Taoyuan Internat'l --> Yuan Lin (12/19/10)

The combination of canned coffee, a 14-hour flight, and anxiety about meeting relatives after 20 years abroad has me wired.

But first, I've got to tart myself up a little. Out comes the make-up bag and a quiver full of brushes. I would say, "Vanity, thy name is woman," if I didn't know the. actual. quote.

My capacity for an understated cat-eye on a moving vehicle--with potted eyeliner no less--is astounding.

...

We're fewer than 20 minutes away from the airport and out my window a woman trudging in bare feet through a muddy field, and look! The sunny, marigold shingled eaves of the temples, flicking saucily over more unremarkable structures, corrugated steel and tiled buildings. Egrets, Egyptian walking through...dare I say it? Emerald and Jade rice fields.

OH, HAI, a double-decker bus, just like mine.

There's some kind of automated air freshener, intermittently emitting a curious, fruity tang that hits you at the back of the throat.

Omnipresent 7-11s, red and white striped police cars, construction site after construction site, riddled with steel girders and backhoes. The bus sinks to a stop, the air brakes hissing.



And...where is it here? I tap the passenger in front of me and say, brokenly, "zhe4di3 shi4 na2di3?"--essentially, "here is where?" Eloquent, ain't it?

It's the stop before mine, Changhua--the city I lived in when I was 10.

Onwards and downwards, to Yuan Lin. Off the bus, a quick, awkward call to my uncle to say that I've arrived, then make myself and my hiking bag comfortable in the outdoor waiting area. An older man asks me, in my admittedly low-cut tank top, "bei3 gua2 a4?" In Taiwanese, "not cold?" When I'm slow to respond, in Mandarin, "bu2 hui4 neng3?" I shake my head no.

Then, my aunt, who I don't really recognize, but sort of intuit as my aunt, walks up, saying tentatively, "Are you from America?" I say yes, and address her by her title, "Yi2 Ma1"--Aunt Just Above My Mom In Age (basically), and then "home."

Vending Machine Encounter (Taoyuan Internat'l, 12/19/10)

Before I settle down to await my bus, I decide I want to purchase an authentic Taiwanese drink out of an authentic Taiwanese vending machine using my authentic Taiwanese (not Jamaican) money.

The mission: to acquire a beverage from this machine.

I'm trying to purchase one of the drinks in the top row, the not-Coke and the not-Minute Maid. Carefully scrutinizing the coins in my hand, I confirm that they are all NTD (Xin1 Tai2 Bi4, or Tai2 Bi4, f'short), carefully drop them in, and press the appropriate big plastic button.

No dice.

The machine is a cold, taciturn beast; maybe lip-reading, possibly contemplating my murder, she is my personal HAL.

I try again. And again. Make my way back to my seat. Then pop up again when I see another Taiwanese-American (don't ask me how I know) amble up to HAL 2010. Lo and behold, he's able to make the thing work.

What. the. fuck.

And finally, it hits me. Those red Xs and green checks? They mean something. A secret, binary code whose implication was hitherto concealed to me.

[sigh]

Of course, my longed-for libation is sold out, and I settle for another local favorite: coffee in a can.



I'll have you know that this 36 FRANCS 1909 Heavy Latte is the real deal. According to the can, "COFFEE IS REAL GOOD WHEN YOU DRINK IT, IT GIVES YOU TIME TO THINK. IT'S A LOT MORE THAN JUST A DRINK, IT'S SOMETHING HAPPENING. IT GIVES YOU TIME, BUT NOT ACTUAL HOURS OR MINUTES, BUT A CHANCE TO BE, LIKE BE YOURSELF, AND HAVE A SECOND CUP."

But lest we simply chalk this up to the less than eloquent English-speak so ubiquitous in Asian countries, the quote is attributed to Oakland's very own...Gertrude Stein.



Oh, Trudie.

SFO --> TPE (Taoyuan Internat'l) (12/17/10)

10:35 pm. En route to Taiwan. Flippin' my shit in SFO, passing the time watching HBO's In Treatment, trying to cry discreetly into my sweatshirt over a kid asking Gabriel Byrne to take him in, away from his divorcing parents, puzzling over my anxiety, nay, tremulous guilt, about leaving my two...

cats.

"Paging for passenger...Lee Lee...Lee?" As in, full name. Full stop. Li-li Li.

Seriously.

...

It's a double-decker flight, and I'm stuck in the back, and in the middle of the row. Where is the justice? It only occurs to me later, in the waiting area, that I should have insisted that I had a UTI or claustrophobia or something.

Whooping cough. Ebola. Cat scratch fever. A yeast infection.

And the inevitable tropes: a journey to a distant land, a long-awaited homecoming, an overbearing mother, tinny, incessant Christmas music ("Walking in a Winter Wonderland), the panting misery of a grinchy anti-hero(ine).

One of my ex-students, now a sophomore in college, had dismissed China Airlines as "ghetto." And...it is. A lavender nightmare, the pale purple...purple on purple, purple blankets and periwinkle pillows.

My brain's already starting to scramble with the constant, disorienting input of Chinese over the P.A. system. I think maybe this partial fluency is worse than incompetence. I'm unable to let the words wash like sounds, and my ear's constantly searching for meaning between the words and phrases I don't know.

Then there's the anticipatory fear of the blowout with my mother--the battle royal inevitable like the tide, like death and taxes--compounded with anxiety about meeting relatives and their expectations.

And did you know that, according to Peter Jon Lindberg, only 28% of Americans possess passports? This seems to me an absurdly small number.

...

My mom sent me an email earlier, making the following request: "Could you buy only one bottle of 'XO' liquid for me on THE DUTY FREE SHOP ON THE PLANE if possible."

And I don't know if this is particular to East Asian travel, and I believe it can be linked to Chinese/Korean/Japanese traditions of gift-giving and hospitality gifts, but there are the trolleys of duty-free wares, one for cosmetics (化妝品 = hua4 zuang1 ping3) and perfumes (香水 = xiang1 sui3), another for cigarettes, and a third for various liquors.

The Taiwanese etiquette is not quite as rigorous as they are for other cultures, I think--my friend's sister got a chastising call to her mom when she left her wallet in the cab to her aunt's house in Korea and was thus unable to bring a gift--but I've got to make a good impression, and so XO it is. I flag down the flight attendant; alas, the XO "liquid" has sold out, and I settle for Matisse whisky because it's somewhat comparable in price.

And we all know that's the most important thing--its monetary value.

***

Disembark, and scurry to the labyrinthine, winding lines to get past immigration. Luck of the draw, I get to stand in front of two douchey Taiwanese boys who are attending college in New York, and I'm serendipitously regaled with one DB's loud assertions of how many black friends he has and the other DB's cautioning him against dropping the soap in the shower.

What?

I did not know that black men and anal rape was a cultural convention, and far be it for me to disabuse these two experts.

And I dunno what it is, my massive hiking bag, a change in elevation, extreme jet-lag, or a panic attack, but I'm shuffling along, light-headed and in a cold sweat, about to pass out as I stumble up to Ho Hsin's long-haul bus counter. I purchase a ticket, the agent gracious in his response to my rusty Mandarin, and I gratefully accept his offer of water...



then deposit my stuff in the waiting area to make a phone call to my aunt and uncle to tell them I've arrived in Taipei.

But it doesn't work.

Why?

Because, in an unforeseen turn of events, the Jamaican J is not accepted in public pay phones in the Republic of China.

Left: Jamaican J, right: New Taiwan Dollar

This is fucking untenable.

Last Night in Paradise (070910, Friday, Day 9 Negril)

Up at 8—actually woke up cold in middle of the night, and pulled the sheet over me—and into a bikini and sundress. Last night was the second time I’ve worn underwear on this trip since flying in more than a week ago. Every other night I’ve been buck (my own room) or like the night before last, fallen asleep with my bikini on.

I've woken to barking, buzzing, and the sound of a deep bass emanating from next door. The music's coming from Rick's Cafe, a famous (or infamous, depending on whom you ask) tourist clusterfuck, just a few yards away from Banana Shout, and our destination for dinner tonight.



We’re off to LTU again, despite the allegedly racist owner, because Y’ll want a good ol' American breakfast and because we’re trying to make sure we’re on time for snorkeling at 9:30.

Turns out they do have the Jamaican breakfast offering (ackee & saltfish, calalloo, jo’ney cakes), which two of us order, and so maybe this means the owner isn’t an evil, Jamaican food hating bigot? That is a motherfuckin' relief.

We've lingered over breakfast, and our goodbyes to Speedy, our ersatz tour guide, resident big brother, and smart-ass, who's heading back to Montego, so despite our efforts, we're late. But everything's alright, as it were. We get driven past Seven Mile Beach, Long Bay Beach, to Bloody Bay, which is supposed to be the site of the execution of murderous Pirate Calico Jack. We stand around waiting--the pro and con of Jamaican time are that people aren't pissy when you're late, but then, again, aren't particular about being on time for you, either--then into a glass bottom boat for the excursion to a reef next to Booby Cay, a wee li'l island off the coast.



I straddle the side as is my wont, until the captain (pilot? driver?) tells me I can sit on the prow, so I scamper up and sit cross legged, rejoicing.





Since T got stung yesterday, we’re all a little wary of jellyfish, and moments after I enter the water, I see the following:



Except it's day time, so none of the colorful flariness…

From I can gather (through the almighty internet), the creatures are known as ctenophores (and are non-stingy), but at the moment, they sure looked jellyfishy to me. But rather than simply getting out of the water, I try to swim over and under them, and I'm quickly getting spooked, trying to avoid them, and I keep thinking, "it's okay; as soon as I’m stung I’ll get out of the water. AAH! There's another one!" There are scores of them, floating casually in the water. V freaks out and hauls herself back into the boat, and as I’m perched on the ladder, the pilot tells me that the lil fuckers doesn't sting--apparently I hadn't been an aquatic ninja master, avoiding stings from the multitudes--and he further informs me that only the jellyfish that you can't see can sting you…huh? To which I respond, "okay, I’m going back in, and I’m going to touch one." He says, "sure."

So I hop back and lo and behold, nothing. In fact, as soon as I reach a finger out to prod one, it sort of…collapses. I continue in this vein until it occurs to me I might be killing them, and desist.

I trundle around a kind of sad little reef, but there's a decent amount of sea life: a velvety, cobalt blue fish with electric blue polka dots, lots of damsel fish, Dory-looking type fish, a giant starfish, lots of spiny sea urchin, two different trumpet fish, that I attempt stalk, brilliant, tangerine colored fish, etc.

Eventually, I get waved in--T and Y have just been hanging out on the boat, and V hasn't ventured back--she says she got claustrophobic.

And then we're dropped back off on the beach and left to our devices until our pick-up. I stomp briefly around the warm, powdery sand, sand like silk, then tumble back into the water while the ladies sunbathe. An hour and a half wings past like nothing.

Our pick-up drops us back off on the West End, and we head to Alice’s. We'd promised a gravely-voiced dude that we'd come back, so here we are again.

I order another one of my lame-o virgin pina coladas but settle for the weird banana type drink that's set in front of me because the waitress has explained that it's her first day.

Gravel Voice's smoking a massive J, and because I'm a douche, I ask the Dude if I can get a picture of him smokin' it…he assents, then tells me to hold on, he's got a better photo-op in mind:

This is a better photo.

Seconds after this photo was taken, a wad breaks off, wafting gently, gracefully to the ground, like a feather from an angel's wing. I pick it up for him--he's got his hands full after all, and he hands it back to me, then yanks off an even bigger bud, and puts that in my hand as well.

Thanks? I pick the two seeds out of it, then mutter under my breath, "No stress, no seeds, no stems, no sticks!" But it's really not quality stuff. My knowledge, of course, being purely theoretical.

(I have to appreciate his attempt to humor what he presumes is another white-bread tourist, fascinated by weed culture because it's sooo crazy.)

Because I am one of "those girls," I amble back into the restaurant proper--we're sitting under an umbrella'd, patio table type thing--to ask him him to roll it up.

For no reason whatsoever.

And in exchange? I have to give him my phone number. Did not see that one coming.


Late lonche

Shortly thereafter, I'm befuddled enough to buy an awful beach painting from a local artist--when we get back to the room, we realize he's the same painter who created this atrocity:


[smh]

When we get back to the Shout, I stop by the office to borrow a lighter from the owner--and disagree with V about the provenance of his accent, she thinks Polish or Russian, I think Italian.

After spending some time in contemplation, sitting on the cliff, gaping contentedly at the ocean, I go back to return the lighter. Milo regales me with stories about how people come into this country with bags of weed and coke, and tries to impress upon me the ridiculousness of doing such a thing, like carrying coals to Newcastle with added risk of being found guilty of international drug trafficking. He tells me how previous guests have offered to buy a share of the Shout in exchange for a share of their pot farms, and how folks are clearing millions in marijuana. He’s been owner for the last 6 years (wait, so, no Jamaican owners?), and is from Milan (holla!), and acts offended when I proffer the Polish/Russian thing; “Milano,” he says, in a huff. He talks about working in advertising and how all the things he’s done in his life he uses here. When I meander from him, he salutes me with, “do svidanja.”

And then we're off to Rick’s for one last hurrah. The whole cliff-diving thang, it’s all a little insane, the spectacle of shining black bodies leaping gracefully (and dangerously) for the predominantly white patrons,



an older, dreadlocked reggae singer working the crowd downstairs, specifically with a sunburnt white woman lifting her arms to wiggle her hips in the “White Girl Grind”:



I have the shrimp alfredo, because the lobster linguini is not available (yeah, it's that kind of place), an awful virgin pina colada, and attempt to chase it all with a Ting, but there’s only “7Up and Pepsi”—even though the next table has Coke. Erm, okay, I’ll take a 7Up.



No room for dessert, it woulda been the "Banana Rum Boombastic," but I’ve had enough. I try to light my hand-rolled cigarette in a tea-light candle, but my attempt to be discreet while walking out of the restaurant gives it enough time to go out. Boo.

Back to the hotel to try to use the electric portable stove as a fire source, no dice, then amble into the darkness to borrow fire from the porter/night watchmen/jack of all trades/concierge. He tells me to watch his food while he goes in search, presumably from the little calico kitten that's been gamboling in the gloaming.

Then, tutor V in the arts of Facebook, a quick shower, and pack it up.

G'bye, Jamaica. You haz been teh shiznit.

Mornin' Has Broooo-ken (070810, Thursday, Day 8 Negril)

I wake to the sound of hooting and chirping and crowing and bleating and snorting and the “chut chut” sound of someone sweeping the walkways.

Speedy beckons, and I tumble out of bed and amble over to the seaside cliff for a morning looksie. It’s a little intimidating, the waves crashing against the gnarly, pockmarked cliff-face, but lovely.





It makes sense that the West End, where we are, is (relatively) less touristy than Long Bay, where the bigger hotels and all-inclusive resorts are located. There's not much scope for water sports [grin], all the lodging here overlooks cliffs, as opposed to sand, beach, ocean.

A new day brings new perspective to our digs:



It still seems a little like "roughing it" after Lolivya Villa, but what was garish last night is more charming in the light of day.

We leave Y to her beauty sleep, and walk down to breakfast at LTU.

Ackee tree


The view at LTU.


Mushroom, cheese, bacon and callaloo omelette...


with pinapple juice,


a Ting,


wheat toast, butter, and, I think, papaya jam.

Maxine, the waitress, tells us that the “Jamaican breakfast” is only for show—that they never actually have it because the owner is a racist and doesn’t do nothin’ for Jamaica.

There’s a white dude on a laptop smoking a joint to our left.

Then back to Banana South for folks to cat nap in the heat of the day while I betake myself cliff-side for some solo time:



Later in the day, we swing by a hair shop to inquire about braiding (no, not for me; I'm not returning to the States with a head full of beads and singles):


Note the name of the shop. I ain't kidding 'bout the Ms. Chin thang.

Then head to a dive shop where a lady tries to convince us to go on a $78 River Walk (two hours of driving, mineral springs, blah blah), but after our extended drive yesterday, we are not having it. I think she officially dicked herself over when she said, “Port Antonio is boring.”

Bitch.

We decide to go with the $25 snorkeling package, glass-bottom boat, snorkeling, then catch a tour bus going to Seven Mile Beach, the touristy section of Negril.



Because it's low season, it's really not that bad. We land at Albert’s, where I have the fish and chips because I’m at the point in my trip where I’m longing for home, for kittens, for food that tastes like I remember it should…



Between bites, I hop over the railing to poke my feet in the water,





until I start getting waylaid by the local beach boys, the ones who tell you you're sexy or beautiful or whatever because they're hoping you'll be their sugar mama for the duration of your vacation.



The other girls decide to go jet-skiing, but it doesn't really do it for me--at least, not enough to pay 25 bucks for it--so I decide to endure being a solitary woman in the midst of a coterie of men who trawl beaches for dumb tourists. I try to disengage from one of the hustlers by taking pointless photos of the horizon, my feet, then burying myself in one of Y’s trashy vacation reads, but then feel badly (and oppressed by the book) and do the light convo thing. I try to take a maternal turn by asking him whether he still goes to school. I also conveniently mention that I’m broke, as explanation for why I don’t want to ride the jet-ski.



Cuz I'm slick like that.

Eventually, T gets a lash from a jellyfish sting, and there’s a lot of bustling for vinegar, and then we’re off to the ATM, Scotiabank, and a taxi, T pretending she’s a local taking out-of-towners around so she can haggle the fare down to something reasonable.

We return to the house, bedding down for some conversation about the Oscar Grant, Mehserle case, and the impending riots in Oakland.