small worlds in a small world

I went spelunking last weekend, which was, suffice to say, a pantload of fun. After an hour trek up the mountain 'mountain', we got into the caves. Unfortunately, there are no pictures, as my camera was indisposed at the time, which was too bad, as there were some neat sights to see. Stalagmites and stalagtites forming - drops just hanging from the ceiling, not moving, looking like ice. Wicked, evil-looking spiders, scary-looking, multi-legged underground centipedes with feelers four inches long, and a weird mutant grasshopper/cockroacher crossbreed with long feelers, which we began affectionately calling 'cockhoppers'. We delved deep into one cavern, crawling down holes that were not much wider than out hips and shoulders, getting to the bottom, where there was only room for a couple of people. One guy carved CANADA into the rock in English and Chinese, then claimed that we had found the legendary hole to China our parents always told us we'd dig as kids. "Who wants Tim Horton's?"

Coming down the mountain, I 'saved' a guy and his kid who had been with us (tough little tyke, handling caves that some of the adults in the group wouldn't go in!) and had gotten off at the wrong path at the end of the day. I swear to God, part of the conversation down the mountain went exactly like this:

Him: So, from Saskatchewan, right?
Me: Yeah. You?
Him: Same. I'm from Regina.
Me: No kidding. Where in Regina?
Him: South end.
Me: Ha! Where in the south end?
Him: I went to Campbell Collegiate.
Me: I went to Campbell Collegiate!
Him: I lived in Albert Park.
Me: I lived in Whitmore Park! [they're neighbouring subdivisions]

He did graduate sixteen years before me, but still asked about teachers, and I knew five that he had known. In fact - and here's where the world shrivels to almost nothingness - he had the same teacher for Grade 9 homeroom as I had. In Grade 9 homeroom. And he heard the same thing from the same teacher sixteen years before me. It was an entertaining chat down the mountain, to say the least. And, to tie it all up, his kid's middle name is Ryan.

Sometimes coincidence is less a feeling of the chaos around us and more like a familiar, welcome embrace.

water, water all around...

Just over eight months ago, I was afraid, after reading the Lonely Planet warning about the water, to even brush my teeth with the tap water and shower with my mouth shut.

This morning, I was gargling with said water in the shower.

you gotta be careful

“I can’t eat peniles. They give me a rash.”

My brother had the same penile disease as a kid. Still does, if my memory serves me right. Probably worked out for the best, then, that I sent him that package labelled "NOT PENIS CREAM". To the hostel where he was staying. Where everyone saw it/and or heard the post girl yell it to him.

Just making sure you're OK down there, bro (ha!). And yeah, your roommate was right - that shit really doesn't come out of the sheets. Hoo boy.

bugs

Being in a sub-tropical environment such as Taiwan, you get your fair share of bugs. Flying bugs, crawly bugs, many-legged bugs, ants - the whole gauntlet, suffice to say. And, for most people, you adapt. Ants crawling around your house? Welcome to the club. Don't leave your food out (learned that one a long time ago). Spider webs are a common feature, as spiders are often out and about. We even had a centipede in the apartment the other day - don't ask me how he got up to the ninth floor. Slightly related, but not in an insect way, geckos are about the cutest thing you can imagine. Everyone loves them, cause if you don't, you have a heart of stone, you stone-hearted, gecko-hating monster, you. It becomes a part of life - my (now ex-)roommate, who just left to return home to Canada, says that, at least for the next little while, bugs will have no effect on her, as she has lived the Taiwan Experience.

And then, of course, there are the cockroaches. Coming from a cold background, I have never had to deal with, or even see, cockroaches before. They were something that people in the southern U.S. dealt with, ugly bugs that danced and sang and helped fellow slobs a la Joe's Apartment. They do get a bad rep because they're so ugly - they don't carry diseases like rats, they're not really dirty creatures (they just live in dirty places), they tend to stay out of sight, especially during the day, and they're usually just as scared of you as you are of them. I've seen many different sized roaches here, from the teeny, baby roaches that are the size of ants that scurry around the apartment at night, medium sized teenagers that peek out from under the coffee table every now and then, and, of course, the big mother cockroaches that you (hopefully) only see in the street.

Of course, it's the big ones that make for good stories and interesting experiences. People as individuals deal with them in different ways, but it's the general view and what that is indicative that interests me. For instance:

North America: Cockroach in your dinner? Free meal. Plentiful apologies. Potential promises of future freebies. Intense cleaning. And, on the chance that it is reported to the health authorities, there is the chance of an inspection and/or closing down.

Here: Cockroach in your dinner? Half off. Maybe. Sometimes they'll just give you a new one, same price. "Oh, look, a cockroach scuttling across the floor." A friend had a cockroach floating in her hot pot (like a homemade soup thing that is truly delicious) - the manager seemed reluctant to even change the pot. No discount. And, as far as I can ascertain, there is no health inspection service here - if there is, either they are the most woefully incompetent government organization I have ever seen, or the standards are so low, they might as well not exist.

Not that I love these creatures (believe me, there's no love lost here), but it's just accepted as part of life here. Maybe it's the holisticness of Eastern culture, or maybe it's just resignation to the fact that fighting it is a near-impossible battle, so why bother spending the money doing it when no one else is? It's funny, though, how you get used to it. Ants? Shake them off. Rat in a restaurant? Not worthy of my attention. Cockroach under my foot in the street? Squish.

tainan and back

I went to Tainan this weekend (literal meaning: South Taiwan) with a few friends just for fun. It was a good time, full of debauchery and drunkness, going to bed after the sun rose, and so on. Found a wonderful Turkish restaurant - I swear, I've had more international food here than back in North America. It must be the isolation/can't-have-it-anymore idea that establishes them here. Within an hour's time, I can get Greek, Turkish, Indian, Thai, German, Chinese, Western, Japanese, and there's even a Finnish restaurant, but I don't know what 'Finnish' food is. It looks Western to me. And finished when I'm through with it. (I'm here all night, please try the special.)

What I found the most remarkable, however, was how little it cost me. I caught the (forty minute) train for $4CDN return. I stayed in a hotel for $40CDN, split between four people. I ate two meals for $8CDN apiece, and it was good food. The only other thing was my booze. Makes for a damn cheap weekend, let me tell you. And, even better, I only had the clothes on my back. No bag to worry about. Now that's a road trip. I had a friend grab a shirt for me who was coming later, and the hotels here all have free toothbrushes and toothpaste in the rooms. Score!

Roadtrip season has begun.

descent of the common man

Every day, the garbage truck comes by. Well, twice a day, to be honest. How do you know? Oh, believe me, you know.

I live in an apartment complex with many buildings. They're all about the same height (22 stories), and they all have just one elevator. The garbage trucks only stay for about seven or eight minutes, so everyone, once they hear the music, is in a rush to make sure they don't get stuck with their own smelly waste.

So here's the scene: imagine anywhere between four and ten people crammed into an elevator, all holding garbage that has been laying out in the sun for a minimum of two days (in our case, sometimes weeks). Everyone's hot. Everyone's pushed together. And the elevator just keeps stopping at every floor that you don't want it to (i.e. any floor after yours).

Worst. Ride. Ever. But man, that last stop is the best, most literal breath of fresh air I have taken.

on those yearly celebrations

I've never been one for birthdays and anniversaries. Wait, strike that. I've never been one for celebrating my birthday and anniversaries. Others? PARTAY CAUSE IT'S YOUR BIRTHDAY. I love celebrating others' birthdays and making a big to-do about it. It's their special day, and playing it up is half the fun. But with regards to myself, I just feel it's...wasted time. Not in a ooh-I'm-depressed-and-a-waste-of-space-teenage-angst kind of way, just that it's time I could spend doing other things that interest me more. And even relationship anniversaries are outside of 'me' - it involves another person, so it's worthy calling attention to.

That's probably why I missed the 200th and 300th entry, the one year celebration of this mess (well, roughly. I was in Australia for the real one), and my 25th birthday. Yeah, despite the whole quarter century, I glossed over it in all aspects of my life. I ended up celebrating with one of the four people whom I knew could not forget it - two being my parents, one my almost-sister who was born on the same day, same ward, and lived down the street from me for years, and the other a friend I made out here who also shares the same birthday. Quiet for me, loud and party-filled for her, ending with a quiet dinner together, but that's the way we both are.

There are a few reflections that have been building since then, though. And now, on a Monday night at a late time when I should be sleeping, I find myself unable to ignore their calls to be written down and recorded.

The first twenty-five years of my life were spent learning the rules. I was a good kid, getting into trouble occasionally, but nothing all that serious. I found out what the boundaries were and respected them. I kept my marks up, my hair short, myself involved six ways from Sunday in school, to the point of having fights with my mother about never being home.

University was an expectation of me and of myself - there wasn't really a choice in my mind, though I know my parents would have supported me, whatever I wanted to do. I chose engineering even though I hated geometry (I still do. Lousy proofs), then found out that there was more to engineering than geometry. Still, I spent a degree learning that the physical world was governed by rules. Certain compounds will only let so many electrons through at a certain voltage level, certain metals can only withstand so much stress before they become useless, certain people can only take so much before they break. More boundaries found, more lines toed, staying on the inside. As university wound down, my expectation was the standard one - marriage, job, kids, career, friends - and I was happy with it.

In the last two years, however, things changed. No partner, no job, and a social awakening financed by your tax dollars (i.e. the library) began to change me. One the eve of my last Christmas before 25, I crossed the ocean to live here, and began what I think I want to do with the second half of my twenties: seeing how I can bend, break, and get around the rules. Maybe not to the extreme degree that only your imagination can conceive, but if I lived the straight and narrow before, I want to see the curvy and wide, as it were.

A big part of that was coming here. I always fancied myself informed about what was going on elsewhere and 'how things were'. I was wrong. I think back to my 24th birthday, and I barely recognize that person now. I've learned a lot about the nature of possessions, travel, age, friends, and, possibly most importantly, choices and consequences.

Things are different. And you know what? Different is good. It makes you realize what's really good in life, and what's just crap you put on your shelves.

the motherland

People leave their native country for a variety of reasons. A sense of wanting to try something new and money/debt lead the list - sometimes they come together, sometimes not. Unemployment/bored of the same crap job is another, as is running from something - relationship, commitment, having to make a decision about the future (i.e. procrastination). Most of the more unique reasons can usually fit under one of these broad umbrella categories. Oh, wait, I forgot - many foreigner guys come for the tail/superstar celebrity status. Can't forget that one.

Whatever the reason they come, almost everyone has to head home after some time. Whether you were like my roommate, who was just here to pay off school debt (though she was incredibly adaptive and fit in just fine, enjoying everything Taiwan had to offer) and knew she was going home after a year, or a friend, who just took off for SE Asia, not really knowing when she was returning, you know that that time approaches, and you both welcome and fear it. Despite all the talk of culture shock, it's not all that common here. Sure, there are a couple of things that require a bit of attitude adjustment, and some people just cannot deal with things and leave or have a breakdown or turn to the booze or drugs, but for the most part, it isn't that hard to get used to living here.

But returning home. God. That's freaky. Hell, my less-than-two-week trip to Australia had me overstimulated in many differnet ways - food, proper English grammar, not being a minority anymore - which took a bit to get adjusted to. But the thought of going back to a place where it's cold and the bars close at 2 am (they don't close until everyone leaves here) and everything is run 9-5 (or, increasingly, 8-5. Or worse) and there's no crowds (you don't know crowds till you've been in Asia) you can't get dumplings and beer at the 7-11 and kids are disrespectful in the extreme (for the most part) is a bitter pill to swallow for many, myself included. Reverse culture shock is what it's called, and it hits quite a few in many different ways, as you can imagine.

And even in that, you can learn. I know how it is leaving Canada and returning (well, I've heard about returning), but can you imagine a South African or a Brit? I can only piece together from what I've heard. High prices, no jobs, no prospects (in both places, really) don't lend much happiness at the prospect of returning home.

As for me, I think back to the work day and what I hear from friends. Lots of hard work. Overtime. Work time that isn't work (I enjoy working seven hours a day - I don't want to get paid for face time anymore). Having to sacrifice vacation/rest in order to really hit the success pot (I'm not smart or creative enough to do it without a lot of hard work). And stress - stress that causes breakdowns over forgetting something small. Living for the weekend (though there is a fair share of that out here). Monoculture. I'm not saying that every job is like this - there are lots that aren't. I just have gotten used to this job and am sad that there is no equivalent back home. I can't say I miss that part at all.

I've spent the past few months developing my five-year plan, however, as so many have told me I have to do. Who knows if it'll go as planned. Hell, I already got something that I don't think will change it, but you never know - an offer of an interview with the agency that rejected me two years ago. Either way, after thirty is a blank slate right now. I have ideas, but they are ghosts in the ether, and I don't think about them much, because five years seems a long ways off right about now (although a sixth of that has gone by so fast out here).

i'm melting! mmmmeeeeellllttttiiiiinnnngggg

So, I started swimming today.

I plan on doing the annual Sun Moon Lake swim in a month. There's one weekend when they open one very special lake for swimming - you're actually not allowed to swim in it any other time (don't ask me how they prevent that sort of thing, but whatever). On this weekend, they have an event where you can swim across the entire lake. Due to the Taiwanese general fear of water, it's closely watched and you have to bring your own float, but you get a certificate out of the deal and a sense of satisfaction.

So, in order to be in good swimming shape for the even (which is about five weeks away) and to help get in shape (doing it for free on the bike wasn't appealing enough for me, so I had to pay to do it! That's the way we do things here, us crazy foreigners), I signed up at the pool for a month. Laps and laps should about do it. Every day. Every morning. In case you haven't already noticed, I've almost been completely successful in eliminating the concept of morning from my life, except for "late morning" and the occasional, "Man, I was out until xxx in the morning" (which, here means the sun was up. No more of this '2 in the morning' panty-waist crap). But now, I will find myself going to bed early (read 'before 2 am') and waking early (read 'before 9:30 am') in order to get my money's worth.

However, I am not complaining? Why not, you ask? Bubbles, he replied mysteriously. There are these wonderful, magical bubble massage things in the relaxation pool that I think the Gods of old had in their palaces. You lay down in one of these grottos, and bubbles massage your back (or front, you can go both ways) as you melt into human puddle. I spent fifteen minutes in one and felt like jello when I came out. I now look forward to every pool experience, for no matter how far I go (3.2 kilometres today - the length of the swim), this little piece of heaven is waiting for me.

And so I head to bed, with visions of bubble jets dancing in my head...

the end of australia, by me

At long last, I give to you the last installment of my final days in Australia. I was delayed by some computer problems, but not even a faulty hard drive could keep me from distracting you, at least temporarily, from your work! And so, on with the fun.

My last update found us finishing our surfing lessons in Surfer's Paradise. The next morning, we found ourselves on a ferry taking us to Fraser Island, the largest sand island in the world (it really is ALL SAND, ALL THE TIME) and a World Heritage Site. As soon as we got on the island, we met our tour guide, Dave. Dave was so typically Australian that you could package him up and sell him in the gift shop. The accent, the calling out of POMs, the love of 'cups of
happiness' as he termed it - he really fit the bill. We made nametags, and I was later given the job of judging the nametags for the grand prize of a bottle of wine. Not ONE bribe was offered - what's the point of a position of authority if you can't get bribes. Phhhbt. Anyway, we saw a small lake, a big lake, a silent creek, and some old trees. Ha! Sounds pretty dull, eh? Not at all. The big lake was an amazingly photogenic collection of rainwater that was clearly visible
all the way down to its 8 metre depth. The creek was absolutely silent due to the fact that the bed was all sand - there are no rocks on the island except for three formations at the top of the island - and it was created and maintained by saturation of the water table. The trees were, at times, thousands of years old (we later saw one that was 3000 years old - the circumference was eight adults with their arms outstretched around!). So the first day of exploring was pretty
amazing. I had already learned a tonne (as you can tell) of useless information which I loved (though let me tell you, if I ever find some girl who is into perched dune lakes, I will totally be her kind of guy).

The evenings were filled with entertainment and good food each night. The first night was KARAOKE, which, as most of you know, I loathe. Ha! Actually, Chad said as soon as he saw me get up on stage, he thought he would just be "Ryan's brother" (he was wrong, though I did hog the spotlight that night). There was also a contingent of high school kids from America, who proceeded to get SLOSHED throughout the night. I actually sang and danced with them, either being really, really cool or really, really 'hey, get a load of that old dork over there'-ish. The second night was a trivia night, which our team, the Blue Bottled
Bum Divers (NOT my idea, though apparently I gave the final OK on it...) wrapped up with a nice pink bow. The best quote of that came from my brother after we had found out that the prizes were alcohol and I had commented on how drunk we were going to get, "Yeah, drunk on pride....and beer!" And verily, the prophecy came to pass.

The days, however, also held plenty of comedy, discovery, and PICTURES. Good heavens, the pictures. On the second day, I myself took over 250 pictures (closer to 270, I believe). Of what, you ask? Well, my friend, there were the beautiful sand dunes, the beach (75 miles, actually serving as the world's longest landing strip - no joke!), Indian Head (not the small town in Saskatchewan, but a beautiful lookout on the north point of the island), the Champagne pools (champagne not included - they were just pools of ocean water trapped behind rocks), and a ship that had beached almost 70 years before and lied in rust. And girls, of course. On our tour of 24, there were six
- count them, six - guys. Two were married, one was a father with his daughter (quite old), one was a teenager traveling with his parents, and two were us. With a bunch of beautiful women. I think there is a word to describe this, let me check my thesaurus....oh yeah. WHOOOOOOOOO!

Dave also provided us with colourful commentary, interesting stories about the history of the island, plenty of food, and constant entertainment. As the night before had been quite late, and the morning quite early, many were tired by the end of the day. I sat and soaked up the stories, veritably salivating at all the potential information while others dozed. Probably the best story of that was
Chad's (of course). Listening to Dave start, "And now I'll tell you the story of Eliza Fraser..." (who the island is kinda named after), Chad though, "Man, I gotta listen to this, I'm sure it'll be great." He then awoke some time later to, "..and that's the story of Eliza Fraser." Well, crap for him, but funny for me!

We also saw awesome sunsets, a dingo (DINGO! And there were children nearby! And a child was mauled to death on the island four years ago! But DINGO!), a view that may be completely unique (where else can you see the ocean, a freshwater lake, a desert, and rain forest all in one view?), more amazing flora (I love the smell of fresh jungle), and Rainbow gorge, which had many different coloured sands (nothing too crazy, don't get your shorts in a knot) and sand rock. Not a new kind of garage band, this rock-like substance was actually just compressed sand (remember, no rock except in the north). As we were leaving the island, I reflected that this was THE EXPERIENCE that cemented a holiday. You know that one thing that crystallizes your memory of a
trip, that one almost existential event that remains with you? Mine was three days long. And the people! A big shout out to Kendra and Lauren, who made our trip that much more fun. Many good times were had with these wonderful ladies, let me tell you.

And so, our time drew to a close...but not before a trip to STEVE IRWIN'S AUSTRALIA ZOO! First, no, we did not see Steve, though he was rumoured to be on the grounds that morning. We saw lots and lots of animals, and the zoo, existing since 1971, made a great effort to provide a natural habitat for these animals. Elephants, tiger cubs, tortoises, crocodiles, snakes (including the aptly-named "Small Coloured Snake of Eastern Australia", as named by Chad), birds, wombats, kangaroos, a sign entitled "BEWARE OF THE HOSE", emus,
eagles, dingoes, koalas (they're cute and sleeping, and, according to my returning travel mate, "fucking stupid animals"), and the Tasmanian Devil (no weird noises, but the crazy little (cute!) thing DIDN'T STOP RUNNING. I swear, it's Australia's untapped energy resource). A busy day, to say the least. We caught my last sunset over a mountain, enjoyed a Thai meal over stories of subversion (his, not mine - I'm not that exciting), stepped on a cockroach, and got our shoes stolen. Ha! Just kidding, only I got my shoes stolen, and it was due to the NEW LACES I put in them not one hour before. Damn those thieves and their new lace, old shoe lovin' hides!

And so, the end finally came to two of the best weeks I have ever spent with my brother. Though there were no parents to intervene when he crossed the line, we still were quite civilized, chatting for almost the entire time we were together. I'm looking forward to having him visit me sometime in the next little while and to give him a taste of Taiwan, as he gave me a feast in Australia.

the epitomy of suckery

Superman, I am not.

My 3.2 km super-swim was just halved, as the 50m pool...well...isn't 50m. It's only 25. Stupid. Metres.

However.

Karma, my friends.

love is

What is love?

I've been thinking about it recently for a myriad of reasons, and though everyone has their own definitions, I think I've found mine.

Love is waking up and being happy every morning about what it is you love.

It fits with everything. Love your work? Then you must wake up and be happy about it every morning. Love your significant other? Wake up and be happy to be with them/next to them. Love eating oatmeal? Wake up happy that you can have oatmeal for breakfast. Love where you live? Rise and look around and feel great.

The moment you wake up unhappy about something is the moment you don't love it anymore.

Works for me, anyway. There's plenty of love when I wake up, anyway.

Can't wait until morning.

medal fever

What did I do this weekend?

The bronze is actually my favourite.

second, taste

It's been a while, but do you remember this idea of recording sense memories? Taste is second.

********

I had a honey milk tea from my friendly neighbourhood tea ladies. ee bay fung mee ni cha. Milk tea is simply that - tea with an extraordinate amount of milk in it, cooling it and making it nice and creamy. Add honey. Voila.

My first sip took me bad a couple of decades to a treasured memory. He's probably my second oldest friend - I remember he was in my kindergarten class, we became instant friends. There were discussions of the wooden spoons our mothers used for discipline, the taste of Play-do, and the weird kids, but the clearest memory is tea time.

Every afternoon when I would visit, we would have tea. It was my first experience with the beverage, and, being a youngster with a yearning for the sweet, I would heavily dilute the bitter tea with what was probably close to a gallon of milk and half a Halloween of sugar. And then we would drink. I loved cookie- and sweet, milky tea-infused afternoons, carefree and fun, always in the kitchen of his house(s).

We stayed friends for years, and though we grew more distant as the years headed on, we still talked occasionally. He had some problems later on, and we actually became closer than we had been in a while. And through all that's happened to him and to me, one of my favourite recollections of him has always been sitting in the sunshine, sipping those lukewarm plastic mugs, filled with comfort and milk.

finally, spam that works for me

Date: Mon, 23 Aug 2004 03:47:17 -0400
From: "Rebecca Trotter"
To: Ryan
Subject: Get cash out of your house

Lousy deadbeat house. I'm totally filling out that form. I've put up with it's shit for long enough. "Oh, see, the thing is, the porch really needs it, and the foundation's a little shaky. You don't want a shaky foundation, do you?"

I'll show you a shaky foundation, bitch.

measurements

There's this little thing in the bathrooms at work that gives me a little heart attack each time it goes off because I forget it's there. It's an automatic pleasant-smell release machine, automatic because you can't trust kids for nothin', and pleasant-smell because...well, it's a bathroom. There's always a number on it that sometimes changes. Now, it logically follows that this is some kind of measurement. Quite possibly the temperature, but what if it measured stink?

Here's where this is going - if stink could (can?) be measured, what do you think the unit would be? Millistanks? Decafunks? Kilofetors? (Metric isn't required, but I like it.)

Incidentally, the answer to a question I've always wondered - what is it called when you can't smell (as we know mute, deaf, blind, and, uh, no hands) - is anosmia. Learn something new every day!

the brat is back

Yes, Chad has more pictures of his awesome time at the Arts Factory Lodge, where he's been being a bum* for the past couple of months. And he's got pictures. Of course, he has a load of beautiful girls all over. Of course. As soon as I left, it was like, "Oh, yeah, you remember that box in the back of the car? I was cleaning up the place, and guess what? It was filled with gorgeous women!" Not to say I didn't see my share, but I swear, my brother always finds himself mixed up with that sort...

*Because he was offended, I'll explain my reasoning. According to me, you're doing one of three things: school, work, or being a bum. I've done all three, and really, being a bum is the most enviable. You get to do what you want, be well rested, and generally have fun. There's absolutely nothing wrong with it - I say it with a positive spin, it's society that's given it a negative meaning.

Meanwhile, I'm here in Taiwan, paving my own personal road to hell. This resulted from me asking the students if they knew the word 'church'.

They knew it.

i hate them too

You know what would be funny?

Going to Cardhouse and reading the entries for August 25th. Go to the third entry first, the one with the pictures. Then read the second one, the paragraph. Yeah, that's it there. That one.

Also, adding in "I don't send these, but you never know!" does not save you any face. You are sending it. I do know. Please, if you like sending those chain letters, watch your back. Or your face, as it were.