Conversation from a Taiwanese Mountain

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In Hualien I rented a motor scooter and set off into the Taroka Gorge National Park. I spent most of my day winding up and down the narrow serpentine highway 8. The making of the highway was a perilous endeavor as more than 400 workers lost their lives. There is a shrine in their honor not too far from the park entrance. I was so glad to be in the scenic gorge and its surrounding mountains after spending three nights in Taipei. I stayed the night in the small mountain oasis of Tiensang. There were two choices for budget hostels and I chose the shabbier of the two. The price, however, wasn’t too shabby, and I pretty much had the whole place to myself. There were two other guests that I met. One was an American about my age from Illinois and the other a Frenchman from Lyon. The American joined me for dinner at the much nicer hostel a couple hundred meters up the mountain and shortly after our return grabbed his bags and made haste for the hostel on the hill. Apparently, he didn’t get along with the spiders in his room. That left the hostel to me and Guillon. I never saw Guillon in a place other than front steps of the “cabin” we stayed in. He was sitting there when I came, when I left for dinner, when I came back again and when I went to bed. I spent several hours by his side talking story. Whatever the topic Guillon was good for conversation and I appreciated it that night on the mountain. I asked where he was from in France. “Lyon,” he replied.
“Oh, great, I love Lyon?”
“Ah, you have been?”
“Last summer I stayed with a friend for several nights.”
“Ah, tell me, what was her name?”
“Tifenn.”
“Oh, Tifenn, I do not know her.”
“She’s great.”
“Surely.”
Guillon took a slow drag on his cigarette. “I am surprised you have been to Lyon, most Americans do not visit Lyon.”
“Well, Paris is great too. But I have to admit I was a little naïve the second time I visited.”
“The second time?” Guillon looked me and smiled, “but not the first?”
“Sure, the first time I was perfectly sensible,” I explained. “It was the second time that I had romantic expectations for my time in Paris.”
“I see.”
“I had this plan,” I continued. “I was going to spend my time in Paris reading the Hunchback of Notre Dame under Notre Dame itself while staying at the bookstore across the river. You know the bookstore that took in Hemingway when he was in Paris?”
“Yes, I know the one, but that was a different time.”
“Apparently.”
“So, you didn’t stay at the book shop?”
“No, they wouldn’t let me. So I walked right across the river and into Notre Dame to start asking Priests if I could stay there.” At this Guillon began to laugh. “But they were all from Italy and didn’t know who to ask. In the end I stayed in a cheap motel somewhere below Montmatre. You see, I was very Naïve.”
“I see.”
From there our conversation vacillated between our various interpretations of modern art and love of travel, interspersed with the occasional pause to listen to the chattering mountain crickets. We talked for a couple of hours before I asked him the question I want to ask every time I meet a French person. “So,” I said, “What do you think about the whole ‘Freedom Fries’ thing?”
Guillon nearly choked on his beer. “We all had a very good laugh about it. You know, that time in Europe was a very good time for debate. There were many opinions. Even many of the intellectuals wanted to support the war. They said, ‘if Bush wants his war, let him because it will get rid of a bad dictator and help bring peace to the Middle East.’”
But the debate in Europe was never about the weapons of mass destruction or the link with Al Qaeda. Of course, these things, we knew were ridiculous.”
“Yeah, I know, but most Americans didn’t think that.” I said using the opportunity to relate an experience I had with a coworker this past summer. “You know this guy was extremely uninformed. He still believes that a connection exists and that Saddam had WMD!”
“But, how can that be when there is so much evidence that this is not true?”
“I don’t really know,” I answered. “Just ignorance, I guess. I also think that the American media really let the American public down. As soon as it was obvious that Bush wanted this war all the major media in the USA, almost without exception, began beating the drums of war. Hardly anyone dared question the legitimacy of the war or the claims of links Saddam and Al Qaeda or of their really being any WMD.”
“This was so disappointing to us in Europe,” Guillon replied “because until this war we really believed in the power of the American Press. We still believed that the American Press was independent. We still thought of America as the place where the press could bring down an entire administration, like they did with Nixon. But now, there is no faith anymore in the American Press.”
I related another story of a conversation I had with this coworker. “He actually once said to me, ‘can we at least agree that all terrorists are Muslim?’” Guillon laughed again. “I said, ‘no we can’t agree.’ ‘Name another terrorist.’ ‘the IRA.’ ‘They don’t count’ ‘Why not?’ ‘That’s over with now’ ‘So?’” “The conversations I had with this guy were always circular and always astonishing. As blue collar as he was, he just loved everything republican.”
“Yes,” agreed Guillon, “I cannot understand this logic.”
Another cricket filled silence on the mountain and then Guillon asked about the upcoming election.
“I don’t know, I think Hillary is in front in the poles amongst democrats, but Obama may be closing ground.”
“Do you really think Obama could win?” Guillon asked.
“I don’t know.”
“I cannot believe that Americans would accept this. A black man, do you really think Americans are ready for this?”
“I don’t know,” I said again.
“I mean the last elections were amazing to me,” Guillon said, “I watched this Kerry and thought so highly of him. I believed that he was intelligent and that it was impossible that American’s would not elect him. I couldn’t imagine that Bush would get elected again. Actually, I was stunned.”
“Me too,” I said.
Guillon and I spent most of the rest of the night talking about various topics, some political, some cultural. We were just two travelers that met on a mountain. I was so appreciative of the Shabby hostel, because it kept us out of our rooms and in the pristine night air talking.

The next morning I hopped on my scooter and began the trip down from the mountains to Hualien. I was past the empty sign on the gas tank and didn’t know if I would make it or not. I thought I would be in trouble if I had to hitchhike since I don’t know the language or which hand signals are offensive in Taiwan. Fortunately, the trip was almost entirely downhill and I made it to the gas station before I ran out of fuel. The ride back to Hualien was a bit of an adventure because the tip of a Typhoon was just starting to touch the coast, which I had to ride along to get back. I rode through a pelting rain and some vicious winds, but made it back to the city of Hualien undamaged. Only my shoes were soaking wet and some books I had got a little water damage. That evening I stayed in Taipei with Yao playing video golf in his flat and listening to the winds beating outside. I caught a plane out the next morning to Hong Kong. By then, the conditions had worsened and several flights had been cancelled. I was glad my flight wasn’t cancelled. But it was a disconcerting feeling while we sat on the runway and the plane swayed back and forth in the wind. The take-off, also was a bit scary and most of the plane applauded when we were airborne and riding smooth. I had a great time in Taiwan and was looking forward to what adventures lay ahead in Hong Kong.

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