July 22nd
the dam in the rain
Last night it absolutely poured down and it was still at it early this morning. In fact it was the noise of torrential rain that woke me at about seven. This is what it's like when a typhoon sweeps close.
Not to worry - at nine the sun makes an appearance and getting to the dam seems like it's finally on the cards. Debbie found out that the reservoir road gets closed at 4:00, so there's plenty of time to get there. Why it gets closed is a mystery.
It's now 10:00 and my rain cape is in the saddlebag because there's little doubt it'll rain again before long. Tomorrow Typhoon In-Fa will be closer to Taiwan and things will be worse, and I have to teach over the weekend, so it's now or not for a few days.
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On Monday I rode down route 114 for a couple of kilometres, but yesterday I spent a bit of time looking at Google Maps and discovered a wiggling alternative route along local side streets. Some screenshots are on my 7" tablet to help me navigate my way south, with left and right turns every two or three blocks.
I'm only out the door 10 minutes when it starts raining, so I shelter under a canopy outside a shop that's closed and stand there for a few minutes until it eases off.
The pause gives me a chance to photograph a woman sat on a stool outside her business, waiting for customers that don't appear to be coming any time soon. It's also an opportune time to swipe through a few screenshots to make sure I know what turns are coming up.
The tablet gets dug out for a second time when I get to a market area and without the screenshot to help, who knows where I'd end up.
After just a few kilometres a twisting back lane drops me down an escarpment and it's open countryside at the bottom, with paddies just having been planted with three-inch shoots. Another lane then takes me around them, but within a minute drops are falling again and the only place around to hide is a single-storey farm house.
There's a sheet of metal about a metre across sticking out over a door, so that's where I stand as rain pings off the road and splashes into the flooded paddies. The metal is about big enough to protect the bike and just when it seems to be easing off, another deluge arrives. My camera gets used, but there's nothing much to snap.
The lady of the house makes me jump when she opens the door. She says I'm welcome to stand inside and after a few invites I flick down the bike's kick-stand and step through the doorway, onto a makeshift mat made of cloth.
The room is dominated by a wooden shrine taller then me that's to a deceased family member. It could well be for her husband. She looks to be 70 years old. There's also an office desk against another wall and I can see through a door to the back where the kitchen is, while what I guess is the living room is just through a small vestibule. Apart from the shrine, it's all very simple without any trace of superficial decoration. A clock above the desk tells me it's 11 o'clock already.
I stay standing on the mat and decline her kind offer of a disposable rain cape and show the orange one in my saddlebag and eventually put it on as a way of settling the matter.
It's a shame my Chinese isn't better, but she understands my gratitude as I wave and say 'bye' when I set off once the rain has stopped. She must think I'm a nutcase to be out when a typhoon is about to hit the island.
The sun comes out. There's blue sky above. My cape gets put back in the saddlebag. Weird.
This is a lane I've cycled along a few times to and from Bade, but the familiarity only lasts less than a kilometre before a right turn takes me through more quiet countryside.
A farmer is tilling a small field and egrets are scavenging whatever it is that the tractor is churning up. There's about 20 of the long-legged birds loitering around as the tractor chugs along in the shallow water, which will probably have rows of small rice plants dotted among it within the next day or two.
Eventually the lane connects to the one I cycled along only a few days ago and it crosses a main road, then I bounce along an unpaved section again, this time with large puddles where the potholes are, before coming to the edge of the neighborhood of Yuanshulin.
When I'm about to hit the main road, it starts pouring down.
There are a few warehouses and I spot one with an adjacent covered area and that's where I shelter with my bike for a quarter of an hour before cycling across the busy road and heading along an alley to an old temple that Debbie has told me about.
It's a winding back alley and at its end is a serious barrier, but the temple is visible. It looks like the surrounding area belongs to the military, as across the parking area is a guard-post manned and the guy in it looks over at me standing behind the metal barrier, but he clearly doesn't intend to do anything about letting me through. I take a quick snap and do a U-turn.
A long, narrow lane lined with small, simple homes at its far end takes me towards the hill. A bunch of these old houses have been painted the same - blue and white - and it's likely that everyone here knows everyone... a couple of women stand in the middle of the tarmac having a chat; a man on a old-school motorcycle pulls up to deliver a bag of food to someone he clearly knows; a sit-up-and-beg bicycle with antiquated rod-actuated brakes is parked outside one place and the noise of people talking inside is audible as I cruise past.
The alley T's into the bending road that drops down into the Dahan Valley and as I'm descending among the trees, it begins to rain yet again so I brake at what looks to be a small temple, but after squeezing past a barrier made to block scooters, it's clearly an extravagant shrine. There's just enough overhang on the ornate roof to keep the rain off, but this damp little spot, permanently sheltered from the sun, is home to a lot of pesky mosquitoes and five minutes later I'm back on the bike, freewheeling down the hillside.
The rain isn't too bad.
After crossing the main road at the bottom, I go towards a bicycle path near the Dahan River and trace it to the old bridge. For some unfathomable reason (surely not due to COVID) it's now blocked off and there's a subtle sense of relief sweeps over me that my plan wasn't to go across into Daxi, like I did on Monday. Then it starts to rain.
I find a closed store with a roofed forecourt to keep myself dry as the heavens are opened for 10 minutes or more. The view is one of the bike path that traces the river.
The path takes me further upstream, in the direction of the dam, and once at its end where it connects onto a rural back lane, drops of rain come down. I opt to pedal back and wait out the resulting downpour under a big bridge carrying the main road. The photo below is proof.
Less than two minutes after leaving the dryness of the bridge, rain reappears and a temple with a covered forecourt is an opportune place to wait it out. You know that 'when it rains, it pours'. Well, it's true. It rattles loudly on the metal roof above and bounces off the lane's surface.
The lane forks and I veer towards the river and the sun shines and very briefly it actually feels hot, like July is. Then seconds later clouds roll over and the high humidity hits home. It begins to rain and I wheel my bike into a ramshackle shed that a few farm workers are using to chop and bundle a vegetable that looks like spring onions, but which has a fairly pungent smell. Many of the local fields grow this stuff.
My clothes are all damp. It could be rain or maybe sweat, or a combination.
To my left are mountains that have their tops obscured with a blanket of low, pregnant cloud. The nearby fields are not that interesting here, because rice or whatever is yet to be planted, and there are very few dwellings in this part of the valley to photograph.
A small footpath that's also signposted as a bicycle route veers away from the river and follows a stream that's been sided by high concrete walls. With all this rain, it's a currently fast-flowing torrent and is very noisy where it cascades over foot-high weirs, which are spaced every 20-odd metres.
Yet another downpour commences and a group of trees is all I can shelter under. My cape gets brought out and as well as covering myself, I also try to keep my seat, saddlebag and bar-bag dry as I stand there for what seems like ages. The noise of the rushing stream becomes overwhelming and I opt set off to get away from it all.
The path climbs up a small incline and a lane then takes me through a group of simple homes just as rain comes down, so I take shelter under a high-roofed forecourt of a temple. A man who's half asleep in a wicker lounge chair gives me a nod. My guess he's the temple supervisor, or something like that.
The downpour comes in waves and as one seems to signal the end, another one arrives with a vengeance. My cape is pretty good, but it seems best to simply wait these out.
After 10 minutes the man walks over and hands me a litre bottle of lukewarm pop - sarsaparilla made by a local company called Hey Song, something that's very popular in Taiwan. The gesture is welcome and my thirst is quenched. It's like he had been reading my mind.
A few minutes later he offers me a new PVC rain coat, but I show him my cape. He likely is wondering about my sanity, especially when I take a snap of four nearby plastic chairs that have been mounted onto a steel rail before getting back on my bike and cycling off. It's barely drizzling and it soon peters out
Route 4 drops me down towards the river. I veer off on a small road to a maintenance bridge that goes over to the north side, but it's been blocked off. It doesn't surprise me and my Plan B is to ride along a service road to the dam.
A barrier is manned and a fellow visitor asks about getting past, but the guard inside his booth tells him the only way in now is through the main gate across the valley. It means cycling back and over the long bridge that I cycled over on Monday at dusk. Off I go.
As I cruise down the valley side, rain sweeps in and a restaurant that's locked up gives me a chance to stay dry. The roof sticks out enough, but a dog protecting the place barks for a few minutes until it senses I'm not a threat. I'm losing count as to how many times I've sought shelter.
It's quite a hard climb up the side of the dam. As I make my way up, it's a case of ducking under a gazebo for 10 minutes or more as one more downpour sweeps in. It's not funny now.
Once that's eased off, I make it up the dam's top and climb lots of steps to a viewing platform and take a few snaps, then return to my bike and set off for an exit that I hope is open, as it leads directly to Route 3. Who knows - the road is eerily empty and doubt creeps in.
The barrier is cracked open just wide enough to allow a vehicle to pass through and I cruise up to the 3 and start cycling along all too familiar lanes.
The typhoon brings more heavy rain and my cape becomes a permanent fixture. It's not worth sheltering and now I just press on as it's rush hour and the roads are getting busier as I near where I live, having to cross over main roads en route.
My rear LED gets switched on and my clothes are soaking wet.
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