Gorging on a Rock-Bound Coast

Like a lot of other Americans, I’ve never given much thought to Taiwan. If pressed, I might have identified it as an island in the South China Sea, a democracy, and a loser in the “two Chinas” dispute that has seen it locked out of the United Nations, politically outmaneuvered by the government in Beijing.

But by last September, when a killer earthquake put Taiwan on the front page, my view of the country had changed. By then, I’d enthusiastically embraced Taiwan--at least the picture-postcard side of it--and the Taiwanese people, all 22 million of them, and one in particular.

Taiwan is the largest island between Japan and the Philippines, a high point on the “ring of fire” around the Pacific and no stranger to earthquakes. The magnitude 7.6 quake on Sept. 21 killed 2,341 people, mostly in the center of the island around Taichung. The capital city, Taipei, in the north, was relatively unscathed.

Not a place I’d have chosen for a vacation. Romance brought me here, but anyone in a less euphoric frame of mind can find a lot to like in Taiwan.

The first human inhabitants of Taiwan probably came from the Philippine archipelago. Starting in the 15th century, the fertile coastal plain on the west side of Taiwan began to attract migrants from Fujian province in China, a short 90 miles away. Skip forward to 1894 for the next major impact by outsiders: when Japan took Taiwan after defeating China in war.

From 1895 to 1945 the Japanese ran Taiwan it as if they owned it. They industrialized some areas and built roads, rail lines and deep-water harbors to serve the new economy. All this reverted to Chinese control with the end of World War II, but evidence of Japan’s half-century experiment in colonialism is still felt.

It’s most thoroughly enjoyed in the many spas that the Japanese built where they found hot springs percolating in the geologic wilds on the island’s eastern side. Resorts have sprung up around many of them, and Japanese rituals of relaxation bathing are a big attraction to stressed-out Taiwanese.

But long soaks in mineral springs were not what had me in such a good mood. I was in Taiwan on the most personal of missions: to propose marriage.

Six months previously I’d met Amy Lin, who’s working with my cousin on the new Taiwan National Aquarium near Kenting National Park in the southern part of the island. (It will be the world’s largest; the first phase is scheduled to open Feb. 4.) My cousin is a workaholic, bless his heart, which explains why Amy was along on his “working vacation” at a family reunion last winter in Colorado. I was drafted to introduce Amy to skiing. Within a week I was showing her around my home base in Arizona.

Two hundred faithful e-mails later, I found myself stepping off a China Airlines 747 in Kaohsiung, Taiwan’s second-largest city. With 10 days to get a “yes,” and curious to see how this foreign country might figure in my future, I set off with Amy as my guide.

The flight--a 12-hour marathon featuring three movies and a constantly setting sun--had left me famished. Amy took me straight to the night market, a fixture of most Taiwan towns. This is where people shop and socialize, but mostly graze from dozens of food stands, sometimes until dawn.

Kaohsiung’s night market was typical, a neon-lit festival of food. Soup. Fresh noodles. Barbecue. Vendors’ stalls stood cheek by jowl, two deep on both sides of a street that seemed to have no end. Tea and herbal concoctions. Fresh seafood waiting for the fryer. Live cobras destined for soup. Amy ordered steamed pork-filled buns from one cart, fried dumplings from another, noodles from a third. A convenience store provided Taiwan Beer, the nation’s eponymous brand, which comes in an appropriately generic can.

In the morning we visited Kaohsiung’s history museum, where I got a primer on the roots of this woman who I hoped would be my wife. The island’s first inhabitants were tribal people, fierce--some were headhunters--and resisted subjugation. But by the 17th century, migration from Fujian had driven the indigenous people off the arable land along the coast and into the mountains.

The museum also recounts the suffering under Japanese rule; one photo shows a soldier proudly posing for the camera as his comrade beheads a man.

But it’s Japanese contributions to Taiwan’s development, not historic cruelties, that are best remembered today. Our prime destination on this trip was Taroko Gorge, a marble canyon that Japanese engineers first envisioned as a portal for a traffic corridor linking the east and west coasts. World War II stymied those plans. But other Japanese improvements provided the basis for Taiwan’s postwar emergence as an Asian industrial and economic titan. Japanese improvements in public health, for instance, are credited with doubling Taiwan’s population from 2 to 4 million during the half-century of occupation.

With the end of World War II and the defeat of Japan, China’s communists and nationalists turned on one another. In 1949 Mao Tse-tung’s communists prevailed, driving Chiang Kai-shek’s nationalists from the mainland. Chiang set up a government in exile in Taiwan, and the rush of migration swelled the population by 2 million more.

“Did they all settle in the same place?” I asked Amy as she drove us out of Kaohsiung. Along the highway south of the city, every square inch of land appeared to be in use. Heavy industry, mango orchards, apartment buildings and fish farms shouldered up to the side of the road.

“Do you like our countryside?” Amy asked, amused. She’d tried to warn me that quaint rural towns were not on the agenda. But this was something else: one of the most densely populated and environmentally compromised places on Earth. No wonder the Taiwanese are such avid weekenders.

Amy promised I would relax in Kenting. We found the beach town’s streets full of weekend visitors, but the atmosphere was delightfully laid-back.

The area’s beaches are the best in Taiwan, with clear water for snorkeling and several good breaks for surfing. The extreme southerly location makes the water comfortable year-round, yet I saw few people swimming.

In the morning we paid a quick visit to a botanical reserve begun by the Japanese, then turned the car north, away from the barefoot throng and toward the island’s wild and untamed eastern side.

As quickly as that, we were alone.

The three-hour drive on the narrow coast road was tiring, and we took some quick breaks, once to splash in a river pool, another time to visit a Buddhist shrine in a roadside cave.

Buddhist and Taoist temples and shrines are everywhere on the island and were an unexpected pleasure for me, a lapsed Jewish boy with little use for organized religion. Perhaps it was the informality. No one led the prayers, and there seemed to be no pattern to the worship. The Taoist temples were particularly appealing. Worshipers left bundles of food for the gods, burned sticks of incense and symbolic money, and threw dice at the feet of the gods’ images to divine the future.

Amy had made reservations for us in Chihpen Hot Springs. The Royal Chihpen Hotel was a luxurious introduction to Taiwan’s ethnic origins. Local aboriginal crafts inspired the design. A brilliant red-and-white-checkered, full-sized Yami boat was parked in the lobby, on tiles made of the region’s characteristic “rose stone,” a manganese-infused marble.

What took my breath away, however, was the peculiar odor in the hall outside our elegant room. It was a while before I realized the source: the scorching mineral water that, with the turn of a valve, filled our private soaking tub. After a while, I stopped noticing the smell.

I was less successful with “stinky tofu,” a Taiwanese specialty that greeted me at Chihpen’s night market and every convenience store we stopped at on the road. Norwegians have lutefisk. Belgians have Limburger. Pungent tofu is Taiwan’s culinary acid test. Chase it with a little cobra soup and you can call yourself a native.

We spent the morning in Chihpen’s rain forest preserve, focusing one eye on the treetops for monkeys, the other on the ground for cobras. We encountered neither, which emboldened us for a look at Hualien, the largest city on Taiwan’s east coast.

It struck me as unattractive, modern but undistinguished. Or was the homogeneity in my untrained eye? Giant signs hung vertically from every storefront, and I couldn’t recognize a single neon Chinese character.

Amy didn’t need signs when it came to ferreting out the finest in local street cuisine. Instinct drew her through Hualien’s crowded sidewalks to a stand where we gorged on the world’s greatest dumplings at the world’s cheapest price--the equivalent of 80 cents per dozen. Amy pointed out a sign that said, “Over 70? Eat for free.” Something to think about when it’s time for retirement.

At sundown we hit the road for Taroko Gorge.

Along the way I fell into a dumpling-induced sleep. I awoke to a dream. Taroko Gorge is a national park and Taiwan’s No. 1 tourist destination, and the Grand Formosa is its only real hotel. (There are hostels and campsites.) The dream part was the cost: The equivalent of $100 bought a luxury suite, with color television in each room, a patio and a bathtub with a view. Outside the hotel, two raging rivers converged in the gorge flanked by high canyon walls. Inside, the entertainment consisted of nightly music and dance recitals by descendants of the Ami who once ruled here.

This is where I popped the question, adding a vow to spend years exploring this island as part of my commitment.

In the morning I started fulfilling the pledge.

The opening of roads into the complex and generally vertical scenery of this park took real ingenuity. One kilometer up the road from the hotel, we passed through a turnstile, which led to a tunnel, which led to a trail head, which led to the Paiyang waterfall. But oh, that tunnel--200 yards, dark and dripping. Beyond that were two small rivers, with a swing bridge hanging high above their whirlpool confluence. And beyond the bridge, a platform for viewing more waterfalls.

The trail back was level and wide, but seeing Amy walk close to its edge gave me the willies. It reminded me of how many died constructing the highway through the sheer cliffs of the gorge: 450 men, in just six years.

As an engineering project, Taroko is its own monument to Chiang Kai-shek’s nationalist effort in the 1950s. But there is also a monument to “the 450 Martyrs,” the Eternal Spring Shrine, which sits on a walking trail above one of the gorge’s prettiest freshets.

Less solemn is Wenshan hot springs, a riverside set of pools just upstream from the Grand Formosa. We hiked there in the rain, across another scary cable bridge, and down hundreds of slippery, moss-covered concrete steps. Dozens of young Taiwanese were at the bottom. Most of them had congregated in a cave holding the hottest water. It was too hot for me, so I lay on a flat rock and sipped tequila in the warm rain.

By the time Amy came out of the water and joined me, I was woozy from drink and the sulfurous air. Perhaps to steady myself, I asked if she still wanted to marry me. I got the “yes” I was hoping for.

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GUIDEBOOK

Taking In Taiwan

Getting there: EVA Airways, Northwest and China Airlines offer service from L.A. to Kaohsiung with one change of plane. Round-trip fares start at $555. China Airlines has a special $555 fare for nonstop service from L.A. to Taipei, the capital city.

Getting around: English-language guided tours operate from Taipei. Three that go to Taroko Gorge (day trip, about $130 per person; overnight, $210): Edison Travel, telephone 011-886-2-2563-5313; South East Travel Service, tel. 011-886-2-2571-3001; Huei Fong Travel, tel. 011-886-2-2551-5805.

Where to stay: Go-it-alone travelers won’t want to miss the Grand Formosa Hotel in Taroko Gorge. A double runs about $220, but steep discounts may be available. Tel. 011-886-3-869-1155,, Internet https://www .grandformosa-taroko.com.tw.

For more information: Taiwan Visitors Assn., 3731 Wilshire Blvd., Suite 504, Los Angeles, CA 90010; tel. (213) 389-1158, Internet https://www.tbroc.gov.tw.