Words of Innocence and Experience

Stepping out of the congested bus, the chilly, refreshing air immediately splashed cool water on my sunburned skin. The nostalgic, heavenly smell of grass washed over me and immediately took me away from the exhaustion of living in the city. I felt blessed, cleaned, joyous, before I saw and heard people, jostling in line, waiting to enter the resort. The laughing children gathered in the playground near the gate, the sound of their cheering resonating in the air. Somehow my heart grew old at such a sound.

Ching-Jing Farm is celebrated for its natural landscapes and picturesque scenery. Before going to Ching-Jing, I had imagined it to be a Secret Garden where the firmament is azure and the breeze is comfortable, where the grasses are green and sprawl freely in the ample fields, where the untrimmed trees grow widely, and where insects, birds, and fish all thrive and abound with little disturbance from human beings. The wildlife would welcome human visitors spontaneously and not be trained to do so. However, as I stood in line at the toll bridge, bending my head in an attempt to get a glimpse of the farm through the crowd, all I saw was indeed beauty—beauty of artificiality.

The people around me shouted, conversed in high spirits. Mother and her colleague, Aunt Hu, chatted cheerfully as everyone waited to purchase the tickets. Somewhat disappointed, my enthusiasm over entering the farm did not wane. I still yearned to take in the gorgeous scenery, even though the resort was not as secluded as I had believed it to be.

After waiting for about a quarter of an hour, we finally managed to go into the farm. The spacious pasture seemed to beckon me to fall into its embrace, but before I could dash towards it, Mother stopped me by telling me that Aunt Hu’s daughter was missing. Although my eagerness had to be appeased once again, I helped find the little girl with oddly calm acceptance. In a way, I was afraid that really seeing the farm in its entirety would spoil all my beautiful fantasies in the past.

We looked for the little girl desperately near the toll bridge, but she was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly the noise from the playground rang in my ears like a tolling bell. I flew there immediately, passing one elated child after another, finally finding the girl on a seesaw. Shaking my head, I looked at her with incredulity while taking her hand to her mother’s side.

“What are you doing there?” asked Aunt Hu, her brows knitted with worry that had yet dissipated.

“I was playing, of course.” The girl answered, her expression innocent.

“Well, you didn’t come to play in the playground, did you?” Aunt Hu crossed her arms over her chest, her anger and slight amusement visible.

The girl looked somewhat puzzled, “well, it doesn’t matter where I’m playing, as long as it is fun…”

Aunt Hu pinched her daughter’s cheek with some force and it turned pink. “Stop that stupid talk. Let’s go to the farm now.”

Afterwards, we finally passed through the gate. The verdant meadow glowed majestically under the blurry sky. It was by no means spacious, though, since I seemed to have seen the border of the farm as my eyesight traveled afar. Stoned passages along with wooden fences outlined the pasture abruptly. It was relaxing to walk along the paths, yet I wondered what it would have been like to merely thread on the grass, to have their stubs gently sting my underused feet.

Sheep ran to and fro along the narrow passages, playing hide-and-seek with the visitors. One white sheep flung towards me, the sides of its mouth twisted up into a cordial smile, as if welcoming me to its lovely home. I smoothed its curly, slightly rough fleece while Mother took a picture of us. Unfortunately, it ran away from me as soon as it witnessed a boy with fodder in his hand. No matter. There were dozens of sheep running about, waiting to be fed, appreciated, and adored by visitors. Some of the sheep, whose fleeces were brown, looked particularly endearing. I nicknamed them “chocolates” and began chasing after one such, hoping to obtain a photograph with the darling thing.

After the sheep chase, warmth sprung into my limbs, yet it did not escape from my notice that the temperature had dropped, and grey cloud began eating up the originally blue sky. In spite of the ominous sign from above, we continued strolling around the farm. The stone passages slid down the steep terrain of the farm with views down the green valley, and the enclosure of the farm crystallized before my eyes. In Taiwan where every inch of land should be properly utilized, the farm was perhaps already spacious compared with other scenic spots. The view downhill was breathtaking, though: a wide rug of grass covered the field thoroughly, where a gorgeous cottage and several white benches were situated. A large signboard stood somewhat incongruously in front of the cottage, advertising the upcoming “shepherd’s show” in the afternoon.

Gentle showers fell slowly from the sky as the grey clouds assembled layer upon layer. Soon showers turned to downpour. The disordered footsteps of tourists and sheep treaded soundly as everyone anxiously search for someplace for shelter from the rain. Luckily, a pavilion was close in sight, and we jumped in without thinking. The coolness rushed into my veins, urging me to put on my coat. Mother, Aunt Hu, her daughter, and I sat silently and listened to the sometimes tender, sometimes violent brushing of raindrops on the rooftop. While we enjoyed the peacefulness, a gentleman who sat next to me picked up his newspapers and began skimming the pages. Probably finding the boredom unbearable, a woman standing in the middle of the pavilion picked up her cell phone from her purse. It seemed to me, that even in this remote farm in the mountains, people still considered the trip an experience of the city life, as they killed their time with modern equipments rather than observed the scenery.

We had lunch, but the rain showed no sign of halting. Thus, we were in the dilemma of leaving Ching-Jing early or waiting for the shepherd’s show. The latter won more votes, so we resumed the seats in the pavilion with no other choice.

“Should we go for a walk, then?” I asked Mother.

“No, I’m rather tired,” replied she, stifling a yawn.

“But if there is nothing to do if we just sit here.”

“You can take a walk if you want to,” she shrugged. She and Aunt Hu began eating watermelon seeds and at the same time tossed the shells to the ground. I knew that I should have stopped them, but my discretion prevented me from reprimanding senior people.

In the following one and a half hour of wait, I wandered aimlessly in the farm. The limited scope of the scenery had ceased to impress me. Thankfully, the rain had subsided greatly during this noon time; otherwise, my rather tiny umbrella would have failed to fend off the rain.

Most visitors convened voluntarily near the white cottage, which shined brightly after being cleaned by the rain. Everything looked surreal amid the thickening fog. Sitting on the paper-covered yet still wet white bench, the chills wrapped me up like a bittersweet dream. Someone next to Mother complained that we had occupied too much space, and I stood up upon his rude request. At a time, the “shepherd” finally showed up. He was a middle aged Australian, swarthy and charismatic. He introduced himself in a clipped, humorous manner, as did the “shepherdess,” his Taiwanese wife. A native aborigine with a feigned vicious face on stage was dancing with his leathered lash while they talked.

To see all sheep allocate themselves according to the shepherd’s whistles, to have something only seen in movies displayed before my eyes, was mind-blowing. The sheep, white and brown alike, all rushed down from the steep and gathered in front of the stage. The shepherd chose a white lamb and showed the audience how to cut the fleece with finesse. The lamb relaxed at the shepherd’s dexterity, its face brimmed with a smile, the kind of smile belonging to all animals. I was indeed entertained after the show, yet some strong, inexplicable wistfulness also hit me.

On our way down the mountains, various villas appeared one after another and dazzled our vision. While they looked stunning, most of them were built upon precarious, steep slopes. Should an uninvited typhoon come, the gorgeous but fragile villas would likely be torn down. With such a large number of sloppy visitors, I wondered if Ching-Jing would retain the beauty it had before being transformed into a city. Perhaps it was lucky of me to bathe in its remaining glory then. I sincerely hope that the splendor of this “secret garden” of Taiwan would live on.