Taroko National Park/ Part Two
After retracing the Shakadang trail, heading towards the bus stop, we immediately realized something was wrong: the bus scheduled according to the timetable didn’t seem to be arriving. While we were waiting, we met a French family in the same situation, who asked us for some tips. The little I could do was try to act as a translator between them and Yun Xia, who, being familiar with the area, was the only one who could help us in some way. After a while, we lost sight of the family, but the bus still hadn’t arrived. So, who else but my amazing, newly-met travel companion could come up with a solution?
A few minutes after deciding to hitchhike, a car with a family of three stopped, and not only did they take a detour to drop us off at what would be our next stop, the Nine Turns Trail (九曲洞) but they were so kind and generous that they didn’t make us feel uncomfortable about it at all.
This second path was shorter, but its unique feature lay in how the trail was structured: it was almost entirely inside a tunnel, with tall pillars lining both sides. Looking out from them, you could catch glimpses of views that, despite the unkind weather and overcast sky, were nothing short of stunning. I believe, and I’m pretty sure, the photos I managed to take don’t even come close to capturing the beauty and grandeur of it all.
In any case, the stop was short, it was getting late, and Yun Xia had to head home to Taipei (to take care of her cat). It would take her a bit longer than me, as I was staying in a hostel in Hualien that night. Fortunately, the return bus passed by, almost on time!
Instead of heading straight back to Hualien, to the hostel as I had thought, while chatting about this and that with her, I decided to go to the last bus stop: I really wanted to see the sea. I got off at the terminal, Tianyang, to head to Qixingtan Beach: 七星潭 (Qīxīngtán).
Imagine arriving, just after getting off the bus, to a rather isolated street with small local vendor stalls on either side, surrounded by lush greenery that leads to the pebbles of the beach and then the blue of the sea, with stray dogs wandering around alone.
The encounter with these stray dogs was one of the few (maybe the only) moments during this week-long solo trip when a red flag went off in my mind. But it wasn’t until I realized I had wandered into what seemed like the entrance to an aboriginal reserve—an area that, as I later found out, held cultural significance for the local people but wasn’t formally designated as a reserve—that I had to fight my curiosity to keep going. I realized that I was all alone, in the middle of a barren field with a few trees, and at least two large stray dogs by my sides, not looking at me too kindly. Calmly (my movements were, but not the beating of my heart), and with all the composure I could muster, I got out of that uncomfortable situation and made my way toward the beach, where I stayed afterward.
The beach!
As soon as I got close, I felt an urge to do something that was a bit unusual for me. You should know that when I travel, I tend to not stay very much in contact with my loved ones; I check in with a simple "I'm fine, hi, how are you?" But in that moment, I felt the need to make a video call to my parents because I had to share the vastness and power of what was in front of me. They were with my grandmother when I tried to give them a taste of what was a very rough, threatening sea, yet at the same time so fascinating and powerful. It had the power to send adrenaline through my veins, and a feeling that, neither with words now, nor on the phone with them that day, I think I was able to convey.
I walked from one side of the shore to the other, until, after meeting some Taiwanese children who called me "美国人," (měiguó rén - American), (different from mainland China, where I was mostly called "俄罗斯,"(Éluósī - Russian), I headed towards the bus stop. It was there, after an hour of waiting for a bus that I thought would never come, that I met a Vietnamese family, with the father speaking perfect English, and we exchanged some travel information.
Just as we were talking and trying to figure out how to get back, since the bus still hadn’t arrived, a tourist bus driver showed up, a private one, to replace the one that was supposed to pass. With a kindness that continued to surprise me, despite having encountered not one person who wasn’t kind during those days of traveling, he explained that we had to go with him. And so, after a long journey (I was at one of the last stops, having reached the terminal), I got off and headed towards the hostel, which was still an unknown to me.
When I saw the alley I had to go down, it seemed anything but reassuring, since it was dark. But as soon as I stepped inside, I understood that this wasn’t just any hostel, and that it would be hard to find one as beautiful as this in the future.
I was greeted by a girl at check-in who gave me some directions, explained that I could check out on my own by leaving the key on the desk, and told me that the room I was going to stay in had girls from all over the world. "You’ll get along well," she said. "You’ll have so much to share, I’m sure of it." And that’s how it was.
Without even realizing it, I was plunged into the story of Charlotte (a fictional name), from France, who was taking a gap year from work and spoke a little Italian. During this year, Charlotte had sailed on a boat with strangers and planned to surf in Taiwan. Charlotte had a diary in which she asked everyone, including me, what happiness is. I think I told her that happiness, for me, is like a quest, something you never stop searching for, traveling, meeting people, and having experiences. But what struck me the most were the answers, so different, that people gave her. The simplest ones were the ones that touched me the most. I don’t have any contact with her at the moment, but I’m sure she’s gathered many more interesting ones.
We went to bed early, and the next day, when I went out to explore the east coast of Taiwan, I didn’t meet any of them. I said goodbye to this place with a bit of melancholy, and I hope to return one day. I hope it didn’t suffer too much damage after the 2024 earthquake.
This part of my journey has come to an end, but the more I write, the more I realize how much happened in those six days in Taiwan, and even the seemingly insignificant details, when I think about them now, take on a new hue. For example, how cozy was the little room and the bed I slept in at Hualien? I felt so at peace, and so at home. A year may have passed, but when I think about it, the feeling of gratitude remains.
