Suddenly the tracks begin to hum, and the cacophony of sounds only a train can make begins to fill the ears. The three students and their foreign professor are all train lovers. And to the latter, even though the 21.2 kilometer Taipei-Tamsui line is far different from taking the old Santa Fe Zephyr from Chicago to Denver, the weather-worn, shabby-looking train now wobbling into the station brings back warm memories of life on trains, those graceful princes of the prairies.
Taiwan does not have many active train routes, and soon one of the most loved—and hated—lines out of Taipei will close. The old Taipei— Tamsui line, first opened in 1901, will be replaced by a modern mass transit commuter line within four years, and the screeching lurches of the old train will be only memories.
To motorists waiting for the train to stop blocking the Intersection, the train's retirement gives rise to joyful thanks. The rails cut through some of the busiest sections of Taipei, and the timetable always seemed gauged to coincide with the heaviest traffic hours. Each day jammed masses of vehicles burned tons of gasoline waiting for the train to pass.
And now pass it will—but into history. Modernization will help traffic flow, increase efficiency and comfort, and of course save time. But In the process, part of the past will be lost. Other passengers standing nearby have the same sense of impending nostalgia, for they are taking today's train just to have one more ride before it is discontinued.
The train jolts to a complete halt, the final screeches masking the sighs of at least one passenger who boards the train for the last time.
A stop at Kuantu station adjacent to the tunnel popular with children and cinematographers.
Nostalgia is tempered somewhat by reality. To be honest, the train's coaches are not altogether enjoyable places to be on a summer day. Besides the lack of air-conditioning, the arrangement of each coach differs from most trains. Instead of paired, forward-facing, sculptured seats, passengers jostle for seats on benches along the length of each coach. Covered in green synthetic leather, they are anything but comfortable, and promote even more perspiration in the unrelenting heat. Rotating fans on the ceiling of the coach only redistribute the hot, sticky air.
Late boarders have to stand and hold onto the commuter bars running down the wide central aisle. There is space enough for 120 standing passengers, but today there are seats for everyone. Only two or three stand, more to pick up some breeze from the open windows than from lack of space.
The small group joins some dozing students on the long benches. Nearby some farmers chat loudly in the Taiwanese dialect, and a young mother tries to pacify her baby boy who is complaining in no uncertain terms about the heat.
Eight decades of use—the stations, designed and built during the Japanese occupation, retain their original architecture.
The train jolts forward, and the clackity-clack of wheels on tracks immediately transforms the spirits. As ears pick up the friendly sounds of slow travel, the breeze through the windows and the changing scenery provide stimulating refreshment. The scores of commuter straps adjacent to the overhead luggage racks begin swaying in a soporific rhythm as they lazily cut through the heavy air.
In order to watch the passing scenery, passengers have to twist around uncomfortably on the benches, especially if there is a full coach. Even though this run is just before the beginning of rush hour, it is difficult to stay long in a half-turned position without disturbing fellow passengers who are quietly trying to surround themselves with as much space as possible.
Soon the backside of city buildings and winding side streets are replaced by more numerous clusters of green bushes. Before long, the Tamsui River will come into sight, but first a series of stops to pick up more passengers on the way home or simply trying to escape the city heat and, perhaps, enjoy the sunset along the riverbank ahead. The scene does not seem any more extraordinary than on normal days, but today is different. In a few days, on July 16, the 87-year-old line will close.
The successor to the Taipei-Tamsui line will have to fill large brake shoes, for the train has long been a treasured part of countless daily lives. Because of the short distance between the eight station stops on the way, the line has been used for decades as the commuters' best way to get into and away from Taipei.
Hardly three minutes pass after heading north from Platform 6 at Taipei station before the train makes its rant stop at Shuanglien. The stop is identified by a faded sign, unpainted for years. Despite the nondescript platform, it has seen heavy use. Nearby is a popular temple and a huge market; the train has taken people to both places for generations. This is one of the oldest sections of Taipei, and in former days it was a major loading point for construction material. Today the yellow lanterns strung across the entrance to the temple are dust-covered, soiled, and torn. Their appearance conveys a tired look, one that matches the squeaks and groans of the train as it pulls away from the stop.
Still moving north, the train passes the landmark Grand Hotel, with brightly colored supporting pillars thrusting its golden-tiled roof into the humid sky. Soon the second stop: Yuanshan, where students from the all-female Mingchuan College, close to the Grand Hotel, board with noisy giggles. Some have boyfriends with them and laugh in quieter tones.
The scene from the windows is typical for this time of day. The rails parallel one of the major highways that feeds northern Taipei, and already rush hour traffic has built up to the point of near immobility. Waves of heat rise from the hoods of taxis, mingling with the angry exhaust of city buses. Suddenly the train seems a cooler and more relaxed spot.
Ever since Taipei was designated a special municipality in 1968, the development of new highways into the city has escalated. This particular route has drawn passengers away from the train, for it is served by a large number of bus lines that ply the area in much shorter intervals. It is now more convenient to take the bus, or at least it seems better. Oftentimes, however, heavy traffic jams the bus lanes so thoroughly that the more infrequent trains can still deliver passengers more quickly to their destinations. These thoughts come to mind, for one glance at the paralyzed traffic shows that today's train is the better choice for the students from more than 20 high schools and colleges along the route.
As if in confirmation, the train stops again, this time at Shihlin, and accepts a long stream of students. The train's cheap fare is an added attraction. A ride from Taipei to Tamsui costs adults only 50 cents, and concessionary fares are provided to students and regularly commuting office workers.
Shihlin has Taipei's largest night market. Besides a huge assortment of bargain goods, the place is noted for its numberless snack stands, which are reason enough to pay a. visit. But in the afternoon heat, somehow the night bustle mingled with the aroma of food that usually permeates the area seems remote.
Railway personnel and long-term passengers bid farewell to the train on July 15.
For Peng Kuei-hsiang, who has worked on various railway lines for 25 years, the last four as the superintendent of the Shihlin station, this stop has special significance beyond shopping and eating. Since the closing of the line was announced in 1986 by the then newly-formed Department of Mass Rapid Transit: Systems (see FCR, September 1987), the Taiwan Railway Administration has been preparing the fate of this old commuter line. Although the closing date was postponed—from January 1, then to June 1, July 1, and July 4—finally July l6 was selected for absolute cessation. The delays were due to an unexpected flood of nonstalgia about this historic line, widespread desire among residents to ride it a few more times, and the government's own lack of readiness to start the new project. Nevertheless, the Railway Administration made it clear that its personnel would be kept to a minimum until the official day of closing. As a result, Peng became the only superintendent along the line during the final months.
Like Shuanglien, Shihlin had for years been an important loading and unloading point for rice, cement, construction materials, and newspapers from major printing presses in the area. The initial announcement about closing the line, although a false alarm, had great impact on passenger use. "I've seen a rapid decline not only in goods transportation but also in the number of passengers," Peng says. "Many trucking and transportation companies have already looked for alternative transportation for their consignments. As for passengers, many of them were confused by the repeated and even 'farcical' postponements of the closing date. They were convinced that it had already come to a dead end and stopped taking the train. "
As Peng speaks, a sudden sadness can be clearly seen on his face. "Now that my service on this line will soon end, I feel a sense of loss," he sighs. "After all, I've been with these colleques for four years. And this line has been more useful than most people think. Take the rush hour, for example. It only takes 15 minutes from Taipei to Shihlin, while it takes at least 40 minutes on the highway. Besides, the trains are rarely late. No bus service can boast this, can it?"
The buses do boast better ticket control, however. Mr. Jiang, who has been with the Taiwan Railway Administration for over 30 years, bas in recent years been the conductor in charge of passenger boarding and disembarking. The task has its frustrations. "This line has been notorious for passengers cheating on tickets. Since the majority are students, they are particularly inventive about ways to force open the gates, supposedly because they 'like to have more air.' But my job is to stop them from doing this," Jiang says.
As the train approaches Shihpai, Jiang gets ready for the onslaught of passengers, which has always been heavy at this stop, even after the announced closing. "The train is important for people nearby, because bus service is not so good here," Jiang says.
Although he worries about the short-term inconvenience for passengers immediately after the Taipei-Tamsui line closes, he agrees with the Mass Rapid Transit idea. "Of course I like the easy-going atmosphere on this line, but look at it-it's so outmoded. The coaches are old and rusty, and the doors are always getting jammed. Besides, the single rail of this line is just unrealistic. The sooner it is discontinued, the quicker the MRTS can be launched."
The old line has catered to more than commuters and shippers. In 1945, after the end of Japanese rule of the island, the line added two brief stops especially for pilgrims. One is a whistle stop at the Wang Chia Temple just beyond Shihpai; the other is at Chungyi for worshippers at the large Kuan Yu (God of War) Temple. Neither stop has ticket booths, so passengers must pay the conductor after boarding. This "first hop on and buy tickets later" is a complicated procedure on packed trains, especially because the distance between stops is so short. Oftentimes passengers arc ready to disembark before the conductor can be reach them, and the practice is so widespread during rush hours that the "fare ditching" has become a major reason for the line's losing money.
Beyond its economic value and convenience for commuters, the Taipei-Tamsui line has long served tourists, both domestic and foreign. The stop at Peitou is the best example. Situated at the foot of Mount Ta Tun, Peitou is a famous spa within easy reach of Taipei. It became so popular a stop that a 1.2 kilometer branch line was built in 1916 to transport tourists who came to the well-known springs at the village of New Peitou. The ride only takes three minutes, and its single coach (which makes 40 trips per day) is even more antiquated than those on the main line.
At Chungyi, Jiang opens the coach doors to allow a few passengers to disembark. The station is so small that only three of the coaches can fit next to the platform. Passengers in other coaches must step directly to the roadbed, a danger that causes Jiang no little concern. "I always need to pay especially close attention to the safety of passengers here," he says. "You never know what sort of things will happen."
After Chungyi, the train enters a broader valley on the way to its next stop at Kuantu, a station so small that a single person is responsible for selling tickets and all other details of station management. Despite its size, Kuantu is well-known. Thanks to its proximity to the Kuantu tunnel immediately north of the station, nearby residents have often seen TV and movie people in the area utilizing the scenic location.
A noisy and suffocating trip through the short tunnel is rewarded with some of the best scenery along the route, as the train emerges near the estuary of the Tamsui River. Mount Kuan Yin, so named because it resembles the profile of a reclining Buddha, is clearly visible across the river, and at its foot is Pali, a quiet fishing village. Dominating the scene along with the mountain is the Kuantu Bridge, its red paint reflecting the late afternoon sun.
On the river's near bank is a long, wide expanse of mangroves, already designed by the government as a protected area. The trees are doubly important, for they and the marshes around them serve as a nesting area for white egrets and other sea birds. On weekends, a constant flow of bird watchers takes the Taipei- Tamsui line to enjoy the graceful flights of these magnificent fowl. Especially at dusk, the sky is often full of flocks of birds returning to the protection of the gnarled mangrove branches.
Living history—Tseng An-ning has been collecting tickets at Tamsui for 33 years.
The 45 minute ride is nearly over. As the train lurches to a halt in Tamsui, passengers are already jumping out of the coaches and heading toward the gate where Tseng An-ning is waiting to collect their tickets. His is a familiar face. Tseng has worked at this station for 33 years. "It never occurred to me that I would stay here so long. I like this place very much. The air is much fresher than any other places that I know—and the scenery is nice, too," he says. In addition to punching tickets, his job includes compiling statistics on the number of tickets sold and collected. He says that there is an obvious decline in the number of passengers now using the train, especially among students: "At one time we collected more than 10,000 tickets per day at this station. Now the total is only about 3,000."
Tamsui became an important port in 1860, when its major trade in tea and camphor made it astronomically prosperous (for detailed information about Tamsui, see FCR March, 1984). During the Ching Dynasty, Tamsui was known as Huwei or "outlet of Hu," an abbreviation for Shanghai, China's largest port. The old name indicates not only the close ties between Taiwan and the mainland at that time, but also the important role the Tamsui port played in economic terms.
Because of its strategic location, the Spanish, Dutch, English, French, and Japanese in turn invaded the city, and they left their marks. Such places as Fort Santo Domingo, Oxford College, the old European-style mansions and quaint temples, and the two oldest streets in the town are all popular tourist attractions. Popular, too, is Tamsui's Shalun Beach, noted for its fine sand and beautiful sunsets.
And for gourmets, Tamsui is a special pleasure. The local restaurants are celebrated for their wide variety of seafoods: fish, shrimp, and crabs in literally hundreds of preparations await diners. As soon as the sun sets, the restaurants begin to fill with eager and hungry customers, many of whom have made the trip to Tamsui especially for the purpose of eating.
The Tamsui railway station presents a bit of history itself. Both the roofing and platforms of the station are well scarred by the sea and river air. According to Yan. Peng-fei, who has been acting station master since February, the original architecture of the train station, which was designed during the Japanese occupation, has been preserved. This is true of most of the other stops along the line. The plaster on the walls now barely conceals the black clay underneath, and the window panes and desks on which Tseng and his colleagues count tickets and write reports are all made of fine wood, most probably imported directly from Foochow to the old Tamsui port before silt deposits made it too shallow for trading ships.
The old station houses a thousand stories, and apparently has stuck in the minds of many old travelers. Tseng recalls that not long ago a middle-aged man with his two children came to visit him. As soon as he walked in the door, he patted Tseng on the shoulder and asked "Do you still remember me?" After racking his brain for some time, a younger man suddenly surfaced in Tseng's memory, a youth who often brought him snacks and sweets in the office on his way to Tamkang University. Tseng sighs: "It's only on these kinds of occasions that I realize I've been withering away along with Tamsui."
Many Tamsui residents have had their lives shaped by the railroad. Just next to the station is a grocery store that has served passengers for more than 44 years. The owner, Mrs. Chen, is 71 and took over ownership of the shop in 1945, just after the Japanese evacuation from Tamsui. The shop has remained essentially unchanged since that time. The cluttered arrangement of goods is a far cry from the style of more modern shops now crowding in on her business.
Chen has watched Tamsui grow for decades. "There were natural barriers to growth," she says, "because Tamsui is squeezed between the harbor and the nearby hills. The area near the train station was the earliest area to be developed, and the two main roads by here have remained pretty much the same all these years-and so have the shops that line them."
In recent years, residents have begun building up the mountain slopes; but the station area is still a center of activity. Yang agrees with Chen's view: "The areas near railway stations are always the most prosperous and first developed since railway traffic was often the oldest form of transportation. So it was with Tamsui. And if Tamsui is to develop further, the MRTS is the only way."
Yao Yung-li, section chief of the Engineering Office at MRTS, says that the new "red line," which will use parts of the old roadbed of the improved Taipei-Tamsui route, is slated to be 73 kilometers long. It will be completed in four years, and will offer more speedy and comfortable service than either the train or the six bus companies that now serve the area. The targeted travel time from Taipei north to Tamsui will be reduced to 30 minutes, two-thirds of the previous time, and there will be a higher frequency of runs.
The capacity will increase many times over today's 20,000 riders per day. "With this prospect ahead of us, even our nostalgia for this old line has to be replaced by great anticipation for the new system," Yang says. Despite his optimistic attitude, there is still widespread apprehension among current commuters about what to do between now and the completion of the new system.
Tseng, for example, worries about the capacity of existing alternative routes. "Going from Tamsui to Taipei is not going to get any easier," he says. "I've seen constant congestion on the roads already; what will the road be like after July 16?"
Chen is worried for more personal reasons: her shop will be demolished because of the MRTS construction, and she will lose both her business and her home. Even though she will be compensated for her loss, the change will not be easy to take. "To leave is still a saddening thing," she says.
Earlier this year, on June 9, Railway Day was celebrated in Taiwan, honoring the first train on the island, which linked Keeluna and Hsinchu 101 years ago. A group of kindergarten children from Chungyi, along with their teachers, took a ride on the Taipei-Tamsui line in honor of the event. After disembarking at Tamsui, they presented flowers to Tseng and other long-term members of the railway station staff. Before they left Tamsui to return home, one of the children cried out to the staff on the plat form: "Farewell, Grandpa. " Out of the mouths of babes: the Taipei-Tamsui line, which has been long revered as part of the "railway epoch in Taiwan," is very much like iii arthritic grandfather retiring from a post held for a lifetime. But as old passengers take their leave of the aging train and tracks, they can be cheered by thoughts of a younger and stronger generation that will come to carry on its job of service.