music continues, and I seek out local tunes whenever I can. Two of my most recent music outings, however, brought with them some unexpected surprises. The first surprise occurred when I was heading to a downtown club with some friends. We split up for the taxi ride downtown, and I ended up with two girls. I told the driver to drop us off in the Mohammad Cinq district – which is known for good nightlife – since we didn’t know the exact location of the club where we were to meet the others. Problems started when we were given incorrect directions from a passerby and we began heading in the wrong direction without knowing it. Then, a Senegalese man approached us and began harassing the girls despite our requests for him to leave us alone. Of course, we had been briefed on the possibility of this happening and immediately recognized the cultural dilemma. It’s considered normal in Senegal for men to approach women they don’t know and flirt, make marriage propositions, etc. in a nonviolent yet aggressive manner. I did everything I could to keep myself between him and the girls and was very direct in telling him to leave, but nothing seemed to work. What made the situation really frustrating was that the man wasn’t really harming us and kept insisting that he just wanted to be friendly and that this was just how Senegalese people act; basically, he didn’t go quite far enough to allow us to do anything forceful or call for the police. Nevertheless, he continued to harass the girls for at least ten minutes, following directly behind us and refusing to leave, and we were getting pretty uptight. At last we arrived at a relatively well-lit street, and I took the girls into a Chinese restaurant and did my best to explain the situation to the manager (ironically, I instinctively used French – I was a bit flustered – though my Chinese would have been much clearer). She reassured us that the man wouldn’t have harmed us (basically reiterating what we’d been told about the cultural difference) but nonetheless yelled at him in Wolof and kicked him out of the restaurant – yes, he had followed us inside. Then, a couple Lebanese men who had just finished dinner asked what the problem was and I again struggled to explain the situation in French. They got the message and ended up driving us in their car to the club we had originally been looking for, which was nice because the man was waiting for us outside the restaurant. So, after a rough start, the evening turned out great, and we had an awesome time dancing well into the morning… My second experience with a musical outing turning sour happened this past Wednesday night on Goree Island. Youssou N’Dour and several other famous Senegalese musicians put together a joint concert on the island to celebrate the abolition of slavery. My mom got excited when she saw a commercial for the concert and decided we could go over to the island as a family, take sandwiches for dinner, and enjoy the music together. This ended up being a fantastic idea, as the concert was really amazing – a huge stage was set up right next to the beach, people were crowded onto the rooftops of the European style cottages which cover Goree, and waves lapped gently against the shore behind us. The problems began after the concert ended and we headed for the ferry dock. Knowing not everyone would fit on the first ferry, people began crowding closer and closer to the gate on the dock. At first I just shook my head in amusement, having often witnessed the same behavior in China. As I moved slowly closer to the bottleneck, though, the situation transformed into something for which I was totally unprepared and had never experienced in my life. In a matter of minutes I went from being uncomfortable to truly in pain; the crowd was packed so closely together I could barely expand my chest to breathe; I was repeatedly hit, scratched, and groped; and I was starting to feel really claustrophobic. At this point I realized that tripping and falling could honestly mean being trampled to death (and I suddenly remembered watching news clips of the deaths caused annually when masses of pilgrims fight to be the closest to different holy sites), so I was forced to put my arms out and push off the people around me for balance. Typically, when in crowds I keep my hands in or over my pockets and remain extremely cognizant of both my belongings and my surroundings. In this situation, though, everything went out the window, and I was fighting for survival. It was all a blur at the time, but, looking back, I remember almost exactly what happened. Just as I neared the gate, a woman near me had some sort of panic attack and started screaming hysterically and hitting everyone around her. This caused the crowd to lurch to my right, and I ended up pinned against the wall next to the gate. As I struggled against the force of hundreds of people, a man next to me reached for my right cargo pocket. One precaution I take is keeping money only in my two cargo pockets, which have both Velcro and zippers and are pretty tough to open. It’s so strange to look back on what happened because I can visualize it all so lucidly, but at the time I was only subconsciously aware that I was being pickpocketed. The man had trouble unzipping my pocket and didn’t succeed until the exact moment when I managed to dislodge myself from the wall (which took maybe 10 seconds I’d guess). I used all my strength to twist into the crowd and, finally breaking free, spun to my right and tumbled through the gate. His hand went into and came out my pocket just as I was beginning to spin. So, the end result? I lost less than $20, made it safely to the ferry, and enjoyed a great night of music. I was, however, left feeling pretty flustered and even betrayed in some ways. Not betrayed in the sense that I was robbed (I realize W&L’s honor system doesn’t apply to the whole world) but betrayed in the sense that I did everything right and still lost. I wasn’t playing the part of the stupid tourist with a big fat wallet in my back pocket, and I had taken precautions and was aware of the dangers. Nevertheless, I was put in a position in which I had to choose between protecting my pocket change and protecting my life; moreover, I didn’t even choose this situation but found myself in it because I had to follow my family as they made their way towards the ferry (I generally avoid crowds when alone). I don’t know why the incident bothers me so much – it was really nothing more than a small growing pain in my maturation as a traveler – but I have a difficult time brushing aside the panic and claustrophobia I felt when I was caught in that mob. The collective power of human beings is truly amazing. An inspiring leader can take that energy and make it the foundation of the most noble of all undertakings, yet it takes but one person to derail everything and transform that energy into an overwhelming wave of panic, chaos, and destruction. I think the sense of helplessness – the total loss of individuality, control, and personal freedom – that I felt in that mob is one of the worst things I’ve ever felt in my life. It was as if I were chained down and submerged – unable to move, unable to breathe – in the blind conformity against which I fight so fiercely. It was the horrible feeling of drowning and not being able to do anything about it. It was a reminder that although I like people, I always seem to prefer the times when they’re not around. :)

Wow, I didn’t intend to write so much about such downer topics; but, then, traveling isn’t all good times, and, if it were, I don’t think it would be nearly as rewarding. Either way, I think I should change the subject now and what better thing to focus on than…yep, you guessed it.

You know, I wish I could just say or write the word surfing – just toss it out there – and everyone within earshot, everyone reading…could simply understand the essence of it all. The mere sound or sight of the word conjures up so many intense emotions and feelings in me, but I know this isn’t true for many people – after all, how can it be if you’ve never experienced what surfing really is? The anticipation which grows steadily more intense as set waves loom larger and larger, rolling ever closer towards you. The terror of looking over the lip of a large wave, having already committed to drop in, and seeing a jagged reef two feet below the surface. The incredible acceleration as the wave takes hold of you and then the sudden sense of harmony and peace as your being merges with that of the wave and you notice out of the corner of your eye the vertical wall of water next to you which suddenly begins flowing over your head in a graceful arc. Underneath that graceful arc is a world within a world, free from the constraints and limitations of everyday existence. It is a world of motion and speed: motion of the body relative to the board, of the board relative to the wave, of the wave relative to the ocean. It’s a world in which a vertically moving wall of water can provide as much support for an outstretched hand as a solid wall on land, in which conscious thought does not and cannot survive, and in which time stops and all worries cease to exist. Surfing is the most beautiful expression of living I know, and I only wish I could better capture its essence with words.

Fortunately, I can recount my latest surfing adventures, one of which I’m particularly proud. Last Thursday I took the afternoon off to search for the best waves in the region. I started at Virage because the swell was out of the North, but the winds were also out of the North, making for poor conditions there. Next, I took a cab to Memelles, located beside a really cool lighthouse perched high on a rocky cliff. Here, as predicted, the wind was offshore (that’s good), but, unfortunately, the waves were very closed out. Closed out means that the entire wave breaks at once instead of starting at one end and gradually breaking. I got a good laugh out of allowing a local kid to confuse me as I approached the beach by telling me “C’est fermé,” which literally means “It’s closed.” I initially thought he meant the beach itself was closed and I awkwardly tried to inquire whether it would be ok if I walked around the beach because I just wanted to surf. Yea, he gave me a nice long stare and just walked away. What makes it all worse, though, is that exactly the same situation occurred in Costa Rica two years ago when a local there told me “Esta cerrado.” Apparently I’m a slow learner. Anyway, once I realized that Memelles was going to get me killed if I tried to surf it that day, I left and walked several kilometers up the coast looking for waves. Just as I was getting discouraged, I stumbled upon a break called Vivier. Practically the entire surfing community was there, and I’d suddenly broken into the scene. The waves were outstanding – well overhead at both the left (Gauche) and Right (Droite) breaks at Vivier. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing as videocameras on tripods recorded surfer after surfer getting covered up in long tubes and pulling fancy moves above the lips of the waves. After I’d gotten my fill of the surf (ie. when I couldn’t paddle anymore), I started chatting with some of the locals, and they informed me there would be a pro contest the coming weekend at that very spot. I noticed, however, that the posters they showed me clearly stated that all competing surfers must have a valid license. When I got ready to leave, one of my new local friends said he’d see me at the competition on Saturday and I replied that maybe I’d come and watch but, of course, I couldn’t compete because I didn’t have a license. He grinned and told me reassuringly just to show up a half hour early on Saturday, explaining that he’d seen me surfing and could “arrange things.” Well, my good friend came through. With a small exchange of currency and a few handshakes on Saturday, I got my license. That’s how I came to be an officially licensed professional surfer in the nation of Senegal.

So, you might be thinking that, since I decided to enter a pro contest in Africa, at a break I’d only surfed once, and after only one week of surfing in months, that I must have a lot of competitions under my belt. No, this was my first. That doesn’t mean I let anyone in on this secret, though. Let’s just say that, for the three or four hours before I actually competed, I was the dark horse no one knew about. I had an entourage of several female W&L students who came to watch and support me, so this drew immediate attention. I also own a pretty nice surfboard and all the flashy gear and accessories to go along with it, so, to the local crowd of surfers, I was very possibly a sponsored, pro surfer from America who had traveled to Senegal with my entourage for the sole purpose of winning this competition. If only I’d thought to sign autographs before I competed… Well, I not surprisingly didn’t win, but I certainly didn’t get last either. I took 3rd in my heat of 4 people (the top 2 advance), actually having had a chance to slide into second earlier in the heat. I got two solid waves early on, then took a bad whipeout on what ended up being the biggest wave of the heat for anyone. That happened at 10 minutes into the 20 minute heat and, unfortunately, the break I was surfing essentially went flat for the remaining time and I couldn’t get another wave. With each surfer’s best two waves counting, I was in good enough shape for 3rd but couldn’t advance. Nevertheless, the competition was really fun and an awesome experience. A DJ pumped out great music throughout the contest, while an announcer narrated each surfer’s moves and called out the remaining time in each heat. More people than I ever would have imagined showed up – literally overrunning the venue and crowding out onto the rocks to watch – and I was really moved when a number of them applauded as I paddled back in at the end of my heat. As the only non-native French speaker in the contest, I was welcomed by everyone and treated really well. Overall, the contest was an incredibly unique experience and, generally speaking, a fairly solid showing for my first time as a licensed pro surfer.

Let’s see, a few final notes… The Cinema de Paris no longer exists in Dakar. Hoping to catch a movie during our free time, some friends and I spent nearly an hour trying to find this theatre. Using my guidebook, I knew its approximate location and just needed someone to point it out to me. Everyone I asked seemed to point in the same general direction, but it was nowhere to be found. I thought I was going crazy as I walked in circles around the area that was supposed to be a theatre but wasn’t. Finally, someone laughed and explained “Il n’existe pas,” making a sort of slicing motion with his hand. Things made sense pretty quickly. We ended up resorting to having juice and peanuts on top of the Hotel d’Independence, which features a rooftop pool and fine views of the coast. I also recently had my first (and only, at this point in time) non-Senegalese meal. As always, I was craving cheese and couldn’t resist a pizza. By the way, I have never eaten so much fish in my life! Barricuda, mackerel, tuna, tiny fish that are basically just bones; fish heads, fish eyes, fish bones; fish and rice, fish fillets, fishballs, fish and bread, fish that seems to stare at you, fish that seems to stare at the person next to you (it always stares at someone), fish, fish, fish. …What else? We visited a really interesting NGO recently called EcoPol. It employs local children from the poorest neighborhoods and teaches them how to recycle trash from the streets and turn it into creations which are practical, aesthetic, or both. Some of the things they do are absolutely amazing, like making toy bicycles of out steel wire, genuinely attractive pocketbooks out of plastic bags, or picture frames out of bottle caps and cardboard boxes. I’ve also done a ton of academic work recently, including the reading of three novels and writing of one paper and one blog update in five days. I might post some excerpts from my paper at some point, as it hits on some interesting cultural phenomena.

Tomorrow morning (Sat. 5/13) we leave for our village stay in the Sine-Saloum Delta, located several hours south of Dakar. We are heading to three separate villages, and I managed to make sure I’m heading to the one which is located on the coast. Needless to say, I’ve already checked the wave forecast. I’m not sure just how rustic things will be – I’m pretty sure no electricity and no running water, for starters. I’m sure it will be right up my alley, so I’m very excited. I’m hoping to post this update in the morning before I leave (by the way, in case I haven’t made it clear, for this particular trip I type updates on my laptop and then transfer them to and post them from computers in local internet cafes); if there’s a power outage or something in the morning, then I’ll have to post it next week as I won’t have computer access until then. I wish you all well until next time – aloha and au revoir.

Westward Vista

2006-05-02T15:36:00.000+02:00

Asalaa Maalekum from Dakar, Senegal, on the Cap Vert Peninsula, the westernmost region of the African continent. On this cape I can’t help but look continually westward, towards home, and wonder how things can be so different yet simultaneously so similar on either side of the great big pond which now separates me from most of my readers. Arabic fills the air five times a day as it resonates from the towers of elaborate mosques, small children begging for change cover the streets like a plague, and a strong equatorial sun beats down upon the sands in and around this city of the Sahel. At the same time, though, friends gather in front of their homes, talking and laughing well into the evening; families sit down together for dinner each night; and old men rest on the cliffs outside of town, staring out at the line between blue sea and bluer sky – searching, seeking, questioning. For all the differences which exist here, I do, in many ways, feel at home. But I suppose I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I…

Although I swore to myself some time ago never again to travel with a “tour group,” I decided to take a chance with this program run by Washington and Lee University in the US and the ACI Baobab Center here in Dakar. I do recognize the inherent advantages of organized tours (less stress, group discounts, and – with professional guides being guaranteed at all times – the opportunity to learn a great deal of factual information), but I believe that the learning which takes place when an individual traveler has to figure things out on his own, often making mistakes along the way, is far more beneficial. Nevertheless, I was attracted to this program from the start – particularly because it seemed to offer a reasonable balance between “the individual” and “the group” – and decided to give it a shot. So, on Monday, April 24th, I found myself in Washington, DC, mingling with the rest of the group and chatting excitedly about what lay ahead. After eating dinner together on Monday night at an Ethiopian restaurant, we divided our time over the next two days among a variety of orientation activities intended to acquaint us better with Senegal and Africa as a whole. We attended lectures by a past US Secretary of State for Africa, an attaché of the Senegalese ambassador to the US (the ambassador himself had to cancel at the last moment), and a Peace Corps alum who had served in West Africa. We also toured African art exhibits, visited DC’s largest mosque, and discussed West African cultural traditions. Feeling a bit outnumbered by the 20 girls in the group, the six other guys and I also managed to score tickets to a Wizards basketball game on Tuesday night. Wednesday evening found us boarding our plane at Dulles and, before long, we were on our way to Africa. Coincidentally, I ended up sitting next to the Human Rights Watch’s number one person in West Africa, and she shared with me some fascinating information about international politics and some incredible stories from her travels within the world’s most war-torn and volatile regions. Oh, in case anyone reading happens to be a surfer, I should mention that I highly recommend flying Air France on surf trips whenever possible. Apparently, their check-in attendants are either unaware of the company’s policies or are simply sympathetic towards the surfing community because I got away with checking my two surfboards without any paying extra fees (which could have cost up to $320 round-trip). And in case you’re wondering, I am aware (at least partially aware) that this is an academic trip; the fact that I brought two surfboards, a wetsuit, wetsuit accessories, extra fins, an extra leash, wax, a ding repair kit, a giant boardbag, etc. etc. and forgot to bring a notebook or writing utensils is understandable considering that my intent – noble to say the least – is “to study the people and culture of Senegal’s coastal areas, using surfing as a medium to do this, and ultimately attempt to gain a more complete understanding of West Africa from the very waters which separate it from other lands.” Hmm… Truthfully, surfing does provide an amazing opportunity to learn about local cultures (I remember the hours I spent in the waters of Costa Rica chatting in Spanish with local surfers and then, last year, the many long conversations I had in Chinese while hitchhiking with my board up and down the east coast of Taiwan), and, at the same time, it is indeed possible to balance work and play.

Rolling my eight-foot-long boardbag behind me on Thursday night, I found myself exiting the airport outside of Dakar and entering an exciting new world. I spent the next three nights housed in an apartment complex with the other W&L students, slowly growing more accustomed to my new surroundings. Saturday and Sunday were devoted to further orientation exercises, these coordinated by the local Baobab Institute. The orientation was extremely thorough, and I found it exceedingly interesting how many of the “do’s” and “do not’s” I had already figured out for myself during my own travels. It seemed ironic that everyone was just being spoon-fed the information I had gleaned piece by piece by making mistakes, enduring embarrassment, and tolerating a bit of hardship on occasion. Nevertheless, the orientation benefited me for sure, and I felt very confident that my upcoming homestay (my third one in less than three years) would go well. I also learned some important cultural facts specific to Senegal that I must keep in mind constantly. For instance, greetings are extremely important in Senegal, and if you approach someone on the street for directions and begin with nothing more than an “Excuse me…,” you may be shunned and ignored. Even the most basic transaction or exchange of words should include most, if not all, of the following Arabic/Wolof greeting: “Asalaa Maalekum…Maalekum Salaam…Na nga def?...Maa ngi fii rekk…Ana waa ker ga?...Nu nga fa…Al hamdulilaay!...Al hamdulilaay!” Greetings between acquaintances often last more than 30 seconds and involve a variety of handshakes and embraces. Dining etiquette is also very demanding. The traditional way to eat in Senegal is termed “around the bowl” and involves each person sitting cross-legged on a mat around a large bowl of food. The heads of the family typically reach in first and tear apart whatever may be in the middle – a fish, a couple squashes, and an onion perhaps – and toss the torn bits into each person’s pie-shaped “territory” of the rice around the outside of the bowl. Then, each person reaches into his territory, grabs a handful of rice with some of the food just tossed his way, and molds the contents into a fist-sized ball ready for eating. Of course, only the right hand is used for eating (for reasons which should be obvious if I tell you that typically a kettle of water can be found in the bathroom rather than toilet paper), and using the left hand would be a grave mistake (which is why I have resorted to sitting on my left hand for the duration of meals). There are a variety of other rules about eating around the bowl, but the end result is always rice- and sauce-coated hands and faces and stained clothes (well, for me at least). I could elaborate on all that I discovered during the days of orientation – as much of it really is fascinating and surprising – but I think it will most likely emerge as I continue to describe my experiences here in Senegal.

There is, perhaps, one last thing I should note about those first few days I spent in the apartment before transitioning to my homestay. During that time, I was struck with the notion that Africa really does move to a different beat. I formed what I believe will be some of my strongest memories as I took in everything around me, a bit tipsy with adrenaline and excitement. The music of Senegal, in particular, captured me immediately and I was soon swaying to the intoxicating rhythms of this part of the world. Dakar is known as the music capital of West Africa, and, spending the first nights in downtown clubs with the rest of the group, I wasted no time in verifying this distinction. I don’t even know how to describe the local music (and it is, of course, diverse), but it’s almost always highly percussionist and fast with a great beat that makes dancing irresistible. The first night most of the group was a bit timid, but a few of the girls and I wanted to dance, and, after we broke out our West African moves in front of the stage, the band went wild and we couldn’t seem to go anywhere without being stopped and told by astonished (or was it amused?) locals, “Vous dansez bien!” On that first weekend I also got to hear the man himself, international superstar and local demi-god Youssou N’Dour, at his famous club Thioussane. Everything happens a bit later here in Dakar, with many families not eating dinner until 10:00 or later, so N’dour doesn’t even start his act until 2:30 AM. Needless to say, it was a late night, but the experience of cramming into an overflowing Thioussane and joining locals in swaying back and forth to the fervent beat of his music is one which I will long remember. More than anything, I have been absolutely enthralled by the uninhibited joie de vivre which pervades the clubs and music venues here. Outside, on the streets, Senegal is one of the poorest countries in the world, with the average citizen dying before the age of 50; but, in the clubs, all the country’s troubles cease to exist. Icons like Youssou N’Dour on stage sweating and singing with incredible passion to captivated audiences are this country’s images of hope. Once taken away by the music, people have no worries or concerns; instead, they revel in a sort of collective bliss, and, indeed, with a uniquely African pulse. When I returned to the apartment late in the morning after dancing all night, my gaze was drawn constantly by the lights of downtown Dakar. On the third floor of the apartment was a wall with circular openings to the outside along its entire length. For some reason, I was mesmerized by this wall and often found myself leaning against it, staring out through the holes at the yellow haze over the city. One night, with the wind against my face, I was simply taking it all in – the rumble of music still filtering in from far away, the darkness which covered the desert around the city, the mosques visible in the distance. Suddenly, I was experiencing the same rush – the same sense of passion and exhilaration and energy – which I had felt in the overflowing clubs; when the feeling subsided and I had regained my thoughts, I realized that this was the pulse of Africa.

I want this blog to recount many of the experiences I have while traveling, but, at the same time, I don’t want it to read like a day-by-day journal. So, as I continue writing, I plan to approach things from a broader perspective, focusing more on the themes and interconnected occurrences which I believe to be representative of what I experience on a daily basis. There certainly will be some simple recounting on a chronological basis of what I did, saw, and heard, but hopefully the majority of my posts will not take that form. With this in mind, I’ll offer a few stories from and information about my most recent week in Senegal. On Sunday evening I moved into my homestay with Mme. Madeleine Cissé and her fourteen-year-old son Basse and eight-year-old daughter Gnagna. They live in a nice apartment located close to the Baobab Center and the ARED Center (where we also have class). Mme. Cissé works in the Senegalese Dept. of Finance as an income tax auditor and is wonderfully outgoing and friendly. Basse is one of those people whom you know from the first moment could not be any kinder or more sincere. He is extremely mature (I constantly forget that he’s only 14) and, perhaps because he’s almost the same age as my own little bro (hey dude!), we bonded instantaneously. Gnagna actually just arrived home today (Sun, 4-30) from some kind of trip, but, judging from what I heard early this morning while still in bed, she’s a little ball of energy. In all, the family situation couldn’t be any better. I’ve been treated amazingly well and already feel attached to my new family. They speak to me in French (though Basse speaks some English), and this is helping me tremendously, as I expected. There’s just no substitute for learning a language immersion-style, and this is proving to be a third success for that philosophy. Let’s see, what else… I actually have my own room and bathroom, which is nice, and by now I’m used to cold showers when I travel. There are quite a lot of mosquitoes, and malaria is a serious problem, but hopefully my Malarone will work. The weather is exactly the same every day with sunny skies and highs around 80. It’s not really that hot, but the sun is so strong here that it feels hotter and I don’t leave the house without my wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses. Now that class has started, I follow a similar schedule each day. Breakfast is the same each day – French baguette; butter, jellies, or camembert cheese; and tea. On Monday, Wednesday, and Friday I go to Wolof (a local indigenous language) class at 9:00, so I’m able to eat breakfast with the family before they leave for school and work. My West African Politics class taught by Prof. Dickovick runs from 11:30 until 1:00, and then I return home for lunch with the maid (as in many countries, having a maid is very common). From 3:00-5:00 I attend Prof. Lambeth’s West African Literature/Media/Culture class, and dinner, as I said earlier, is late in the evening. My family is relatively “French,” so we usually sit at the table and eat in basically the way as one eats in the West. Meals are always Senegalese – tieboudienne, yassa poulet, yassa poison, etc. – with rice and fish being the two staples. We do sometimes eat in the traditional way, also, on the floor, “around the bowl.” I was looking forward to a quiet lunch alone last Friday when suddenly Mme. Cissé and a bunch of her relatives, colleagues, and friends burst in and set up the bowl. Friday, the holy day in Islam, always seems to bring surprises as everyone wears traditional clothes, beggars are out in full force, and mosques overflow. My family is actually Christian, which is interesting because it provides insight into what it’s like for a 5% minority to exist peacefully within a Muslim society. Plus, most of the extended family is Muslim, so I really am in a fascinating position to learn about religious cohabitation in Senegal. As far as class, things are going well despite the fact that we have a ridiculous amount of work. It’s difficult to read novels, write papers, and do daily assignments when there is so much else going on; nevertheless, I’m sure I’ll manage. Wolof is an interesting language, more difficult than Spanish or French because it’s not a Romance language, but certainly easier than Chinese because it’s phonetic and does not have a system of intonation. I can say some basic things in Wolof now, but there’s really no way any of us will be able to communicate on a conversational level by the end of six weeks. I’m looking at it more as a study of linguistics that might help me better understand my other languages. And actually, the Wolof classes are taught almost entirely in French, so I’m really learning two languages at once; as for the students who don’t speak any French, I can’t even begin to imagine what it’s like to learn a language you don’t know…in a language you don’t know. Bizarre.

Just a few last notes on this past week, and I’ll try to wrap up this lengthy post. I went with my mom to the fish market last Monday, and that was quite an experience. There were literally chunks of fish landing on my head as I navigated around vendors chopping off fish heads and slicing off scales. I was amazed watching my mom bargain with the vendors – she was dressed in traditional clothes (as she usually is) and moved about with an air of confidence and – I guess you could say – elegance, though elegance is not something I typically would associate with fish markets. On Wednesday the group spent the entire day on Goree Island, located just off the coast of Dakar. Goree, a World Heritage Site, was one of the principle centers of the West African slave trade, and we were able to tour the Maison d’Esclaves, the prison used to hold slaves temporarily before they boarded ships for the Americas. The tour was led by a local guide, and he was blunt and straightforward in speaking about the atrocities committed there. The rooms in which slaves were kept are unbelievably small and confining, and the horrors endured in them are unimaginable. Most haunting of all, though, was the Door of No Return. This small door overlooking the ocean and facing west, served for 300 years as the portal to the New World for millions of slaves who would never again see their home. I literally felt chills as I stared out through this door, knowing I was looking in the exact direction of my home in North Carolina. Outside of the Maison d’Esclaves, Gorree is an enchanting little island with no cars and few crowds, and many Dakar residents come here to enjoy the peace and quiet. We had time to tour the island as well as explore things on our own for a bit. I was intrigued to learn that the artillery gun on Goree was used to sink a British/French ship during WWII and keep much of West Africa under Axis command. It’s hard to believe that the effects of the war would be felt somewhere so far removed as this island off Dakar. After the tour, I found a nice quiet little spot by the ocean where I curled up with a book. Looking up from my book every once in a while and staring out at the Atlantic, I couldn’t help but think about how much own views will undoubtedly change as I continue to view the world from this new perspective. After reading for a while, I was in need of a bit of adventure, so I embarked a little surfing odyssey. I had brought my board over on the ferry hoping to find waves (though not expecting any, as the surf is very inconsistent on Goree), so I ended up using it to paddle nearly the entire circumference of the island. I got some interesting looks as I made my way slowly along the rocks which line the coast and especially as I returned to the ferry through small alleys in my wetsuit, board underarm. Watching the sunset over the Dakar skyline from the water was absolutely amazing and made even the lack of waves bearable.

Speaking of waves, I have indeed scored some surf recently! I’ve now been to Almadies (the point of Africa which juts out farthest west), N’Gor Island (filmed by Bruce Brown for his classic film The Endless Summer, which revolutionized surfing and essentially took the sport mainstream (for better or worse)), and Virage (home to the only “surf shop” – and the quotations are intended – in the country, to my knowledge). N’Gor and Almadies are very rocky and a bit treacherous, I suppose, depending on the tides. At N’Gor, 5-inch-long sea urchin spines repeatedly pierced my wetsuit booties and lodged themselves in the side of my foot; it took me several painful hours to pull them out with tweezers. This weekend we’ve been enjoying an excellent North-Northwest swell – big enough for a small craft advisory to be issued – so the waves at Virage have been great. I actually got the smack-down laid upon me by the ocean the other day when I got caught on the inside and pummeled all the way into the shore by one wave after another. The way I look at it, that’s just the ocean’s way of reminding me who the boss is, which is definitely a good thing, because those who play in the ocean without any fear or respect don’t last long. I also met some local surfers, including a semi-professional who lives at Virage and whom I had read about online before arriving here. I now have some phone numbers and local beta, which makes surfing much safer and easier. The other day, when I finished riding my first wave in Senegal, I sat back down on my board filled with the same euphoria I feel every time I surf but also with the simple yet satisfying thought that “That’s that…I’ve now surfed in Africa.” It’s so bizarre to walk past the shanties in Dakar or hop into a long, narrow pirogue with locals to be ferried over to N’Gor Island with my surfboard under my arm or on my head, wetsuit hanging off my backpack. There’s something really special about surf travel to exotic locations that makes the experience worthwhile even if there aren’t great waves. So far, however, the Senegalese waves have been good and promise to be better, making for a very, very happy yours truly.

Well, that’s a pretty lengthy update of what I’ve been up to, so if you’re still reading you certainly deserved to be commended (or maybe reprimanded). I prefer to make updates more frequently so that they’re not so long, but that just hasn’t been possible thus far. This one did contain a lot of general information about Senegal, though, that will not be necessary in future posts. Regardless, I hope you enjoyed the update and will continue to follow my blog. I have to get ready now for another week of classes; cross-cultural, cross-language communication; and excellent surfing. From Dakar, Alhamdulilay!

Welcome!

2006-04-19T06:37:00.000+02:00

Welcome to my "Globetrotting '06" Blog!

As the title implies, I'm a travel addict, though I have only documented my adventures with a blog on one other occassion - you can read the blog I created last summer in China and Taiwan by clicking on the link on this page or by going to http://funinchina.blogspot.com. While I'm uncertain as to just how many readers my previous blog reached, it was a success if only because it proved to be a great way for me to record my experiences, and this is perhaps the main reason why I'm writing a second blog. Another great advantage of the blog as a writing medium is that, with each update, I'm essentially telling my family and friends that - contrary to everyone's expectations - I am indeed still alive; this keeps the "We're all worried something's happened to you...call immediately!" emails down to about 2 or 3 a week. Basically, these blogs give my family and friends a convenient way of keeping up with me - if they choose to do so and always on their own time; they can read as much or as little as they desire. Finally, there's always the outside chance that random web-surfers might stumble upon my blogs and, for better or worse - be changed. While I do, of course, mean to be offering a not-so-subtle hint to anyone from Lonely Planet's human resources department (ie. the people who hire new writers) that might be reading, I'm also speaking of the millions of people out there who have forgotten what it means to live fully. If my blogs inspire just one of these people to leave behind the comfort and security of his home and venture out into the great big world which surrounds us all in search of challenge and increased understanding - a search which may very well bring with it certain dangers - then I'll consider myself a successful writer.

Beginning tomorrow - April 19, 2006 - I'll be traveling the world for 8 months in search of great surfing and interesting people; seeking out knowledge, beauty, and understanding; and attempting to merge my life with the endless adrenaline rush which sustains me. This blog is an attempt to capture the experiences I have along the way. Following is a brief description of the different shapes my globetrotting will take over the course of my upcoming travels:

Spring '06: SENEGAL - Living with a local French-speaking family outside of the seaside capital of Dakar. Studying West African literature, politics, and culture; improving my French; learning an African tribal language called Wolof; and surfing as often as possible on the beautiful waves which often pound the nearby coast below mosques, fishermen, and a society which knows little about the world's greatest sport.

Summer '06: TAHITI, FRENCH POLYNESIA - Living with a local French and Tahitian-speaking family on a remote and undeveloped penninsula of Tahiti called Tahiti-Iti. Staying in an open-air, thatched roof bungalow on the beach in a village called Teahupoo, which was barely known to the outside world until just a few years ago, when it was discovered that one of the best surfing waves in the entire world breaks on the reef a kilometre off-shore. The wave at Teahupoo is now considered to be the most dangerous in the world, and to say I wet my pants every time I think about it is an understatement. I'll also be traveling to other breaks, doing a bit of snorkeling and diving, and exploring traditional Polynesian culture.

Fall '06: TAIWAN - Living in an apartment in the capital of Taipei and, at National Taiwan Normal University, continuing an already intense study of Chinese. Also, surfing everyday and enjoying Taiwan's excellent typhoon swells. Basically, taking advantage of the little known facts that Taiwan is a tropical island with absolutely amazing scenery and waves and that it has numerous moutains in the 12,000-13,000 ft range which - how shall I say it - are calling my name?

While I can't promise you perfect grammar or a spellbinding writing style, I can guarantee you that I'll have some pretty interesting things to write about over the next few months. If you can navigate through the pages of rambling which I consider my trademark, you just might find something which captures your attention; whether that thing convinces you to log off the net immediately and go follow your passions and conquer all your fears or simply entertains you for a moment, know that I'm always pleased to have you along on my adventures, if only vicariously...