Traveling Taiwan Day 3- Hitchhiking to Kenting, the Search for the Whitest Beach- 搭便車到墾丁,最白海滩的尋覓

We get up at 5:30, call a taxi, and buy some provisions at the station before boarding the 6:00 am train to Fangliao.  Kenting may be a beautiful area, but it's not the most convenient place to get to.  From Taipei, even taking the HSR (high-speed rail) you're looking at 4.5 hours, at the least.  We're coming from Hualien though, far to the south of Taipei, so it should take less time, right?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K2jXbZOeGD0

It's a four-hour ride into Fangliao, the closest station to Kenting.  From there, by bus it'll be over an hour before we're at our destination.  We're not taking the bus however.  Intrigued by Toby's tails of hitchhiking through Taiwan, and with experience of our own, Brian is set on exploring the limits of Taiwanese generosity, a well whose depths you'll never quite plumb.  I agree, though I have some misgivings as to how long we'll be about it.

The black route depicts the train ride, while the red is our hitchhiking route.

Another unseasonably cold train ride, some unsuccessful calls trying to arrange boarding in Kenting (phones don't work well in tunnels), and we're in Fangliao, walking around in the baking heat.  Not a hundred yards down the road a cabbie immediately spots some potential recruits, and the lopsided haggling begins:

Man: "There's another pair over here who you can share the fare with.  How about $230?"
Me: "We're walking to the highway."
Man: "But that's so far!  Ok, 200."
Me: "We don't want to take a taxi."
Man: "180."
Me: "We don't want to ride there."
Man: "Ok, ok ok!  150, I can't go any lower than that."
Me (thinking): "I'm going to ignore you now."

Jesus, haggling really does work the best when you don't want the item in question.  Like when I bought my faux designer boxer-briefs in Xi'an five years ago.  I didn't want those either.  One of the best purchases I almost never made.

After walking around in the heat for ten minutes, I regret not taking up the taxi on his offer.  Nobody's responding to our hand waving, and I don't know how to say 'hitchhike' in Chinese, which will make things awkward when someone finally does stop.  We learn from a fruit-smoothie lady that the highway's about forty minutes away.  Dammit.  Brian is relentless in his pursuit for a ride:

Brian: "Hey ask that woman on the scooter if she'll take us."
Me: "There is no way that small, old lady is going to want to ride triple with two random foreigners to Kenting."
Brian: "Stop being a pussy and ask her!"
Me: "FINE.  I don't need to ask her to know what the answer is going to be, retard."

Afterwards:

Me: What the hell?  You're having me the say the stupidest shit ever.  There is no way you'd be asking retarded questions like this if you could speak Chinese."
Brian: "Are you kidding?  I'd be talking to every single person we've seen so far."
Me: *pause* "Godammit you're right."

I'm laughing as we wave at every car that passes by, thinking we'll make it on foot before a car picks us up.  At that moment, a truck pulls off to the side.  Salvation.  The owner of the truck happens to be one breakfast delivery gentleman by the name of Maoxin (forgot his family name), and he says he saw us wandering around trying to flag people down.  He's more than willing to pick us up, but he has to continue with his deliveries.  Fine by us, we're in no hurry!  The chance to chat with a Pingdong local is what Brian was looking for, not saving a paltry $150 NT.  Maoxin is a cheerful individual, and the questions flow non-stop from both sides.  He looks deceivingly young; by his own admission he's in his mid-thirties with two children, his oldest a girl of eighteen years.  As I'm calculating he nods and smiles easily, "I married when I was young."  Apologizing at every stop for keeping us, he moves swiftly for someone who often skips lunch while working, his shifts starting at 8:00 and ending around 5:00.  Of course, he has to move quickly, because we see the temperature of the back freezer rise up from 0 to 15 degrees upon opening the door for scant seconds at a time.  We learn that his weekly schedule is set, and he only makes trips into Kenting on Tuesday and Friday, precisely the days we arrive and leave.  He offers to pick us up on Friday too, after his shift.  Bottomless Taiwanese generosity indeed.  And that's not the end of it.  He calls up a friend to help us set up some accommodations.

Translating for Brian is challenging, as he's asking questions I would never think to ask, and about things I'm not personally interested in, so I struggle with some of the vocabulary.  It's wonderful practice, after feeling my oral Chinese slowly atrophy despite my environment.  As my brain works into overdrive I find myself growing more confident, until I'm rattling off sentences at breakneck speed.  Ah, to do this everyday!

Eventually pulling up to our hostel, Maoxin tells us to call him if we need anything, or run into any problems.  I know this is more than a mere platitude and I'm touched by his earnestness.  We shake hands, and Brian gifts him with a bag of precious trail mix.

Of course this is the first thing I take a picture of.

Upon checking in we set off to rent scooters.  This proves to be difficult.  The first question out of every store owner's mouth asks to see our international driver's license.  Without a license, we're limited to shitty electric scooters, which cost $800 NT/day and can't go more than 30km before the battery needs to be changed.  Every place we go to is the same.  No license, no gas-powered scooter.  FUCK.  I HAVE NOT COME THIS FAR ONLY TO GET SCREWED OVER NOW.  All the renters are unmoved when we tell them about our renting experiences in Hualien.  You arrogant resort town bastards...

We make one last stop on the outskirts of town, and find the electric scooters are a little cheaper.  The man is still unwilling to rent real scooters, and looks at Brian's expired license dubiously, noting the punched hole.  We assure him we've ridden scooters before, but he remains doubtful, until the owner arrives.  David is a native Taiwanese that's lived in the US before and we get on smashingly well.  He's also very obviously gay, and no doubt this works to our benefit, though we don't need to feign interest in what he has to say; he's a legitimately interesting guy.  After convincing David as to our previous experience we're given a pair of scooters, older and more expensive than the ones in Hualien, but scooters all the same.  We celebrate by heading immediately east, eager to check out Kenting's beaches.  Kenting's beaches are probably the best on the island proper.  Brian will try to convince you that Fulong has a better beach, just because there's a temple in the background and you can walk out forever.  Horseshit.  Just compare pictures of the two places.  He was pretty unimpressed with Kenting, having seen bigger waves, whiter sand, and clearer water.  I come from Seattle.

Nanwan Beach

Our first stop is Nanwan, a small beach with not much going for it.  I can't remember if the lifeguards here blow their whistles at us for swimming around (gasp, swimming at a beach?!) but if they do we ignore them.  We stay just long enough to wash away the heat before we hop back on and cruise up the eastern coast.  It's not long before we spot a series of windswept cliffs in the distance, the lack of trees distinct against the surrounding jungle canvass.  I imagine a part of Ireland being airdropped in right next to a tropical island.  We stop and I take some pictures at a viewpoint.  The area is thick with khaki pants, polo shirts, and a distinct lack of shorts, which can only mean one thing: Chinese tourists.  Naturally, their eye is drawn to a pair of half-naked foreigners, and I start to hear my favorite word in the whole word: 'laowai'.  Ah, just like old times back in Weinan.  I want to climb down the cliffs and make it to the shore; it looks so easy.  Upon closer examination I realize that the 'grassy' bluffs immediately below are covered in thick shrubs, and I could easily sink in to my waist, or into nothing.

Longpan Park

As we cruise, we find no white beaches, though we're both certain Toby told us to go towards the east when he showed us his pictures of Kenting.  I get an idea.

Me: "Maybe Mr. GPS got his directions mixed up." (accusing someone of bad directional sense is probably the most hypocritical thing I could do.)
Brian: "Possible."
Me: "Look here on the map (pointing to the western side of Kenting), there's even a beach called White Sand Beach.  That's literally it's name."
Brian: "Let's go west then."

We make a huge loop around, cutting through some small towns.  I wish I would've stopped and taken some pictures, my dad loves that kind of stuff, but I didn't want to interrupt our cruising.  We're trying to get to the beach at Baisha (literally 'white sand'), but the map is confusing the hell out of me.  We overshoot the turn west and head up in Nanwan back east towards Kenting.  Nanwan comes recommended by locals, though God only knows why.

This picture really doesn't do the FUBAR-ness of Nanwan justice.

If more means better (and to most it usually does) then Nanwan lays every other beach to waste.  Every possible water activity is clusterfucked right in the center of the water.  Jetskis are pulling banana boats around close to shore where people are trying to swim and boogy board, while a dozen or so individuals girded in life vests bob haplessly off to the right.  Scatter intertubes throughout the mixture, add a liberal dash of overzealous lifeguards, and you get a beach where utter pandemonium reigns.  At the edge of the sun umbrellas Brian and I take in the scene and start laughing uncontrollably.  This has to be the worst run beach ever, yet no one seems bothered.  In we go for a quick dip before continuing the search for the fabled white beaches.  As we're heading out one of the jetskiers gestures angrily at us to clear off; apparently he needs ample room to turn figure eights and flip over the banana boat behind him.  His impotent rage amuses us, our laughter further incensing him.

Just like Billy's dotted line.  Except for I hate Family Circus.

I get us lost in the winding roads on the western side of Kenting before getting oriented once more.  Baishawan turns out to be a dud, the sand closer to a light tan than its name would imply.  We're not picky though, diving in straightaway.  You'll find in many Taiwanese beaches that few individuals will stray far from shore.  Anybody who swims out past the shallows is likely to be a foreigner.  You laugh, but I'm telling you this is a good rule of thumb.  Hell, half of the people don't make it into the water at all, and of those that do, some wade in clothing and all.  I guarantee you, you will never see so many people taking umbrellas to the beach, lest a stray ray color them an undignified brown..

Our last stop is Wanli.  Throughout the day I've been content to follow Brian, having always despised the role of navigator.  At the entrance, looking out over the sky, a sudden feeling grips me, and I take off down the winding alleys of the small fishing village, Brian following.  Reaching the sea wall, I see the sun casting one last lurid gaze over the horizon.  We climb up a ladder, and from there, it's only a small hop to the wave-breakers beyond.  We witness no mythical green flash as the dying orb withdraws below the waters, but we sit peacefully, soaking in the beauty of the sunset.  White beaches be damned, there can be no finer footnote to our arrival to Kenting.