A Penghu Escape

I had to get away from Taiwan. I had four days off and not enough money to get me even to Hong Kong, but I really needed a change of scenery. So I thought of Penghu.

Even though I’ve lived in Taiwan for many years, I had never been to Penghu. Taiwanese people describe them as desolate, windswept rocks in the sea, and indeed when I had flown over them on my way to and from Kinmen, they had appeared quite barren and lifeless.

Still, a change from verdant, mountainous Taiwan would be welcome, I thought, and the fact that round-trip airfare was a mere NT$3,000 was an added bonus. I packed a bag, bought a ticket at the nearest travel agency and caught an afternoon flight out of Sungshan Airport. It was Thursday, and there were only a few people on the flight.

As we approached the islands we flew over little bits of island, the first outposts of the Pescadores. There didn’t seem to be anyone living on them at first, but soon I was able to catch site of a few small fishing villages balanced precariously on the coasts.

We landed and I exited the plane into the harsh sunlight and dusty wind. There was no enclosed passage into the miniscule Makung airport, which was comprised of basically one long room, filled with groups of young men whose dark tans and regulation haircuts betrayed their status as soldiers on leave. I pushed through the crowd onto the street in front of the airport and caught one of the cabs to downtown Makung, about 10 minutes and NT$200 away. On the way, the only vegetation I saw consisted of large swathes of shrubbery. The Knights Who Say “Ni!” would have loved it. The buildings were similar to those on Taiwan, except perhaps older and more exposed due to the lack of vegetation. This made them appear cleaner and neater, although Penghu seemed neater and more orderly than Taiwan in general.

We drove around the bay into Makung, the capital of Penghu, and the driver dropped me off on a downtown street. I hadn’t made any reservations and planned to just walk around the city on my first day. Perhaps ‘city’ is stretching it a bit, though. Makung has the look and feel more akin to a small town in rural Oklahoma than a Taiwanese city. I didn’t have much trouble imagining an old movie theater or a soda shop just around the corner. Most of the sidewalks were wide and devoid of encroachment by food stalls, parked cars, motorcycles and other obstructions which are so universal in Taiwan. Street lamps bordered the main street leading down to the harbor, from which a refreshing, salty breeze blew. Hardly anyone was about, causing me to wonder momentarily if there had been a mainland Chinese attack and everyone had forgotten to inform me of it. But that is just Penghu, or at least Penghu at mid-week, before the tourists flood in. Indeed, when I walked down to the small harbor, the ship from Kaohsiung had just pulled in, and groups of middle-aged and older Taiwanese were milling around waiting for tour buses while newly-arrived army soldiers sat cross-legged on the docks as sergeants checked off their names. I would see a heavy military presence pretty much everywhere I went in the archipelago. Fishing boats putted in and out of the deep blue bay, the sound of their motors mixing with the calls of the fishermen and the ever-present gurgling of the water as it lapped against the docks. Mists, left over from dry ice used to pack fish, floated out of warehouses by the docks and disappeared in the afternoon sun. The boats in the harbor ranged in size from large, commercial fishing vessels to tiny, two-person launches that bobbed violently in response to the slightest wake of a passing vessel.

I wandered back into town through a maze of alleyways, wondering at the old architecture. Pieces of coral were apparently used as bricks in many of the older walls. I stopped in little squares with a small tree or two and places where people could gather and sit, surrounded by two- or three-story buildings that housed barbershops and Chinese pharmacies. One such place had a curious four-hole well in the middle of it. It was called the “Four Sleep Well”, and apparently it was a well-known landmark, as tour groups would appear from time to time and stare at it for a few seconds before leaving.

The Matsu Temple in Makung is, I read, the oldest temple still standing in the ROC, having been built almost 400 years ago. The smell of old wood baking in the sun and an undeniable feeling of history pervaded the structure, which seemed smaller than most temples on Taiwan. Adding to the air of permanence was the huge old tree in the courtyard, whose branches had no doubt shaded many generations of temple-goers and under which hung a cage which held a bird who would periodically cry out, sounding for all the world like it was being stepped on.

More people came out to stroll the streets after sunset. The squares around temples were full of neighbors, families and friends, all eating at the stalls set up there. There didn’t seem to be very many real restaurants, and those were full of the tourists from the boat. A plethora of cooking smells wafted through the air, mixing with the salty sea air. I picked a hole-in-the-wall place and had some fried rice before setting out to find a hotel. I tried several before I found one that was a) not full of tourists and b) cheap enough. Finally I found a place not far from the harbor for NT$900 a night. Even more basic accommodations can be found at the Youth Hostel, but I felt like pampering myself with a room of my own, AC, cable and a window.

The next morning I walked to one of the scooter rental places and picked out a 125cc scooter for NT$150 a day. It came with a map of Penghu in Chinese. My goal that day was to ride across neighboring Paisha Island to the tip of Hsi Island and then back to Makung. The three big islands that make up most of Penghu are connected by the highways, which are broad and well-kept. A Harley would have been more suitable for the roads. The scooter did ok, but if I lived in Penghu I would definitely invest in a larger motorcycle. Strong side winds tended to pummel the scooter, especially when crossing bridges.

I was continually impressed with the desolation of the landscape. Wide brown swathes of flat, empty land spread out between the road and the sea. A few houses and shops along the side of the road constituted a small town. I wondered what it would be like to have grown up in such an environment and what compelled the people who first arrived in Penghu to stay there, rather than pushing on to either Taiwan or the mainland.

One of the items on my tourist map was The Giant Banyan Tree. I assumed such a big deal was made about The Giant Banyan Tree due to the distinct lack of any decent-sized trees elsewhere on the islands. I took the side road to the temple where it was located, parked, and walked into the cave-like entrance, which was covered with a concrete terrace and the branches of several trees. I looked for The Tree, but failed to figure out which one it was. It looked more like a small forest of smaller trees that had grown together than just one huge tree. As had been the case with the Matsu Temple, the site was lined with shops selling tourist trinkets. A tour group came and left rather quickly, while a couple of soldiers sat under the branches and drank tea.

The Giant Banyan Tree is located at the end of Paisha Island, and I immediately got onto the bridge connecting it with Hsi Island. I cranked the little scooter up to its maximum speed of about 110 or so kph, but the bridge still seemed to last forever. At the other end I was confronted with a sign indicating the way to The Whale Cave. I motored past yet another military base and across a small bridge to peaceful little cove bordered by a small fishing village. It was spotless and deserted, like a movie set. Artful renditions of the Whale Cave had been painted on the retaining walls along the road. I found a path leading up the hill behind the village to the Whale Cave, which was located behind it. There I discovered that the grassy fields surrounding the village ended abruptly at a series of rocky cliffs. Whereas the village faces a peaceful cove, the sea on the other side is anything but calm, and this was in late summer, a far cry from what must be a thunderous surf during the miserable winter months. The sea has apparently dug a hole in one of the outcroppings, which vaguely resembles a whale. I climbed down the rocks, under the ‘body’ of the whale, and sat at the edge of the water, watching the waves roar in. Small, roach-like insects scurried over the rocks above, while crabs picked their way around the watery sand below. It was very peaceful in spite of the violent meeting of land and sea.

My reverie was interrupted, however, by the arrival of another tour group. Giggling, screaming girls clambered down into the cave while their boyfriends took pictures. Suddenly all I wanted was to leave.

Hsi Island seemed the most deserted, yet most picturesque of all the islands I had seen so far. I traveled across its length to the other end, where a lighthouse and a military base were hunkered down on a cliff facing the seemingly endless waters of the Taiwan Strait. With clean white buildings adorned with black shutters, separated by neat squares of manicured lawn, the lighthouse complex contrasted sharply with the military base, which was painted in a jigsaw of dark green, yellow, black and orange, and whose buildings were of an ugly, utilitarian design. Metal blinds adorned the windows, no doubt an attempt to ward off the fierce winter wind. I talked with the guards at the gate, who told me that Penghu wasn’t the worst posting one could get, but the weather got pretty bad in winter, and water was sometimes a problem.

There was another picturesque fishing village on the southern coast of Hsi Island. This one, however, looked more lived in, and people were gathered on their porches and in the streets, talking and laughing. More than a few fishing boats crowded the harbor. I wondered what it would be like to live in that village, where no doubt everyone knows everyone else, and almost everyone is somehow into fishing. To these people, Makung was ‘the city’. What must they think of Taipei, which, on an international scale, is still rather provincial?

Not far from the village was the Hsitai Fort, which was built in the Qing Dynasty. It is rather impressive considering the era and what its architects had to work with at the time. Penghu was likely considered a hardship post even back then. I tried to imagine living in the long dark tunnels on a regular basis, but my imagination failed me. Every room looked like either a storeroom or a hallway. There were no artifacts or furnishings to inspect, but one can see almost all of Penghu from up top.

I took smaller roads skirting the southern coast of Hsi as the sun began to set over the long bridges. I saw maybe two or three people after traveling for miles, and after asking directions at an army base, found my way back to the main highway back to Makung. The wind got cooler rapidly and I was glad to return to the lights and the hustle and bustle of the city, which seemed a lot larger after a day in the countryside. The cover of night also helped alleviate the feeling of being surrounded with miles and miles of empty ocean, and the city felt friendly and comfortable. There was indeed a sense of permanence and order surpassing even that of Taipei, which makes sense if one considers how much the latter has changed over the years in comparison with the former.

The next morning I decided to explore the largest island in the chain, Penghu itself. I set off around the bay, headed for Fengkuei cave, which according to the map was located at the southwestern tip of the island. Penghu island is greener, more populated and less desolate than the others, and consequently felt more like Taiwan. On the way I stopped at Chihli beach, which is listed as one of the major beaches in Penghu.

It was deserted. Not a single person was in sight, even on a weekend. A small fishing village was located nearby, with small boats scattered around on the sand. A tourist center, with shops and changing rooms and the like, sat slowly falling apart, windows shattered and grass growing through the cracked walls, as it watched over the empty, white sand beach. I thought about taking a dip, but the emptiness of the place somehow unsettled me. It would have been ok if it had been just a desolate beach somewhere with no hint of civilization, but this place had obviously been a tourist attraction at some point in the past, and for some reason was no longer so.

I rode on. The broad highway began to lose lanes, becoming smaller and smaller as it neared the coast. There were no signs indicating Fengkuei Cave was anywhere around, yet according to the map I should have been approaching it. Before I knew it, I was riding through a maze of alleyways in yet another small, seemingly deserted fishing village. It seemed that many of the houses were of the ancient, U-shaped variety, with wooden beams, tiles roofs, small courtyards and concrete pillars in the windows. This kind of house has become somewhat rare in Taiwan these days, but it seemed to be the norm for these people. I stopped at one such house, which was deserted, and took some pictures, wondering who had lived there, what they were like, and why they had left. A massive temple was under construction near the center of the town; indeed, it seemed to me that the only construction in any of the small towns I passed through was on temples that seemed much too large and elaborate for their settings.

Eventually I came to the waterfront at the edge of town. There was a small pagoda-like structure, past which the sea splashed up on some piles of rocks. A family with noisy children sat nearby, eating sausages and talking. Eventually they gathered up their things, piled onto a single scooter and putted off, leaving the piles of rocks to me. There was no more road, so I turned back the way I came and headed east along the southern coast of the island. On the way I stopped to ask a couple of soldiers who were waiting at a bus stand where Fengkuei Cave was.

“You’re going the wrong way,” they told me. “It’s just down this road, on the coast next to the fishing village.”

“But I was just there,” I said.

“Well, you couldn’t have missed Fengkuei cave,” they insisted.

“Tell me, does it perhaps look like a big pile of rocks next to a pagoda thing?”

They nodded, smiling. “That’s it.” Turns out I had seen it after all; I just hadn’t noticed it.

I continued east, passing a couple of deserted beaches and fishing villages. I stopped at one because there were actually people there: two people, lying on the yellow sand. As I got closer, I realized that there were actually three people, but one of them had been buried up to his neck by the other two. The sky darkened and it began to look as if it might rain, so I left them to their business and headed back to the road, passing a deserted pool hall on the way.

Eventually I reached Lintou beach, which wraps around the southeastern part of the island, next to a large power station that dominates the horizon. This is a very large stretch of occasionally rocky sand. I parked the scooter at one end and spent hours just walking up and back the length of the beach. As I did, the sun came out and suddenly the water was blue, the sand golden and the temperature just right for swimming, so I waded out into the surf and luxuriated in the clear, gently undulating water, although I confess I had no idea what kind of pollution was coming out of the power station. Parts of the beach are quite rocky, and one has to pick one’s way rather carefully if one chooses to go barefoot at low tide.

A couple of children were helping their mother look through the tide pools for edible treats as I swam, and an actual party was going on near the center portion of the beach, with singing and barbeque. Students ran around on the sand playing volleyball. Maybe this is where everyone is, I thought. It was all quite pleasant.

The only nearby structure resembling a changing room looked as if it were being tipped over by a sand dune, so after I was done swimming I walked up into the manicured hedges and gates of the martyr’s shrine and made use of the bathrooms there. On my way out I passed an old F-104 military jet on display, as well as playgrounds overlooked by poorly sculpted animal statues.

By the time I walked back to the scooter it was already late afternoon, and I sped out to the east coast, a grassy region with pastures and low hills, then up to the north coast, passing through more of the same. As the sun began to set, I saw a deserted army base out in the middle of nowhere, so I stopped and poked around the old barracks and mess halls, offices and parade grounds. The shadows grew as the sun went down, and the old buildings began to take on a decidedly spooky appearance. I could almost hear the sound of boots on concrete.

“Hey!” A voice called out suddenly, startling me. I looked around to see an elderly man on a bicycle. “What are you doing here?” he asked me.

“Just looking around.” I said, trying hard to not look like a vandal. I held up my camera. “I’m just visiting,” I said by way of explanation. He just looked at me strangely.

“Well, then, you should leave before it gets too dark,” he told me before riding off. A good idea, I thought. This place is giving me the heebie-jeebies, and the encounter with that old guy didn’t help.

Fortunately the scooter started on the first try and I was able to make my exit in an accordingly swift manner. It was dark again as I rode back into Makung and returned the scooter to the rental place. After having dinner at a night market overlooked by a two-story temple, I walked up the main street towards the hotel, while mentally picking out buildings I wouldn’t mind living in. What would it be like to live here? I wondered. I hadn’t seen any foreigners the entire time I was in Penghu. If there were any, say at an English school, was it considered a hardship post?

I asked the cabbie on the way to the airport the next morning the same question. “Are there any foreigners who actually live in Penghu?” He looked puzzled and scratched his head.

“I see quite a few foreign tourists here in the summer,” he answered after thinking a bit. “But I don’t know of any foreigners that actually live here.”

As I looked down from the plane window on the scraggly, windswept rocks in the middle of the ocean that make up the Penghu archipelago, I recalled the order and simplicity life there seemed to hold and thought to myself, yes, I could live here. I imagine that is just what the first settlers of Penghu were thinking as well. And, as it happens, they were right.

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