Rota Is Delicious   2004-11-28

I've tried to keep the days and activities straight in this account of our trip to Rota, but not having kept a detailed log and having a head stuffed with 200 children's names means the odd inaccuracy has been rolled and massaged into place. Team Klassen - smile and nod. The rest of you - enjoy.


Saturday, November 13

After finishing work at our respective schools, Marlene and I raced home, picked up our well-packed carry on bags, and headed out to catch the airporter to Chiang Kai-Shek International Airport. Thankfully, the airporter stops at the Imperial Hotel just around the corner from our apartment, so we didn't have to head that far with our spanking new rollies in tow. No sooner had we arrived at the stop than the airporter lurched around the corner and came chugging up the street towards us. We flagged it down, piled on and settled in for the hour-long ride to the airport. It felt good to be on the bus watching the crowded streets of Taipei slowly meld into long stretches of freeway.

We arrived at the airport with loads of time to spare so we plunked ourselves down in a couple of artfully moulded seats and started up our usual time-killing, play-by-play, people-watching commentary. After a few hours of that, interspersed with bouts of snacking and concourse laps, the check-in counter opened and we checked ourselves in. "Checking any bags?" "No. We just have our carry-ons with us." Big smiles and high-fives for each other for that. I've been a proponent of travelling light for years, but I've never done any international travelling with just a carry-on. Travelling light - it's the new black.


Sunday, November 14

The flight from Taipei to Saipan was an uneventful three-and-a-half hours. We landed on Saipan at 3:00 am and made our way from the international wing of the airport to the domestic terminal to catch our flight to Rota. After a mind numbing four hour wait in the deserted (save for the slightly crazed Japanese guy whom we studiously avoided), one room shanty town shack of a terminal we boarded the prop plane for the half hour flight to Rota. We touched down on Rota without incident at 8:15 am. As we taxied along the runway and up to the impossibly small terminal we caught our first glimpse in two years of Team Klassen.

Team Klassen is Rod (referred to only as "Doc" by the locals; he's one of two doctors on Rota), Karen, Matthew (7), Andrew (5), and Sarah (4). Karen is Marlene's first cousin on her mother's side. Marlene's known Karen her whole life, but they really cemented their friendship when Marlene moved to Victoria in 1998 and they started spending time together. Since then, we've all spent a fair bit of time together (crab hunting, babysitting, board games (it's true), lattes under the moonlight), and realized we're true blue together. It was so great seeing them lined up along the tarmac waving us in. Andrew was three years old when they moved from Victoria to Rota and I later heard from Marlene that as he was waving he asked Karen, "Mommy, who are those people we're waving at?" Funny little guy. After big hugs all around it felt like the past two years hadn't slipped by us at all. Easy. Relaxed. Home.

From the airport we drove straight back to chez Klassen and traded our shoes, jeans, and long sleeved shirts for flip-flops, shorts and t-shirts. Compared to the noisy, brown soup that passes for air in Taipei the air on Rota was a symphony of fresh, clean gossamer strings. We drank it in through the open windows. After a quick breakfast of wholemeal pancakes and fresh, fruit smoothies we piled back into their van and headed straight for Titteto beach (referred to colloquially as Umbrella beach by the kids) for our first taste of snorkelling. The only real snorkelling either Marlene or I had done prior to this was off docks into chilly, "heartland" lake water. While certainly not spectacular viewing in those waters, it was always a treat to speculate how and why the shopping carts ended up where they did. Fortunately, there was no such speculation in the waters off Titteto.

It's such a clich? but the water was heavenly warm and crystal clear. If you've never experienced tropical water, which I never had prior to this, all you can do is try and imagine how it would feel to be in the screen saver on your co-worker's monitor in the adjacent cubicle. Easing into the water was like easing into the best possible daydream on a dreary, grey, coastal-bound, November day. I know some of you out there actually like dreary, grey, coastal-bound, November days, so you'll have to daydream of even drearier, greyer, November days to get a feel for just how incredible it felt. The sun was blazing, a light wind was pushing puffy, white clouds across the blue sky, the water alternated between a deep azure (so that's where that colour comes from) and a clear aqua, the coconut palms were swaying - it was a clich?through and through.

To slip beneath the surface of the water there was to slip into another world. There were tens upon tens of different kinds of fish living within spitting distance of the shore. A tip of the hat: big fish, fat fish, short fish, cat fish. Smooth fish, spiny fish, narrow fish, tiny fish. Scary fish, sun fish, hairy fish, fun fish. Blue fish, red fish, green fish, dead fish (well, not really). Swimming in water like that was a completely new experience for both of us, but we both took to it like fish to water. There's a reef a few hundred yards (Rota is a US protectorate, so all measurements were given to us by Matthew in Imperial) off shore that breaks the waves, and in turn forms a somewhat sheltered lagoon that's perfect for snorkelling. Due to who knows what factors, however, there was a tremendous current that day, which meant we could walk up the beach for a few hundred yards, slip on our flippers (fins for those of you in the know), and float down parallel to the beach with absolutely no effort at all. We played in the water at Titteto beach for hours and hours. The only signal that any time at all had passed was the rumbling in our collective stomachs, so we packed up, rinsed off, and headed back to chez Klassen for a late lunch.

That afternoon, Rod and I went down to the local dive shop, Dive Rota, and picked out my Rozintante for the coming week's adventures. She was a beauty - six months old and already showing the ravages of sun, humidity, and salt water. What she lacked in polished chrome she more than made up for in weight. She was the perfect companion for a week's worth of ramblings around Rota. She certainly wouldn't draw attention to herself cruising through Little Beirut, one of the many sights on the next morning's programme for Rod and me.

Every Sunday night at chez Klassen is Dinner Theatre. They order in quesadillas, wings (Surprisingly, some of if not the best wings I've ever had: crispy, meaty, dry, and spicy - perfectly prepared.), and pizza from the local Pizzeria, and settle in for a family movie. Rod slid Finding Nemo into the DVD player and we all collapsed onto the couches and watched the fish we'd just seen that afternoon swim and talk their way across the screen. It wasn't long, though, before the sun, wind, fresh air, time change, and Asahi beer caught up to us and nudged us off in sleep's direction. Exhausted after a great first day, we shuffled off to our commandeered room (Many thanks, Sarah.) and sunk into the first soft mattress in many moons.


Monday, November 15

The night before, Rod had suggested we get an early start to the day. He'd suggested he and I circumnavigate the island by bike so I could get a feel for Rota. It seemed like a great idea right up until the gentle poke in the shoulder at 5:30 am. Even though it's late November, the sun and heat on Rota are still intense. Any adventures, like cycling around the island (about four hours), have to get underway before the sun gets up to its old tricks. After a quick bowl of cereal and a couple cups of freshly brewed coffee (the dehydrating beverage of choice) on the patio in the cool, still dark morning, we pushed off.

We swished along the paved road until it finally petered out and we started climbing its dirt-packed, recently washed out by the last typhoon second cousin. I'm not sure what the elevation of Rota is, but in cloying, hot, tropical air, any climbing is too much climbing. There's only one road around Rota and on the side of the island we were on it went up. I'm sure it also went down, but I didn't have the energy to turn around and make sure. At the halfway point, and summit of our ride, we pulled off at a dilapidated rest area and soaked in the view: azure water breaking on the reefs far below us, white birds gliding over a green canopy of trees, and the yellow sun sparkling through billowing clouds.

The remainder of the ride was mostly downhill. We tucked ourselves over our handlebars, and with tears streaming across our cheeks we flew home along the coast. We arrived home just in time for breakfast with the rest of the team. Even though we'd only been out for about four hours in the early morning, the damage to the top of my sandal-clad feet was apparent. Red lobster, dead lobster. "Doc's" diagnosis: second degree burns. Ouch. Note to self: never forget to put lotion of the tops of my feet again.

After a delicious breakfast of fresh baked cinnamon buns, fruit, and coffee (the rehydrating beverage of choice), we packed up the beach gear and headed off to Mochong beach, which, according to the kids, is the best "adventure" beach on the island. You can go hunting for feisty, fist-sized crabs, build sandcastles, body surf, wack about in the jungle, or just walk along the powdery white beach collecting shells and bits of coral. According to Matthew, and substantiated by Andrew and Sarah through a chorus of "uh-huhs", "Mochong is the best because you just never know what kind of day you're going to have until you get there." A very Pooh-like, and very true statement.

It turned out we had a perfectly fantastic day at Mochong. We hunted for feisty, fist-sized crabs, we built sandcastles, we body surfed in the roiling waves, we didn't wack about in the jungle (but we could have), and we walked along the powdery white beach collecting shells and coral, which were summarily tossed back into the water upon returning to the beach blanket camp for their failure to meet any kind of experienced, aesthetic standard. The only downside of Mochong is that since the last typhoon struck and washed out the road leading directly to the beach, you have to walk for several hundred yards to reach the beach. This isn't a big deal on the way down to the beach, but heading back after a long day in the sun while piggybacking a pooped out Sarah the van felt like it was miles away (Listening to her softly singing about the day's activities in my ear sure lightened and shortened the walk though!).

That night, after putting the kids to bed, the four of us retired to the front patio for the first of several coffee and dessert tikki torch gab sessions. There's no light pollution on Rota, save for the tikki torches, so the stars appeared in all their glory. I'd almost forgotten what they looked like; they're certainly nowhere to be seen in Taipei. The last time I'd seen so many stars so clearly was during a midnight swim in a chilly lake on a warm summer's night somewhere in the woods outside Barkerville. The Milky Way stretched across a deep purple sky - a spectacular sight. (If you're reading this, Ryan, recall the night we spent under the same sky at Green Point in Tofino talking about Haroon and the Sea of Stories some twelve years ago.)


Tuesday, November 16

We awoke to the sound of roosters crowing in the neighbour's back yard. I'd always thought that roosters crow once or twice at sunrise and that was that - apparently not. They crow in the morning, afternoon, and evening. In fact, they never stop crowing. I don't know if this is true of all roosters, but it was certainly the case for the plumed town criers fifteen feet from our bedroom window. After deciding it was no contest between pillows over the head and eons of practiced dissonance we padded out to the kitchen, put on the coffee, and reviewed the day's programme with the already-up, Lego-playing kids.

Team Klassen got saddled up after another great breakfast and we headed out on a family bike ride. We took the same route as Rod and I had the day before, albeit at a much faster pace. Five year old legs on a thirty pound, no gear BMX can really chew up the miles. We stopped frequently to inspect this and that at the side of the road. The Japanese were on Rota during WWII and they left behind a great collection of war toys. Most have been collected and defused, but the huge canons once used to protect the south-facing bay from Allied forces are still standing. The best part is, they swivel and they back onto caves dug into the hills behind them. No cave is complete without a tunnel, and while most of the tunnels have been filled in, at least one cave still sports a decent sized tunnel demanding exploration by two young explorers. The only ones taking shelter in the tunnels these days are large, plump toads looking none to pleased at being discovered after all these years.

Our first official stop was Senator Paul's Honey Farm for a look at the rather large and leathery fruit bats housed in a large, screened aviary. According to Rod they're a local favourite best served hot. Too much of a good thing in the form of boiled bat, however, often leads to dementia, which goes some way towards explaining the local bureaucracy (Email Rod or Karen for details.) They're not without charm: cute in a certain way, friendly, and inquisitive. We fed them bits of mango through the screen and the kids delighted in watching me squirm as their long, raspy tongues flickered over my fingertips. I'm not one for insecty, reptiley creatures, so Matthew was mostly right when he informed Karen prior to our visit that, "Todd freaks out about everything! I'm proud to say that I can change a diaper and wipe a runny nose without freaking out - now, but fruit bat tongues are another matter altogether. After prowling around the grounds of the honey farm, which is neither a farm and nor does it contain any traces of honey, we pushed off for our final destination, the Gugani Fruit Farm.

We pulled into the fruit farm, which actually is a farm, although no evidence of such exists thanks to the last typhoon, and settled onto the spiky grass for a rest and a light lunch of cookies, frozen grapes, and gummie bears. After resting and refuelling for a while, (The moment we arrived on Rota I stuffed my watch into my suitcase wherein it stayed for the duration of our trip, so all times are approximate. Who can know how long we stayed at the fruit farm, and really, who cares? There's nothing like a watch to put a damper on "island" time.) the troops were recalled from their foraging forays, saddled up, and pointed in the direction of chez Klassen.

The afternoon and early evening was spent hunched over a 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle with gin and tonics in hand. It was an undersea picture featuring several suggestively posed mermaids tempting the viewer underwater. How it ended up on the shelf in chez Klassen's games room is anyone's guess. It would look like a million bucks transposed onto black velvet and mounted on the wall in one of the Chiufen teahouses. Spread out on the table in broad daylight, however, the subtle hues of the mermaids mocked more than they tempted. With G&T's in hand we threw down the gauntlet; complete the puzzle before leaving Rota. I'm not usually one for puzzles, but there's something quite nice about a holiday, a G&T, and a creamy hot day that puts me in the mood.

After a delicious dinner of Philippine-style cucumber salad (wonderful, juicy cucumbers in a soy, garlic, chilli, and vinegar dressing), and green lentils over rice, we moved to the front patio, red wine in hand, to chat and watch the toads play. I've seen the odd frog in my day (usually swimming in a ginger-garlic sauce), but I don't think I'd ever seen a toad before then. Wow! The toads were meaty, beaty, bouncy, and big. Sitting on the patio in the pale moonlight you could just make out their black lumpy bodies against the dark green lawn. Although they were difficult to see directly, every so often one would come bouncing into our peripheral vision. As soon as we spotted one, the kids would gather up their at-the-ready toad-hunting nets and being stalking it. The toads weren't about to win any awards for their jumping prowess, however, when push came to shove, as it often did when thirty small fingers, three large nets, and one wily cat named Pfeffer (German for pepper) came bearing down on them, they could really move. They quartet of toad hunters was remarkably good. They took great delight in dumping their booty into a pink, plastic bucket and bringing it to us for inspection. "Todd freaks out about everything!" Well, who wouldn't when faced with a bucket of wild-eyed toads?


Wednesday, November 17

Suckers for punishment, Rod and I awoke before the crack of dawn, mounted our steeds, and circumnavigated the island again. This time we went in the opposite direction and took a few more detours. It was another great ride complete with fantastic scenery and company. I shared my limited knowledge of Taiwan's' drive for independence, and Rod shared his vast knowledge of diabetes. Throw in some musings on opportunities taken and missed, and life in general, and you have the perfect recipe for a morning bike ride.

That afternoon, Rod and I hit the driving range at Rota Resort (I use the term somewhat charitably) while Marlene, carrying out operation Maximum Exposure, lounged by the pool. Rota Resort has the potential to be an outstanding resort. The location is great, the views are great, and Rod assured me the golf course was great, but it has the faint tinge of death about it. It's a bit like an expired, painted, grand-dame lounging on the beach wearing fake pearls and last year's swimsuit. You can't help but come back for another look, but you feel slightly uncomfortable for doing so.

Once you make it past the main reception area, navigate your way along the dirt track back road, and drive across the driving range at the 200 yard marker you feel like you could be at any resort on any third world, tropical island. Rota is only fourty-five miles from Guam, but being a US protectorate, as opposed to a US possession, means it doesn't enjoy nearly the same level of prosperity as Guam does. Guam is a solidly first-world island, but Rota is as Ptomekinly third-world as they come (fruit bat, anyone?). The fact that the few roads behind chez Klassen are referred to among the expat community as "Little Beirut" speaks volumes.

I've been golfing three times in my life: once in grade seven with Quinn and Marc, once with the Cormacks in Kelowna (I think), and once in Victoria at a corporate function. That covers a twenty year period and averages about a round once every seven years, which leaves some room for improvement. Rather than savage the resort's back nine, we settled on driving some balls into the palm trees at the driving range. Doc has had the opportunity to refine his game on Rota. As Doc, he has unlimited access to the resort's amenities au gratis. The course is mostly deserted most of the time, and as such provides the perfect venue for working on one's handicap, which Rod has demonstrably been doing.

It had been a while since I last held a club, so Rod offered a few pointers: 1. hold the club (a seven iron) in such a way that it feels completely awkward and unnatural; the grip should be perfectly devoid of comfortableness; 2. the stance should be somewhere between slapstick and solemn; 3. the arms should be rigid, while at the same time flowing freely (uh-huh); and 4. whatever you do, don't look at where you're hitting the ball (Contrary to all intuition, keep your gaze directed firmly on the ground at your feet.). He offered a whole raft of further pointers, which I gratefully accepted and tried to put into practice, but after slicing, whacking, and smashing my way through half a bucket of balls I knew I was out of my element. Until, that is, I heard, nay, I felt, the "click." There's no question it had nothing to do with technique and everything to do with dumb luck, but in one that one, magic instant as my ball was sailing toward the 100-yard marker, I knew we'd be making a return visit to the driving range.


Thursday, November 18

It was late morning and after a breakfast of fresh baked cinnamon buns, cereal, fruit smoothies, and coffee, Team Klassen was eager to begin the day's programme. A family outing was in order, so taking Matthew's suggestion we decided to climb the waterfall past Gugani Fruit Farm. To reach the waterfall you have to first scramble up the river that snakes its way up from the jungle floor. For those of you in the know, think Heart Mountain, only warmer and with monitor lizards and there's no burger at the end of the rainbow. The scramble didn't take that long and miraculously no one sprained or twisted an ankle wading through pools of water or up mini rapids lined with slippery river rocks. Spider webs crisscrossed the river and more than once I freaked out as I felt, either real or imagined, a fat spider crawling across my bare back.

At the end of the scramble/hike we were treated to a deep pool perfect for plunging into. We cooled off in the pool at the foot of the waterfall and I, at least, scrubbed myself free of spider webs. With the benefit of double the usual amount of parental oversight the boys decided it was the perfect time to venture past the hike's usual end point

That night, we grabbed the beach chairs, recycling (of the paper variety) [Brace yourself, Clint: somewhat surprisingly, for a beautiful, tropical island, there is absolutely no recycling on Rota. I can't tell you how strange it felt to toss glass and plastic into the garbage.], flashlights and marshmallows, and headed down to the beach on the bay in front of chez Klassen for a moonlight bonfire. We collected driftwood, huge, dried coconut palm fronds, and scrub for the bonfire. What a bonfire! It was scorching, intense, and loads of fun when the coconuts and rocks Matthew and Andrew threw into the fire exploded against the night sky like fireworks. In one perfect moment, with Marlene and the boys sitting silhouetted against the raging fire, Karen and Sarah laying half obscured on the beach blanket, Rod softly picking and singing the Beatles, Here Comes the Sun in front of me, and me sitting in a chair soaking it all in under the canopy of stars I felt truly happy for the first time in years.


Friday, November 19

Friday was a combination of previous activities. While it yielded its own adventures (like the live electrical cable that almost electrocuted Rod and I at the driving range in the middle of a torrential downpour when it inexplicably began hissing and writhing in the puddle of water we were driving balls out of. Management was duly noted, but upon a subsequent visit to the range the cable was still laying in the same place with a few scorch marks on the concrete as evidence of its temper tantrum.), for the sake of brevity, I'll mention only one.

Rod, Karen, Marlene, and I had slipped away in the late afternoon for a snorkel at Veteran Beach, so named in honour of those who served and died in WWII. Due to the singular spelling of "veteran" it was never agreed upon whether only one person from Rota died in WWII or if someone just forgot to chisel out the last s on the concrete sign. Regardless, it was late afternoon and it was gorgeous outside. Lazy clouds billowed overhead and clear water lapped at the white-sand, palm-fringed beach.

Better than the scenery above the water, though, was the scenery below. The fish were out in full force among the coral reef off Veteran Beach. We did a couple of group snorkels and a couple of pairs snorkels in various combinations out to the reef. Poseidon must have been in a good mood because he brought us two treats that afternoon. The first was the sighting of a Black Tipped Reef Shark. Rod and I were cruising above the coral when he stopped suddenly and motioned to get my attention. He pointed off into the blue distance. I followed the line of his finger until I spotted the unmistakeable swish of the shark. It was heading directly towards us in that languid manner I've seen so many times on TV. We both froze, and keeping each other in sight, started treading water as it approached. It passed us slowly in a wide arc and then came towards us on other side. Black Tip Reef Sharks can be anywhere from three to six feet long, so they're not a big shark by any stretch. Further, they're completely harmless. I didn't know this at the time, however, so the sighting was charged with an extra adrenaline rush.

After watching it circle us for a few minutes and then head into the blue, we surfaced and swam back to shore to tell the lounging beauties of our sighting. A fish at heart, Marlene slipped her snorkel gear on and her and I slid back into the water. As sunlight filtered through the water it created these amazing vertical shafts of colour. Where the shafts hit the coral they provided shifting spotlights excellent for focusing on the tiny fish that dark and poke their way in and out of the coral's brain-like recesses. It was while examining some of these small pockets of coral and fish that once again I was motioned to attention. Marlene had spotted something in the distance blue.

A large, dark shape was slowly soaring towards us. We couldn't make out what it was at first. It looked like it could have been another person snorkelling, but the entire stretch of beach was deserted save for us. It was a few long seconds before it came into focus; it was a huge ray. As electrifying as the shark sighting was, seeing the ray flying towards us was something else. It was a very calm moment. Things are very quiet underwater. All you can hear are minute popping, crackling, and hissing noises in your inner ears as they regulate the pressure changes. In this virtual silence, Marlene and I grasped hands and hung motionless - watching. The gorgeous ray, flecked with cream-coloured dots along its back, slid a few feet beneath our fins. We watched as its powerful wings took it back into the blue. An amazing experience for the both of us.


Saturday, November 20

Saturday broke sunny, warm, and clear. Each year on this Saturday morning Rota hosts the annual Rota Blue Swim Triathlon. It's an Olympic-distance triathlon with about 200 participants, none of which are ever from Rota. The majority of racers come from Japan, and the others from the islands neighbouring Rota: Saipan, Tinian, and Guam. Rod and I had tossed around the idea of entering the triathlon as a team. I can't swim worth spit, but I can run and I know how to get the best out of Rozintante. And Rod? Well, anyone who can blow off 100 laps in a pool without breaking a sweat can anchor the swimming portion of the race. The idea was tossed around over olives and red wine, so when it came right down to it, we knew we were all talk and no action. Which was fine with the both of us; these kinds of ideas always sound better than they actually are.

Not wanting to miss out completely on the triathlon, though, Rod contacted one of the local organizers and arranged for the both us to act as safety monitors for the swimming leg of the race. This meant yet another pre-sunrise wakeup call. So, coffees in hand, Rod, Marlene, and I drove down to the starting point of the race where Rod and I received our safety briefing. Basically, don't' let anyone drown, but don't be afraid to beat them off if they try and board your kayak either.

There were six of us out on the water in open cockpit ocean kayaks. The water was calm as we bobbed a quarter mile off shore at various points along the marked route (It was great hearing the slap of hands on water for the better part of an hour. I can't believe people can swim non-stop for an hour! It sure made me want to take swimming lessons and start entering triathlons. Perhaps when we're in Japan I'll begin lessons and start training for My First Triathlon.). Fortunately, none of us had to beat anyone with our paddles. I spent most of the time looking over the side of the boat at the seabed eighty feet below me! The water was so clear and so blue that you could see every detail of the seabed as if it was only an arm's reach away. I later heard that many of the swimmers had to swim through a school of stinging jellyfish at one point. Maybe that's why they were taking the corner a little wide. Perhaps I shouldn't have been unknowingly pointing and herding them straight back into the school. After dragging ourselves off the water as the last swimmer came ashore, Rod and I met up with Marlene on the beach and we headed off to watch some of the race at the transition points. It was about eight o'clock in the morning and already the sun was beating down. I was so glad I wasn't suffering somewhere on the course.

After returning home to a big breakfast of pancakes, bacon, fruit smoothies, and more coffee, we stood by the road in front of chez Klassen with a garden hose set to mist and cheered on the runners as they passed the house. Any race I've ever run I've always loved hearing people cheering me on. It gives an incredible boost of energy and can really carry you forward. So, Team Klassen, Marlene, and I were out in full force hosing down the runners while practicing our best Japanese. While we didn't have the theme from Chariots of Fire blaring, we did have some pretty fancy clapping and water routines, which, I think, were as equally inspiring.

That afternoon we drove to Coral Gardens for an amazing snorkelling session. You'll have to use your imagination to fill in the details, though.


Sunday, November 21

We started our last full day on Rota with an early morning snorkel along the bay in front of chez Klassen. It was a fantastic snorkel, but as with the session at Coral Gardens, you'll have to fill in the details for yourselves. Think hours of letting the current float you along over caves, twisted spires, and deep pockets of blue. To cap off the day we settled in for another session of Dinner Theatre. In a moment of foreshadowing, Little House on the Prairie made its way into the DVD player. Cold beers in hand we sat back and watched the crusty banker, Ebenezer Sprague, learn a valuable life lesson, and Laura Ingalls pan her way to the (fool's) Gold at the End of the Rainbow.


Monday, November 22

Time to rinse the salt water from our clothes and head back to Taipei. We spent the morning and early afternoon lazing around chez Klassen playing cards and putting the final touches on the mermaid puzzle. It was a sad farewell. Opportunities taken will blow Team Klassen back to Canada in the near future and then on to parts unknown, so it'll probably be another couple of years at least before we rendezvous again. We were treated to an amazing week with an amazing family in an amazing part of the world. Who could be luckier? It was a vacation neither Marlene nor I will soon forget. Hopefully the next time we meet there'll only be one person who's forgotten it ever happened as she asks, "Mommy, who are those people we're waving at?"

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