Taipei, Taiwan – April 2019
A famous temple. The Year of the Pig. I drift amid worshippers, hypnotized by the chanting, the incense, the high-pitched music. How is it that I came to be here? I sit for a while and let time vanish.
Then it’s into the streets again. My footsteps lead me to a portal that leads into a corridor of shops. A flash of recognition. I halt. Long ago, I wandered into this alley of horrors. Snake Alley. The live snake-gutting shows and booths selling cruel cures for impotence and other embarrassing ailments have been replaced by nail salons and mobile phone shops. A couple of snake restaurants remain.
Time has erased the shrill cacophony of light, sound, and odors that once permeated this place. It was an assault on the senses. I had flown up from Guam to spend a few days with my sister Pebby, who was working at a water park on the northern coast of Taiwan. It was 1995. Her Australian boyfriend and another diver named Tim accompanied us to Taipei on my last night. An unforgettable finale.
Pebby and her Australian stayed together for a while, then parted ways. Tim died of cancer years ago.
Taipei will always be synonymous with memories of unfortunate culinary encounters, both personally and vicariously experienced. I spent that night in the bathroom of our shared hotel room, grateful for the thick walls and the bathroom configuration that was conducive to simultaneous purging from both orifices. That’ll teach me to dine on shrimp from a street vendor cart. Or did it? Sampling the local cuisine is part of the adventure.
Although I do have my limits.
I continue my drift into other alleyways, diving deep into a hive of tiny shops. Each one a life-size diorama. My pace slows. I peer into these humble microcosms. My curiosity ignites. Herbalists and butchers and fishmongers. Each cubbyhole tells a story.
Sometimes my presence invokes a sparkle of curiosity.
Others are oblivious to my passing.
A young woman approaches me, her brow furrowed with concern. “Excuse me. Are you lost?”
I pause, then smile. “Yes.”
“I help you?”
I shake my head. “No, thank you.”
She blinks numerous times, then nods and goes along her way, casting one final perplexed look over her shoulder.
I buy some shrimp rangoons from a shop, munching on them as I venture deeper.
Lost (adj.) - unable to find one’s way.
Is it even possible for me to get lost anymore? The very concept involves elements of fear and hopelessness. Helplessness. My unwavering faith in my inner compass has only solidified over this lifetime.
Yes, I am lost. Lost, as in: I don’t know where I am. But not: I can’t figure it out. When I’m ready.
The ultimate form of inner trust is allowing yourself to wander into the unknown.
Lost: in labyrinths of emotion. That was the closest I came to feeling that helplessness. Yet, there was always the determination to never surrender. Even during my darkest moments, I’ve never felt I was unable to find my way home.
Lost: in mundane moments that will be forever lost in the deepest recesses of memory. The fleeting exchanges of smiles with strangers, the ruminations on what to eat for lunch. The minutiae which makes up the majority of an existence.
Lost: in mysterious trajectories of memory that lead us to answers when the time is right. A canoe trip for Catholic confirmation class. It was some sluggish river. The Manistee, I believe. My backstabbing cheerleader friend Tammy and I shared a canoe. I was fifteen years old and barely one hundred pounds. Unruly blonde hair, braces, freckles. A female Anthony Michael Hall circa Sixteen Candles. I had smuggled a pint of rum. The boys were jealous. They had bragged that they were going to bring a case of beer, but, of course, they didn’t. Where did you think were you going to hide a case of beer in a canoe, anyway? I asked. They glared at me.
Tammy and I spiked our Sprites and soon the pint was empty. We giggled at our sneakiness, purposely lagging behind the others. We kicked back in the canoe, arms dangled over the side, bellowing drunken teenage songs to the forest. After a while, silence prevailed. Tammy began to cry. We’re lost! My mom is going to be devastated! We’re going to die out here! Mommy! And so on.
You can’t get lost on a river, Tammy. I shook my head. I’d always believed she was so much better than me.
Mere minutes later, we came upon the landing site. Tammy quickly wiped her tears away and hopped out of the canoe. The others were already gathered at picnic tables, eating hot dogs. Even Monseigneur Forbes was indifferent to our tardiness. It was my fault we were so late, of course. That’s what Tammy got for riding with a dork. I could have blurted out her secret, but I couldn’t be bothered. I stood back and took a good look at them. I don’t need any of you. In fact, I’m better off without you.
Pause, assess, proceed. Take responsibility for where you are. Trust yourself to make the right choice. The diversions serve a purpose.
I emerge onto a large boulevard. A glance to the right, but I turn left. A metro station looms ahead. A twinge of wistfulness. A nod of certitude. I know where I am again. I stride forward, easing myself back into the familiar.
My account of my 1995 visit to Snake Alley was published in Identity Theory in 2007. The link will take you there.