Come and open up your folding chair next to me
My feet are buried in the sand and there’s a breeze
There’s a shadow you can’t see my eyes
And the sea is just a wetter version of the skies
“Folding Chair” – Regina Spektor
The roof of the house slopes gently into a tall, metal, platform porch. I lay with my back against the cool surface. From my perch, I can see the town below and then a line of ocean followed by nothing but sky.
Google had told us our vacation house in Kenting National Park was just over a mile outside of town. What Google failed to mention was that the air would be so hot and heavy and the road so steep. Never have I more fully understood the concept of your legs turning to jello than during that walk.
But up on the deck, the air is cool. A breeze plays with the damp hair that was plastered to my forehead a moment ago. Several deer run through the clearing by our house. It reminds me of home almost but not quite. Even the deer here are foreign with their wide antlers, their broad chests, and their pale coats. The deer I know are delicately majestic. These look like warriors whose ancestors hailed from somewhere in Middle Earth.
Earlier that day, we had witnessed a herd of sneaky water buffalo outwit their keeper and walk across a busy street, stopping traffic. Later, on our trip into town for beach time and supper, we pass a tribe of goats meandering freely down a dirt road.
That night, we try sleeping on the deck. I lay on a cot and nestle into a far too small sleeping bag lined with an annoyingly synthetic fabric. We can see the stars above us, a sight I’ve missed in bustling Taipei. The wind rustles my hair, making it tickle my face until I push it all back into the hood of my sweatshirt.
At the house next door, roosters crow. I remember our vacation with coworkers to the Philippines this time last year. We stayed in a remote fishing village. Sometimes it seemed there were more roosters in that town than there were people. They crowed all night. Others on the trip complained. I barely noticed. It felt like home. Farm noise is one kind of noise pollution I’m happy to embrace.
The next few days are filled with walking—lots of walking. We average fifteen to twenty miles a day. But it’s fifteen to twenty miles away from city lights, constant traffic, and views obstructed by skyscrapers. Kenting has a lighthouse, electric scooters that couldn’t break a speed limit if they tried, and breathless ocean views wherever we look.
On our final day, we go down to the ocean for a last hour on the beach. The sand is hot. I have to run from the shade to the waves before blisters develop on my feet. I stand in the surf, pant legs rolled up, staring out at the sea.
In a few minutes, I will have to gather my things and run for cooler footing. We will catch a taxi, board a bus, and head into Kaohsiung, a quieter city than Taipei but still a city. In a few minutes, we will say goodbye to this reprieve from city life. For now, though, I don’t think about that. I just stand in the surf, looking out—past the couple taking pictures of each other, pass the tourists on jet skis, pass the buoys, past the speck of a sailboat far out to sea. I look past all that to that line where the ocean meets the sky.
Words by Rachel Kaye. Images by Ben. Click here for more photos of our trip to Kenting.
Stay tuned for info on planning your own trip to Kenting National Park.
