Taiwan Today

"Fiestas of the gods" spot the Island's countryside with a tourist's bonanza of music, color and folk performances.

In rural Taiwan, as on the Chinese mainland before Communist discouragement, the birthday of a local deity is a major event, a rendezvous for local people and touring visitors. The center of the celebrations is the forecourt of the deity's temple, and the events are locally termed "temple meetings." But the activities are a fiesta of opera performances, shopping, folk-art exhibitions and, often, feasts and competitions. None is as uniquely spectacular as the "temple meeting" for the deity, Hsuan Tien, at the Kuanglu Community Center in Chiayi, a town in southern Taiwan.

The high point of the celebrations is a giant-swing contest, held by the lunar calendar on the 6th day of the third moon of every leap year for more than a hundred years. This year Chiang Wan shui, chief of the sub-district where the Hsuan Tien Temple is located, presided.

According to Chiang the statue of Hsuan Tien came from Fukien Province on the mainland. During the reign of Emperor Kanghsi (1667-1723) part of the Chiayi district was plagued by epidemics. The people prayed to Hsuan Tien for protection, and the epidemics subsided. To express their gratitude, the people celebrated the deity's birthday with great pomp. They took pains to design performances to please him.

Then, an aged scholar proposed a swinging contest, because a swing would be the best way to get close to heaven. The proposal was accepted and the contest became a tradition.

The frame of the swing is traditionally made of giant bamboo poles and rattan, both of which grow in Chiayi district. No steel rings or nails are allowed. The frame, about 40 feet high, is erected by members of the temple. It provides more thrills for the audience because the frame squeaks and shrieks during the swinging. But in more than a hundred years there has never been an accident.

The frame contains four bars to indicate the height reached by the swinger. The swing seat is about 10 feet above the ground, so the sport is forbidden to children. The swinging is done from a standing position.
The contest this year was divided into four age groups. Lai Chin-huan, 16, swung violently, shot to the height of the third bar and then had to sit on the seat for a rest.

Lai Wen-tai, 63, the oldest participant, won third place in his age group. Lai said he had never missed competing since his first try at 16, in the year 1935.

All top performers were youths in their 20s who had experienced constant strenuous exercise in the military services. When the Master of Ceremonies called for the contest to start, all other activities come to a halt, and the crowd gathered to watch the uniquely thrilling event.

A swing contest is also a feature of a fiesta staged by the aborigines of the Rukai tribe in a Pingtung village down south. It is an annual feature of their harvest worship ceremonies on the morning of August 15 each year. Their swing frame is a tripod, also made of giant bamboo poles. There are three swings; two on the sidelines are for the contestants to warm up.

Young men and women wear traditional clothes for the event, a man and a girl to each team. The girl stands on the swing, while her teammate on the ground pulls a rope to start the swing. The judges are none other than the mothers of the participants. It is considered a privilege for the man to help his feminine teammate down from the swing.

A little train of yesteryear runs back through time

Photos and article by Chiu Su-hu

I stretched my back and legs, numbed from sitting too long, then I saw several people enter the tiny railway station waiting room. Some frequent commuters walked straight onto the platform and took a seat in an outdated train.

When the signal for the train's departure rang out, I picked up my traveling sack and camera and hastened to the waiting room. A conductor with a hat emerged from the ticket office and leisurely walked to the platform, looked around, gave a signal for the train to start and bade farewell to the station master.

With only five compartments, the train was-sporadically-occupied by fewer than 10 passengers. The conductor, with a bunch of tickets in hand, sold them and chitchatted with his old acquaintances. He bent his body and swayed with the train. Though the train rocked left and right, 30 years of experience enabled him to stand firm as a rock.

As I had introduced myself to him beforehand, he took a seat next to me. I asked: "You don't have many passengers, do you?" My voice was drowned by the noises of the train. I repeated the question. He said: "Well, today is Sunday. On school days, the train has seven compartments.”

"Do you have that much students?"

"Not really. No more than 100. But they can enjoy more space."

When the train whistled, I looked, and a green land impacted on my eyes. Another question suddenly came to my mind.

"Do you know who first built this small train (with a narrow gauge of 0.7 meters) and why?"

"I think it must have been built by the Japanese. It is said that at that time, the lands along the railroad were planted with sugar cane. In the prime time of sugar production, we would reap a harvest of, maybe, 50 to 60 thousand tons a day. For transportation and to keep the cane fresh, they built this train."

"So, it was meant to carry sugar cane. How did it come to carry passengers?"

"In the beginning, people living along the tracks took rides on the train as a convenience. As the number of riders grew, the train began to book passengers as well as cargo. The prime time was after V-J Day, before the buses started to operate. Sometimes the trains ran the route as many as 20 times a day. At that time, compartments were so crowded that there was no room for passengers to squeeze in, let alone find a seat. Year after year, the train business churned downhill until only three trains remained."

"Putze line was suspended owing to heavy deficits. Do you think the Peikang line will meet the same fate?" "It's not for me to say. I think as long as students can't find better transportation, the train will survive ..... With the protection of Matsu (the Goddess of the Sea in Peikang), it should go on operating."

The train stopped at Hsitiliao Station; the conductor stepped down to the plat form, collected tickets and bade farewell to some passengers. He then collected money from new passengers and handed them their tickets.

Looking out the window, I noticed an immense sugar cane field, which was visible from Chiayi. I told the conductor that I wished I could have a piece of cane. He smiled and said:

"Times have changed. Now whenever you pass a sugar cane field in harvest time, the owner will treat you voluntarily. It was another story in our time, during the Japanese rule. Strict penalties were imposed under martial law; though we longed to taste the sweetness of the sugar cane, we dared not ask for it or even. pinch a piece. At that time, sugar cane fetched good prices. Several whole sugar canes could give a family a good living for several days. People were so poverty-stricken that they were forced to steal the dry leaves of the sugar cane to serve as fuel. A basket of dry leaves fetched about US$3."

The train passed a bridge and arrived at Niutoushan Station, the first stop in Hsinkang village. Niutoushan Station is also the middle point between Peikang and Chiayi. As the train slowly pulled away from the platform, the conductor pointed to one side and said: "That's the branch leading to Niuchou. In the past that line had more than 10 conductors; today, two are left."

"After serving for more than 30 years, and witnessing such a big change, you must have some deep feelings."

"Well, that's how life goes. Like the train, I have gone from one stop to another. We will arrive at the station called 'Three Houses' very soon"

"Do you know the origin of the name?"

"Probably in the early days only a couple of houses were scattered around this area. The station always reminds me of an interesting event. It was in the 1950s, when the automobile transportation here had not yet fully developed. The train had such a large number of passengers that even its top was crowded with people. We had to walk on top of the train to check tickets. Once when we arrived at 'Three Houses', one of our colleagues was caught by an electric wire, snatched off the train and set on the railroad, completely unhurt and unaware of what had happened to him."

Outside the window, fields of yellow foliage came into sight. "Look at that chimney, far away. That is the chimney for the sugar plant in Peikang. During the prime time of sugar production, Peikang had two factories; Huwei had three sugar factories and a paper-pulp mill. The train carrying the sugar cane ran all the way down to Kaohsiung. We were really busy then."

According to the General History of Taiwan, the Taiwan Sugar Corporation managed 24 railroads, which carried a total of '50,000 passengers a day, most of them country folk and students. During the sugar production period (stretching from November to May) the railroads ran wherever there was a sugar cane plantation. Statistics showed that, at that time, TSC's railroad stretched 3,600 kilometers, compared with the Taiwan Railroad's 1,600 kilometers.

The train came to another stop. The sign was unlike those of previous stations; the four big weather-worn characters reading "Hsinkang Railway Station," on a signboard on the platform, seemed to recount a past glory.

Hsinkang is a station on which the richest and most praiseworthy stories focus. Every child knows the specialty of Hsinkang-called Hsinkang sweet-and the famous temple dedicated to the sea goddess, Matsu. I remembered that when I was a child, whenever grand mother and great grandmother returned from a pilgrimage to the Hsinkang temple, they would treat us to the sweet (made of malt sugar, water, and either peanuts, longans, pears or raisins, simply packaged).

It is said that Hsinkang sweet was concocted during the late 19th century by a young man named Lu Chi-tou from Chiayi County. Lu, a vendor of malt sugar candies, was once caught out in the rain and his wares made thoroughly soggy. Returning home he thought of a way to rescue his goods: putting the waterlogged candies into a pot, he heated them up and melted them and added peanuts. To his surprise, the makeshift recipe sold much better than his original product.

The next year Lu attended Matsu's birthday celebrations in Hsinkang, where he sold a great deal of his new sweet. In fact, business was so good that he decided to set up a shop next to the temple. It can still be seen there today, operated by his descendants.

The villages of Peikang and Hsinkang have close blood ties. Before the two were separated by the Peikang River some 300 years ago, the two places were joined. As Hsinkang enjoys convenient highway access now, only a very few passengers still take the train.

I looked through the train compartments. The empty compartments seemed to echo the chime of wheels, to chant eternal and monotonous old songs. Empty chairs faced each other; even the conductor seemed lonely. After spending 30 years on this line, even if the conductor closed his eyes, I thought, he would know where the train was. The beautiful scenery before our eyes must have been reduced to familiar intimacy in his mind, I thought.

The train stopped in the field by a signboard inscribed with three characters, "Pan-tou-chu." Up came an old grandmother. I got close to her and asked her out of curiosity.

"Grandma, do you take the train alone?"

"She is one of our frequent riders," the conductor chimed in.

"It is safer to take the train. The boys are busy working in the fields or have left their hometown, so I have to take the train by myself," she mumbled.

"What are you going to Peikang for?" I had read the tickets in her hand.

"To see a doctor."

"Except for Hsinkang, the other bus stops are far away from the houses. That's why they either take a motorcycle or bicycle, or take a train," said the conductor.

"One of my grandsons wanted to take me over there on a motorcycle. I prefer the train - more stable."

I took my ticket from my pocket. It only cost NT$14 (about 35 U.S. cents) to run the 18.7 kilometers from Chiayi to Peikang. I enjoyed the special scenery along the line. Modern men have forgot ten the easiest ways to get away from the hustle and bustle of everyday life.

The train ran across the longest iron bridge over the Peikang River. More and more houses could be seen along the line. We finally arrived at the Peikang terminal. Stepping down from the train, I handed over my ticket, bade farewell to the conductor and went off to pay a visit to the protecting deity of the train, at the Matsu Temple.

I spent the following day hiking from Peikang back to Chiayi along the railroad. On the spacious plains stretching from Chiayi to the south were scattered fields of ripe and harvested sugar cane. Fields of rice, maize, vegetables and bamboo, along with hard-working people, were interspersed to enrich the scene.

Once in a while, I ran into farmers or school boys or housewives bringing lunch boxes to their husbands. The old railroad has become the best of country roads, where people can stroll or ride bicycles. In view of today's convenient bus transportation, it is possible that this railroad will suspend operations some day. But its path will still be the major passage among the villages between Chiayi and Peikang.