We transfer to the grimy metro, take a cab to a scooter rental shop. We stuff our camping gear under the seat, stuff our heads into helmets, and start a three-hour scoot to Jialeshui, surf capital of Taiwan.
I hang off my date, Tyler, a thin, curly-haired Bay Area software developer who I met in a meditation class in Taipei. Road grit flings into our faces. The sun simmers my left shoulder red. We stop twiceβonce to pee and to wipe the grime from our faces, once to stare out at the staggering blue ocean. We arrive just before sunset. A narrow road threads between the ocean and the mountains that crowd up to it. We stop next to a grassy park and a small strip-mall huddled against the mountains. We eat a greasy dinner at the American-style diner in the strip-mall.
After we eat, we cross back over the highway. The coast in Jialeshui faces south; the sun crumbles apart at the seam of ocean and mountain. We hang out for a few minutes while the beach darkens, then decide to set up camp.
Just stay out of the way. I strap on my headlamp and head into the thick forest. It has rained recently, and most of the wood is sodden, rotted. As I pick up a log to examine it, the beam of my headlamp glints purple off of something a few feet in front of me. I step closer, crouch. As the beam steadies and my eyes focus I see the eight shadowy limbs of a large, furry spider splay out beneath the glitter of four little eyes. I gasp, stumble backward out of the woods and onto the path.
I stare back into the jungle through a column of murky lamplight, then slowly turn my head, sweeping the trees. Everywhere, everywhere the teal and purple glitter of eyes. I am six years old. Sometimes my cousins come over and we run down the hill out back into the ravine. We crash through strands of bamboo that choke out older trees, swing down and down on tree limbs and howl about every squirming thing.
