Where City Meets Jungle (an article from July - a little late)

A Long Black Rat Snake        

 

A giant gleaming rat snake slinks into a ditch just ahead, crossing bleached grey asphalt and moving steadily downhill. It shimmers waxed black as if just car wash polished. If I look up, hidden just over a few tree-lined ridges, Taichung city, with its two million residents, conducts its midday business. Taiwan's second-largest urban centre is mid-island and 20 kilometres from the Strait of Taiwan, but in Dakeng, the city's eastern hills, the scene is different.

  

At the base of Dakeng, a collection of hills rolling north/south and no higher than 850 metres, the city's clamour, fumes, and concrete end abruptly, and the jungle begins. Single lane hairpin roads swivel upwards. The last coughing four-lane road is 180 meters away as the crow flies, and I cycle uphill. Some sections are steep. Vegetation closes like a green garden gate behind. Stands of wild bamboo tilt overhead and the city is swiftly silenced.

 

Taichung city below Dakeng

                                                

                                                              

The change is striking; sporadic houses, temples, family farms, and orchards poke out of the prevailing foliage but are anomalies. The furious pace below drops off dramatically. Farmers on motorized agricultural trikes putter along, helmets and licence plates optional, while others tend orchards, gardens, and cultivated bamboo stands.

 

There is one deviation from the quiet. Dakeng, tranquil in so many ways, is famous for its four ridge-reaching hiking trails and especially on crowded weekends. But for me, Dakeng's draw is its lower quiet roads, hidden back paths and the chance of discovery. Perfect for cycling. The well-trod hiking trails are much farther up.

 

Each time I cross that city/jungle boundary, I'm astonished because Taiwan sits high on the planet's list of densely populated areas, and below, pollution and synthetic surfaces dominate. Two-thirds of the island is mountainous, so most of the near 24 million inhabitants are tightly packed on the western plains. 

 

city to the left and down

                                                    

Green Curtain Coming Alive 

 

Another day, and my apartment guard waves and smiles as I cycle up Junfu 13th Road in the late afternoon and hit the foot of Dakeng at Ningyuan Lane in seven minutes.

 

The liquid greens and leaf patterns strike me first, then sounds and smells. It's July, and spring rains have replaced the dry winter. Along the road, fresh foliage, newly unwrapped, chases winter's dead-edged brown borders away. Water pushes life from every nook and cranny. During Dakeng's rainless winter, the jungle smells loamy, with a whiff of dry grass clippings. The air feels light. In comparison, the summer air is rain-robust, heavy, and thick. The jungle leans on your shoulders, weighted with strong leafy smells.

  

quiet back road

                                                             
                                                            

I have regular routes and make my rounds frequenting familiar spots and noting changes. Moss creeps onto shady road shoulders and vertically up the rough rock and concrete retaining walls between miniature fern fronds poking out of cracks. This round trip is about 20 kilometres and only takes me one-third of the way up, saving me oatmeal legs at the top. 

 

moss covering a retaining wall

                                                
                                        

House and farm dogs snooze on the pavement, occasionally close to the centre line. Cars and scooters simply slow and detour around them. The dogs don't budge. These dogs are semi guard dogs and pets. They lift their heads slowly for an obligatory glance as I pass but flake back out once they recognize me. From one house, old Taiwanese love songs drift into the relaxing Sunday afternoon.

 

I pedal and glance to my right. Incense sticks in a colossal brass urn send ribbons of scented smoke skyward in front of a tidy little temple. An ancient tree towers above, cradling carefully placed orchids suspended in tree branches. Farther along my route, a bamboo farm with its clusters of tall stalks cascade up and over me. The farmers collect new bamboo shoots from the base mounds. Beyond, a greenhouse is filled with orchid plants beginning to bloom. A few have small felt-velvet textured violet and deep purple flowers. Orchids are popular, and roadside vendors sell the long-lasting plants for under four dollars each.  

 

temple-tree orchids

                                                        

 

Alive With Creatures Day and Night

 

A right turn leads to a narrow back path. The road edges are wet and strewn with decaying vegetation. A little grey lizard scurries back into the brush. Several storm drain covers are missing – pinched for scrap metal. A warm wind moves through thick bamboo stands, and the wide trunks creak exactly like wooden tall ship spars and masts. I can hear my bicycle tires hum, but it is not quiet.

 

Above, the trees and sky are busy with birds: gregarious Black Bulbuls with bright, orange traffic pylon bills and feet mob the canopy, a Crested serpent eagle calls, easily corkscrewing higher on thermals thanks to wingspans five and a half feet wide, and shy Oriental turtle doves with beautifully scalloped, paisley wings, burst into flight in loud puffs. 

 

Oriental turtle doves

                                                      

Clasping trees, hordes of cicadas vibrate their roaring electric buzz. Nephila pilipes, Giant wood spiders, seven inches wide, wait in enormous webs.
Still, the sounds are not intrusive. Nature's sound-rowdiness is still soothing compared to the air horn blasting eighteen wheelers below.

  

I flick on my bike lights as twilight moves to evening, and the jungle noises change. Frogs and toads take over. Dakeng is packed with hopping amphibians. Baseball chubby toads plop along. Tiny chirping and gulping frogs serenade. Some frogs yodel like they have swallowed pianos, while others sound like squeaky door hinges, and the uncoordinated compilation bursts from jungle branches, streams, and ponds. Big and small all call for mates and stake territorial claims, but Dakeng's snakes listen too. Frogs are on the menu.  

 

tiny frog snack!

                                                      

Slender emerald bamboo vipers wait in roadside ditches for frogs. One of several venomous snakes in Dakeng, bamboo vipers are shy and retiring. They hover coiled on a fallen branch or twig just off the ditch bottom, waiting for an unsuspecting frog to hop underneath. If successful, they may not eat for a month and retreat to hide in a tree. 

 

a bamboo viper waiting for a frog or toad

                                              

Unfortunately, with so many frogs, toads, and snakes on the move, roadkill is enviable. Flattened amphibians and reptiles are squashed on hill roads. Frogs and toads splayed spread eagle and snakes resembling long swerving smudges are not unusual. Happily, most amphibians and snakes hop and shimmy safely across the road. 

 

The mosquitoes are out now, huge black and white striped tigers that chase me down the hill. I spin to the hill bottom, all the while watching for hopping blobs and ditch destined snakes.  

 

I'm soon back in the city. Dakeng's hills are awake tonight, but the eighteen wheelers have gone to sleep on Junfu 13th Road.

 

 

 

 

Under the Smokestacks’ Shadows

Sulfur wafts in the sea breeze.

Coasting down a slight decline, with my scooter engine off, I freewheel quietly on a path between low marsh and tall grass in the relatively unknown Linshui Wetland. The wind twirls the grass blades side to side, bending them over. The blades flex but straighten as the gust moves on, parting more wetland grass.

 

Straight ahead, to the west and less than 900 metres away, four multicoloured smokestacks tower overhead like giant crayons. Circling each column, dozens of playfully painted shorebirds add to the irony. A few hundred metres south of the stacks, pollution cakes evergreen needles into clumps resembling breaded chicken. 

 

The four towers are anchored to a behemoth of a power station that is anything but playful. Beneath the Taichung Power Plant in Longjing, adjacent to the Strait of Taiwan, is the planet's largest emitter of carbon dioxide from any coal-fired power station. It produces roughly 40 million tons of carbon dioxide annually. Not without its many Taiwanese detractors, much of the island's population still depends on its electricity, as it supplies central Taiwan and Taipei with energy.  

 

Longjing's four power plant smokestacks

                                

Remarkably, next to this power station, Linshui Wetland exists almost by accident. Strangely, this secretive place expresses both despair and optimism.

 

The power station is a heartbreaker, and ten minutes into my visit, a dull, pollution headache begins. The wind is blowing steadily inland. The wetland is nothing fancy; it is neglected and shabby but miraculously filled with birds. It offers proof of nature’s ability to adapt. These polar extremes give me a sliver of hope and fill me with triumph for the birds.

                                                                          

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Linshui Wetland is a patchwork of government property, private farmland, fish ponds and fallow fields of roughly 200 hundred acres. It is invisible on the internet and only familiar with local birders.

 

A gravel pit sits next to a fish rearing pond, which in turn, sits next to a square pond surrounded by hordes of roosting egrets and herons in trees. The modest wetland is crisscrossed with tidal and freshwater canals, many small enough to step over. Meanwhile, barefoot farmers on smokers’ cough motorcycles putter through the marsh tending their fields while fishers hunch over private fish ponds waiting.

 

Initially, the wetland was created not for wildlife but as a series of wastewater treatment ponds decades ago for an adjacent industrial park. There was anticipation that future industrial expansion would add to the importance and growth of the waste ponds, but that never materialized. Once the initial wastewater was pumped into the ponds from the industrial park, the effluent settled, turned black, and stunk terribly.

 

Longjing’s residents complained over the stench, and now the wastewater is diverted through a smaller water treatment plant, and the ponds are left vacant. The wetland has received some attention. Wood fences shield a few sections of the wetland, but several planks are missing. A few discard pieces of furniture rot in the weeds. Still, the marsh supports birds.

 

An active estuary system surrounds the north and west boundaries of the wetland. Linshui's rivers empty into the larger Dadu River to the south. At this point, Dadu River is an estuary itself and part of the larger and better known Dadu Estuary Important Wetland with a total area of over 9,400 acres.   

 

Back in Linshui's estuary rivers, hundreds of colourful crabs scurry out of their burrows during low tide. Introduced Sacred Ibis with curved black bills and black heads probe the mud for arthropods. Silky white egrets poke between the exposed mangrove roots for snacks.

 

In the wetland, sandpipers and plovers, along with ducks and Little Grebes, tilt vertically, searching the bottom for food. A large, wading flock of Black-winged stilts with long pink legs stride through the ponds, oblivious to the nearby stacks.

 

Black-winged stilt feeding in the wetland

                               

            

Above the fields, a Black-shouldered kite hovers, with a perfectly motionless head focused on prey with piercing red eyes. The fields and brush have dozens of smaller species. Dadu Estuary Important Wetland, less than a kilometre away, has recorded over 200 bird species, so we can assume many visit the Linshui wetland too.

 

My visits here have given me great birds, but my biggest takeaway is how birds endure human intrusion, destruction and survive. It's a true feathered triumph in the Linshui wetland.