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.

Some Turkey, One Drinking Contest, No Football

I suppose two out of three ain't bad. The last Thursday in November is always the best one, other Thursdays don't even come close. The Pilgrims called it "Thanksgiving" and Squanto's people called it "these idiots have belt buckles on their hats." Silly Pilgrims. Modern America has taken the premier American feast to new levels since the it's inception - Indian corn has been replaced by potatoes, a variety of fowl replaced by one gigantic genetically modified so-fat-and-juicy-we-redesigned-ovens turkey and Pilgrim smallpox replaced by pumpkin pie.

In Taipei, the excitement of gastrointestinal discomfort, bloating and pure bodily fatigue does not resonate with the population. The ideas of moderation, useful energy and activity are still strong within these fine people. Hopefully, they'll see the light. And the light is gravy.

This was the second Thanksgiving (from here on, Fakesgiving) I have celebrated abroad in the past three years. Two years ago I was in Sydney, Australia with a terrific group of Americans and we were able to make an unbelievable meal that was enjoyed for days. Here in Taiwan, little bit different. In fact, this Fakesgiving...I had to...EAT OUT! And it was...at...A BAR!!! Instead of my aunt and uncle's cozy, quintessential New England home in Massachusetts, Brendan and I stuffed ourselves into a dimly lit, noisy, foreigner bar filled with intoxicated nincompoops. Let's go to the footage...

The Food: Yeah, pretty good! The starter was a soup, like a tomato chowder. Tiger beer? Delicious, of course. Next was a Fakesgiving plate with all the usual suspects present and accounted for. I know for a fact the cooks are Taiwanese and they did a spot on job of recreating this American masterpiece. I'm sure they asked each other if foreigners really eat this crap and the answer is YES! We love it. In fact, I eat until my pants don't fit correctly. We eat until our cholesterol level goes up a minimum five points. We eat until our B.O. smells like cranberries, stuffing lingers on our breath, food gets into our hair AND THEN WE EAT MORE.

And then we do it for the next 2 - 4 days until there is nothing left, not even our dignities.

Oh, and we got a slice of pumpkin pie. Back to quaint, colonial New England.

The Drinking Contest: Right from the get-go, I do not advocate this type of behavior. It is irresponsible, dangerous and totally awesome so unless you want to be a total bad ass and totally be like the Motley Crue video you saw on MTV where the dude gets all the chicks, DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME! Do it at a bar, much safer.

It wasn't even my intention, idea, or choice to participate. As it happened, Brendan and I tied another team in the Fakesgiving trivia game, ten correct answers to ten correct. The bar owner said the only way to settle the score was a drink-off. Now, I didn't want to get deported, and of course, I'm a stickler for following rules. After a quick team meeting, and a comparison of belly bloat, it was decided that I would represent us.

Nervously, we went upstairs to stare down our opponents. Who is my competition? We were pointed to a group of men around their fifties, busy selecting their prize-fighter. They chose a Taiwanese, a bit taller than me, nicer hair but definitely not funnier, I could tell. Age is on my side, but is experience his advantage? Two glasses of Carlsberg, the bartender explained the rules and cries "3...2...1...DRINK!" And I'm off! The first two gulps go down faster than a lightning strike, almost losing control. I'm not looking at my enemy, just focusing on my dissolving glass and looking like a bad ass. At this point, I know I'm a bad ass, I'm almost done. Glug glug glug, winner! This guy didn't stand a chance, apparently going to college in the United States is useful in many applications.

Conclusion: Unfortunately, I didn't get any chicks. I did not sign any autographs, rip my shirt off or smash any guitars. But I did win more alcohol! Even better, our names are on the bottle and the bar owner said he'll hold it for us. This Fakesgiving turned out to be sweet; we ate, we drank, we enjoyed the company of others and we looked like bad asses - exactly the way Pilgrims and Indians had wanted it.

Halloween Part II - Teacher Andrew Gone Wild

Like most Halloween nights, the difference between what you think will happen and what actually transpires can be unbelievable. For example, the woman who owned the Korean restaurant we dined at thought I was Justin Bieber and insisted on feeding me. A few times actually - this particular time she put together a lettuce wrap with steak that would make P.F. Chang want to hang up his chopsticks forever. Crazy, unreal good. If Koreans eat like we did on a regular basis, their culture has learned to completely ignore calories, forever remaining skinny. No less than two soups, multiple plates of meats cooked on tabletop griddles, dozens on tiny bowls with colorful contents, a bucket of rice, several fish, noodles, more meats - after the first five courses I blacked out and woke up resting comfortably in my dessert. Far and away, one of the best meals here thus far.

Luckily for me, I had a sweet and thoughtful coworker named April who adopted me into her group of friends. Little Red Riding Hood periodically checked in to make sure all was well, namely that I didn't jam my chopsticks into my nose or burp loud enough for the other end of the table to hear - too late on both accounts.

After avoiding any major crises at dinner, let the night begin. We all put on some kind of getup and hit Tianmu, the side of town where April and I work and others reside. There was a big gathering in the town plaza, plenty merchants and vendors selling Halloween-themed treats, drinks and wares. Around the corner there was a haunted 'house' we walked through; lots of people, a few screams from my new friends but at the expense of sounding like a super manly man, I wasn't very frightened in the least. I've experienced scarier situations on laundry day. I have a feeling it's because the haunted houses and trails in Connecticut, where people chase you with revved up chainsaws, is a little more worrisome than a short man behind a curtain with Hello Kitty backpack. Still scary, different reason.

After party, excellent. Grab some adult beverages, a karaoke room, cool people, strange circumstances, mix thoroughly and you've got a good time. The new location was the basement in an apartment building where somebody lived. A comfortable room, complete with professional karaoke systems built in, was the staging area for a night of hysterics.

The Taiwanese have a liquor called kaoliang (pronounced 'gow-lee-ung') which is similar to rocket fuel in strength and tequila in taste. A clear solvent, capable of softening concrete, was the catalyst for my nonstop spectacular renditions of Franky Valli's "Can't Take My Eyes Off", Michael Jackson's "Black and White" and outrageous dance moves unfamiliar in the Taiwanese culture.

A few hours later - Drunk Red Riding Hood is comforting a wobbly Snow White, Michael Jackson can't moonwalk a straight line, the Taiwanese ghost disappears and the karaoke machine is silent. Empty bottles and cans, Halloween accessories everywhere, communications in Chinese and English breaking down. Tomorrow morning is going to be...damn, right now.

Great success! An excellent time! Somehow, a few guests were over-served but the authorities are out right now looking for suspects. This Smooth Criminal is Bad, considered Dangerous and should Beat It before there's Blood On The Dance Floor.

Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough.