I drove into the county.

My scooter sped along the West Coast of Taiwan. I had left the city a little before eleven on a Sunday morning. The heat was strong and got stronger after I got out of downtown's tree-lined streets. Out on the open highway there was no shade.

For the next half-hour I passed barely clothed women in glass booths selling betel nuts, cigarettes and coffee. Laborers, not subject to the six-day workweek, lounged on defiantly stable bamboo construction supports drinking Whisby. Deep blue and orange temple roofs dotted the wide plains on both sides of the road. I drove past both abandoned buildings and brand new industrial complexes, some of which were the size of small cities. Complete with their own roads and dormitories for Southeast Asian migrant workers, they were self-contained. The highway was long, and hot.

There was a sign marking the turn to Salt Mountain where the highway narrowed and turned into two lanes. I drove down the shimmering small road lined with stagnant ponds and rice beds. In the distance I saw two pyramids and wondered for a minute if they had been built out of salt. As I drew closer they turned out to a building for the local farmer's cooperative. When I passed the co-op I saw Salt Mountain.

From the distance it looked like an old refinery, which it might well have been. I could see a tiny line of people walking up one side and a group at the top. At the entrance to the parking lot, an old woman stood under a beach umbrella. She took my money and gave me a ticket from a day-pack around her waist. I parked my scooter beside the tour buses and applied another layer of sunscreen. It was the hottest day this summer.

As is typical of Taiwanese tourist attractions, there was an obligatory market to pass through before the main event. Buddhists sold CDs and books. Wise entrepreneurs sold hats. There was fudge and enormous bags of garlic. Loudspeakers from competing food-stalls screeched out promises of value and good quality fish. A few people sold salt ice cream.

When I came out from under the canopy lining the alleyway between the vendors, I saw Salt Mountain. In actuality it was a small hill, fifty-some meters high. I took my time walking towards it, finding angles and taking pictures. There were half a dozen sculptures made out of salt. Most were Chinese religious/mythological characters and some were done quite well. A walkway had been cut into the hill and a sign at the bottom warned not to go off the path, though there was nowhere to go off to. I walked up slowly and salt filled the space between my feet and my sandals. I was mildly surprised that it didn¡'t hurt. On reflection, I've never had that much salt touching my body at any one time. There was a busy crowd at the top of the hill, jostling for photo space. I waited politely for several people to take their shots, and joined the people at the lookout point.

The view was of salt beds and salt-transporting machinery. The surrounding plains were flat and pockmarked with rice fields and power transformers. I could just make out the ocean in the west. Nonetheless, everyone took pictures. Women squealed when they slipped in the salt, and young men hurled rocks as far as they could. A few boys found a beautiful salt crystal and were about to throw it over the side, but they let me take a picture first. Everyone seemed pleased. I made my way back down the hill and looked for somewhere to get some water.

I went inside the only proper store for their air conditioning and to break the sole bill I brought with me. At the entrance was a glass case that held a massive piece of salt that looked to weigh about forty pounds. The store's isles were filled with salt-related beauty products and salt toothpaste. Curiously, the store sold the pre-packaged brand of salt that I regularly buy at my local supermarket. More daring tourists opted to run outside with a bag, scoop up as much salt as they could, and run back in to have it weighed and sold by the cashier. There was an unusually large amount of alcohol for sale, all produced by the state-run liquor board. The whole place smelled of fish and vanilla.

The cashier was in her early twenties and had homemade tattoos scattered across her left arm. When I apologized to her for using a bill forty times the cost of my water she smiled and said, surprised, "You can speak Chinese?" She told me the balance of my change in Taiwanese and continued smiling, seemingly unaware she had switched languages. I nodded, and went back out into the heat.

I found a shaded seat in the crowd outside the store. I drank my water and watched an older boy jokingly practice his uppercuts on a younger boy. When the former got too cocky and dropped his hands to explain his style, his small friend popped him lightly in the nose. They chased each other around while the adults ate their ice cream.

I was surrounded by Taiwanese. Out in the county, it seemed nobody spoke Mandarin. I had no idea what anyone was saying.

All the women had umbrellas to shade themselves from the heat, and so did some of the guys. I started to ask myself why I didn't have one. The crowd was mainly made up of twenty-something couples and families. There was the occasional gangster with his hair dyed jet black and a silk shirt. They'd swagger around, but they were just hot and a little bored like everyone else.

People busied around the market area. Like many small tourist attractions in Taiwan, the purpose of the excursion was almost overshadowed by people's desire to purchase a souvenir. I got up and walked slowly past the stalls. Everything that could be purchased there could be purchased anywhere else in the country. I made my way back to my scooter.

Before driving off I stopped into the washroom. When I saw the picture over the urinal I understood something I had seen earlier. Around the base of the mountain there were two life-sized wooden deer and a plastic Santa Claus. I had become so used to seeing inappropriate Western icons in Taiwan that I hadn't given them a second thought. But if a camera was placed just right, a picture could be made to show a "winter wonderland", without the viewer realizing that the subjects were not standing on snow at all.

I walked back to my scooter and put another coat of sunscreen on. The sun was at its zenith and I was soaked with sweat. The heat had become quiet and intense. I unlocked my helmet and looked over at the stalls at the edge of the market. There was a group of large, well-dressed men, sitting on plastic stools behind a table selling virility products. The setup of their wares was vague and unattractive. The men threw coins into a bowl and every now and then money would change hands. They wore gold watches and someone had a brand new minivan. Business in the county.


Dave Bolster is our faithful southern bureau chief.

Photographs of Dave's excursion to Salt Mountain can be found in the Taiwan Ho! Gallery.