Alishan (阿里山)

高山青, 澗水藍
阿里山的姑娘美如水呀
阿里山的少年壯如山. . .

High mountains green, ravine streams blue.
Alishan’s girls are as beautiful as the water,
Alishan’s young men are strong as the mountains. . ..

高山青 is one of the most popular songs in Taiwan.  Originally from a movie soundtrack, it describes the scenery of Ali mountain and the loveliness of the indigenous people.  It has been arranged/orchestrated by various composers and covered by almost every pop star.  I often performed an indigenous style dance based on this famous tune.  In my young mind, I was always curious of how green the mountains were, and how blue the water.

When I learned that we would travel down south to visit the mountain, I was excited but didn’t know what to expect.  I knew that we would be away for several days.  Mom asked the neighbors to keep an eye on our pets.

Our first stop was in the city of Chiayi 嘉義, a long train ride from Taipei.  Mom had lived in the city for a period of time in her youth.  It might have been a special visit for mom.  However, not used to long rides, I was too tired to enjoy the people, the food and any other special things the city had to offer.  I was glad to finally arrive at the hotel.

As we settled in and unpacked, I heard little chirping sounds.  Following the sound source, I saw a wall gecko.  It wasn’t alone.  As it slipped away, its companions continued to sound their alarms.  Growing up in a house semi-open to the surroundings, we were familiar with wall geckos.  But, we never heard them making any sounds.  Mom explained to us that geckos in northern Taiwan were mute but the ones in the south all chirped.  (It is commonly believed that Zhuoshui River 濁水溪 is the dividing line.)

I found the gecko calls interesting.  In a way, they made it easy to spot those little creatures on the walls.  The only thing was that, after we turned off the lights, they were still chirping—not exactly the kind of lullaby that I needed, sleeping on a strange bed.

The next day, we took a special train up to the mountain.  The locomotive was red—just like the ones in storybooks.  Unlike the express train we took the day before, this one moved calmly.  We saw forests and mountains out from the windows.  After a while, the train started going in and out of tunnels. . . long tunnels.  Then, it began zigzagging!  Mom said that the climb was too steep, so the train would have to go backwards before moving up again.  For us, the backward movements were more exciting than the normal upward climb.  Gradually, we felt the coolness of the mountain air.  Mom pulled out sweaters for us.

When we arrived at our destination, there were souvenir vendors and hotel clerks crowded around the gate.  We followed one of them to a hotel.  I have no recollections of any special meals.  But I remember being told that we needed to go to bed early for the packed agenda next day:  We were to get up in the dark; hike up to a perfect spot to view the sunrise and the mountain clouds.  Then, we were going to see the three-thousand-year-old sacred tree 神木.

We managed to get to the overlook before sunrise.  The weather, however, wasn’t cooperating.  The sun never broke out of the clouds.  Yet, we were on the mountain top looking down at a sea of clouds, which seemed so immense and motionless.

The sacred tree, a giant red cypress, was so tall that we could hardly see its top.  It probably would take thirty people to wrap around its trunk.  But, damaged by a thunderstroke, its center was hollow.  I wondered, if a tree could think and speak, what it might say to me, a tiny kid.  Was it hard to have lived for such a long time?

Our hotel clerks and tour guides were all indigenous people (Tsou tribe).  They all had stark facial features and were hardworking.  As beautiful as the mountain scenery was, I didn’t envy them living up there, isolated and with limited supplies.

Based on what I read online, Alishan Railway had gone through lots of challenges:  Newly built highway reduced its ridership.  Natural disasters caused multiple damages and interrupted services.  Nonetheless, it is making its comeback.

Cultivation of high-mountain tea has generated revenue for locals.  Yet, growing environmental concerns brought interruptions to further developments.  With the entire region designated as a National Scenic Area, man-made features gradually erode natural beauty.

I was glad to have visited the mountains when it was not easily accessible.

Learn more about Alishan Railway:
Alishan Forest Railway – Wikipedia
Enjoy hiking: Two-day Hiking Tour
Celebrating the railway and the cherry blossom season, Google created a regional doodle: Alishan Forest Railway Doodles

I finti fiori

I went to the garden after the rain.  The tiny blue petals of dayflowers seemed more resplendent than usual.  Their vines and leaves spread on the grounds, stretching beyond the edge of the terrace.  Considered “noxious” and “invasive” by many, they are welcome guests in my garden.

I first encountered these small jewels when I was in high school.  One day I saw a patch of dayflowers sprawled along a ditch on the roadside.  The color of the flowers caught my eyes.  I was also amused by the smallness of them.

Our school was in the suburb of Taipei on a hill near the National Palace Museum.  Every year, as courtesy, we were invited to visit the Museum.  There, I found dayflowers on a handscroll among other “auspicious” species: peonies, lotus, hydrangea, magnolia, and the like.  I was mesmerized by the vividness of the image.  At the same time, the irony of roadside weeds becoming a treasure and being displayed at a Museum also didn’t escape me.  There is only a thin line between arts and reality.

When I began building a garden on our terrace a few years ago, I was surprised to see dayflowers popping up at one corner.  Effortlessly they connected my parallel lives on two sides of the ocean; my past and present.  I saw myself standing in the gallery, fixating at the painted flowers.

I love flowers.  Watching them fade and wither away saddens me.  I am not good at keeping their images with paint brushes.  I was good at making silk flowers in my teen years: cutting leaves and petals out of ribbons; bending them by hand or pressing them with hot iron; and wrapping them onto wires.  Petal by petal; leaf by leaf; stem by stem; beautiful flowers would grow out my hands.  The exuberant dyes made them more vivacious then the real ones.

I loved making peonies.  They were flowers that I only read in classic literature. They were flowers that I only saw in paintings and photos.  With ribbons, I could bring them into reality.  Out of my fingers, amazing things happened.

These days, I grew peonies in my garden: classical crimson ones and pale pink “Mrs. F. D Roosevelt.”  In late spring, the buds gradually grow rounder and fuller.  As they quietly unwrap, gentle fragrances fill the air.  And, I know that they will come back year after year.

“Ma i fior ch’io faccio, ahimè!
Non hanno odore. . .”

“But the flowers that I make, alas!
Don’t have fragrance. . .”

Mimì in Puccini, La Bohème, Act 1

YouTube: “A Collection of Spring Fortune” 春祺集錦 by Wang Chengpei 汪承霈, Qing dynasty.
The brocade handscroll mentioned in the post is housed in the National Palace Museum in Taipei.