The bus wound on the road, turning with the road, which in turn turned with the mountain face. On one side, a sharp fall, down to the blue open ocean, on the other, mountains, lush and countless that stretch for as far as the eye can see.

With each turn, there was another breathtaking view... of the ocean, and the mountains that jut into it that seem to stretch into the distance like the long, winding body of a resting dragon. Another turn, and the scenery changes into large valleys and majestic mountains surrounded by clouds near their roofs.

Taking another little break with my mum-- and away from my thesis writing-- we joined a two-day excursion to Hualien (花蓮) with her exercise group. Everyone on the bus was over fifty, but still very healthy and happy and enjoying their retirement, and seemed to be a bit surprised that a "handsome young boy" like me (their words, not mine!) would want to travel with an "old people's group". But any chance to see more of my little island is welcome... even if it meant sitting through the (sometimes) unbearably loud karaoke singing by these aged grandmas and grandpas.

The way Taiwanese people travel is in style. The bus had leather reclining seats, there was tea and coffee service, and of course, the unmissable karaoke set and surround sound speakers (with bass), with LCD screens at various points throughout the bus. Taiwanese people love to sing, all sorts of songs in Japanese, Taiwanese and Mandarin. As soon as they get on the bus, they start to 'order' songs they want, and pass the microphone around when their song shows up. Even those who can't, do, and there is no shame in giving your throat a little workout, and the others in the bus clap and cheer and sing along in encouragement.



Earlier we just passed through Asia's second longest road tunnel, the 12.9km Hsuehshan Tunnel (雪山隧道), and diagonally crossed from the northern part of Taiwan to the eastern seaboard. The tunnel took as long to complete as its number of kilometres in length, and amazed engineers worldwide due to the sheer complexity and difficulty of the project. Deemed an Asian "Man Made Marvel" by Discovery, the tunnel cuts through 6 earthquake fault lines, "ninety-eight fracture zones, and thirty six high-pressure groundwater" aquitards. During the construction a tunnel boring machine (similar to the ones used to build the Channel Tunnel) was completely buried underground after a rock collapse. Millions of litres of underground water poured for days without end when the boring broke an ancient water acuqiver. Twenty-five workers lost their lives in the project, but in doing so managed to complete a long-planned highway network that would link the northern and eastern parts of Taiwan to bring more prosperity to the often neglected Pacific side of the island.

Within half an hour, we had escaped the dense city sprawl of Taipei and arrived in the country's most natural side.

The next day, we ventured in the misty morning to Taroko National Park ((太魯閣國家公園). Torrential rain was forecast, but even so nothing would stop our visit to perhaps the most stunning showcase of Taiwan's remarkable variety of natural beauty. 'Taroko' is the word for "magnificent and beautiful" in the native tongue of the Truku Aboriginals who reside in the region. True to its name, the national park centres around a deep gorge, and covers a dozens snow-capped peaks that tower over 3000m, including Yushan (Jade Mountain), which is the highest mountain in Northeast Asia. In the gorge runs a river that winds between the remarkable marble cliffs, finding its source deep inside the mountainss, and ending up in the pristine blue Pacific Ocean downstream. Here, the layered formation of the rocks in the region is clearly visible, a testament to the compressed limestone rock that has fossilised and become precious marble and jade gems of all colours that can only be found in the area. The topography of Taiwan is unique because the entire island started to rise from the ocean floor billions of years ago due to the Eurasian and Filipino tectonic plates' constant friction. This explains why the mountains on the island, which cover more than two-thirds of the land mass, has a layered formation, and each mountain range seems to be higher than the one before, and why they continue to grow in height under the immense forces of the Earth's moving plates.

Our minibus puffed upwards on the paved road that wound around the mountain sides. Construction on these roads were begun in the previous century by the Japanese when they conquered the island, and continued by the Chinese Nationalist government to serve as a vital connection between the eastern and western parts of the island. The Cross-Island Highway, as it later became known, was completely in 1960, and was carved entirely by manpower. Army veterans and Aboriginal Formosans were involved in the construction road, and more surprising, with only pick-axes and dynamite, they managed to build the 190km highway, which spans dozens of tunnels and bridges through some of the toughest geographical terrain. More than two hundred perished in the construction, and here and there are shrines dedicated to the hardship of these men (and, I believe also, women).

I climbed down to the riverbed, and watched with awe the mountains around me, the tops of which were shyly shrouded in white fog and light dew. The pools were in places shallow and green, in others deep, rushed and deep, deep blue, an indication of the unseen depth that lurks beneath, and the deadly rapid that can catch an unsuspecting tourist offguard. The water was cold, and refreshing, and the sounds of it rushing through over the smoothened pebbles and into little seams and streams downstream soothingly calmed. Suddenly, I felt little sensations on my feet. Looking down, little camouflaged fish had clustered around my feet and begun to nibble on me. It tickled, and filled me with joy to see such curious cute little creatures swarm around me. Later I learned that these fish are a protected species, and are apparently very picky about what they eat. My bare naked feet seemed to attract their interest. Swallows swiftly swooped around the valley, returning occasionally to their nests on the cliff-face, as insects echoed in a hushed symphony with the flowing water.

I have been to Taroko already four times, and this will not be my last. Each time is like a first time, as the faces of the mountains changes every single moment with the passing of clouds and the passage of flowing spring water. Each time, I feel such a powerful connection with the land and the water. Perhaps it is the romantic and mystic thought that my forefathers (and foremothers) lived and hunted in these very mountains. But I think it is my deep love for the Earth's natural beauty, which easily outlasts and dwarfs any creation man can ever conjure. Mountains, piercing intrepidly above the clouds and peering across the land below, seem to capture that strength and awe that one could only hope to imitate. And the rivers, creaks and streams that swim can equally be as inspiring in the way it can change its course and flow, but be steady and never ceasing. Time and words lose their meanings in nature.




To my surprise, the couple playing further upstream turned out to be Netherlanders from Limburg, and we soon conversed and exchanged our awe for the surrounding landscape.

"Zoiets zie je in Nederland niet, he?"
["You don't see something like this in the Netherlands, right?"]
We agreed, and the lady praised how beautiful Taiwan is, which made me somewhat proud.

Heat

She was an old lady, with wrinkles on her face, deep like scars, on her cheeks and beneath her eyes. She pushed an equally old-looking man, most likely her husband, up the ramp and into the hospital ward. In the sweltering heat, it was a difficult task, and for this old lady with age, it seemed even more so.

Again I was at the hospital. A busy place, with nurses and doctors, with patients old and young, crippled and able bodied, yet invisibly ill inside. It never is a pleasant place to visit, not with the scent of medicine, with the sorrowful faces of patients, and tears of relatives. It was the same hospital where three months ago I lost my dad.

On the way to the hospital, as we walked through an underpass, mum revealed more of dad's last few weeks.

"...I saw him here, but he did not see me. His face was glum, and he was lost in thought. It was the end of January, and I suspect it was the day when he heard that he needed to undergo chemo-therapy. It was the same day when the doctor told me I needed chemo too..."

I imagined how heavy dad's heart must have felt then, how he did not have anyone to share that burden with... or at least, did not want to share that burden with anyone else. I imagined his sad face, his racing thoughts and worries, and how perhaps very afraid he must have been. Perhaps he knew himself then already that this may even mean the end...

For some reason, being home these days, I am often thinking of dad, and missing him. Perhaps it is because I see his portrait everyday, and am reminded by his absence almost constantly by the many things that he used that still lie around the house. And hearing that story today from my mum adds to this sentiment of missing dad.

But at the moment, mum's situation is not much better. Three days of chemo-treatment, and she is now left exhausted and energyless. She has not felt this bad ever before, she says, and cannot eat much, even when I cook things she would normally like to eat.

It is really painful to see... see that a loved one is so weakened and changed by an illness, and to be helpless to alleviate that pain and misery.

Little girl

She was probably no more than five. Perhaps even younger. A pink sweater, pink jacket, pink shoes and pink little socks. Pink from head to toe, the colour of a girl in the prime of her childhood. But she wore a hat, a cough mask, and a deadly illness.

I have yet to see a younger patient in the oncology ward. Then again, perhaps I have been privileged not to. At first I thought the little girl was there to be with her mum, like I was. But the thinning few hairlets beneath her gray hat said otherwise. The nurse came, and from under the girl's bright pink sweater produced a long tube into which a large dose of medicine was injected through a big syringe. Almost too big compared to the girl's small size. I cringed at the sight... and imagined the fluids enter the girl's blood vessels and saw the molecules of toxins flood her body in search of the cancerous cells eating her from the inside out.

While the nurse gave the mother a number of tubes and a number of instructions, the girl hopped happily away to another table to begin breakfast. My mum rested in the chair next to mine, tired eyes closed as her own medicine was injected. I looked down to read my paper...

"Over 70.000 feared dead in Sichuan"...
"2million affected in Myanmar"...
"Protests mount as food and oil prices rise"...

As usual, the faces and words of the world's human(itarian) tragedies paint the frontpage. In the very room, the sound of choking and gagging made me look up again. Out of the girl's mouth soft coughing sounds echoed in the quiet room. She put down her chopsticks, and dropped the eggroll on the table, unable to take another bite. She gagged even more, as if wanting to throw up, but nothing came out. Was that a tear in the corner of her eyes? A painful scene to watch.

"Ay, you've only taken three bites! How will you grow strong and big if you eat so little?" the mother said softly, patting her daughter on the back.
"I can't eat any more...", the girls answered, sat back and watched her dangling feet and peered around the room. A drab-looking room filled with the smell of chemicals and disinfectants, as well as sick patients, of which she has become one as well.

Indeed... how will the little girl ever grow big and strong?