The Exploder

If it ain't broke, don't fix it. Allow me to introduce the Exploder, a miracle of Japanese craftsmanship and engineering. During my trip to Spring Scream in Kenting, the Exploder was my ride and this scooter has seen kilometers. The positive, it was loaned to me for zero dollars. The negative, as explained by the lender, "..just don't go too fast or else..." Right. I didn't even hear that part, all I focused on was the zero dollars. Instead of a scooter, I received a bicycle with an engine as strong as a food processor, safety features similar to a see-saw, and a ride as comfortable as a cactus-tobaggon. Perfect! Scooter-jackers would be made fun of by their posse if they stole this. On idle, it sounds like a chainsaw fart combined with a dryer full of quarters running on tumble cycle. Don't care, at all. Take a blender, throw in 100 pennies, a jar of pickles, hit 'liquify' and you've got the noise at what I think to be around 50kph. Am I embarrassed? Please. You wish your ride could last this long. Let's take a look at the features...

The Exploder has supported so many butts, it is actually starting to shed. The foam underneath is cracked, hardened, and worn. Not sure if I'm sitting on a cushion or a bag of crushed asphalt. Rear-ends of all shapes and sizes have smooshed this once luxurious foam support in different areas resulting in a texture of a rubber blanket on a coral reef. The vibrations sure didn't help the ride; if I had any kidney stones tucked away in the deepest regions of my guts, surely they were rattled out. The glossy accent paint on the steel mounts has long since departed, leaving a poo-poo brown rust thick with grit and tetanus. Rear passengers should avoid this support at all cost, instead wrap your soft, smooth and comforting arms around my boyish physique and hold on tight.

You want LCD display? Nice try, this baby was conceived before TVs turned color. How about LED? Maybe once upon a time. But the speedometer doesn't work, neither does the tachometer, or the any-other-kind-ometer. Please also note the lack of side mirrors, they were causing too much drag. Just take your eyes off the road, turn your head around, turn back, hope nothing is about to be under your front tire, and keep cruising. The pewter matte finish of the handlebar casing has a texture similar to sand paper or a goat's horn. Like a roll of pink fiberglass, too much poking, pressing, or prodding could result in microscopic slivers. Then you have an itch in your armpit, which you touch and now you have them there. Then you sneeze, cover your mouth and get them in your gums. Now, you alternate your scratching hand between your mouth and your armpit giving yourself a full-on B.O. mouth rinse.

The lights work, but they are desperately trying to escape from the frame. One cover remains, the left blinker and he's hanging on for dear life. How thoughtful of the Exploder's owner to use clear tape, not duct tape, to remedy this malfunction. As you can see, it is a Yamaha and they make damn fine products. Carbon gray fenders accent the navy blue body punctuated by stripped, rusted nuts and bolts holding it together. Custom stickers adorn the front of my chariot letting other riders know that even though I don't value my life enough to make this vehicle safe, I still want to look good.

Normally the underside of any kind of vehicle is covered to prevent exposure to dirt, water, roadkill, etc. Not the Exploder! What doesn't kill you makes you stronger. The Exploder also disposes of superfluous pieces of undercarriage automatically. While you ride to the local Grease Bucket Fatty Man's Chicken Shack to pack on the calories, the Exploder is dropping pounds like nothing. What you see are the bare essentials it takes to run an internal combustion engine. If it isn't important, get rid of it - like the automatic starter. Typically scooters have a button you push and presto, machine on. That feature has been removed, for your convenience. Today's model features a kick start lever; just stand off to the side, jump off a curb, friend, concrete barrier, or bush with a massive amount of downward force, and bingo! If you hear chainsaw farts, you know you did it right.

Any false move by my right leg could result in a IQ-changing shock from the exposed wires. Is it a bad sign that I can clearly see the other side of the road through most of the parts? If you had a car and could see through it while you standing beside it, you'd be like 'oh @#!$$^#, maybe I should get on that.' And if you were driving a horse, you'd be like 'oh damn, where'd you get that pony at?' The muffler with sharpened edges at the bottom of picture was used to determine the standards of acceptable emissions. Anything worse than the Exploder should be seized, dismantled, and melted down into useful widgets.

Of course, it is easy to take cheap shots at something that looks shoddy, beat up, or worn down. You may think that because it looks like a piece of slow moving rubbish, it is a piece of slow moving rubbish. And that is true, it is exactly that. But, looking past the disfigurement and covering your ears from the deafening noise pollution, the Exploder and many others like that get you to where you want to go. Looks aren't the most important thing, only if you want to pay more. In three days of riding, it started the first time every time, used $2 worth of gasoline for a couple hours of driving, and never crapped out. Suckers were lining up to pay an unreasonably high price for shiny, brand-new wheels for the holiday weekend; the shops there triple the rate during the Spring Spring festivities. I paid nothing and still got to the same places as everybody else. In this battle between the Young Studs and Old Faithful, it was a tie - score one for the good guys. Don't touch the Exploder, it is absolutely perfect the way it is; if it ain't broke, don't fix it.

I'm 100% sure the next person who uses it will die.

Derp.

In Soviet Russia, scooter drives you.

Spring Broke - Part II

The police have closed off the main stairs to the beach. I guess 1,000 people on a beach loaded with fireworks, alcohol, and hormones isn't the best combination. But it is a beach, there has to be another way. A hundred yards away from the main staircase is an opening, a makeshift trail! I channel the spirit of Lewis and Clark, take one big step into the darkness and slap my face into a tree branch. Hm, maybe a little to the left this time. Ouch, a thorny-something. Okaaaaaaay, three steps in and I'm already bleeding, the rest should be a breeze. Enter widow-maker uneven concrete stairs. Crash, bang, boom. My descent is softened sand, I've made it. Hit my face on another branch. Walking towards the surf, I hear a soft thump-thump-thump repeating over and over. Is it natives? Oh please be some kind of cannibalistic ritual. Around the corner of a huge rock pile right beside the water, I see it. It is a gigantic, throbbing, frenzied horde of people moving and shaking to heavy bass coming from the beach bar at the bottom of the stairs I bravely disregarded. It is a massive beach rave. Where have you been all my life?!?!

Working around the edges, I find my way into the crowd. People are having a really, really good time. Every now and then, a professional quality firework bomb explodes directly over the middle of the dancers, energizing the group even more. The golden sparks float gracefully towards the mass before extinguishing or setting any ironic trucker hats on fire. What's a good party if your life isn't in some kind of danger? The music, fireworks, dancing, cheering, and singing never slows down, it only speeds up. Somehow, I find my friends and we literally danced the night away.

The music finally stops, the only sound comes from a sharp ringing in my ear. After taking off my sunglasses, I can clearly see the sorry state of this trashed paradise, which also means that it is morning and I have been dancing all night long to vicious DJs blasting house music to a couple hundred partiers on the smooth sand. The sand this morning is much different from when I visited in December of last year; littered with empty beer cans, bottles, cigarette butts, Americans, an abandoned right sandal, used firework casings, dignities, multicolored plastics, tote bags. People stumbling around, saying things like "Where's Josh?" at 7:00AM on Sunday morning was a great ending to my first night in the once cozy beach town of Kenting. Some survivors gather their belongings, head to the stairs at the bottom of the hill, trudging up to retire to their hotel room, campsite, shanty, or park bench. Others, still confused by the lack of bass coming out of the massive speaker stacks, smoke cigarettes and make idle conversation with their neighbor.

It's a funny feeling after staying up all night and not being tired; your brain is saying "great, daylight at last!" but your body is feeling "oh no, daylight at last!" At last, I convince my entourage of two it is time to call it. I carefully step over the rubbish, brush past a person in a furry costume that is identical to the Cincinnati Bengals football mascot, weave my way around a few zombies moaning for bottled water, and finally lumber up the stairs to the street. Same scenery, different location. The bartender Mark packs up shop quietly, the shop of course being a converted Fuso flatbed truck-bar.

Taxi drivers wait at the top of the beach stairs, waiting quietly with droopy eyes to take back the last of the hedonists. Garbage is plastered to the street, about 10,000 dirty feet have mushed it into the surface. Just past Mark Bar is a young gentleman too weak to go on (bottom left of the picture). Head down, legs crossed, he dreams on a folding-plastic beach chair about not actually sleeping in the chair, or maybe a hot shower to rinse off the shame or disgust of the night's events. Either way, he smells and makes a strange gurgling sound, I leave him in the care of Mark. My scooter-chariot awaits me in the same spot and in the same condition that I left it. Keys in, helmet on, I slap myself in the face a few times for good measure and I whiz back to the apartment where I'm staying. It is above a traditional Chinese medicine shop, which means I need to walk through the storefront to get to the back. When I arrive at the shop, the business is open and a woman of maybe 120 tends to the counter. I try to hide my ugly appearance, but her disgust is palpable, my irresponsibility is obvious. She knows everything.

I wake up hours later, around the time senior citizens are having dinner. My throat is sore, I have sand in my nose (how the hell...?), and I'm pretty sure my vision is worse somehow. A good night, still have both of my eyebrows and nobody is banging on the door looking for 'Josh.' Brendan and I recap: 'Did you see those fire dancers?' 'There were fire dancers? Did you see that guy in the tiger costume?' 'Tiger costume?' This goes on for a few minutes, it did get a little crazy back there.

What is left of the day is spent rehydrating and refueling, who knows what night number two has in store for us. Like yesterday, the crowds hug the main street's shoulders and sidewalks.

Grumpily, I complain, eat meat on a stick, and meander to the other end of the main street to see my favorite Taiwanese Rastafari, and owner of Alex's Reggae Van/Bar, Alex. The Bob Marley coming out of the speakers eases my woes, Alex passes me a Corona and assures me that everything is going to be just fine, as soon as I pay for my drink. And he's right. But what to do tonight...

Brendan: "You want to check out the beach party?"

Me: "Mehhhhhhhhhh, well alright, just for a few minutes. I'm beat."

5:00AM

Overshot my goal of a few minutes by a few thousand. I've always been bad with numbers.

Spring Broke - Part I

The fella in the tank top to my left is sweating like a working farm animal, the smell also similar. Mopping his brow with a red bandanna between forced small talk, I can tell that he isn't 100% at the moment, more like 10%. At 9:00AM on Tuesday morning, our paths crossed on a bus from Kenting back to Taipei, after a long weekend punctuated by excessive indulgences of all kinds. I try to busy myself in a book, quickly glancing out of the corner of my eye for any signs of danger. After what I'd just seen these past three days, anything can happen. Of course, it does. Tank top mumbles something "...feeling a little worse for wear..." and snags the clear plastic travel sickness bags conveniently stowed in the seat pocket below where an airplane's tray table would be. Tank begins to clench, his whole body tensing up against the upcoming onslaught. During the middle of this bout between good and evil, clean and dirty, and what the body wants or doesn't want, Brendan turns around, politely asking "Woah, dude are you ok?" Tank catches a breath, "No man, I'm throwing up into a plastic bag. Maybe I shouldn't have drank all that whiskey for breakfast." Really? You think that was the problem? Maybe it was the coffee, I know when I have too much I get the jitters. Sadly, I realize that I'm not going to get too much reading done, at least until Tank's buckling knees stop rubbing against mine.

This was at 9:08AM, three kilometers out of Kenting and another seven hours in this steel sick wagon filled with sunburned, dehydrated, infected, wheezing, coughing foreigners with sand-filled pockets where Taiwanese dollars used to be. Let's go back...

Once a year, the Spring Scream music festival is held just outside of the small surf town Kenting at the southernmost tip of Taiwan and attracts thousands of people looking to have a good time. The town (read about my first trip here) hosts people from all over the country and bands coming from far and wide to entertain. For the business owners and vendors of Kenting, this is holiday weekend where they can make a killing, people selling food or crafts often working until 4:00AM when the crowds finally begin to subside. Hotels triple their regular nightly rates, renting a scooter costs double, vendors hustle hard and fast to move merchandise. From early in the morning to very early the next morning, people are consuming at breakneck speeds, scantily clad women patrol the main street 'promoting' beers and liquors, fliers are being handed out faster than they can be printed. The town itself has one main drag, about a mile from end to end; in the two lanes, only one is drivable, the sidewalks are crammed with sellers end to end and foot traffic in the shoulders moving at the speed of smell. Even more, behind the vendors are restaurants, bars, carnival games with customers overflowing on every side, occupying every conceivable space in or around an establishment. And it was like this for days.

I like warm weather, traveling, enjoying the company of others, live music, and so does Brendan. Spring Scream was a perfect fit but there were problems early on. This event was so popular that the bullet train that runs from Taipei all the way south was in every way completely sold out. Ugh. We checked the normal slow train, completely sold out. Blah. Using my personal network, a friend of mine had hired a charter bus and there were a few seats left, yahtzee! We got on Saturday morning along with about two dozen other Westerners. Here are the highlights from the trip down: it took over nine hours, I met some cool people, I had to listen to some other not cool people talk loudly and stupidly, Hollywood made 'Transporter 3' (why?), our bus driver's name was Felix who can drive and kiss hot girls out of the side of his mouth (see picture for details), and I watched half a season of Mad Men on my iPod. I don't care how small the screen is, it sure beats overhearing some obnoxious, American jackass talking about French politics to a guy from France who had this look in his eyes that said, "zey are all zeh same, zey 'ave no business 'ere, pig dog!!!" American ambassador of the worst variety, merde.

The hordes of traffic significantly slowed our approach into the town, a quick turn off the main drag and the bus was evacuated in a hurry. Duffel bags in hand, we went to the main drag where a friend was working and who would be letting us crash in her apartment for the next few days. Pushing through, we found here jewelry tables between a 7Eleven and a hotel looking overwhelmed with all the quick hands passing shiny earrings and bracelets back and forth. Not the best time for reunions, a fast hi and bye, drop off the bags and get into the action. I had some meat on a stick to get things warmed up, some spicy Korean rice cakes (not the Quaker kind, they are shaped like chapstick and are like a thick, chewy noodle, amazing!), some more meat on a stick, maybe organs, and a cold beverage to settle everything.

At one end of town, in front of a Starbucks, Taiwan beer put up a huge stage to showcase their average product and Taiwanese bands. We ventured on over and saw some bands, most of them focusing on their appearance rather than their sound. Using fake fog, a lot of free beer being tossed into the crowd like hand grenades, and gogo dancers with temporary Taiwan beer tattoos strategically placed, the young crowd was bopping around and loving every second of it. Of course I couldn't understand the lyrics and the music was decent, but the energy and excitement was enough to get me going.

Around midnight, the town started to get even crazier. Below are some pictures of one of the least safe things I saw; a man lit a large box of multi-fireball exploding fireworks and decided to share it with everybody by walking down the street holding it above is head through the center of town.

Police? They were on traffic detail. Besides, everybody likes a pretty show, except if that pretty show is close enough to your eyes and ears to cause permanent damage.

How did the night end? Not early, a lot more coming, stay tuned.

This Bar Has Wheels

Late December in New England: frozen sidewalks, windburn, darkness, depression.

Late December in Taiwan: frozen daquiris, sunburn, brightness, depression ("Aw dude, that beer stand is far away, bummer.").

These are the problems that ravage the tropical landscape of Kenting, Taiwan. Truly hard times have befallen Brendan and I; should we go surfing or just lay on this velvety, white sand? Ugh, I hate making difficult decisions. And where the hell is my sunscreen?

About a month ago, I asked my terrific employers how long my Christmas break was? They informed me that Christmas Eve was on a Friday, that leaves Saturday and Sunday, the whole day is all yours kiddo! Vomit. No Christmas break? No time away from my ungrateful, extremely well-behaved and literate students? Does Jesus know about this? I've got news for you Giraffe, if I don't take a few days off, these kids are going to start learning the English language with a Southern accent and vocabulary words that would make a prison guard blush. My bosses don't speak great English, I guess my wild gesturing and barbaric tone scared them into giving me a few days off.

After Giraffe's Christmas Spectacular (will post later in the week), the foreign roommates went out for some Christmas Eve libations, ending very late and discussing the brilliance and fortitude behind the Christmas Yule Log DVD. SPOILER ALERT: It's a video of a log fire set to Christmas tunes, wish I could have been at the production meeting for this blockbuster. After three hours of sleep, or decomposing, Brendan and I made our way to the main station in Taipei to board the high-speed rail (HSR). The train moves at 150 MPH, has cabin attendants, assigned seating and can offer some of the most amazing views of the Taiwanese countryside. I learned all of this from the brochure stuffed into the seat in front of me, I spent the two hours on board drooling into my armpit. From the last stop, the southern city Kaoshiung, and another one hour by bus, we made it to Kenting - a little smelly, confused, sweaty but conscious. Temporarily.

The small town hugs the coast for about a mile, one main road allowing beach-goers access to the rocky shoreline. Kenting consists of the following: a mega-resort filled with people who wear their sandals in a pool, an elementary school, two vans that sell alcohol (or two bars with engines), small restaurants and bars, dozens of surf shops, a impressive population of wild dogs and scooter salesmen up the wazoo. Quiet, unassuming, the area is frequented by foreigners and I think English here was more usable than Taipei. Most of the action is on the main drag, a beach anchoring either end, vendors and food carts straddling the road at night. The specialty? Grilled cuttlefish, think squid's better looking cousin. Since crazy ideas like "refrigeration" and "sanitation" top the vendor list of "Things I Don't Give A Crap About," I skipped these particular purveyors.

There is a pleasant national park to visit with the normal features: visitors center, nature park, hiking, bus-loads of Japanese, conservation center to name a few. We did a short hike, filled with ups and downs, impressive views, rocks, and trees, and shrubs, and plants, and birds, and blah blah blah. Sorry folks, you get the idea, it was really nice and I really enjoyed it but I can only elaborate so much before I start to cut and paste from National Geographic.

They will rent scooters to anybody. Sure you could walk most places, but why not take your life into your own hands for a few days? Could be fun! I rented from a gentleman by the side of the road; eating a sandwich, balancing a cellphone between his shoulder and ear, writing out the lease form. Definitely legit. After I cleaned off the lettuce from my helmet, rock and roll. I'm sure to fit in like a local, no problem just ease the throttle and OH MY GOD A BUS! No problem.

Wherever Brendan and I go, we make friends, we did so at two competing bars. But as I alluded, these are not your typical bars. Sure, we visited a few brick and mortar watering holes but something didn't feel right; I couldn't take the bar with me after I had my fill.

Van bar numero uno is Mark Bar. Nicely stocked, well-known, a locals place. We happened upon this vehicle by accident; the sound of hippy drums drifted down the coast and called us like the Siren's song. And the Siren is Jagermeister. We linked up with many locals, learned about what beaches to visit and why living in a city is so "not righteous, maaaan" and "totally bogus, maaaan." Just kidding, the locals did describe the rhythm of Kenting as more mellow. Mellow as in drink until dawn, go surfing, maybe work a little, and repeat kind of mellow, maaaaaan.

Mark's Bar is situated on the back of an over-sized flatbed , fully stocked with electricity and coolers. Besides wine and finer spirits, it offered everything one could need and even a few challenges. For example if you could ride a bicycle the size of a terrier inside a small hula-hoop three times, you win a free shot of tequila. Or you could fall on your face one time and buy the damn thing.

The rival across the street was Alex's Bar. In his mind, Alex is a black, Jamaican musician, touring the world spreading reggae rhythms, using an incomprehensible accent and feeling 'ire. Instead, he is a Taiwanese bartender, touring the coast spreading hangovers in a van using an incomprehensible accent. Not too far off. But he was a true gentleman and one of the friendliest people we met. The van is all reggae, all the time. His chariot decked out in rastafari colors, furniture made by hand from driftwood, homages to reggae legends, amazing music playing at all times. We were treated with true island hospitality and talked the night away over cold beer and a magic potion. The name wasn't very friendly but it included the word 'bucket' and some a combination of foul words that rhyme. Take a small, plastic beach bucket, a pint of cheap whiskey, a can of soda and an energy drink and all of a sudden this reggae club is hopping. And after another one, you'll think you're at a bar that you can drive! Excellent! But drinking and driving is NOT excellent man, drinking and scootering is way more fun. Jokes...

We sat on a beach, we swam, we ate fresh seafood, we stayed out late. We had lunch at a bistro with a French owner (Chez Papa, amazing brunch!) and the nicest wife who would happily taunt our pathetic appearances after a long night, "Oh, 1:00 lunch, early for you today." I'm going to come back; warm weather, cheap hotels, reggae music, surfers, cute girls and a whole lot of nothing. And when I'm back at Giraffe, getting poked, prodded, smacked and teased, I'll be daydreaming of that day; the feathery sand, warm breezes, refreshing ocean water, briny smells and balmy temperatures. I miss it already, maaaaaaaan.