Written by Malcolm Vargas / Translated by: 王建平

Starting in January 2010, Malcolm Vargas invites the readers of Highway 11 on a scavenger hunt, of sorts. Vargas will provide readers with clues pertaining to a particularly beautiful spot in Taiwan without revealing the name. It is up to the reader to decipher the clues from the article and guess as to where the location lies… then go there!

From the heights above, or the depths below, this is one remarkable place. Fortunately for its continued existence, it’s also remarkably easy to overlook. Set back far enough from the road to avoid the noise, a small pavilion overlooks a long expanse of beach.

Over the years, it has expanded to include a parking lot, a garden, a stairway to the beach, a sculpture garden, the cleanest bathrooms in the county, the best latte within 30 km and Pepperidge Farm cookies.

There are a number of things which make this place memorable for me: rolling naked in the surf, strumming a guitar in the pavilion. All of these adventures are possible because of the pristine seclusion of this place. This is why I’m NOT telling you where it is but rather I am setting you on a quest.

One late summer day I thought it might be possible to soar my paraglider on the ridge. Only sixty meters above the beach, take off would be very unlikely and considerably dangerous. The parking lot was barely wide enough to accommodate the wing and lines of the glider. After 30 minutes of fiddling around, I was fifty meters above the cliff, flying downwind at 65kph.

That’s when I noticed the monkeys.

As I came in on landing approach, I heard a barking noise. A troupe of monkeys had scrambled to the treetops for a better view. I landed the glider and rolled up the wing, cooled off in the ocean and lugged my 20 kilograms of equipment up 235 steps. At the top, I had a quick shower and a slow coffee in the cafe, my chair tipped back, my feet propped up on the banister where I had just flown. Right about at my eye height, a falcon glided lazily past, only five meters away.

At the same location, another strange set of events occurred just after a small typhoon, several years ago. Low wave crests rolled in from forty meters out in perfect rhythm. The pebbles on the beach applauded each arrival. The high water line of this normally clean beach was littered with driftwood. And, on this usually desolate beach, a group of local wood carvers had set up a temporary camp replete with power generator and chainsaws, cast iron kettle on a tripod, hand drums and guitars. For a couple of months they lived there on the beach, carving what the storm had provided while living in shelters made from the debris, and eating what the local environment provided.

“What do you do for water?” I asked.

“If you have running water, you can stay here forever,” a local artist explained. “There is a stream flowing out of a rock over there. It flows out of the mountain, right to the beach.“

The water pooled up here and there, teeming with baby fish and crabs. With this, and some late night spear fishing, living on this beach was easy. Add a bag of rice, an occasional monkey and a bottle of soy sauce and you meet your Minimum Daily Requirement. I walked up the stream to see the source. Sure enough, over the years, erosion had formed a cavernous vestibule in the cliff wall, shrouded with vines, from which water flowed. It had eroded over the millennia to create an orifice, which among a more primitive people might have been venerated for fertility.

I spent a few days there, learning a bit about of Amis customs, and how to swing a chainsaw so it sounds like a guitar.

Over the years, I returned to this idyllic place thousands of times, and had hundreds of memorable flights. I brought my kids here to learn to swim and body board, though they got tossed around in the shallow waves more than they swam. The wild pineapple groves provided convenient shelter from the sun.

My friend Geordie, world class body boarder, claims this is a good spot. My boys and I would agree. Few people do any long board surfing here. That would be on, umm …. another ‘secret’ beach.

One day while flying over, I noticed a hillock, which presented itself to the sea breeze very suitable for beginner paraglider pilots. It’s 65 meters above the beach and 40 meters wide. The local government was kind enough to clear it and plant grass. It favored a west and northwest wind. It was convenient for landing on top. The coconut groves provided good shade. But, being so remote, it never developed a following. Without a core group of local pilots, a site is hard to maintain. And paragliding is much too expensive for the local farmers.

If you don’t care to camp on the beach, there are several inexpensive accommodations nearby. Breakfast may be limited to dumplings. And, the lines are long.

Well, I think that I have given you enough to wet your appetite and withheld enough to keep you searching. It’s out there, on Highway 11, just Off the Beaten Path.