A Ride Through Lo̍k-káng by Hung Chi-sheng
原文
Ten thousand homes faced the main thoroughfare. Their pavilions stood gracefully aloft, stretched like a plucked bow two or three li across. They were never slick with sweat during the summer or wet underfoot during rain. The tributary fed the ocean. The merchant ships sat in the harbor, watching one another, sails aflutter. The tide rushed in and out like a dragon. In front of the shops carts rolled by, and in the rear of the shop you could tie them up. This is the Lo̍k-káng of yesteryear. It is still a habitable land, fallen on hard times. A city still here. The sky swirls above the sea; the sea below unfeelingly flutters. Quarries dug out for salt mines, but no one works. The roofs still sparkle with ancient adornments. The ten thousand homes now extend like ramparts, unmoving, impenetrable. Peering into this gloominess brings hurt. This is the Lo̍k-káng of today.
I saw this prosperous era with my own youthful eyes. With those same eyes I too saw its downfall. Lo̍k-káng was the link between north and south. It looks out to Bân-lâm1 and Choân-chiu2. Merchants from Bân-lâm, Chiat3, and Canton brought their wares into port which headed for Taipei and Tainan. Even domestic products came in and out of Lo̍k-káng, passed through Bân-lâm and Canton hands. Good times brought about the need for songs and poems. Scholars lined the streets; choruses filled the air. The students took their imperial exams in the autumn and the best of them would go on to study in Beijing. Not like the schools of today4, cages for slaves. The mouth of the port is now so shallow one could wade through it. The merchant ships buoy farther out. The once great views, the so called “Lo̍k-káng sails”, are no more. To onshore their goods, they rely on bamboo rafts. It seems there are thousands of them, housing hundreds of families. But this is still the domain of the customs officials, and they exert their control like tigers. Excessive tariffs and ferocious officials threaten the sellers’ livelihoods. Bankrupt farmers turn to the railroad in the south, and don’t dare return to Lo̍k-káng.
Structures in salt fields have been constructed in recent years. The Japanese officials want to rebuild Lo̍k-káng as a port city, but the people knew amongst themselves that this will only benefit the government. What’s more, the dredging of the salt fields blocks the proper flow of mountain rains. The homes of Lo̍k-káng are flooding. The houses crumble day by day; the controlled people scatter. This is how things are.
A while ago, my friend and I traveled to take a ride on a fishing boat. At the time, the salt mines had not been finished, and the work there not yet completed. I didn’t have the heart to look at the shores. So I turned my eyes toward the churning sea. The sky was a reed hat resting upon a sea which stretched before me, a million li sparkling like silver. The tide rippled like jade. The sun dropped and a hook-like crescent moon began its rise. The birds sat on the water. The man who paddled our raft headed toward the new waterway. The old harbor had given way to a silty beach where locals planted vegetables. We drifted toward the head of the new bridge, from which you can take in all of Lo̍k-káng. At the end of the streets is AnPing village. It was once lined with hundreds of houses, packed together like scales of a fish. It was destroyed in the fighting that gave Taiwan over to Japan. Everything is rubble. It is unbearable to look at. The silver lining is the Japanese won’t even step foot over here, and cannot destroy it again with their economic plans and forced evictions to make room for highways. But who knows what is to happen next. Turbulent times strike fear in men’s hearts. Our little ride was over, and I got off the raft. I walked through town and watched as lanterns were lit or put out. There used to be ten thousand houses. I counted on my fingers. There were no more than three thousand homes. What a shame!