If You Look for the Fireflies, You will not Find Them

The other day, my friend Jennie invited me to go for a hike on Tiger Mountain, near Taipei 101, to see the fireflies.

We arrive at the foot of the mountain path, where there are loads of parents with their children listening to our guide for the evening. Everyone has brought flashlights to light their way as late afternoon turns to night. We're supposed to bring flashlights covered with a red filter.

"Why does it have to be red, not, say, green?" Jennie asks. I think she has a good point.

I've just had a long day. An obese Chinese boy of about eleven is blocking our way so we can't see our guids and his pictures of the fireflies. The boy is shaking his right leg. "Too much coke," I say to Jennie, pointing to his hyperactive leg.

There's a creek next to us, and I motion to her to let her know that I'd like to get closer to it. It's less crowded over there. I take a look. It is simply beautiful, full of ferns and rocks.

Jennie says we should ditch the crowd, and we start up the mountain by ourselves. I don't think I will miss them.

Finally, after only about twenty minutes, maybe less, we arrive at the top, where there's a beautiful garden. It starts to drizzle a little, and we find a small covered pavillion to sit under.

We're talking and then suddenly I see a firefly. A few fireflies give us a show for the next hour as we talk.

Firefly tourists comes in two's and three's, asking us where they are. Jennie exhibits the typical warm way of the Taiwanese when she gets up and shows them where to look. They look amazed.

"You know," I say, "when I was a kid, in the summer in Baltimore, we used to watch the fireflies, too, sometimes catch them and put them in jars. Except in Baltimore, you don't see six fireflies. You see 600!"

"Yeah," Jennie responds. "It's like snow. We don't see snow in Taiwan, so you can imagine if we saw just a few flakes, it would make the news and get everyone all excited."

More people come and I can hear them excitedly looking for the insects, but they can't find them. They are looking too hard. They want to see them, get a photo, perhaps a t-shirt, too, and then go on their way. Perhaps dinner awaits. They come and ask us where to find the fireflies and Jennie points out one in the bushes in front of us.

By now, it feels like the garden is ours, and I make a joke. "You see one firefly, that'll be 100NT... whoa another one, that'll be another 100NT!"

I turn to Jennie and say to her, in my best impression of Lao Zi: "If you look for the fireflies, you will not find them."

The hordes arrive with their red flashlights and the guide is lecturing. We finally find out what the red filter is for. Fireflies aren't sensitive to red light.

A mother sits down with her two daughters in front of us. The younger one looks at me a few times and when I catch her, she quickly turns her gaze and hugs her mom. Another supercute Taiwanese kid. She looks at me again and I make a face at her, hoping she will crack a smile.

The kids are running around, I don't think they're listening to their guide for the evening. Their parents have already gotten out the snacks and are feeding them. One kid is crying. A few others walk past me to check me out.

Jennie tells me the firefly guide is just repeating the same things over and over again.

Slowly, people trickle back down the mountain, and then they're gone. Only one lone plastic bottle of water left to indicate they've been here.

We keep talking, and an old Taiwanese man joins us to rest in the small pavilion. It's getting late, and I need to go to bed soon. We get up to go.

"No, no, you don't have to leave, the man says," assuming we are leaving because of him.

We slowly walk down, and I'm glad I've taken some time out of my busy Taipei life to see the firefly show.