Gathering of Nations 2016

Gathering of Nations

The Men’s Fancy Feather Dance, Gathering of Nations 2016

The opening moment actually takes my breath away. The first drumbeat initiates a men’s dance of such color and fervor I can think of nothing to compare it to. A blur of motion blows past me — men spinning, dipping, stepping eloquently to the magnificent beat of an eight-person drum circle. Each one of these dancers is a work of art in his regalia and style of movement, but collectively they pulse like a beating heart, for several minutes, until the explosive drumbeat ceases into silence, the dancers hold their final pose and the crowd erupts in applause.

This is my first powwow. In the first three minutes, I’m speechless and nearly moved to tears.

I find out later that powwows don’t usually begin with a men’s Fancy Feather dance, but this year’s Gathering of Nations in Albuquerque, New Mexico has begun with this special performance in honor of the late Spike Draper, Diné Nation Posthumous Head Man Dancer for the two-day event. What a beginning — what a moment I won’t ever forget.

The Gathering of Nations is North America’s largest powwow, with more than 3,000 dancers from over 700 tribes and First Nations. I’ve arrived here for the two-day event on a personal mission. After writing about culture and life around Southeast Asia for the past four years, it’s time to dive back into the heritage of my own country and learn — or perhaps I should say re-learn — about the culture of the indigenous people and first nations of North America. It’s clear from being here, and from being a lot older and a little bit wiser about the world, that all of the American history lessons I sat through in school were narrowly-focused and vastly incomplete.

Gathering of Nations 2016

Representing Zia, Ute and Diné nations of Albuquerque, New Mexico

What I experience during the Gathering of Nations is as educational as it is enchanting. Three thousand dancers share the floor during the magnificent Grand Entry — an hour-long procession of all ages and nations, repeated four times in two days. The Grand Entries are followed by hours upon hours of competitive and community dancing, drumming and singing into the night and throughout the following day and night again. Jingle, Fancy Shawl, Buckskin, Grass, Cloth, Straight, Traditional, Gourd, Hand Drum … all new to me, and profound in heritage and significance. And beautiful — so completely, exquisitely beautiful that my words are futile in describing the experience of being here.

Gathering of Nations Grand Entry

Saturday’s first Grand Entry, Gathering of Nations 2016

I watch, I listen, I learn. I ask questions. I un-learn. I re-learn. I adjust the words I use, I change the questions I ask. I try. I hope. I am so grateful to be here. I am just one person, but I am one person. One step. One step closer to the truth. Past, future, here, now.


Click any photo in the gallery below to view as a slideshow.

Special thanks to James Korenchen of James Korenchen Public Relations for providing me with an all-access media pass to photograph the Gathering of Nations 2016.

These photos, and many others not shown here, will be given to the Gathering of Nations organization. Please do not use these images without my consent. If you’re pictured here and would like a copy of your photo, please get in touch by leaving a comment below. I’d be more than happy to send you your portrait.


WordPress Weekly Photo Challenge: Face

Culture Miscellaneous

Regarding Everest

After seeing Mani Rimdu and an enjoying an overnight stay near Tengboche, we trekked farther up the Khumbu Valley toward Dingboche. The terrain relaxed into high altitude farmland, where rock walls delineated plots of land used to farm buckwheat, barley and potatoes. It seems unlikely that at 4,300 meters (14,000 feet) there would be much of anything worth farming but the bounty from these three crops sustains the families in the region as a source of both food and income. Black barley, in particular, is well suited for growing at Dingboche’s unique altitude and Sherpas regard barley from here as the finest available — even divine, as the local god of barley resides at a nearby peak called Cho Polu. (You can read more about Khumbu farming here.)

After a few hours hiking through the valley, we reached the far edge of Dingboche where Ashish arranged our accommodations for the evening. The cold shadows of the afternoon were setting in and we pitched our tent in the front yard of the home of a Sherpa woman. She was in her fifties, lived alone and had four grown children,one of whom paid her a visit the next morning. She welcomed us inside the stone and mud hut where we warmed up next to a stove while she and Ashish exchanged pleasantries. After a few minutes, and with a twinkle in her eye, she pulled out an enormous plastic jug from under her bed: Raksi — the local home brew and the byproduct of Dingboche’s grain farming. We toasted and tasted, and thanked her for her hospitality.

Departing Dingboche the next morning, the valley lifted higher and turned slightly west with the promise of the world’s highest peaks not too far away.We crossed the Khumbu Khola to a plateau filled with monuments to world-famous Sherpas and climbers, and strings of prayer flags tattering in the wind.

It is a strange, even lonely sensation trekking into the majesty of the remote Himalayas. It is nearly silent from land to sky, with only the wind and your footsteps accompanying you. Your relationship with nature and desire to see the world become the motivating forces pushing you deeper into the isolation. Otherwise, why would you be here? Purpose becomes singular, grandeur becomes visible, and the magnitude of what you’re about to see builds into a tidal wave of anticipation. Finally, the trail rounds a bend and drops into the last stretch to Gorak Shep. Pumori, the perfect peak of a child’s drawing, sits to the left and the serrated edge of Nuptse cuts into the sky on the right. You have arrived.

Pumori to the left, Nuptse to the right, J in the middle

Pumori to the left, Nuptse to the right, J in the middle

We pushed on, now above 4,500 meters (15,000 feet) but still in the valley. Over the next kilometers the well-worn trail dissolved into the sandy basin of the Khumbu glacier, the world’s highest. Its path marks the movement of water, ice and rock over thousands of years. Listen closely and you might even hear it moving. When I was here in 2000 I spent three mesmerizing hours sitting and listening to the brittle snaps and pops of the Khumbu glacier’s noisy neighbor — the Ngozumpa glacier over Cho La Pass near Gokyo — while every now and then seeing rocks fall and dust fly as the glacier moved down the valley, inch by inch.

We picked our way through the rough and rocky terrain and arrived at the overlook to Gorak Shep — the farthest campsite of our trek.

It was high noon. Sunshine blasted over the moonscape of Gorak Shep with a dry, intense heat reminiscent of Arizona. We pitched our tent and made our decisions about what to do with the afternoon. I rested for tomorrow’s final climb to Kala Patthar (Black Rock) — the dark, dusty peak below Pumori in the photo above. J and a couple of Sherpas pushed on to Everest Base Camp in a six-hour round-trip hike, returning after dark exhilarated and exhausted.

With the sun down, temps dropped quickly. We settled into our sleeping bags around 8:00 p.m. and found our night in the Khumbu both eery and magnificent. With clear skies and no wind, complete silence surrounded us. But less than an hour into our sleep we heard the rumble of an avalanche on the other side of the glacier. Near midnight, I laid in my sleeping bag fearing the frigid cold and heart-pumping conditions of a trip to the toilet tent at the breathtaking altitude of 5,000 meters (16,500 feet). But as I emerged from the warmth of our VE 25, I was rewarded with the gift of the most beautiful starry sky I have ever seen. Shivering in my fleece jacket and tights, I savored a sight I may never see again in my lifetime.

We started the hike to Kala Patthar at 4:00 a.m. the next morning, hoping to reach the summit before sunrise above Everest. The trail to Kala Patthar is not kind — it hits you with a severe slope and series of false summits just when you’re most exhausted and wanting to get to the apex of your journey. But we soldiered on, with adrenaline and desire pushing us up the final scramble to the top, at 5,500 meters (18,200 feet).

We beat the sun, arriving in the shadow of Mount Everest and Nuptse, with Lhotse hidden behind. We unfurled our prayer flags, and J tied them up and let them speak to the wind in memory of his brother Gary.

It’s a hard feeling to describe, sitting on a rock regarding Mount Everest as the sun rises in the Himalayas. We felt a sense of achievement, a bit of relief, abundant awe and gratitude, and a lot of just … happiness. This world can be so scary, so fast moving, so out of control, so easy to despair over. But for a moment in our life, the world was none of those things. It was pure and simple. We walked there. We saw the biggest mountain on Earth and it was beautiful.


This post is the last in a series about my trip to Nepal in 2005. The series starts here.


Blessed by Mani Rimdu in the Himalayas

This entry is Part 6 in a series about my trip to Nepal in 2005.

Waiting for Mani Rimdu to begin

Waiting for Mani Rimdu to begin

The sudden flutter of activity at the front door of Tengboche Monastery brought everyone to their feet. Afternoon clouds settled at the crest of the hill, erasing parts of the deep blue sky with dramatic effect. The horns, previously droning from a window of the monastery, transitioned into a full-fledged musical procession moving down the front steps signaling the beginning of the day’s Mani Rimdu festivities.

Mani Rimdu celebrates the establishment of Buddhism in Tibet by Guru Rinpoche. The festival begins on the first day of the tenth month of the Tibetan lunar calendar (around October or November) and brings together the Tibetan, Sherpa and monastic communities of the region. For the first nine days of Mani Rimdu monks conduct private, sacred ceremonies called Drupchen, which are followed on the tenth day by the Wang, a blessing ceremony for the general public by the abbot of the monastery. This is followed by masked dances and celebration over three days with a fire puja marking the end of the festival.

To our delight, we arrived on the day of the Wang. The monks of Tengboche played horns, cymbals and drums as they exited the gate onto the trail in front of the monastery. Their full ceremonial dress included yellow hats symbolic of the Gelug school of Vajrayana Buddhism. Wrapped in a gold robe, one of the monks walked past with a two-foot conch shell held to his lips — what looked to be an antique musical instrument from far, far away.

At the gompa next to the monastery, the procession paused in an exquisite display of color and ceremony punctuated by a fantastic arc of yellow atop each monk’s head. Their music beat on in a clash of cymbals and horns as a masked man stepped into the focus of the growing crowd of Sherpas and trekkers. Snowy Kangtega filled the sky behind him.

Mi-Tsering of Mani Rimdu

Mi-Tsering of Mani Rimdu

Mi-Tsering is a featured persona of Mani Rimdu. He’s also known as Long Life Man. Narrative from Chiwong Monastery in Kathmandu says Mi-Tsering “is a kind, bumbling, gentle old man. He means well and does his best, but inevitably gets everything wrong. He is, however, convinced that he’s an expert and tries to instruct others in some of the temple rituals, such as offering khataks (silk scarves), or doing prostrations. His is a light-hearted comic act, yet it brings a poignant message of encouragement to ordinary people — that sincerity and good intentions count for as much as expertise. It is Mi-Tsering who heads the procession of monks welcoming Trulshig Rinpoche’s arrival at Chiwong, and who heralds him into the courtyard to preside over the dances. He is an acknowledgement of every man’s good intentions, however humble.”

Here in the Himalayas, Mi-Tsering preceded the appearance of Tengboche Rinpoche, Abbot of Tengboche Monastery. I am still astounded at my sheer luck getting a decent photograph of this revered man.


Tengboche Rinpoche, Abbot of the Tengboche Monastery

Narrative of the Tengboche Monastery notes, “In 1935, on the same day the Dalai Lama was born, a Sherpa family from Namche Bazaar had a son. When this boy was still very small he insisted he had a home and possessions in Tengboche. His family went to visit Ngawang Tenzin Norbu in Rongbuk and this high lama, who had always been closely connected with Tengboche, recognized him as the Tulku or reincarnation of Lama Gulu (founder of Tengboche Monastery, who died in 1934). He was given the name Ngawang Tenzin Zangbu. When the family returned to Namche the monks from Tengboche came with possessions from Lama Gulu mixed in with other monks’ possessions. The boy picked out everything that had belonged to the previous lama without hesitation. Everyone agreed he was the true incarnation and he was brought to Tengboche Monastery. He then undertook many years of hard study and training. He spent many years in Tibet studying with the great masters there. In 1956 he returned to Tengboche as the Abbot of the monastery and is known as Tengboche Rinpoche.”

The Abbot and monks moved to the side of the monastery where they were seated with Sherpas of the community. Mi-Tsering sat in a chair at a corner of the gathering, silk scarf in his hands, fielding curious looks from the Sherpas around him. Mani Rilwu and Tshereel were distributed with tea as Tengboche Rinpoche began giving the empowerment for long life, happiness and prosperity to everyone attending.

Trulshig Rinpoche, Abbot of Chiwong Monastery, says, “Seeing Mani Rimdu is like receiving a blessing.” Indeed, we felt blessed having seen this unique cultural event deep in the Himalayas. We returned to camp and rested up for the next day’s journey farther into the Khumbu.

Next: Regarding Everest — the final post in this series about Nepal.

This entry is Part 6 in a series about my trip to Nepal in 2005. Previous entries can be found here: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5


Cowbells & Caravans: How to Tour with the Tour de France

It’s summertime and I’ve been in the U.S. working for the past three weeks, leaving my blog stagnant and unattended. So hey, why not share a timely post from the past? The 2014 Tour de France is currently pedaling its way toward Les Alpes. Here’s a post from 2012 about the race, the party, and what makes The Tour an epic travel experience.

It’s April 30th. Do you know where your summer vacation is? If you live in Europe or you’re a cycling fan, maybe you do. If not, listen up. It’s called the Tour de France and it kicks off two months from today.

Do you love sports? Do you love cycling? Do you just love to ride a bike? Silly questions… of course you do! Just had to make sure I was speaking to the right audience before I justify my almost irrational claim that the Tour de France is, in fact, The Greatest Annual Party in the History of World Sports. If you like cycling, mountains, France, road trips, baguettes, cheese, wine, beer, camping, cowbells, socializing with happy people from around the world and never having to buy a ticket for a three-week-long sporting event (or even just ONE of these things)… then GO to FRANCE in JULY.

During the month of July, all of France is crazed and excited about cycling — a fact understood and accepted nationwide. This goes a long way in how you’ll be received as a spectator of the race and participant in The Greatest Annual Party in the History of World Sports. French people look forward to meeting you and welcoming you to their country. They let you camp on the roadside, they do their best to keep the traffic moving, they expect that you’ll respect their terrain and the riders who are cycling past you and, most importantly, they don’t try to control an event that has a life and spirit of its own.

Putting out the bike on race day

That’s really the best thing about this race and this party: the freedom. You go because you love it, you don’t have to follow a strict schedule or spend a lot of money (unless you want to), there are few rules or regulations about where you can or can’t spectate, and in the process of touring with The Tour you get to see the charming towns and stunning scenery of France, like this stop on our route in 2009:

Annecy, France

So how do you tour with The Tour? Here’s what I recommend: get a good map, review the race route, focus on one week if you have limited time (we’ve picked the mountain stages in the Alps twice so far), rent a car or a camper van (satellite TV optional), fly into Geneva with your camping gear, pick up the vehicle, arrive at the first stage on your itinerary the night before it happens, find a place to park, make your campsite and let the party begin. You’ll be surrounded by joyful, like-minded enthusiasts and the rest of the adventure will unfold in front of you as you watch the race and follow the caravan to the next stage of The Tour. It’s really that simple.

A typical scene along the route

Car or camper van — either one works!

There will be good shwag, great food, priceless opportunities to ride the stages if you bring your bike, an amusing caravan of sponsors before every stage and the daily chance to be within reaching distance of the world’s top 200 elite cyclists. Listen for the helicopters and you’ll know they’re approaching. Ring your cowbells as they cruise past you or display your patriotism as you run alongside — participation is up to you, just try not to spill your beer!

The sponsor caravan arrives on Col du Petit Saint-Bernard

The lion, symbol of The Tour


Alberto Contador


The infamous Lance Armstrong

The peloton following Contador, Armstrong and the Schleck brothers

Mr. Producer, flying the California flag while he drinks a beer

When the High Alps are over and it’s time for The Tour to head to Paris, return to Geneva and ditch the rental car. Hop a quick train to Paris and check into your hotel a night or two before the race arrives on the Champs Elysée. Eat and drink copious amounts of wine, cheese and French food at the adorable sidewalk cafes as you wait for The Tour to arrive. On the final day of the race, get out early to enjoy breakfast and walk around central Paris on one of the few days when its main thoroughfares are closed to traffic, and The Greatest Annual Party in the History of World Sports culminates after seven laps on brutal cobblestone streets.

Touring with The Tour is like taking a great novel on vacation with you… heroes and villains, egos and underdogs, triumphs and tragedies. The Tour is a living, breathing, dramatic story of strategy that unfolds across hundreds of kilometers during which weather, illness, doping, crashes, climbs, descents, ethics, controversy, exhaustion and plain old bad luck can and will affect all of the riders in the race. The Tour is life, on two wheels, for three weeks, during which you will party, eat, sleep and repeat amidst some of the most breathtaking scenery in the world. If you like this sort of thing, you’ll love touring with The Tour.

Did I mention it kicks off in Liège two months from today? Yes, that means you still have time to book your ticket, plan your route, pack your bike and GO. It really is that much fun, and there’s even this to look forward to at the very end:

All images  ©2012



West elevation of Shiva temple

West elevation of Shiva temple

Prambanan sits precariously in central Java, Indonesia. Built around 850 A.D., Prambanan has a dramatic history of glory, abandonment, rediscovery, restoration, repeated collapse and repeated rebuilding from centuries of earthquakes, looting, the ravages of time and volcanic eruptions as recently as February.

It is a spectacular Hindu temple complex — one of the largest in Southeast Asia. Its central square and main temples have been re-assembled while most of the surrounding smaller temples lay in piles of stone on the ground. At the time of its completion, Prambanan included 240 temples in all.


Prambanan, 1895 ~ William Henry Jackson, U.S. Library of Congress public domain

“Discovery” of the temple is credited to C.A. Lons in 1733. However, Colin Mackenzie, a Scottish surveyor employed by Sir Stamford Raffles, came upon Prambanan in 1811 which prompted the first full survey of the site. Significant restoration and rebuilding didn’t begin until the 1920s. Obviously, a lot of work has gone into reconstructing the complex since then. It seems miraculous that many of Prambanan’s bas-relief narrative panels of sages and apsaras remain intact, somehow pieced together after centuries of decay and distress.

With that said, there is still a bit of risk inherent to any visit to Prambanan. Entering the temple of Shiva requires a hard hat just in case your timing coincides with the frequent grumbling of nearby Mount Merapi.

Prambanan’s three main temples hold sculptures of Shiva, Vishnu and Brahma. The Shiva temple contains a deep well at its center and during restoration a stone casket was found resting on charcoal and animal bones. The casket held coins, jewels and gold, perhaps meaning Prambanan was a royal mausoleum of the Mataram Kingdom.

Of the sculptures at Prambanan, Sir Stamford Raffles said, “In the whole course of my life I have never met with such stupendous and finished specimens of human labor, and of the science and taste of ages long since forgot, crowded together in so small a compass as in this little spot.”

Architecture Culture

Singapore’s Edible “Garden City” Project


View from the edible garden at the People’s Park Complex

Singapore has long been known as the “Garden City”, thanks to the vision of former Prime Minister Lee Kuan Yew. In the early 1960s when Singapore was establishing itself — a country newly independent from Malaysia — he formulated a long-term plan to create a country full of green spaces, with trees and tropical vegetation to counter balance the dense population that would increase over time.

Today, Lee Kuan Yew’s vision endures on a large scale all over Singapore. The Heritage Tree Scheme, the Singapore Botanic Gardens and Gardens by the Bay are all examples of Singapore’s commitment to not only preserving green spaces, but creating new ones for everyone to enjoy and learn from. Even driving to and from the airport offers a vibrant view of tropical vegetation and mature trees, both of which create jobs with the meticulous grooming required to keep everything looking tip top.

So, how does this large-scale vision trickle down to the average resident of Singapore? Many residents, myself included, tend to a few plants on their balcony or spend the day having a picnic at the botanic gardens every now and then. But with Singapore’s urban highrise lifestyle, most residents simply lack the space to tend a garden and cultivate an interest in growing fruits or vegetables.


The Edible “Garden City” Project

Thanks to the Edible “Garden City” Project, and their vision for “fertile concrete”, this is starting to change. The Edible “Garden City” Project cultivates gardens on unused rooftop spaces around the city. If you’ve been to Singapore and know the climate, this makes perfect sense. Sunshine is abundant, rain is frequent, and the heat is so scorching there could hardly be a better use for these exposed areas of the city. Today I visited the EGCP’s garden at the top level of the People’s Park Complex car park. No one EVER parks a car there because it’s hotter than a habañero. It’s the perfect place for a garden.

The People’s Park Complex is a pillar of Singapore history, built in 1970 at the cutting edge of retail/residential construction (the first shopping mall in Southeast Asia!). Far more historic than picturesque, it’s now host to the fertile concrete of Singapore’s urban farming movement. The Edible “Garden City” Project cultivates a mish-mash of edible plants in pots, beds and burlap sacks. Solar power, irrigation and shade structures all help to keep the garden happy. Several people tend to the garden, including Andy — busy at work inside planting cilantro seedlings.

The Garden City is getting hip to local organic farming. Edible gardens are sprouting up all over Singapore as people understand more and more the value of growing food locally, putting unused spaces to work, harvesting the free natural resources around us and building community through shared effort. Not to mention the simple joy of digging in the dirt! The organic end results — basil, carrots, lettuce, sweet potatoes and chili peppers to name a few — are given away to gardeners and also used by local restaurants. Hmmm … maybe I can try to grow tomatillo plants to make salsa verde! Or start another pineapple plant like the one that’s overtaking my balcony.

You can read more about the Edible “Garden City” Project and its founders at their website:


In Memory of Gabriel García Márquez


“What hurts me most,” she would say, laughing, “is all the time that we wasted.”

That I only recently discovered the gift of the writing of Gabriel García Márquez is disappointing to me, given that the English translation of his most notable work was completed the year I was born. But maybe it’s perfect that I finished One Hundred Years of Solitude just this month. The younger me might have dismissed its whimsical nature, but the older me savored the rare art and creativity infused into every paragraph.

One Hundred Years of Solitude re-ignited my interest in reading fiction. As a person who writes primarily about travel, with its infinite destinations and discoveries, I always set aside fiction in favor of reading non-fiction details about the places we go and the real world we live in. But in reading One Hundred Years of Solitude, Márquez took me on a trip of a different kind — with magic and reality, humor and sadness, denial and passion, solitude and family ties, life and death, in a fantastic fictional world of dualities based on our singular humanity.

“Amaranta Úrsula defended herself sincerely with the astuteness of a wise woman, weaseling her slippery, flexible, and fragrant weasel’s body as she tried to knee him in the kidneys and scorpion his face with her nails, but without either of them giving a gasp that might not have been taken for the breathing of a person watching the meager April sunset through the open window. It was a fierce fight, a battle to the death, but it seemed to be without violence because it consisted of distorted attacks and ghostly evasions, slow, cautious, solemn, so that during it all there was time for the petunias to bloom and for Gaston to forget about his aviator’s dreams in the next room, as if they were two enemy lovers seeking reconciliation at the bottom of an aquarium.”

Márquez paints beautiful pictures with his words, sometimes surprising but always understandable. Yet as relatable as he makes his scenes and characters, Márquez still beguiles us with the mystery of life and the human condition.

“It was then that she realized that the yellow butterflies preceded the appearances of Mauricio Babilonia. She had seen them before, especially over the garage, and she had thought that they were drawn by the smell of paint. Once she had seen them fluttering over her head before she went into the movies. But when Mauricio Babilonia began to pursue her like a ghost that only she could identify in the crowd, she understood that butterflies had something to do with him. Mauricio Babilonia was always in the audience at the concerts, at the movies, at high mass, and she did not have to see him to know that he was there, because the butterflies were always there.”

This is the magic of One Hundred Years of Solitude. Its fundamental requirement is that you cast aside your notions of reality, escape with Márquez into a story of impossibilities and exaggerations, and believe in the mythical town of Macondo and its most complex family, the Buendías. My non-fiction mind found it hard to keep up with the family tree and hard to resist the urge to try to find Macondo on a map of the Americas. But as my imagination took over these things became less important. I found myself sitting next to Melquíades in his workshop, commiserating with the Colonel under the chestnut tree and celebrating the last passionate pages with Aureliano. And Úrsula — enduring Úrsula, who for much of the book stands at the center of the story as the matriarch of its magic, she runs the house with complete, humorous acceptance of its peculiarities and transformations.

“Úrsula cried in lamentation when she discovered that for more than three years she had been a plaything for the children. She washed her painted face, took off the strips of brightly colored cloth, the dried lizards and frogs, and the rosaries and old Arab necklaces that they had hung all over her body, and for the first time since the death of Amaranta she got up out of bed without anybody’s help to join in the family life once more.”

Gabriel García Márquez has gone, and with him goes his unforgettable imagination and unique perspective on life. There is much of his childhood in One Hundred Years of Solitude, and smart glimpses of him in his characters.

“The world must be all fucked up,” he said then, “when men travel first class and literature goes as freight.”

Thank you Gabriel García Márquez, for your first class literature, for your words that inspire me to read more, and for the magical realism that only you could share with the world.


Among the Lanes of Lukang

Hidden away along the west coast of Taiwan is a town called Lukang. Much of Lukang has the everyday hustle and bustle of motorbikes and street stalls, but among this is a sleepy little neighborhood that’s altogether different. Lukang’s Historic Preservation Area reaches back in time with narrow brick lanes and beautiful little doorways that feel untouched since well into the last century.

Exploring the area by foot allows time to linger among the evident history and charm, and walk through some of Lukang’s well-preserved temples. Longshan was a favorite with its calm, open spaces and old, impeccably groomed trees in the courtyard.

Old Market Street and Nine Turns Lane hold the discovery of antiques, crafts, artists at work, and doorways to homes within the district. Sometimes colorful, sometimes old and worn, each doorway has its own personality along with a healthy dose of intrigue as to what might be found on the other side.

Architecture Culture