Written by By Robert Thé / Translated by 羅文穗

Orchid Island (Lanyu) - a name which simultaneously manages to evoke romance and beauty, mystery and adventure, and a destination which lies a mere stone’s throw off Taiwan’s East Coast.

Normally my summer vacations are spent in some far flung country, but this year I wanted to explore some of the more remote and less frequented parts of Taiwan. The West Coast and the Taiwan Straits’ islands I had investigated extensively; the East Coast and its islands were unfamiliar territory. The decision as to where I was heading was made when a good friend who had previously spent a month on Orchid Island declared he was going back to spend the summer there, and would be happy if I joined him and his Taiwanese wife there.

“Welcome to Eden”

Our days were spent mainly exploring the beach which is actually a kilometer- long bay which connects two small villages – Dong Qing and Ye Yin - at each end. The surprising thing was that apart from us, there was hardly any human traffic on the beach. Sometimes a passing local would hail us and visit the beach house, sometimes leaving a gift of freshly caught fish or even fruit. Once we were presented with a fruit that looked like something straight out of Salvador Dali’s imagination, a pineapple-sized fruit with red and black square nodules protruding everywhere. It was beyond bizarre and I never learnt its name.

Our third day was truly a full day: we’d explored more of the beach, collected mineral water filtered straight from the rock face, swum in the warm and welcoming Pacific, spent hours in conversation, taken a siesta and enjoyed a convivial meal. My friend and his wife had departed afterwards for the port for a party planned for later that night, but both my Kiwi friend and I had a bit more to drink than was sensible and had retired after dinner to our respective tents to sleep it off.

That night, the wind picked up and it began to rain softly, which was a common pattern with nightfall and cooler temperatures. I had spoken earlier in the day to a friend back on the Taiwan mainland who had told me a typhoon we’d heard about was projected to make landfall within the next thirty-six hours. There was, he advised me, nothing to worry about so we could set our minds to rest. I did and quickly fell into a contented yet somewhat alcohol soaked sleep.

I awoke to the motion of the tent being violently buffeted from side to side by a ferocious wind whilst the earlier gentle rain had morphed into an angry salvo of liquid arrows crashing continuously against my tent. Outside a monstrous roar unlike any other sound I had ever heard filled me with fear and dread. Our party bound friends had taken all the flashlights with them so we had no light source. I opened the tent flap to try and see what was happening outside in the deep darkness.

To my horror I could see water lapping at my tent. Suddenly, all the alcohol in my brain evaporated, and I understood what was happening with horrible, instant clarity. First, our tents were halfway up the beach between shore and tree line, and waves should never be able to reach that far; second, the waves that I could make out in the darkness were far, far from normal, their wave crests a ghostly sign of their impossible height, some 15-20 feet in height, perhaps higher. I got to my feet and called to my friend in the tent beside mine.

“Dude, we’ve got to move, and move now! The typhoon’s arrived.”

All I could see in the darkness was one single crest, 800m long: a single wave peaking and crashing violently. And behind it were stacked three or four waves in the distance, each one progressively larger and more menacing. I was staring at a vision of nature unleashed, of shock and awe on a biblical scale.

With the wind howling, and rain slicing through us we managed to make our way back to the tree line in the darkness, all the while dragging our tents back with us which we had just grabbed and ripped from their moorings, slipping and falling under the difficulty of dragging a wet tent and its heavy contents across sand and rocks in total darkness.

Finally we made it to the undergrowth, and lay there panting, catching our breath. As if to make things worse, right in front of us lightning began to illuminate the sky with sudden flashes.

Our choices were few: A watery death from a freak wave, or be struck by lightning and turned into a human drumstick? I decided that while going to the beach house wasn’t a great option since we would still be amongst trees in an electrical storm, the house was still at a higher elevation than the beach, and we were less likely to be dragged to our deaths, and could even monitor the waves from there with a fair amount of safety.

Our friends finally returned from their festivities in a pick up truck, amazed at our experiences and announced we would ride the typhoon out in a traditional underground house in an adjacent village. We quickly broke camp, piled all our belongings into the truck and drove to the house, excited and relieved to have some shelter from the oncoming fury.

The underground house on Orchid Island is a traditional native structure which is flush with the ground and offers the best solution to sitting out the frequent typhoons which are endured stoically year in and year out. Typically, it’s prepared by digging a deep, large square hole within a hillside, and then building the house within the hole. With the roof level with the surrounding ground, these houses offer minimal resistance to the storm winds and maximum protection from the elements. Stone steps lead down to the doorway, which opens to a wooden area which can sleep five or six. With a few small windows and no electricity, it was a dark and somewhat stuffy environment, but at least we had food, water and candles and could spend the next few days riding out the typhoon, sleeping, waking, conversing, eating and sleeping once more. It was somewhat cramped, and there was no let up in the storm, but it was a rhythm that wasn’t too hard to endure.

After four days of harsh winds and constant rain, the clouds began to part and the worst was over. We rushed out, like prisoners released from solitary, inhaled the sweet, fresh air, restocked on essentials and vowed to sleep on the wooden platform that lay near the village’s beachfront.

A deceptively simple structure, these platforms are to be found at regular intervals along the shoreline, and are an object lesson in the perfect fusion of architecture and environment. Four sturdy timber columns rise from the platform floor and support a sloping roof, which not only provides ample shade during the day, but also an open space which allows the free passage of cooling breezes. Not surprisingly, they are often used by the locals as a place to sleep off the intense heat of the afternoon, and we four looked forward to bunking down for the night with the warm evening wind gently blowing and caressing our typhoon-weary bodies.

After being physically and temporally penned in by the elements, I was also keen to explore the rest of the island, and so I rented a motorbike and spent my remaining days investigating what lay beyond the beach. I took off in search of the Weather Observatory, a place everyone had recommended, following the curves of the Cross Island Highway, which wound its way higher and higher, each bend revealing more of the fabulous landscape below. The various shades of the sea were gorgeous in their range and subtleties – the light aquamarine of the shallows slowly segueing into the darkest of navy blues where the sea plunged to depths where sunlight was but a rumor.

After a final set of increasingly steep curves, I came upon the Observatory. A series of medium sized grey buildings set upon the summit, their function revealed by the weather vane and wind speed recorder, spinning intensely as the wind gusted all around me. The vista was spectacular: from my vantage point, I could simultaneously see both sides of the entire island from tip to tip, all 45 km2 in all its Technicolor™ glory. I began to daydream: the well kept lawn with stone chairs and tables, the four-wheel in the driveway and the curious but lazy dog watching me from the porch – this would have made a great place to live, I thought. True, it might be a somewhat lonely and isolated existence, but with Hawaii-like views, it was a price I’d be willing to pay.

Recent human history of the island, however, has been less than distinguished. Under Japanese colonial administration, visitors were prohibited from visiting the island since the Japanese wanted to study the traditions and cultures of the Dawu tribes people without outside contamination. The Dawu people can trace their origins back 800 years to the Batanes, a Philippine island chain several hundred kilometers south, where they still maintain regular cultural and linguistic contacts with the people there.

The settlements they established on Orchid, unsurprisingly, are spread along the coast facing the Philippines, and life was centered on subsistence farming of taro and sweet potato as well as shoreline spear-fishing and fishing off the coast. An easy life it was not, with unpredictable weather and back-breaking work tilling the fields for meager crop yields. The island’s remoteness both served to strengthen the language and the traditions, which were handed down through the generations to develop a distinctive culture as evidenced by the buildings constructed, the boats built, rituals observed and the clothing worn (For the men, think silver beehive-shaped helmet, skimpy thongs and a menacing spear).

While the Japanese tried to keep cultural traditions intact through minimal interference (except for some isolated infrastructural projects), new management in the shape of the arrival of Mainland Chinese forces in 1945 meant a new period for the Dawu had begun. The island was a new possession and the Chinese were struck by the beauty of the orchid native to the island, renaming it thus. Indeed, so struck were they by its beauty and economic potential that soon the island was denuded entirely of its native plant - spirited away for profit, so that today the famed orchid is rarely, if ever, encountered.

One of the most shameful episodes in this encounter was that of the ‘Fishing Cannery’ incident of 1974. The government of the time had begun its peaceful nuclear power program, but was stuck with the problem of what to do with the waste. Obviously, public response and opposition to a nuclear dump site within Taiwan would have been negative and huge, so those in charge decided to look for a site as far away as possible from Taiwan to situate such a dump.

Getting the island governor, an illiterate Dawu native, to give his approval was easy, since he signed off on what he believed to be fishing cannery, which he was told would bring employment and prosperity. A few years later when it became apparent that neither had materialized, yet the facility was being actively used, the local population began to ask questions as to what was really happening. The truth finally emerged after islanders learnt of the deception from reports in the Taiwanese newspapers. This lead to demonstrations in the early 90s in Taipei by the Dawu who managed to force Taipower, producers of the waste material, to stop shipments, and get the government to agree to relocate the stored material as soon as possible. In addition, financial settlements and economic concessions for all the islanders were also negotiated.

However, it’s not just the natural environment that is under pressure. The Dawu culture too, once independent, self sufficient, strong and vibrant is today faced with a struggle for its very survival as it adjusts to life in a modern world dominated by money and technology. Part of that struggle lies in the time the islanders have had to adjust. The restriction on outsiders visiting Orchid Island was only removed in 1967, which means that the islanders have had little more than thirty years to adapt to a massive change of lifestyle: from a traditional subsistence economy to a market economy. In other words, from a lifestyle where money was previously unnecessary, to having to find ways of making money in order to buy things they previously didn’t need, and had probably never dreamt of.

But it’s not all doom and gloom. Many do find great personal meaning and satisfaction in participating in, and revitalizing the traditions. One of the most obvious signs of this are the many traditional boats which can be seen around the island. Crafting one of these is a great labour of love, and receiving your first one is a rite of passage which marks the transition from boy to man, celebrated by everyone in the village. What makes these boats even more incredible, aside from the beautiful and intricate designs and motifs painted on their prows, is that the boats are made from twenty seven different kinds of wood, all sourced from the island itself, and the boat, a sturdy, long craft capable of deep sea adventures, is built over a period of six months without using a single nail!

Many young Dawu see the future in tourism, and have woken up to the fact that the island’s natural splendour and resources are its greatest asset. And no shortage of demand continually confirms this, with many Taiwanese and foreigners eager to explore this remote corner of Taiwan’s territory. Boats brimming with visitors constantly shuttle back and forth, and even with Daily Air laying on six flights a day, plane tickets often have to be booked well in advance. However, these are still early days; while there is a great future in tourism, tourist facilities are basic and there’s a long way to go to meet contemporary expectations.

As the twelve seat Taidong-bound prop plane lifted into the sky and the cabin filled with wisps of the cloud we were flying through, I thought about the island and my experiences. It hadn’t always been a trouble-free vacation - the weather during typhoon season wasn’t always predictable: sudden intense squalls could make even short road trips something of a challenge as tarmac sealed roads turned into instant raging rivers within the briefest of times. Keeping stocked up on essentials was also not always easy since, with no 7/11 on the island, locals and tourists alike had to rely on the Farmer’s Market, which in turn relied on the not-always-dependable weekly boat delivery of essentials. However, despite all these challenges, the islanders I encountered had always been warm and welcoming, and willing to share of themselves freely and openly.

To be honest, Orchid Island isn’t for everyone. If you’re looking for convenience, structured tourist activities, five star comfort and a heaving night life, I suggest you cross it off your list, but if you’re looking for a place of extraordinary natural beauty, are willing to be flexible and adaptable and are the kind of person who creates their own adventure, then Orchid Island should be your next destination.

GETTING THERE

By Ship

Taitung Port Tel: 089 281 477. Twice daily departures. Times may vary:  NT$1,000 one way. Journey time approx: 2 ½ hours

By Air

Daily Air Tel: 089 362 489,  Website: www.dailyair.com.tw Six flights daily.

NT$1,400 one way. Journey time approx: 20 - 25 minutes