By 6:15 in the morning, hundreds of people have already come to Taipei New Park. The Taiwan Provincial Museum is not yet open, but in a small square at the foot of the museum's broad steps, vendors prove that it is not too early at all to be turning a bit of business.
Indeed, the industrious sidewalk merchants have been behind their blankets, which are loaded with products, since 5:00 a.m. It is the cool hour of daybreak when, daily, hundreds of people-young, middle aged, old—congregate in this downtown recreational area. Here, amid the city's glassy skyscrapers and office buildings, they exercise and enjoy the fresh air and early quiet of Taipei ... before the workday begins.
The vendors just inside the main gates have a continuing charm, matched in my American recollections only by the weekend flea markets or community bazaars on the greens of certain New England towns.
Atop the spread blankets at New Park are Chinese herbs, bottled ointments, potions, lotions, notions, tea leaves in mounds, heaps of colorful socks, rows of shiny shoes, piles of pens, nail clippers, key chains, wallets, purses.
Around one blanket, a dozen onlookers watch while a hawker of exercise equipment huffs and sweats, demonstrating how to use a sit-up device. Surrounded by steel kung-fu balls, wrist exercisers, skipping ropes, and other gear, hands clasped behind his head, he sits up, down, up, down-perhaps continuing his demonstration long after I have moved on and passed through the inner turnstile.
Just inside are more artistic merchants, selling large, pop oil paintings of idyllic scenes-oceanscapes with lone gulls dipping over choppy waves, an old wrinkled woman smiling beatifically under her conical straw hat from a back-drop of purple velvet. I follow the paved path past them, trees shading my way.
On my left is one wing of the museum, an unexpected building for downtown Taipei. A faded yellow, its two-story, neo-Greek architecture is complete with fluted columns and a large dome.
To my right, in a grove of trees, is one of the park's standing attractions: two old black locomotives housed in a small, fenced-in building. One was built in Dusseldorf, Germany in 1887; the other, in England in 1872.
They were originally imported for the first railway in mainland China, a line that was dismantled after farmers and officials, concerned about the violence to cultural tradition—a disregard for the geomancy of the land the tracks cut through-angrily demanded that the smoke-belching machines be thrown into the sea.
Instead, both trains and tracks were sent here to Taiwan, where they became part of the island's first railroad—from Keelung to Hsinchu. When the two locomotives were retired in the mid-1920s, New Park (which was itself established in 1908 under the Japanese occupation) received them. Set beside them are three other relics-long cannon on stone bases, all pointing to Hsiangyang Road and the Taipei of 1985.
A number of small pavilions skirt decorative pools.
Past the trains and cannons, following the path to the left, is a dogleg-shaped water lily pond spanned by a stone bridge, its murky green waters rippled by turtles and fish. A narrow walk-way encircles the small pond. But I cross the bridge, instead, and follow the path onward, for in the distance I see the park's open-air theater.
Here, on rows of wooden benches under the blue sky, or in the shade of stout, lush Golden Rain trees, long bean-like pods hanging, a smattering of Taipei's citizens sit before the half-dome stage. Some read newspapers, others books; one or two lie along a bench, asleep. An old man and woman argue, her voice chopping above his; but in a moment they are quiet and go off together, leaving the rest to their peaceful morning.
On stage, workmen are setting up platforms- tiers- for the filming of a China Television Service program later in the morning. To the right of the theater building is a single story park-police station, the national flag flying above it, the police insignia above the door; three vending machines are along the front, to one side. All of these are signs of modern times, as is the CTS TV crew gathering at the side steps to the stage.
But the altar to Tu Ti Kung (the Earth God), a bit in back of the theater, reasserts the presence of ancient China. He is considered to be within the City God's celestial hierarchy. His altar in the park is a small brick structure; a large incense burner stands outside under an awning, a small one within. Embroidered banners and red tasseled lanterns decorate the site.
More rare in Taiwan than an Earth God altar is the grey pailou, or memorial arch, just in front. Covered with carved inscriptions and guarded by stone lion dogs, the archway bears specific testimony to the enduring values of the Chinese people: Across the top are the four carved Chinese words Chi Kung Hao Yi, exhorting readers to be zealous for the public welfare and enthusiastic in charitable efforts.
Young couples are constant park adornments.
Four couples play badminton over a net they have strung across a nearby path. Farther on, a group of maybe thirty women and a few men go through the movements of a folk dance, the music provided by a cassette player. Several older men, hands on the small of their backs, rotate their waists. Others stand, swinging their arms.
Heading along a path towards a monument in the center of the park—I can just see its top through the trees—I am awed by the profusion of differing flora. According to the park administration, there are 6,427 trees and shrubs in this park. A good many of them shade the numerous, tidily swept dirt areas (set in the park's 71,522 square meters) where exercisers go through their callisthenics, and martial arts practitioners their routines.
Included among the trees are royal palms, the tallest and roundest; Alexandra palms, tall, thin, and stately; betel palms, their yellow pods hanging amidst a tangle of air roots beneath the burst of leaves at the top; slender-trunked Taiwan acacias with their narrow leaves; mountain ebony trees, their rose-colored flowers sporting thin, red stripes; and common garcinia and cajuput trees. Among the countless flowering plants are pink and white rhododendrons, potted petunias and begonias, and red-flowered camellias. A botanist's delight!
The monument at the center of the park is a tapering column, topped by a loudspeaker, weather vane, and direction indicator-N,E,S,W. Of greater interest are plaques on the column with carved inscriptions: Tzu Chiang Pu Hsi (Strive for Self-Renewal for Strength); and Chen Hsi Shih Kuang (Treasure Every Minute and Use It Meaningfully).
I follow a direction indicator south and come upon an abstract white marble statue, a cross between Henry Moore's smooth forms and Rodin's craggier shapes. Entitled "People at Peace," it was donated by the Lion's Club in 1981. Going on, I pass a playground, near a small, man-made waterfall of boulders under a leafy, low-branched tree, a trick le of water spilling down into the rocky pool at its base. In this section of the park is a surprise-a bust of U.S. Air Force General Claire Chennault, hero of China's WWII air war—the only non-religious statue of a foreigner in all of Taiwan.
Senior citizens take their exercise in small groups.
To get to the most striking structures in the park, bright red pavilions and a pagoda toward its eastern corner, I pass an odd, two-spout fountain. Somewhat dilapidated, it features a cherub atop a wall looking down into the upturned face of a penguin. It is fenced-in, along with two square gardens of beautifully tended flowers. Nearby are more exercisers: a kung-fu class, the boys in loose black pants and white undershirts: their feet, in black cloth shoes, kick high into the air; old men move through tai-chi patterns, (slow-motion martial arts exercises); a group of housewives, chatting, dry their faces with handkerchiefs now their callisthenics are over.
The pavilions circle the pagoda. Each of the four-open-sided structures with red pillars and sloping orange tile roofs-houses a bust of a famous man. Wooden signs at each entranceway explain: One exalts brotherly love and devotion, and the bust at its center, atop a solid stone base, is of a scholar, Lien Ya-tang, who wrote a history of Taiwan. Another is dedicated to refinement of character, and the bust is of Chiu Feng-chia, who fought the Japanese in the Sino-Japanese War of 1894. Another has a bust of Liu Ming-chuan, once governor of Taiwan during the Ching Dynasty. The fourth shelters a bust of Koxinga, a Ming Dynasty general who expelled the Dutch occupying 17th Century Taiwan. People sit on the built-in benches of the pavilions and read in the cool shade.
The approach to the three-story pagoda is over a stone bridge; the structure is surrounded by a pool with fountains. A wooden inscription board bears the two words Tsui Heng, which was the Kwangtung Province birthplace of Dr. Sun Yat-sen. The pagoda doors are locked, but people stand with their hands on the railings looking into the water, or perhaps contemplating a couplet on the structure that extols two ideals: Bring Peace to 10,000 Generations; Leave Righteousness in Your Wake in Two Realms.
Above all, the park is contentment.
A few hundred yards away is a larger than-life bronze statue of Confucius, the great sage of China. The demeanor—a calm expression, one finger raised as if in admonishment-is unmistakable. The characters Hsing Tan (a rostrum in an apricot grove), refer to the site where Confucius taught his disciples. Today, the characters signify the teaching profession in the broad sense; it is a profession highly revered in the Republic of China.
A stroll to the very shady eastern corner of the park turns up another Lion's Club contribution—wooden benches, at which students sit reading and writing. The path turns, going to the eastside gate past a second memorial arch, this one dedicated to filial piety, a fundamental Chinese virtue.
It is already 9:00 o'clock, and I am just beginning a tour of the Taiwan Provincial Museum. I find a hodgepodge of exhibits: In the basement, live fish in aquariums and mounted fish and shells in glass cases. Upstairs, on the second floor, a zoological exhibit with a python, a crocodile, a peacock, and a toucan. There is a large room devoted to Taiwan's aborigines, with a replica of a log hut and life-size figures of traditionally attired Tayal, Saisiyat, Bunun, Tsou, Sau, Ami, and other tribesmen. And there are canoes, fishing nets, spears. It is too much to take in at once, so disparate are the exhibits. Temporary exhibits in the museum included sculptures by local artists and prize-winning paintings for the 39th annual provincial art contest.
Returning to the now sultry outdoors, there is a roar of Taipei traffic. Office workers now hurry through the park to work, or walk briskly along the sidewalk outside the museum. The city's workday has begun.
For many, though, that day began hours earlier, quietly and unhurriedly. When the sun first shed a faint light across the park, the first visitors of the morning set foot on its treelined paths.