The concert, such as it was, went ok, I guess. Managing to miss the downpours, I arrived at the school at around 4pm on Saturday so that I could video Chenbl’s flute group, which turned out to be larger than I’d anticipated. I was forced to set up the camera further back to get all 17 of them in, as they were spread across the “stage”. This, however, didn’t work out so well in the actual performance department, as nobody could hear anyone else, and the sound guy was a bit touchy whenever anyone point out any flaw in his microphone arrangement. “If you don’t like it, why are you playing here?” he asked.

Our trio was later, so we went to the basement to practice a bit, and Chenbl’s niece showed up to help video us later. They laughed at me sliding around the room in my socks while the others practiced. It was muggy and hot outside, and I was surprised so many people showed up. It seemed most of them were local elderly folks who lived nearby and had no choice but to witness the cacophony, and they figured they might as well do it right. Kudos for that, anyway.

I set up the camera in the area in front of the stage, and after watching Chenbl try to keep his sheet music from flying off his stand by using an elbow, I dashed in for the third song, “Summertime”. The people seemed to like it. Afterwards we had dinner at a nearby Japanese joint with Chenbl’s parents joining us. Chenbl’s mother grilled the waitress on her braces, while Chenbl asked me if he’s finally ready for the big time, by which he meant playing charity gigs, and I said, “not quite”. It’s impressive what he’s managed to learn in such a short time, but he still has a long way to go.

That was Saturday. On Sunday I spent most of the day at home putting some final touches on a couple of photo books I’ve been working on, so that I can get some samples printed for people both here and in Japan. Re-thinking the sequencing to conform to some concrete ideas and themes rather than going purely by feeling alone seemed to help. Also helpful was reading and looking at a book I borrowed from my friend Brian Webb: Tales of Tono by Daido Moriyama, the text of which seemed to have been written by a long-lost twin, especially the parts where Moriyama expresses his joy at setting out for the hinterlands after a long period of stewing in Tokyo. In the meantime, my book has five reviews on amazon.com now, mostly positive. I haven’t asked anyone to review it, or promised free copies or anything. I’m sure my lack of SEO awareness is not a good thing in this case, but perhaps things will be different when the print version comes out.

Dinner was at Evan’s Burger on Dunhua. I’d never been there, so I dragged Chenbl there to give it a try, for which he got revenge by telling me things like, “You can’t help but like the food you ate before you were 19. You will only like that food more and more as you get older. It’s biology.” This was his way of saying he doesn’t like hamburgers. He had fish and chips.

I gave a talk on photography last Thursday at the Chenghuang Temple in Taipei. I was expecting few people to show up, as it was the first day of a four-day weekend, and it was raining. I was wrong; the place was packed. I didn’t promote the talk at all, so I can’t explain how so many people came. I had too much material to get through, so I didn’t get to a lot of what I wanted to say, but it seemed to go well. Nonetheless, I needed to get away afterwards, and Spring Scream, where the Muddy Basin Ramblers were schedule this year, was just the ticket.

Sandman and I took the bullet train south at noon on Friday, the second day of the Tomb-sweeping holiday. Sandman had had his doubts about the trip, but was feeling better once we were rolling and drinking and commenting on the scenery. Kaohsiung appeared in a flash of conversation, and the other Ramblers, sans Thumper, were waiting for us in a restaurant downstairs from the station. We were going to take a bus, but a man was hawking his van, which seemed reasonable at NT$2,500 until we realized that his “van” was actually a Toyota Wish. Somehow, we managed to cram all of our gear and all six of us into the small station wagon, David crammed in the back and me with the tub in my lap, before we set off.

It’s a couple of hours from Kaohsiung to Kenting, where Spring Scream was being held for the 19th year. I’d never been to Spring Scream, as it has always existed in that realm of older foreigners that I never partook of, along with old bars and other expat joints that I’d heard of but never visited. The Ramblers had never played at Spring Scream either, and we felt this was the year to change all that. I hadn’t been in Kenting for years, and I was surprised at all the new development: Hotels, b&bs, restaurants, go-kart tracks, etc. We spilled out of the Wish at the Uni-President Hotel, the only real hotel in walking distance of Oluanpi Lighthouse Park, where the music festival was being held. It was hot and muggy, and though the hotel pool beckoned, we had to trek down to the festival to check in. This involved showing ID, signing our names, and getting a forearm tattoo as well as a chip on a bracelet to pay for things with. This chip had to be bought, and adding money cost money, as well as refunding money. There’s nothing about this that doesn’t indicate it’s a racket.

Spring Scream consisted of two main areas, separated by a winding path lit with LED lights. The first area had a couple of stages and long rows of food/drink/tattoo/handicraft stands, a big screen for Urban Nomad films, etc., and the second area held several stages and a few stands for handicrafts and tattoos and beer. Most of the bands sounded the same, so I spent a bit of time in one area before getting bored and going to the other area. I had some pizza from the Alleycats Stand, and talked with some people. The beer was apparently supplied by Bear Beer, but I have to say the place was a bit bear-deficient. I only saw a handful of actual bears, one of them limping. At night our friend Louis got on the big screen with a Skype session and played some music at us, which was cool and tech-y. David and I trekked back up the path to the road to find a long line of taxis well after midnight, while Conor and Slim came back much later. Our room was a split-level affair, so everyone had a place to sleep, even if it was the floor in Slim’s case. A thunderstorm arose in the night, heavy rain and lightning pounding the window. I was grateful that I wasn’t one of those poor souls camping out in a tent.

It was still raining on Saturday morning, and I bought some sandals to wear as I was afraid of ruining my shoes in the inevitable sea of mud that was the festival grounds by this point. The hotel’s breakfast wasn’t bad, though they were closing down by the time we straggled down to the basement to partake of what was left. A small girl at the next table stared at Slim with an expression of utmost disappointment on her little face. She didn’t look at Conor or me, just at Slim, as if he was far from meeting her expectations. Conor and Slim returned to their slumbering, but we got up for an impromptu practice behind the hotel, bringing several staff members out, not to complain, but to say how much they liked the music. I can understand how desperate they are for good music, as the hotel tends to play elevator music in the halls all the time. Thumper showed up as we ground through the pieces, having rented a car and driven down from Kaohsiung with his wife. The thunderstorm had brought cooler weather, and the pool didn’t seem so inviting now.

But we had to be back down at the festival, with our instruments this time, as we were scheduled to play at five. There was no lying about on the grass this time, as everything was wet, and the path between the two areas was a river of mud. Our well-traveled friend Alita, who wrote so enthusiastically about our appearance at SS this year in the TT last weekend, was wearing her signature wings, which were rather damp. Everything was rather damp, but when we finally got on stage after the previous two bands went long, we made everyone forget it was raining. Or, at least until a large gust of storm reminded us. It was a great, high-energy show, and the audience was really into it, even dancing in the mud, somehow. Thumper was recording everything on the Go-pro camera mounted on his head.

The management signaled that we had five minutes, and everyone looked at their watches, puzzled, as we still had much more than that. However, they were apparently trying to get back on schedule by cutting down our time, even though we had more people listening to us than any other band had up to that point. It was not a little reminiscent of our last appearance at Peacefest, and there was a reason it was our last appearance. That was also a very muddy experience.

Still, it was a great show while it lasted. We were mobbed by people wanting to buy our album when we got off the stage, which was nice, and we all walked around in a little glow until we realized that it was still raining and colder still. David lent me a jacket, but I was still chilled and rather bored with walking back and forth between the two areas in my now-muddy sandals. I sat and watched a documentary on Jimmy Carter and the Oil Crisis until another deluge forced everyone to take cover. By around 10:30 I’d had enough and decided to go back to the hotel for a nap and a warm shower, taking the tub and stick with me. I intended to come back for a midnight jam, so I left my trumpet there, but after a nap and talking with Thumper in his room for a couple of hours, I decided I didn’t feel like facing that muddy path again that night. Apparently cops shut everything down at midnight, but that didn’t stop Conor and Slim from staying until 5 a.m.

Breakfast on Sunday morning was good, and though Slim was able, thanks to the magic of electrolytes, to come eat breakfast, Conor was unable to rouse himself to such lofty ambitions. Thumper had already eaten, so it was just David, Sandman, Slim and myself. The disappointed girl was not present; perhaps she’d seen the show and changed her mind.

We had all heard the horror tales of traffic back to Kaohsiung following Spring Scream, so we tried to get a somewhat early start. I rode in the back of Thumper’s rental, while the rest took a taxi. A gaggle of expensive sports cars was blocking traffic on the road north, driving very slowly so as to clear out traffic ahead of them for some miles, whereupon they would drive very fast on the empty roads they had created. It was an incredible display of asshattery, proving that it’s ok to crap on other people as long as you’re 1) rich and 2) together with other rich people.

Traffic richtrolling aside, the drive was smooth, and Thumper dropped me off in front of Pingtung Train Station. From there I walked around town a bit, having lunch at Mos Burger, visiting a few temples and chatting with an elderly couple about an old Japanese-era ruin that had once been a luxury residence by the river. Oddly enough, there was a pile of ten-NT coins on the ledge of one of the windows, and they couldn’t explain this, saying that it definitely wasn’t haunted, as couples often went there for wedding photos. I walked around the neighborhood behind the train station and back around to the front, where I bought a ticket to Xin Zuoying. I was glad to rest my tired feet while watching the scenery roll by as the daylight faded.

At Zuoying, I consulted my schedule and decided I had enough time for another stroll, so I walked down to the nearby lake and sat watching the lights of the city reflected on the water. It was very pleasant, and I was surprised at how low-rent the undoubtedly convenient area between the train/HSR/Metro station and the lake still seemed. Hardly anyone was about on the streets as I walked back to the massive station complex, which resembles a space station compared to the modest neighborhood around it. I had a sandwich and salad while charging my phone, and then headed upstairs and then down again to board my 8:30 train. The trip was spent dozing, mostly, and Thumper was waiting downstairs from the Water Curtain Cave with my instruments, which he had graciously offered to bring up in the car so I wouldn’t be burdened with them between trains.

The Ramblers are working on our second album these days, and it’s a project that will take us most of the summer, most likely, but we’ll have a few shows here and there as well. It was great to get out of town and get a change of scenery, especially after working hard on preparing and giving the photography talk last week, but it’s also good to be back.

Back-to-back gigs made for a wonderfully strange weekend to coincide with the first hints of fall in the form of cool rain/misty non-heat/whatever you want to call it. The kind of weather that makes people turn off their air conditioners, realize that the air conditioners were covering all the noise from their neighbors playing Mahjong, and then promptly turn the air conditioners on again.

The Muddy Basin Ramblers were on the list to play at the old abandoned bottle-cap factory in Nangang on Saturday afternoon as part of a rock festival, aimed at the city’s youth, called the Black Town Music Festival by the art group URS 13 that did the Dihua Street exhibit where we played and I exhibited some photos a while back.

I’d never disembarked at that particular station before, and got lost  a few times in the labyrinthine connection between the MRT and train stations on the way, but eventually I emerged close enough to follow the sound of heavy metal screeching to the factory, which turned out to be comprised of the graffiti-covered shells of several large buildings, stripped of everything, the floors and walls sporting interestingly shaped protrusions leftover from the process of making bottle caps.

I managed to get within about 50 meters of the stage before the noise drove me back. Judging from the dozen or so people braving proximity to the band, the booming, echoing acoustics were not working in their favor. I wasn’t sure if there was any applause; the ringing in my ears might have cancelled it out.

You might ask: What the hell was a jug band doing at a rock concert? I suppose they were going for a certain amount of variety, and they knew us from the Dihua Street activities. In any case, after a lengthy sound check on stage, we were sure of one thing: They were into us. Even during the sound check a large crowd had gathered, applause breaking out even for short bits of music to test the microphone setup. Once the actual show began, the huge factory space filled to capacity, though it was hard to tell with all the lights on the stage. The sound guys had done a great job, testing each instrument individually and then the band as a whole.

The show went well, with the exception of one very odd key mishap, and everyone was happy. For our final song, David told the crowd, “This is a Taiwanese song we learned recently; you might have heard of it. Sing along if you know the words!” We then played the intro to “Wang Chun Feng” in a schmaltzy Nakishi style, and delighted screams erupted from the crowd.

Thumper and Sandy had to leave after the show, and Conor had another gig, but David, Slim and I hung out. Well, Slim and I hung out on the steps in front of one of the old buildings, on which is inscribed what TC actually stands for, and chatted while we waited for David to bring us back the Most Delicious Chicken Rice Bentos in Nangang or Possibly the World. Even Slim took more than two bites, and that’s as ringing a declaration of Goodness as there is. The rain came and went, people came and went, the sounds of subsequent bands wafting over to us on the wind. Strange things happened. I think a panda was seen at some point.

Sunday was the day of the Blues Queens Cruise, our second performance aboard the riverboat that plies the Danshui. Chenbl and I wandered from the metro station onto the wide plain of grass along the riverside that was recently added, confounded by the addition and the obvious lack of a riverboat in the vicinity, but it was further down the river a ways, docked amidst several smaller vessels. For a moment, in the cool mist, I could imagine walking down that path in some past decade, ticket in hand, and boarding a steamer bound for Japan.

This feeling was reinforced when we got on board after pushing the last few tickets on the dock with a show accompanied by a fellow in a wheelchair who could summon goat-dogs with his teeth: Japanese was the lingua franca of the boat, as most of the passengers as well as the other musicians were from that island nation to the north. The cruise was a benefit for Orchid Island, which was damaged heavily in the last couple of typhoons.

The mist lifted as the boat left the dock, pushing out into the river and heading towards the ocean, the sun glinting across the far-off waves of the open sea beyond the river mouth. The Japanese band played on the top deck first, and the sun dove slowly towards the horizon through various stages of clouds as the ship turned this way and that, until it was a cherry pop dipping into the ocean.

Various other craft were passing to and fro as we marched to the edge of the larger ocean waves before turning around, and we took the stage as night fell, the lights on the shores of either side blinking and flashing, the outlines of the mountains beyond fading in the darkness. Our sound was crackly and jazzy; it was a good show again. How could it not be? We were on a riverboat, playing our music as night fell in a cool breeze.

The boat docked once again at Danshui, and we walked to the old street to look for taxis, but the taxis were having none of this. They hesitated to appear, and once they did, the did not like the looks of us. David sat on the corner and played a tune, and the dancers danced, and the photographers photographed. A mainland Chinese couple yelled at us for “taking too long to decide” and promptly jumped in a cab that had been considering whether we would be worth the risk. Someone called a taxi service, and more cabs appeared. I motioned for one driver to roll down his window. “Where are you going?” he asked. I showed him the address, and his face fell.

“I have something to do now,” he decided.

Eventually we managed to find taxis over to Mudskippers, a bar on the river near Guandu, where David promptly launched into the epic “Ballad of the Chinese Tourists Who Stole My Taxi”. Conor and I accompanied.

As the other Ramblers contemplated my varied and important secrets, dinner was served: Chowder, caprese, spaghetti and fruit. All delicious, thanks to one of our band’s most loyal and longstanding fans, Jaye. You know Jaye.

We played, talked, danced and sang until the threat of the last train back to the basin called us to our senses. Then we talked, danced and sang on the subway back through the wee hours left before the week ahead.

A fairly interesting weekend. On Saturday Chenbl and I went out to Banqiao to a big campaign rally for President Ma. It was held in a stadium, the stage in the center of the field, surrounded by a sea of seats. Vendors were selling various paraphernalia around the track. It began to rain almost immediately after we arrived, but that didn’t stop droves of people flowing into the stadium. I helped out on stage by wrangling some of the people dressed in those blow-up costumes of various anthropomorphized items, such as drinks, other goods, and airplanes on stage during one of the shows. I led either a 747 or some kind of dragon around by the wing lest the person inside fall down in an embarrassing manner. At least they were protected from the rain, though I wouldn’t relish having a battery hookup in there to keep the thing inflated in that kind of weather.

President Ma and his running mate Premier Wu spent a lot of time shaking hands and talking with people before they got up to the stage, where Eric Chu and other KMT officials were filling time with speeches, permeated with a lot of “Diu-m-diu! (Right?)”

“DIU!” the crowd shouted back in between mouthfuls of lunch. We took advantage of a short lull in the rain to slip away after the president’s speech, following a steady stream of people making their way through the downpour to the train station. I spent the rest of the day among hundreds of prints on my living room floor, trying to make some sense out of it before I meet with the publisher.

The sun was peeking out on Sunday morning, so I decided to go to 2/28 park for taichi practice. Most of our usual practice area was covered in water from the previous day’s rain, but I found a sufficiently large patch to practice the forms and some sword before going over to practice tuishou with some of our group, who had congregated on the pavement in front of the fountain. It was a good, refreshing practice.

After some lunch at Mos Burger, I headed over to the new Bobwundaye for Lo Sirong’s CD launch party. David and Conor played on the album, and they played several songs from the album while we munched on some delicious snacks prepared by Katrina and sipped whiskey provided by Sirong for the event. It was a beautiful afternoon outside. Most of the other Ramblers were in attendance, with the notable exception of Slim, who was indisposed, so we followed with a couple of sets of our own. Slim was notable by his absence, and I couldn’t hear the bass, so I played as well as I could by feeling the vibration in my foot on the tub. It wasn’t a bad set, but rather rough around the edges.

Afterwards David introduced me to his taichi group, which practices at Xinglong Park in Muzha on the weekends. They were very interested in the whole lineage thing, who I studied with, which always reminds me of parties at the Hamptons where people ask which family you’re from (I’m guessing, having never been to the Hamptons and all). When I mentioned Teacher X, they said, “Oh, he is the student of our master!”

“His masters are dead,” I said. Which is true, both Master Yu and Master Song died years ago. Only Little Qin, my “elder brother”, also studied with Master Yu for a short time before the latter’s passing.

They were very nice, and invited me to join them at the park some time. But one older fellow, a tall, slim man named Mr. Li, seemed eager to try me out then and there. He kept making little illustrative pushes as we talked, as if he were sounding me out, and when I put down my bass string he advanced in earnest.

Mr. Li is very good, and, both of us having more than a few drinks under our belts, things got a little, uh, animated. My response was probably ill-advised, but then again I’m not used to doing tuishou in bars. We went back and forth rapidly a few times, but Mr. Li was making annoyingly quick grabbing moves, and I ended up pulling him around me. As he stumbled, his glasses flew out of his pocket and hit the floor. I could feel everyone staring at us, and I apologized to Mr. Li as I helped him pick up his glasses, which thankfully weren’t broken.

I felt bad about it, though, and I’m sure I made a horrible impression on the group after they were so nice to me. They left (I can’t blame them), and I took a seat at the bar and had some more whiskey while chatting with David, Kat, Conor and Jay until late. Though Kat had pulled the steel door halfway down and doused the exterior lights, such is the location of the new place that groups of patrons kept pouring in every so often, all “just for one drink, we promise!” I think they’re going to do quite well.

David and I shared a cab back, a Toyota Wish with skylights, and I spent the latter half of the journey staring at the lights shining out of the windows of various expensive apartment towers living the rivers of New Taipei City.

I’d thought that the Muddy Basin Ramblers were meeting up at the Red House Theater in the West Gate District at 1:30 in the afternoon before our 2:05 show at a benefit concert for Japanese tsunami orphans, and I therefore proceeded to enjoy a leisurely morning at home, slowly getting my things together, before realizing that we’d actually arranged to meet at 12:30. One mad dash and a NT$300 taxi ride later, I was behind the theater going through a quick practice with the band, minus Conor who was already on stage with another band.

The show went well, but it was over too quickly. It seemed like we’d barely started before we were playing our last song as the hosts came up on stage. I was taking apart the washtub bass when one of the hosts, a woman, grabbed the tub and held it up for the audience to see. “This is what he’s been playing, if you didn’t notice!” she said. She then asked for a quick demonstration. Now there’s a sentence to boost my search ratings.

We were going out to celebrate David’s birthday that night, so I hung around and listened to the other bands, which included a Japanese family of ukulele players who performed some hits from Miyazaki movie themes like Spirited Away and Totoro. Adorable, if somewhat out of tune. One of the younger kids lost the beat halfway through one song, and within two measures the rest of the family switched to accommodate him. We had planned to find a spot near the Chungshan Hall for a little street performance, but Sandy and Thumper bailed early. A South American group got on stage and played such wonderful mariachi-style tunes I wanted to jump on stage and play along, but I refrained.

Eventually I tired of the booming sound, however, and walked out to the square where the old roundabout and park used to be before they made a boring intersection out of it, and stood in the same spot for about half an hour, just looking at people and things. Everyone had a camera, everyone was taking photos except me. The Golden Melody Awards, which I attended with Chalaw a few years ago (we didn’t win, but he won the next year), were taking place that evening, and one of my favorite bands as well as a friend, Matzka, was up for several awards. I knew from previous experience that he and his band were probably walking down the red carpet at the venue as I stood watching people in the square. Matzka would win the best group award that night. Not bad.

Night fell over the Red House Theater as all the bars and clubs fired up and filled with bears and other demographics. We walked over to the Calcutta. Slim was sloshedly vociferous the whole way. The food wasn’t bad, better than Tandoor, I felt, though I’m not a particular connoisseur of Indian food. David and Robin told tales of their recent honeymoon in Paris, of all the wonderful sights and sounds I missed when I was there, such as Belleville and the bars where Django Reinhardt and Stephan Grapelli played. The Leica Forum is going on there at the moment, attended by many a wealthy photographer (and probably some good ones, too, he said, trying not to sound too bitter).

The others were heading to Bobwundaye after dinner for some jamming, but I had an early start coming up on Sunday, so I reluctantly declined even though I was itching to play some more.

I was awake at 7:20 a.m. the next morning, grabbing the Invincible Rabbit and heading out into the already-brilliant sunshine, across the bridge and onto the subway to Taipei Train Station, where I met up with Chenbl, Terry, Lulu, Sean, his girlfriend Lily and her cousin, who were visiting from Hong Kong. Sean just got his master’s degree from Qinghua University in Disney Studies.

We caught the train to Keelung, traveling along the various construction sites and through the industry, through the mountain range and into the port city in about 40 minutes. Chenbl just failed to catch the bus out to Peace Island, so we waited in the hot sun, shooting irritated-looking passengers. Terry had an even more formidable beast than the Rabbit, a 1Ds, while Lulu, I think, had a 50D. A new liner was docked in the harbor, the Star Aquarius, bigger and nicer than the Star Libra I took to Okinawa. I wondered where it was bound for..Singapore? Hong Kong? Across from it was the Cosco Star that we took to Xiamen a few months ago. It looked small and dirty next to the Aquarius.

We caught the next bus out to Peace Island, which is located across a short bridge up near the mouth of the river. The area by the entrance is still under construction, as it was this time last year when I last saw it. The sun was glaring off the newly laid concrete, and a guard languished deep inside the shade of his shelter at the gate of a military base. We walked out to the rocky coast, where some messy picnickers were lighting fires and consuming bottles of tea. I climbed up on the rocks to get close to the sea, delighted to hear the wonderful sound of the water sluicing through the various crevices.

We walked up the coast and inland to a small group of houses whose occupants no doubt rely on hot, sweaty tourists for their livelihood. A group of aboriginal children surrounded us, trying and failing to guess who among us was Taiwanese and who wasn’t. “You’re the only real Taiwanese here,” I told them. The kids were apparently big fans of the hit TV show Rookie’s Diary, and weren’t entirely convinced that I knew Ye Da-tong, Lai Hu, Luo Gang, and Yang Hai-sheng, and I thought it was a shame that my friend Fu Zi-cun, who played Yang Hai-sheng and who is not a bad photographer himself, didn’t come along this time. He’s busy filming a new series down south though, and couldn’t make it.

The kids were playing around on a laundry rack comprised of a bamboo stick on two poles as we talked to them, and suddenly the bamboo stick, which was obviously quite old and moldy, broke. Almost immediately an old man in a white shirt came rushing up, yelling at this travesty, and the kids scattered. The old man took off his shoe and threw it at the kids several times, cursing them. At one point he actually got his hand on one of them and raised a heavy club to hit him with, but Terry stopped him, saying, “There’s no need for that.” I wondered if we would see that old man in the Apple Daily some day.

We walked down to the nearest bus stop and, 15 sweaty minutes later, caught a bus back to the train station, where we’d arranged to meet up with the Taiwan Photo Club, or at least part of it. Craig and Selina were there, of course, as well as Josh Ellis, Gillian Benjamin and a few others. They were waiting at the Starbucks on the harbor, and we had a quick lunch at the Burger King next door, enticed by the free ice cream sundaes, before boarding another bus out to the Fairy Cave.

I don’t think I’d ever been to the Fairy Cave before. Flocks of birds swarmed around the cliff face above the cave’s entrance, which was accompanied by ever-shy monks and a great deal of religious paraphernalia as the cave contains several temples. It was cool and misty inside, and several side caves branched out from the main one. One of the side branches became quite narrow, and some people came back claiming it was impossible to get through. I tried it, and though I had to crouch over and turn sideways, both the rabbit and I managed to get through fairly unscathed, though my shoulders were scrapped and muddy. Inside was another altar enveloped in a heavy mix of mist and incense that an ancient fan in the corner failed to alleviate.

We explored the neighborhood around the cave, waking up dogs and cats and a strange kind of wasp that attacked Josh because it really didn’t want to be on Facebook. Then Chenbl led us on a long trek across the valley and up another hill to a nice view of the sea right next to a power plant. As we recovered from the climb, which included the toxic fumes of a house painted entirely in tar the owner probably won in a game of majhong and didn’t want to waste, a lone paraglider sailed over the smokestacks of the powerplant, his shadow flitting across the field overlooking the sea.

The walk back down was much easier, and we luxuriated in the air conditioning of the rickety bus back downtown. Terry, Lulu, Sean, Lily and Lily’s cousin had to leave; the rest of us crossed the bridge over the other side of the tracks. A couple of aesthetic homeless men populated the bridge, lit by the late-afternoon sun in a way that even I couldn’t resist taking a shot, though I generally don’t like to take too many such shots. Craig was taking phone pictures the whole time, unburdened by a heavy DSLR. Probably a smart move considering the heat and all the hills we were climbing that day.

We wound our way through the steep alleys and stairs, passing and occasionally photographing the local residents. One man sitting on his scooter smoking glared at me as I took his shot. “Sorry,” he said, pointing to his cigarette. I refrained from pointing out that he would look just as thuggish without the cigarette, and walked on.

The whole of Keelung was laid out in the light of the approaching sunset as we reached the big KEELUNG sign, whereupon the mosquitoes decided that Chenbl was the only really delicious person on the site. Everyone except Craig and Selina climbed up to the top of the hill for an even better view. Josh and I stood atop the summit, on a circle of an old structure, noting the approaching clouds and thunder that meant it was surely raining in Taipei. The Aquarius had departed, off to wherever it was headed, a voyage of good food, swimming pools and gambling. The Cosco Star would be heading out later that evening.

Rain began to fall as we descended the hill, often going in circles as Chenbl tried to make the walk more interesting. We recrossed the bridge, noting that the homeless men had changed positions, and walked over to the Miaokou Night Market, which was mostly closed due to construction work. I didn’t see anything I liked. The harbor city was taking on its nocturnal form, its nights darker than those of other cities, its streets and alleys closer, wetter. I was game for more exploration, but I could feel the group’s gravitation towards the train station and our comfortable homes, so I went along, telling myself, another time: Keelung will still be there.

My good friends David and Robyn got married on Saturday. They’ve been together for as long as I’ve known them, but they decided to make it official with a touching ceremony held at the Taipei Artists Village, the site of many a late-night jam over the years. Jason presided over an impressive and apparently endless spread of delicious food and tents were set up, under which friends from all over the world mixed and mingled. Hakka singer Lo Sirong as well as Chalaw & Passiwali provided great tunes over the course of the afternoon, and I got on stage to play trumpet for a few songs while rings of guests joined David and Robyn in aboriginal-style dancing. The weather was brilliant, specially arrange, David told us, by Jason, who apparently has an in with the weather gods.

The highlight of the afternoon was definitely the vows the happy couple had written to each other. I always find myself abashed and slightly in awe of such genuine displays of mutual affection, especially between two of the nicest people I know. Then a woman asked everyone to hold hands in a giant circle and close their eyes while she gave her bilingual blessing.

Things were winding down by 7 p.m. Chenbl and I walked over to Q-Square to meet Steve and Masaharu, a friend from Osaka, who was in town for just one day. Something to do with frequent flyer miles, I gathered. Masaharu speaks almost no Chinese and very little English, and our Japanese is in its infant stages to say the least. After dinner we walked to New Park to meet one of Steve’s friends who is into Mongolian Throat Singing. He’s putting on a show early next month that I’m looking forward to attending.

Sunday morning was spent rather frantically trying to make the Water Curtain Cave somewhat presentable, as my friend Professor Wu from Kaohsiung was paying a visit. An art professor who is responsible for sending waves of students adding me on Flickr each time he uses my photos as teaching materials, Professor Wu had never been to Bitan before, despite a professed familiarity with Taipei.

When he arrived, he was amazed.”I had no idea all this was here!” he exclaimed when we went up to the roof to survey the area*. As the weather was fine once again, crowds of swanboats filled the lake, and tourists were crowding the bridge, stopping on the other side when confronted with the shabby illegal shacks surrounding the group of high-rises where I live. We had a nice lunch at the blue-roofed riverside cafe overlooking the river before retiring to the Cave to talk photography. I’m looking at publishing a photobook, but I need some direction on the direction, so to speak, and needed a fresh opinion. Professor Wu gave me some interesting views, and his advice made certain thorny issues quite a bit clearer.

As the afternoon progressed we walked down to the dock and took the ferry across to the unofficial temple, where I took photos of some gangsteresque fellows while pretending I was actually shooting Professor Wu. As the ferry glided across the sunlit water, I noticed, far above the people diving into the lake from the cliff, suspended walkways built into the mountainside. I’ll have to go explore those someday soon.

Professor Wu had never been to Dihua Street either, so we took the subway over and walked down the silent avenue among the old buildings in various states of repair. Chenbl had to remind him to ask the local gods before taking photos at a minor roadside temple, the kind where the ghosts of accident victims are pressed into service for various local duties.

Dinner was a lavish affair downstairs at Taobanwu…well, lavish for me anyway, in that it included little cups of vinegary drink in between the courses. Professor Wu had to get back to Kaohsiung on the bullet train, so we parted ways at the station. Hopefully he’ll be able to make it up next weekend to see some accoustic Muddy Basin Rambling at Huashan after Urban Nomad on Friday night.

*I should note that I am by no means recommending Bitan as a good place to live or that you should consider moving here. It’s colder and wetter than Taipei, the bridge swings in the wind, and the crowds of tourists on the weekends are truly wearing. Try Muzha; I hear they’ve still got a few spots left over there, with their fancy gondola and all that.

My photo exhibit at 127 Dihua Street wrapped up yesterday. Chenbl and I met some friends of ours there around noon and took them to Bolero, the original Western restaurant in Taipei, where we had some delicious steak in the place’s 60’s-era atmosphere. Seriously, if Xiao Guo hadn’t been playing with his iPhone, the illusion that it was still 1965 would have been complete.

After lunch we walked back to the gallery, where the other members of the Muddy Basin Ramblers were assembling for some practice before our 4pm show. We had an audience out back in the courtyard, so it was kind of a show in itself, though we kept stopping and correcting things, and played some songs for the first time ever. It was good to be playing again with the old crowd, though Conor’s back in Blighty at the mo. In his absence, we had a couple of musicians filling in; I taught one of them how to play the washtub bass for the horn songs.

I’d been wondering what to do with the photos after the exhibition ended, and the owner of the café behind the gallery provided me with an answer; he said he wanted to display them on the walls there. Neat.

A lot of people came for the last day. I have to say that the whole experience has been extremely gratifying, especially being able to observe people’s reactions to and discussion of the photos, rather than just reading the occasional “Nice capture!” on Flickr. The large prints really let the details of the photos come across, and the combination of being able to see such details at the same time as the entire composition impressed me with its impact relative to viewing on a computer monitor. A professor from the Arts University in Guandu even asked me last night if I would like to give a photography lecture for the students there, and some publishers have talked to me about books.

But even when nobody was there, say on cold, rainy weekdays, I found it immensely comforting to just sit in the gallery on my lunch break and listen to the music and sounds of the surroundings. It’s just a great space in a fascinating old area, and we also hope to practice and play there more in the future.

We decided to move out to the street front for our 4pm show, and the response was tremendous. We attracted a large crowd immediately, and there were literally people dancing in the street. We invited the dancers to dance in front of us to avoid an accident. Our CDs sold out halfway through the show. It was truly a rip-roaring good time, something I really needed to help knock me out of the cold rift in which I was stuck.

We ended up at Yipin on Minsheng West Road for a dinner of beef rolls and yummy fried rice, and then it was back to 127 for a party in the upstairs gallery to celebrate the success of the exhibit. All of the artists involved were there, and we gave each other gifts and talked about the experiences. David, Slim and some of the other musicians started playing some tunes, and I joined in on bass while the other listened and talked.

I was loath to leave as things wound down that evening. I waved goodbye to David, Slim and the others as they hauled their instruments up Dihua Street towards the subway, and the others were busy pulling things down. I took a last stroll around the downstairs galleries, sitting in the giant onion for a spell. I was exhausted but happy. It’s been a great experience with a great group of people, and I hope we can do more together in the future.

Yesterday was the grand opening of my first formal photography exhibition at an art gallery on Dihua Street, a traditional area of old Taipei lined with fascinating restored buildings from back in the days when goods came down the river to unload there. The gallery is next door to some of the only original three-story buildings on the street, so my guess is that was the center of things during the area’s heydays almost a hundred years ago.

Chenbl and I had spent hours hanging the photos and putting up lights, etc. the night before, so I was fairly exhausted by the time I hauled all my instruments onto the MRT and off again at the new Daqiaotou Station, which is nearest to Dihua Street. Lots of people were already there, including several artists hastily working on last-minute adjustments to their exhibits downstairs. My show is on the second floor, and I found Chenbl sitting on one of the stools, traditional Taiwanese music playing on a small MP3 player. The effect was very nice.

I’d forgotten that the stick I used to play washtub bass was still at Bobwundaye’s, so David Chen and I walked over to a shop on the next street over, and found a shovel handle that the owner was happy to drill a hole in. NT$80. Behold, the wonderfully cheap accessibility to washtub bass materials. Make your own! Back at the gallery, we set up in the courtyard out back. Several of my friends from Taipei’s bear community showed up in support, which was nice to see, and some folks from Forumosa, flickr and Facebook came as well. It was all very gratifying.

The Muddy Basin Ramblers were in our element playing unplugged in the courtyard, free to move around and interact with the crowd. It was a lot of fun, though I’m a bit rusty after not playing for so long (I missed the Blues Bash due to a scheduling mixup that was entirely my fault…I was in Hong Kong at the time).

People seemed to enjoy the photos; more importantly, I was pleased to see people, strangers I didn’t know, pointing and discussing various elements of the photos. It will be up for a month, so if you have time, go take a look. The gallery closes at 5 p.m. however.

There was a meeting of the gallery folk, who were discussing a project for Treasure Hill, some kind of lighting thing, so I missed dinner with the rest of the band, unfortunately. I tried to hang around and talk to people. Many were surprised that so many of the shots were taken with compact cameras; the GF1 is well-represented, and some were even taken with the tiny LX3.

I shared a cab with David and Robyn. Back in Bitan again. What a day. Thanks to everyone who came.

I’m just finishing up the last edit of the English-language version of my book detailing my time in the army, so I thought it would be appropriate to go down to the place where I spent the majority of my military career, Da Ping Ding in Miaoli, to take a look around. Chenbl and I set out on a 9 a.m. train; the once-mighty Ziqiang Express seemed old-fashioned and lackadaisical in comparison with the ultra-modern bullet train system, but the bullet train does not stop in Miaoli. A typhoon was on its way, but I was banking that Saturday would be tolerable, weather-wise.

We got off at the station, which seems to be at the edge of town, far off from the little downtown area. Miaoli is comprised basically of two parallel streets. Back in the day, the Miaoli buses heading up the mountain towards Sanyi left frequently, but now only the Hsinchu buses seem to leave with any regularity. We got on one and creaked across town; it was just the two of us until we stopped at the bus station in the real downtown to pick up passengers.

Up the mountain, to Shangnanshi. The base, though long abandoned, was still standing and covered with dense foliage. The last time I was up there civilian guards had been posted at the gates, with motion sensors set up inside, so after getting off the bus we headed for the East Base’s back gate, where I knew of a few places one could sneak in. The holes in the perimeter were still there, but the areas just inside were so overgrown that we had to hack our way through some pretty thick trees and vines to get to the main base road.

Once inside, I was momentarily disoriented at the sight of the shell of a building, all the windows gone and the ceiling tiles hanging down. Then I realized that it was the old Guard Company mess hall, and that I’d even had my picture taken standing in front of it. Just behind it was the cliff from which I’d enjoyed the view over the valley below when I got a break from washing dishes after meals.

I was wary of guards and stray dogs, often stopping to shush Chenbl’s usual incessant commentary; he was convinced nobody was around, but I wasn’t so sure. We walked past familiar buildings and signs to the Guard Company barracks, the quads in between buildings covered in dense, jungle-like overgrowth, the windows gone and the rooms empty. I found the place I’d lived in so long ago and sat on the spot where my old bunk was, remembering what it was like to sleep there, with only ceiling fans to keep cool in the summer heat. We’d spent the onslaught of Typhoon Herb there, and back then I wondered what the base would look like after it had been abandoned. Now I know.

The Guard Company faced the East Base’s parade grounds, which is now waist-high in weeds. We walked over to the Division HQ building that spooked me out on several occasions when I had to stand guard there at night and listen to the ghosts. Chenbl, ever sensitive to such things, said he felt dizzy and insisted on apologizing to any spirits who might be offended at our presence.

After making a round of the entire East Base, I began to suspect that there was actually nobody around. We passed female officers’ quarters, something that I’d never encountered when I was there. Back at the Guard Company, I kept noticing places where various things had happened; I felt like I was in a time travel novel, visiting ancient ruins where I once lived.

We snuck out a hold near the side gate where I’d waited in line so many time to get in and out of the base, and then across the road to the West Base, where we fought through another mass of brambles and thorns to the main armory. Some dogs noticed us and began barking, and though nobody appeared, I walked quickly ahead to the rear part of the base where the Regiment HQ was located. A seemingly flightless white pigeon strutted up and down the leaf-covered road as black clouds began to cover the sky. The silence and emptiness were eerie. Vines and bushes had invaded some of the buildings. Even the motion sensors were gone, though the plastic shells of some could still be seen here and there.

I showed Chenbl the RHQ barracks and the base karaoke that I’d managed. The floor I’d spent so much time mopping was covered with dirt, as is the spider-infested bar where I’d picked laserdiscs of songs for various officers to sing. Rain began to pelt down, and we took refuge in the RHQ rec room while we got our umbrellas out, and then followed the base ring road to the main gate, which felt a little strange in that we usually ran around it going the other way. When I turned around, it seemed much more familiar. There used to be an old guy manning the main gate, but I figured it wouldn’t matter by that time if we got thrown out.

Nobody was there. Chenbl took my picture in front of the rapid response unit barracks as well as at the main gate guard post where I’d stood guard. The old Chiang Kai-shek statue is still there, with the old green man waving his hat and smiling at the empty, unmanned gate in front of the overgrown parade grounds. After I got my fill of pictures and just standing around lost in various reveries, we walked out the gate and down the road to catch the bus to Tongluo, where we had some unimpressive Hakka noodles for lunch. Chenbl asked an old woman if there was anything interesting around, but after I took her picture, she yelled, “I give you directions and then you take unflattering pictures of me? How dare you?” But we were already walking away, past thick green rice fields waving in the wind like a big bedspread. We stopped to walk with a woman hurriedly harvesting a small garden before the storm hit, and then visited an old hospital from the Japanese area, a two-story wooden building with blue trimming. The original doctor’s son lives there now, by himself, and he came out to tell us a bit around the place.

We took the electric train back to Miaoli Station. By that time it was around 5:30 p.m. which was normally about the time I would get there when I had leave and wanted to go up to Taipei, so I experienced a little willing cognitive dissonance, imagining that it was still 1996 and I’d just come down from the base, ready for a weekend on the town. Then I pulled out my iPhone and ruined the atmosphere.

We got back to Taipei around 8 p.m. and proceeded to the Taipei Artists Village, where Thumper was holding his 20th arriversary, i.e. 20 years since he came to Taiwan. We were the first to show up; Jason was setting up the barbeque, and I fashioned a string for the washtub bass from one of the bar decorations. Other people began showing up, and as usual, the more people inhabit a room, the less I feel like talking. I walked between people, taking pictures and munching on the excellent food (except for the undercooked potatoes), until my upstairs neighbor Brent started the evening’s musical entertainment. The bass lasted about two songs before the string broke, but I wasn’t in much of a mood for the bass anyway and declined David’s offer of fiber-optic wire as a replacement (it was too slippery and cut my hand when I tried to tie it). The pocket trumpet called to me, however, although not many of the songs really suited it, though Conor rope me into a 12-bar blues set.

By around 2 or 3 a.m. many people had already gone; only a few of us were left. I shuffled around the edges of the room, playing freestyle licks here and there. Rodney was doing something on the drums, and Lany was playing around with some guitar stuff. Somehow, we all just synced up and Lo! a pretty cool jam ensued. But I was tired, and when Brent said he was leaving, I took him up on his offer of a ride back through the growing storm. It would save me a trip across the galloping Bitan bridge, anyway.

For the first time in a good while, the Muddy Basin Ramblers converged once again for a show, this time down in the wilds of Taichung County, at the ruins of the Dongshan Amusement Park, which was abandoned after the huge 9/21/1999 earthquake.

Usually Conor is the last to show up, but this time I was the last to arrive at the south exit of the train station where we’d arranged to meet, thanks to just missing a subway train. David rushed off to get tickets for the band and Chenbl, who was along for the ride. We caught the 12:36 bullet train, arriving at the Wurih Station in Taichung, where we eschewed the smaller taxis in favor of larger station wagons that could carry us in the fashion to which we, and by we I mean Sandy and his bottle of whiskey, are accustomed.

The Dongshan Amusement Park reminds me not a little of the old Xingfu Fun Fair at Bitan, before they tore the remains down several years ago: Vines, dull, flaking paint barely covering rusting, skeletal rides. A sad place. I kept thinking about the last day of the park’s operation, what everyone who worked there and played there felt and did. A few young foreigners were about setting up tents, as well as Landis, the organizer, who had hauled Conor as well as our gear out there in the back of his jeep.

The “stage” turned out to be the edge of a drained pool. The local wasp community took obvious umbrage at the encroachment on their territory (as well as their name) by the newcomers, and a large spider scrambled out of the stiflingly hot green room as we put our gear down.Outside, one of the pools held a mudlike concoction that was about 30% dead leaves, 40% water and 30% hippies.

Thumper raged about the sound guys, who were managing some impressively coordinated standing around as we went through a sound check that consisted mostly of ear-splitting feedback and the lead sound guy telling David how to turn the mic button on. Everything was loud and tinny except the bass, which…wasn’t.”Which way should I turn the mic, away from the speakers, I guess?” I asked one of them. “Whatever you like; it doesn’t matter,” he told me before another blast of feedback caused everyone to jump.

But there was no time for such niceties by that point; the show was beginning with a local band called “AWESOME SHIT.” It takes balls to call your band “AWESOME SHIT.” That, and maybe a burning need to compensate.

We held a little practice session of our own by the large gorilla, in front of the small carousel, and then split up to explore and get away from the incredibly loud sound of AWESOME SHIT. The park borders a small stream with a rickety suspension bridge. Partially submerged boats floated in moss-filled water, and a rusting monorail snaked though the branches above. Bats filled the skies, dodging at invisible prey, as, only a few feet above them, an apparently home-made white airplane flew, often sideways, over the park. An ROC flag was painted on its tail, and each pass was lower and slower, until it stopped. I didn’t hear a crash, so I assume whoever it was made it down in one piece.

Chenbl and I decided to get some burgers for dinner, but this turned out to be problematic: the guy working the huge grill was having a minor breakdown as orders mounted. We ended waiting for over half an hour for our burgers, which turned out to be the “nearly impossible to eat” size that is so popular these days. When I was growing up, I remember burgers being much more manageable in size.You could hold a hamburger in your hands, and bite into it without straining your jaw muscles. And it was good. Damn, but I miss Steak ‘n Shake. Later on, Thumper and Slim reported that the burger guy had just given up and stopped serving people altogether.

We were on at 7pm. The number of young westerners wandering the park increased as night fell and tents went up in various nooks and crannies. As we took the stage, the lights came up, nearly blinding us. I quickly ran back to get some sunglasses, but they only provided a small amount of protection against the brilliance projected straight into my eyes. The audience was effectively invisible; it was like playing into a closet door.

When we started up our first song, Viola Lee, I was surprised to hear that Sandy wasn’t playing his usual part. In fact, I wasn’t sure just what he was playing; he did seem to be having an inordinately good time, jumping around the stage regardless of mic positions and rubbing up against David like an attention-starved cat.

Fortunately the sound situation had improved somewhat; I could hear the bass, anyway, and there was scattered applause from the closet. I had to keep on my toes throughout the show due to various, er, whiskey-induced missing of elements, to put it technically, but things turned out alright, if a bit sloppy. Ok, things were very sloppy. But it was ok; the closet seemed happy, and we haven’t played a gig in a while.

After the show, the Ramblers scattered again. Slim disappeared into the Vagina Monologues Hut where he did some free-style scatting. Daring young foreigners pedaled along the rusty monorail above our heads, past the Pirates o’ Sodomy attraction while Sandy sat on a curb whining around hippies. Chenbl had sold only one CD due to the rampant poverty that no doubt ensued from buying too much beer.

We stayed to listen to Two Acres Plowed, which was improved immeasurably since their drum-machine days with the addition of a smokin’ hot fiddle, but we had to catch the train back up to Taipei.40 cramped, sweaty minutes later we were at the HSR station McDonalds slurping down ice cream and french fries before the smooth ride back to the Basin. I nodded off into a caramel-induced slumber on the train while Conor expounded on the meaning of economics-based employment, and before I knew it we’d arrived. Thumper, Conor, Chenbl and David bade farewell, while Sandy, Slim and I caught the subway.

“What do you do with that?” a Saudi Arabian woman asked me, pointing to the tub as we slid southwards.

“I’ll show you,” I said, setting up the bass and playing a few riffs, much to Slim’s amusement. Then I got out my trumpet, muted of course (I’m not an animal, you know) and played around to pass the time as Sandy waved to and fro to the motion of the car. Then it was the usual walk across the bridge and back to the Water Curtain Cave, where I fell asleep almost immediately.