Taiwan Rocks

Taiwan, laying astride the Eurasian and Philippines Plates, boasts some stunning scenery of both volcanic and tectonic origins. The moving earth has also yielded up some of its mineral riches. Our trip to the north coast on Day 2 was intended to explore both Taiwan's natural wonders and what people have done with this inheritance.

Before our trip, we looked up the Taipei weather forecast for the duration of our visit. It made for some grim reading. There was almost always a line of five grey clouds - yellow circles peered out from behind some, yellow zigzags issued from others. Their only common mark were the blue droplets that flowed from beneath them. Every other day, we would check it again, switching from one website to another in the hope of getting a more favourable forecast. We made an art of clutching at straws. Day 2 would have been one of those predicted grey days. We were never happier to be disappointed. The only way to learn that 'weather forecast' is an oxymoron would be to actually check them.

We met Mr L, our driver for Days 2 and 3, at eight in the morning. The cheerful, avuncular Mr L hailed from Taichung, and confessed that he hasn't been to Taipei and its environs for nearly twenty years. He  then confidently produced his GPS, and announced that he had, however, done his homework the previous evening.

We spent the next forty minutes going around in circles.

Nearly two hours after leaving our hotel, we arrived at Yehliu Geopark (野柳地質公園). Here wind, water and the weekend have all combined to bring together a collection of fantastically-shaped rocks and an unceasing stream of visitors. We don't recall seeing this many tour buses (two full carpark-loads) gathered together at a single place. Many came to see the Queen's Head, a particular formation that resembles, well, a queen's head. Nefertiti's, to be more exact.

Yehliu Geopark reached into the East China Sea on a narrow, rocky cape which rose at its northern extremity to a turtle-shaped headland. A lighthouse stood atop this headland, but most visitors don't make it so far. Many are content to jostle for photo-spots within the two clusters of formations closer to the entrance. A thin red line ran along the seaward perimeter of these two clusters, beyond which visitors are not allowed to venture. These precautionary measures were policed, literally, by whistle-blowers - park staff in yellow vests who used their whistles liberally to alert any transgressors. It gave the area the atmosphere of what amounted to a cross between a training ground and a riot scene.

Below: Yehliu rocks, honeycombed rocks, crowded rocks, over-rated rocks. Can you spot the Queen's Head? No, that's not a pub.

When we had our fill of sun, sea and swarm, we headed for the old mining townships of Jiufen and Jinguashi. Jiufen was strung out along a single winding road which switchbacked its way up a steep hillside - great news for coastal vistas, bad news for knees. Settled in the early Qing period, the village was named after the number of portions needed, whenever supplies arrived, to sustain the original nine families who dwelled in the village. It played host to an influx of prospectors from 1893 when gold was discovered the area, and developed into a prosperous little town under Japanese supervision. As with nearly all Japanese-influenced economic activities, the mining industry declined after the Pacific War. The kiss of life which resuscitated the flagging economic fortunes of the area was subsequently provided by a late 1980s film shot in the vicinity.

We thought we had left most of the tour buses behind when we left Yehliu. Little did we expect to wade right into yet another metal morass, this time comprised mostly of cars and taxis. After lunch, Mary and her mother went off to explore the Old Street, while I set out to tackle the pyramidal 588-metre Mount Keelung. A half-hour slog up the extinct volcano was rewarded with sweeping 360-degree panoramas - northwards, the confluence of sea and sky; both eastwards and westwards, the craggy northern Taiwan coastline; and finally southwards, rows of serrated blue shadows which represented distant mountainous ridges. Most of those who attempted the stiff climb were locals, of whom a surprising number looked middle-aged and above.

Below: atop Mount Keelung, even the seven dwarves were blown away by the views.

Once I rejoined Mary and her mother, we proceeded eastwards to Jinguashi, the heart of the gold mining industry up to the 1940s. A quick walk around the Gold Ecological Park took us through the impressively spruced up mining village, complete with the former Japanese residences, the chalet of the Japanese Crown Prince, abandoned rail tracks and one restored tunnel. There also stood the customary neo-classical, left-leaning miners monument - showing three muscular miners helping up their stricken counterpart - which commemorated their (read: socialist) solidarity in the face of toil (read: capitalist-imperialist exploitation).

Below: Going for gold in Jinguashi.

Jinguashi's chief draw for us (definitely for me) was Golden Falls (黄金瀑布), so named for the appearance of the riverbed beneath the falls. However, it is the more unremarkable iron hydroxide in the soil and not gold which gave rise to such colouration. The same river stains the bay into which it empties a pale yellow. The contrast with the deep blue of the surrounding sea begets the name Yinyang Sea. It was easier to see the phenomenon from further up in the hills than from the seaside promenade, where it took on a more diluted aspect.

Below: the grim, Dickensian charm of an abandoned copper smelting facility near the Jinguashi coast.

Daylight ran out by the time we were done with Jinguashi, and we returned to Taipei. It was a good first day trip. We never doubted Mr L's sincerity, his local knowledge notwithstanding. That is one thing which has always impressed us about Taiwan. Step into any shop or restaurant, and you'll invariably be greeted with a 欢迎光临 (welcome) that seems more often sung than said. Smiles do not turn into scowls when you walk out not buying anything. But we were concerned for our next day trip on the following day, which would take us south into the mountains - we only hoped to get out of Taipei at the first attempt.

Taiwan - Eats Shoots & Leaves

Half the world seems to be in Taiwan this month. (We reckon the other half is in Brazil.) Mary counts at least three groups of friends on her side in Taiwan at the same time as us. I count four groups, including Ronald and WZ who were seated right in front of us on our flight to Taipei.

It was our first time on Scoot. We didn't know Scoot planes were refurbished ex-SQ models. That meant, crucially, decent leg room. We got through customs, collected our baggage and got into a waiting taxi. The trip to Hansome Business Hotel (endorsed enthusiastically by a colleague who enjoyed his stay there just last month) just minutes from the Ximen shopping district set us back by NT$1,100. No rooms were available at half past six in the morning. We left our baggage in the hotel, refueled at MacDonald's and set off for Maokong, a scenic area on the southeastern outskirts of Taipei.

Mary and her mother loved the gondola ride up to Maokong Station, a journey which took us through a succession of crests and valleys which took us from 24 metres above sea level to a modest 300 metres. The glass bottom injected a tiny dose of faux thrill, although Mary prefers nerve-jangling feet-dangling without the glass. However, the adrenaline leveled off into a slow and steady tedium after the first crest.

Below: through the looking glass, commercially milking the cat dry in Maokong and a panoramic view of comparative popular densities.

The name Maokong literally translated from Mandarin into "no cats", but the origins of this name goes beyond the lack of a feline presence here. The name is actually a Mandarin homonym for a Taiwanese word describing the many spring-scoured potholes in the area. Maokong is known for its tea houses, most of which are ranged along a winding hillside left and right of the gondola station. Many of these offer expansive views back towards downtown Taipei. The cultivation of tea in the area began in the Qing period, and was intensified during the Japanese occupation. Popular recreation entered the picture gradually when the tea industry was revived after a brief hiatus caused by wartime exigencies in the Pacific War.

We turned left upon exiting Maokong Station and made our way towards the Big Teapot (大茶壺), one of the tea-houses feted for its views. It was a pleasant ten-minute stroll, punctuated by the sights and sounds of the abundant suburban wildlife in the vicinity. There weren't a lot of people around at ten in the morning, and even the little food stalls along the way were only just starting the day's business.

At the Big Teapot, the tea we chose arrived in a golden bag of dark dried leaves. We were subsequently treated, on our sheepish request, to a demonstration by a staff member of how to make tea from these crumbly black bits. Growing up with tea-bags makes you forget they contain tea leaves.

I then left to take the short walk to Silver Stream Falls (银河瀑布), a reported two-hour return journey from Maokong Station. (At the junction upon exiting the station, walk straight until you see the sign for Zhanghu Trail branching off to the left; follow this uphill and you will arrive at yet another crossroad, take the left, which is signposted, towards the Falls.) The trail led mostly downhill, and the final bit just before the waterfall led down an almost vertical flight of slippery, moss-covered steps hewn from the rock. Thankfully railings have also been installed.

The falls tumbled down a cliff, right next to a cave temple built right into the rock. I had been lucky, as rain from the previous day ensured that the waterfall hadn't thinned out to a wispy oblivion (usual on the dryer days). There was nothing fancy about the cave temple though, only plain functional concrete. I ventured into the bare interior of the temple and behind the falls. Where it hit the ground a faint rainbow gleamed hesitantly.

I read that the vicinity was actually used as a weapons store by anti-Japanese fighters from a little over a century ago, when the area was crawling with these guerrillas. They chose the right place. Dense forest cover and a profusion of steep-sided valleys conspired to make this the perfect guerrilla base. In fact, had not the trail to the falls been so cleanly laid and signposted, it would seem to end abruptly on the edge of a precipice.

So it was back to the Big Teapot where Mary and her mother waited patiently for me. Our lunch of tea-flavoured braised beancurd, fried pumpkin with salted egg, stir-fried sweet potato leaves and four seasons bean with peanuts and soy sauce combined two frequently opposed adjectives - sumptuous and healthy. We returned to Ximen to check in, and only reluctantly roused ourselves from a comfortable lethargy a couple of hours after.

That evening we looked for dinner in the Ximen district. We stumbled on it at Hot-star, where we purchased two large slices of chicken schnitzels. It was more fried skin and dough than meat, and the junk food alarm set in after a few greasy bites. Desserts, which we again stumbled across, was an equally sinful affair - snow ice with cut fruits and ice-cream, doused in a generous serving of condensed milk.

We were delighted to be back in the Taiwan most familiar to outside eyes - a traveler's haven of milk and honey, both literally and figuratively. If you ever doubt that, just count the number of bubble tea outlets within the Ximen square mile.

Bali - Ubud, a World of Worlds

Our half-day Batur excursion ended in Ubud - a delightful, sprawling town where both human and vehicular traffic moved in the same alternating waltz between frenzy and insouciance. There was some wonderful shopping to be had, and Mary was desperate to get started. We saw a little of Ubud the previous night when Mr Nyoman dropped us off outside Clear Cafe at Jalan Hanoman for dinner. Shops selling all sorts of interesting knick-knacks lined the streets, with wares to suit a whole gamut of tastes and preferences, from handy fridge magnet souvenirs to monkey skulls from the island of Timor, T-shirts combining both Hindu and punk rock imagery to batik shabby chic sarongs. The initial excitement waned when we realized that many shops actually sold pretty much the same range of items, and flagged further once we learnt that prices hardly differed from Singaporean prices.

Below: where we were let off by Mr Nyoman in Ubud; walking along Jalan Monkey Forest, and stopping at the gate of Hanoman's kingdom

Yet there is no mistaking the charm which Balinese crafts hold for foreigners, and the significant role of Balinese crafts in the regional economy. On our way back to Ubud from Tegallalang, we drove by gathered assemblies of sculpted Buddhas outside lines of crafts shop - reclined, seated, serene, wooden, stone, acrylic, jet black and shocking pink, portable, immovable. The wood and stone were Javanese and Lombok, the hands that made them Balinese.  Paintings, pottery, glass art and furniture were also peddled. Products meant to be shipped abroad were then sent to the east Javanese port of Surabaya, reflecting Bali's position as a major marketplace and redistribution centre.

Mercifully, our Ubud experience transcended our abortive attempts at shopping. A royal wedding held at the Puri Saren emptied what seemed like all of Bali's elegant resplendence on Ubud's tiny two-laned streets. Away from the gridlock which developed outside the palace, which we steered well clear of, we entered a hidden world of temples peering out from amongst gaudy shopfronts, rice fields set amidst creeping urban encroachment and irrigation canals bubbling between concrete canyon walls. It was a world of worlds, which we barely explored while we kept to the main roads. We also learnt two half-days were woefully inadequate even for the main streets - an interminable drizzle, hunger and a growing weight of the day's earlier walking tiredness put paid to any further sight-seeing. Ubud had to wait for a second visit.

Below: Ubud, a world of worlds

On the way to the airport the next day, we had a short discussion with Mr Nyoman on Balinese music and dance. Mr Nyoman revealed that he had in fact previously arranged for his two boys to learn the angklung (it was 150,000 rupiahs for the first month and 30,000 for subsequent months, I cannot remember the frequency of lessons). We asked how that turned out. They only want to play football, he sighed.

He also described various Balinese dances typically performed for visitors - I only recall the kecak being one of several styles mentioned. Given the stillborn interest of Mr Nyoman's sons in the arts, we wondered if this was reflective of youths' general attitude on the same subject. Apparently it doesn't seem to be the case, as the promise of tourist money along the tourism belt on the southern coast has kept alive this rich tradition of dance among young people. We had previously ruled out watching any of these, but we might have over-generalized and thrown the baby out with the bath water.

So how does the score card between Skepticism and Balinese appeal read? There is still a tad too many tourists for our liking (no, this isn't a face-saving proclamation), but we genuinely like the island. The tourist throngs which Bali entertains meant the ready availability of amenities - chiefly a comfortable airport, decent roads and a wonderful array of both accommodation and eating options. At the same time, the island's compact geographical landmass means its major sites are easily accessible from its tourist hubs. Want to see volcanoes from Ubud? It's only a little over an hour's drive. Rice terraces? Just walk out of Ubud town centre. But you're staying in Kuta? Add an hour's driving to that. Want to get away from it all and head to the less frequented north coast? Three hours and you're there.

We doubt we'll ever step into the coastal resorts in south Bali, but we most certainly will return.

Bali - What Lies Beneath

Both Lake Batur, Bali's largest freshwater lake, and the even larger caldera within which the lake is set, daily attracts droves of tourists eager for volcanic, upland views. Yet the shimmering, placid waters belies its cataclysmic past. Balinese history is not without its fair share of violence - mythical, geological, human - which years of promoting mass tourism conveniently elides.

Below: from left to right, Gunung Batur, Danau Batur and Gunung Abang

For every testimony of Balinese gentleness and hospitality, there is a monument to violence. We passed a number of ogoh ogoh effigies - the king of the spirits Barong and the demon queen Rangda, Krisna and Rawana, all locked in immortal, mythical combat. These papier mâché representations were paraded exultantly to boisterous accompaniment on the eve of Bali's Day of Silence and later burned to symbolize the eviction of malevolent spirits. Reminders of the more recent past also exist in statues commemorating the Indonesian independence struggle. We passed a couple of statues depicting three independence fighters wielding stones and bamboo stakes - perhaps representing the grim-faced determination of the Indonesians to wrestle freedom, against overwhelming odds, from the Dutch.

The smouldering cone of Batur itself stands testament to this violence. The crescent-shaped lake on the south-eastern part of the caldera was created by a massive eruption about 23,000 years ago. As the volcano literally blew its top, its original height of over 4,000 metres above sea level was halved to its present, modest equivalent of 1,717 metres.

Lakeview Restaurant on the lip of the caldera commands a fine view of Batur, Abang and Lake Batur nestled in between. Its owners have creatively designed an open terrace where customers can feast on both breakfast and pleasing volcanic views, for a minimum order of 50,000 rupiahs per person. The crowd at this more upmarket establishment comprised mostly Westerners, with the local tourists frequenting the less heralded  roadside environs elsewhere on the edge of the caldera.

Below: 50,000-rupiah views of the caldera

We returned by the same road, and made a brief visit to this coffee agro-tourism set-up just before the village of Tegellalang. We were promised good views there. A short tour past caged civets, baskets of kopi luwak beans in various stages of processing ended at a tasting station, where we disappointed our self-appointed guide by steadfastly refusing to buy anything. There were good views indeed, of yet more rice terraces just beyond the tasting station.

Below: expensive, no, expansive views beyond caffeinated civet poo

More rice terraces awaited at Tegellalang, just minutes south of the  agro-tourism set-up. Tegellalang sees more visitors compared to Jatiluwih owing to its better accessibility, being just under an hour north of Ubud. The Jatiluwih terraces stretch across a wide valley and are a more imposing sight. Those at Tegellalang occupied a narrower gorge, but are nonetheless impressive. Concrete platforms have been built by the roadside just before the rice terraces begin; these have been colonised by a slew of shops selling kitschy Balinese art and crafts.

Below: the Tegellalang terraces

I'm far from over-romanticising the karmic cycles of destruction and renewals which Balinese history seems to go through. I also acknowledge the over-ambitious attempt to over-simplify Balinese culture by adhering to this destruction-creation duality. Yet it is hard not to admire the Balinese. Theirs is a fraught paradise full of pained memories - the independence struggle in which Balinese fought and died for both sides, sporadic eruptions which led to mass displacement of Balinese villagers, the "anti-communist" killings which engulfed Indonesia following the fall of Sukarno, a growing water shortage, even the Bali bombings a decade or so ago which momentarily paralyzed tourism on the island.

Each time the Balinese have picked up the pieces and rebuilt their lives. Most times, they still manage to smile.

Bali - The Price of Paradise

The affable and patient Mr Nyoman (we later learnt there are probably a million Nyomans in Bali) acted as our guide and driver for our stint on the island. On his advice, we jettisoned our plan to head eastwards on Friday towards Sidemen (festival on Pura Besakih = heavy traffic) and instead went northwards towards Munduk. The itinerary looked pretty balanced, comprising as it did a waterfall, rice terraces and two temples (one in the lowlands and the other in the highlands).

In reality, geography decided what and how much we could see in a day's driving. Many of Bali's roads followed its rivers along a north-south axis. These rivers, tumbling either northwards and southwards from the central volcanic uplands, carved out many steep-sided valleys which in turn impeded latitudinal travel. (We experienced this first-hand in Ubud, as the road from downtown Ubud back to Taman Bebek lay astride these river valleys.)

Geography also contributed to the political fragmentation of pre-colonial Bali. Bangli, Klungklung and Tabanan are familiar names on the Balinese tourist circuit, and were once kingdoms that vied with each other for control over the island. Pura Tanah Ayun at Mengwi, just west of Ubud, was built by one of these kingdoms. Balinese temple compounds were divided into three areas - outer, middle and inner realms - which are meant to replicate how the Hindus perceive the cosmos are arranged. Closed to tourists, the main temple in Pura Taman Ayun stood in the inner realm, where it is believed the wandering gods often descended to rest. Inside rose the first of the many meru we would see inside Balinese temples - thatched pagoda-like structures which is meant to symbolize Mount Meru, the abode of the Hindu gods. A wall and a moat ran around the main temple, as did an unending stream of tourists.

Below: Balinese skyscapes at Pura Tanah Ayun

From Mengwi we headed north, upslope and right from brilliant sunshine into gathering cloud. Our destination was Melanting Falls near Munduk. Melanting plunged down a smooth rock face fringed with luxuriant greenery. From the road it took between ten to fifteen minutes to descend to the falls. The falls had been swollen by intermittent showers that afternoon, and the fear of a sudden downpour had us advancing down the path like Greek hoplites, with opened umbrellas for burnished bucklers.

Below: with Mr Nyoman at Air Terjun Melanting, the only attraction where rain isn't a dampener

We retraced our steps towards Lake Bratan to visit the famous floating temple of Pura Ulun Danu Bratan. Another showery spell later on meant an extended lunch at a restaurant on the temple grounds. Built by the erstwhile kingdom of Mengwi (even before Pura Tanah Ayun), this was one of two main water temples on Bali. Lake Bratan is one source of irrigation, regulated strictly in the past by the temple's priesthood, for Bali's fabled rice terraces. The stream of tourists we encountered at Mengwi grew into a torrent here, which nobody regulated.

Below: Pura Ulun Danu Bratan

We continued our downstream course towards the rice terraces of Jatiluwih, fed by the springs of Gunung Batukaru and painstakingly carved out of the rolling hills by the endeavour of many Balinese hands. Art and science, split so neatly in our heavily Westernised curricula, combined here beautifully in the intricacies of an irrigation system complex enough to slake the unquenchable thirst of terraced earth.

Below: Jatiluwih, where rice fields glow

It is hard to imagine the scarcity of water in such a seemingly well-watered island as Bali. But population growth, the corresponding increase in the acreage brought under plow and an unrelenting influx of tourists (today close to an estimated eight million a year, both foreign and domestic) have contributed to this critical shortage. Everybody wants to drink from the rivers of paradise. Nobody ever thinks it might ever run dry one day.

Bali - Knocking on Heaven's Door

"We're going to Bali to prove to my wife that Bali's really over-rated," I declared to my colleague when asked what we were up to this Easter weekend. "What a waste of money," was my colleague's pithy response.

So after two previous trips to Indonesia which took us to the Batak highlands, Banda Aceh, Bandung, Bromo and Banyuwangi, we finally set foot on Bali. The newly-constructed terminal at Ngurah Rai Airport might have passed for an average nondescript airport in the developed world, but its well-lit, spacious and clean interior rendered it rather sleek by Indonesian provincial standards. Two prompt, unsmiling stamps on our passports, and we were nodded into paradise. Heaven's sliding doors opened to reveal a wall of white placards, on which were written the names of those who knocked. Mary's sharp eyes quickly found ours, and we disappeared into the Balinese night.

Our accommodation at Taman Bebek was in the village of Sayan, on the eastern outskirts of Ubud. The compound is perched on the terraced, emerald edge of the Sungai Agung gorge, over which Gunung Abang towered, benevolently on most days. We trudged sleepily after our porter along a leafy path, steeped in darkness, which led to our villa. Day would later unveil a lush garden setting full of birdsong.

Below: birdsong by day, cacophony by night.

One entered the villa through tiny wooden swing-doors, which opened unto a wide verandah. There we breakfasted al fresco in the mornings, with the mosquitoes who quickly found us. On our last morning in Bali, we retreated into the kitchen. The villa provided elegant, colonial-style comfort, though it was a while before we got used to the open-concept, mandi-style shower (nothing but blinds and angled walls to separate it from passers-by) and the Himalayan four-post bed which took an effort to clamber into. The interior was sparely though artfully furnished. Mary was unnerved by the steely gazes of a couple of portraits on the walls, which I proceeded to carefully take down, turn around and place against the wall.

Above: colonial-style living.

It was a short walk to the infinity pool, from where one could see the characteristic Balinese terraced rice fields cascade down towards the gushing Ayung river. Gunung Abang stands majestically in the background, when it isn't obscured by customary mid-day cloud. The pool was mostly unused, despite the resort being nearly full. The two resident bumblebees which buzzed amongst the flowers just above the water might have had something to do with this.

Below: Abang and the Sungai Ayung gorge.

But paradise had to wait. That first night, we were lulled to sleep by the creaks of the ceiling fan, the unceasing cacophony of crickets and the promise of sunny tomorrows.

Missed Call - The River

This is almost two months overdue.

We had high hopes for River Safari, especially its fêted Amazon River Quest. The park was fine, the boat ride was underwhelming, to say the least.

So Mary signed up for this Learning Journey organized by River Safari for primary school teachers - a sales pitch for educators. I bought a ticket and tagged along. We were introduced to some of the activities with which students will be engaged. One of these involved them examining jars of freshly collected animal poo and playing little scatological Sherlocks - literally stirring, well, you know what.

Below: While snapping away at these bats near the auditorium where our introduction was held, I made a startling discovery. I realized I had brought my camera along sans memory card. The rest of the day I spent agonizing over how to maximize the 18 photographs I could take, by deciding which to keep and which to discard.

After that we were brought on a guided tour which we flitted in and out of like butterflies in a garden. I was the culprit, mostly. I'd always loved the zoo, and here was one which I was visiting for the very first time. Growing up, my parents would bring me to the zoo every year on my birthday, nurturing in me an enduring love of animals that somehow was never translated into either passion for or excellence in biology.

There were definitely some new animals I don't recall seeing before - the elusive Chinese giant salamander, two crocodilians bantamweights in the African dwarf crocodile and the Chinese alligator and a host of freshwater fishes whose names I don't remember (I'm a convinced landlubber).

Below: River Safari Portraits, from top, Chinese giant salamander, Chinese alligator, fish (there are many) and the Giant Panda (who can forget when everything is in black and white).

Below: Some animals were brought over from the zoo and housed in exhibits that were very creatively re-invented. The roomy Flooded Forest tank where the manatees now dallied, for instance, was a significant upgrade from their previously featureless pool at the zoo.

The crowning glory of this brand new park was the Amazon River Quest, which by artful advertising led us to the impression that it resembled a ride on a little Amazonian creek. With some imagination it lived up to its billing - the animals and birds were as close to visitors as safety permitted (think netting, moats and glass), and far closer than their much shyer cousins in the wild. Some of course behaved as they would have in their natural habitats. Cruising along past the jaguars enclosure, we glimpsed only hints of mottled rosettes as the cats slumbered under shade.

I like the river theme, particularly how the park manages successfully to weave both geographical and cultural tidbits with the standard zoological information on display. With so much water and glass it felt more like an aquarium than anything else. As ever with Wildlife Reserve Singapore projects, it'll be an enjoyable day out for the kids - I reckon the next time Mary and I return will be with bairns of our own.