Pinoy gay boys don't walk. They get carried around in a palanquin, like Roman women of noble birth.
I've never been much of a walker. Inhaling Manila's pollution gives me boogers so thick and dark, I might as well be scraping tar out of my nostrils. And like me, the average Filipino commuter still prefers to let years of his life slip by inside an airconditioned FX even whilst traffic's progress is measured in agonizing inches.
Since Chris and I got together, though, I've been inducted into the pleasures of walking. Some of the most memorable walks we've done together include Sunset Peak in Lantau (challenging), Maclehose Stage 2 in Sai Kung (picturesques), and the least rehabilitated stretch of the Great Wall of China (freaky). I've been a good sport. I've always shared carrying duties with the rucksack. I've never wimped out.
I could still feel the tension in my glutes and calves from the previous day's hike. The strenuous climb up Mt. Cising, it turned out, was only an appetizer for the next day's main course.
Friday morning, we took a train to Daxi. Chris had set the alarm but forgot to turn it on. We had to jump practically straight from the shower onto a 90-minute train ride. From Daxi, we were to get onto the Tsaoling Historic Trail - one of Taiwan's oldest, which snakes up a mountain range along the coast.
Daxi is a postcard-perfect town - old school train station with lacquered ceiling fans; lazy cats getting perfectly along with equally lazy dogs; sleepy mom-and-pop seaside restaurants that serve freshly caught fish. We had a grand time explaining that we wanted to order fried eggs. When the eggs finally arrived, they were served sunny side up, burnt, and covered with a thick layer of something that resembled syrupy balsamic vinegar. It was rubbery and strangely satisfying.
The trail is relentlessly punishing. It starts with a steep climb up an almost 650m peak, then stays high above the coastline until the last 3km, when it finally descends into Dali township.
We saw waterfalls, carabaos and a couple of temples along the way, which took my mind off the numbness that was spreading through my lower body.
"Fulong is less than 7 kilometres away," Chris started. I knew where this was going. "It'll take us just 2-3 hours to get to Fulong." By this time, we had already been walking well over four hours, sustained by little more than seaweed crackers, sweet orange juice and water, which we had to ration.
"No," I replied flatly. "Let's head towards Dali and finish strong."
Chris let me get my way, and I got to the end of the trail complaining as little as possible.
Whilst waiting for our Taipei-bound train at Dali's railway station, I peeled off my shoes and socks. My two pinky toes were swollen, quivering with pregnant blisters.
I willingly suffer moving mere inches in rush hour traffic to avoid death by pollution inhalation, at times not knowing whether to laugh or cry at the sheer absurdity or urban vehicular density. Until Tsaoling, I didn't know I was just as capable of making good time on a 16-kilometre mountain trail with nothing else around me but the sea, earth, sky, and the man I love.
Still, if I can't get a palanquin, I'd settle for a rickshaw.
With Affection,
James
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