Homeland of Mackerel: 90 Years of Nanfang’ao

On a cold winter morning, the No. 1 Fish Market, which specializes in large fish, has only a single marlin for sale. The auctioneer makes the animated yet barely intelligible calls characteristic of his profession, while bidders evince little enthusiasm.

Chen ­Tianfu, the director of the market, which is operated by the Su’ao Fishermen’s Association, has been serving the fishing industry for 35 years. His office is on the second floor, from which he has a panoramic view of the trading area below.

In recent years Taiwan’s offshore and inshore fishing industries have had an annual production of about NT$17 billion. According to the Su’ao Fishermen’s Association, in 2011 boats from the Su’ao area caught more than 70,000 tons, valued at a record-breaking NT$3.3 billion. But they have experienced a declining haul every year since. In 2012 the totals were 60,000 some-odd tons and NT$3 billion, and last year they declined farther to 47,000 tons and NT$2.3 billion.

“Last year we had a bad fishing winter,” says Chen, shaking his head, as he refers both to the cool market and the frigid weather during the Northeastern Monsoon. “It used to be that you’d have to start selling at 4 a.m. just to have time to sell everything.” One can almost see the flourishing market of yesteryear in Chen’s wistful eyes.

Specializing in selling large fish such as shark, tuna and marlin, the No. 1 Fish Market opens every morning. The photo shows fishermen with a bumper haul of Japanese horse mackerel.

Nanfang’ao is located in northeastern Taiwan in Y­i­lan County’s Su’ao Township. To the east it faces the Pacific Ocean, and to the west it backs up against the Central Mountain Range. Back when the road to Hua­lien and Tai­tung was hard to pass and the Aborigines in that area were still practicing headhunting, a boat ride via Nan­fang’ao offered greater safety and convenience.

In Su’ao Bay, Nanfang’ao lies south of the commercial port of Su’ao and at a greater distance from the naval port of Beifang’ao, which is located at the north end of the bay. With fishing, naval and commercial harbors, Su’ao Bay has all its bases covered. Nanfang’ao’s two square kilometers hold three fishing harbors. To the seaward side is Cape Doufu, a rocky promontory typical of eastern Taiwan. To the south is the sandy beach of ­Neipi, while to the north a bridge spans the entrance to the harbors.

With hills on three sides, Su’ao has the topography of an excellent natural deepwater port. What’s more, the Ku­ro­shio Current runs close to Taiwan’s east coast, bringing marlin, tuna, shark, and flying fish. With the Gui­shan, Peng­jia and Diao­yu­tai islands all within striking distance, boats based in Nanfang’ao enjoy rich fishing resources.

In the middle of the 18th century the area was the realm of the Qau­qaut tribe of Aborigines. Thanks to infrastructure projects undertaken by the Japanese colonial administration, in 1923 Nanfang’ao became the first fishing harbor in Eastern Taiwan that could hold a motorized fleet. That year it was transformed from a forlorn corner of the coast to a modern fishing port.

In 1965, in response to the growth of the long-range deep-sea fishing industry, the ROC government constructed the No. 3 Fishing Harbor at Nan­fang’ao as a base for seiners and other long-range fishing boats. At its peak, more than 1000 boats were operating out of Nan­fang’ao’s three fishing harbors.

With improved technology, abundant natural resources, and a bright future, Nan­fang’ao attracted fishermen from Xiao­liu­qiu, ­Penghu, Dong­gang, Heng­chun, Gui­shan Island and elsewhere, who brought various fishing techniques and technologies.

Ring-net fishing boats were in their heyday from the 1950s to the 1970s, when Nanfang’ao was home to more than 200 ring-net fishing teams. This form of fishing fell from favor rapidly with the arrival of purse seiners.

“Nan­fang’ao had the most advanced fishing fleet of any port in Taiwan,” proudly declares Chen Jie, 75, who commanded operations on five large seiners before he retired at age 65.

In the early years fishermen in Nan­fang’ao were mainly harpooning marlin and employing the longliner techniques introduced by the Japanese. In the 1950s Chen Jie’s father Chen Dong­hai, who served both as director of the Su’ao Fishermen’s Association and as an Yi­lan County councilor, purchased some ring nets from Japan.

Those nets are mostly used for fishing mullet and mackerel, and they brought hauls at Nan­fang’ao to rank at the top of all fishing harbors in Taiwan. They were a key factor in the growth in the fishing industry here and in building the town’s reputation as the “homeland of mackerel.”

Ring netting grew rapidly in Taiwan over the course of 20 years, reaching a peak in the 1970s, right before the introduction of purse seine nets. Back then Taiwan’s ring-net fleets were clustered in Nan­fang’ao. There were more than 200 teams of ring-net boats based in its fishing harbors, and each could cast its nets three times a day

“At 1 a.m. the boats were lined up for inspection to go out to sea. Then they’d rush out to the fishing grounds to cast their first net at 3 or 4 a.m. Back then, with so many boats on the water, a small boat might capsize if ran up against a larger boat,” says Chen.

The Nan­fang’ao Theater described in Chiu Kun-­liang’s book was built in 1948 and razed in 1973. It witnessed the peak of Nan­fang’ao’s boom, the 25 years when Nan­fang’ao’s development was fastest. This small place, only two square kilometers, became home to more than 20,000, attaining a population density among the highest in the world. A house of 60-some square meters might be split up into seven or eight households with a total of 20–30 residents.

Nan­fang’ao was a city that didn’t sleep, full of fruit ice parlors, billiard halls and girlie bars. With three theaters, it was hardly a quiet fishing village. Outsiders often marveled at its energy and wealth.

Chen Jie, a 75-year-old retired fishing boat captain held in high esteem by the people of Nanfang’ao, is a fount of stories about life at sea. At one time he directed operations on five purse seiners.

In the 1970s the government began to encourage the use of purse seiners and the accumulation of capital to promote the corporatization of the fishing industry. It resulted in the rapid rise in annual hauls. Chen describes the abundance of those days as hard to forget.

“One time we let the net out to catch mackerel at 8 p.m. Two days later, the net was so full we couldn’t haul it in,” says Chen, still impressed with the size of their catch. He was ready to cut the net free with a knife because there had been cases of Japanese boats capsizing when their hauls were too heavy. “Eventually, we brought on board only one-tenth of what was in the nets. At upwards of 1,000 tons, we earned NT$5 million.”

But the purse seines that made such hauls possible, by catching everything in their path, also led to the rapid decline of fishing resources.

Requiring crews of 70 or so, purse seiners had high operating costs, and the huge yields could not be maintained. They were substituted with vessels using lampara nets. These boats are very nimble, cost little and operate at high efficiency. They changed the face of Nan­fang’ao at one stroke. Now these boats constitute the bulk of the harbor’s fleet, and mainland China has started to follow Nan­fang’ao’s example.

To help bring to life the cultural history of Nanfang’ao, Liao Daqing, a historical preservationist, has reopened the Sangang Metal Works as an historic site. Sangang was originally opened by Liao’s father and some friends.

Various methods of wresting a living from the sea have been adopted, created and eliminated in Nan­fang’ao. Each represents a different form of cultural fusion.

From the migration of fishing businesses from Japan to Taiwan in the 1920s, to the boom years of the 1970s when the town attracted mariners from throughout Taiwan, to the current era of foreign workers and spouses from Southeast Asia, Nan­fang’ao’s ethnic mix has long epitomized Taiwan’s immigrant culture.

Nan­fang’ao’s last nine decades not only tell a story of industrial development but also a history of immigrant culture. People offer the most beautiful scenery.

“The Japanese like to drink rice wine with white sugar,” recalls a misty-eyed Chen, who worked under a Japanese captain the first time he went out to sea as a 19-year-old. Chen quips that he’s “a worm on land, a dragon at sea.” He may get lost when he’s behind the wheel of a car, but he never gets seasick.

Chen’s daughter-in-law Wu Xiao­mei left her parents’ home in Tai­nan when she married into the family 16 years ago. In Life Aquatic: A Memoir of Life in a Fishing Village by a Nan­fang’ao Daughter-in-Law, Wu recounts interesting anecdotes about the local culture, as well as cross-cultural interactions. Many of her observations involve gustatory preferences.

“When they eat outside the home, people from Nan­fang’ao will never order fish. Yet when people get a good fish, sometimes they’ll invite relatives over to eat it,” explains Wu of her husband’s family’s customs. Her father-in-law Chen Jie has a special knife he uses specially for cutting slices of sashimi.

People from Nan­fang’ao season their seafood very simply. They never deep-fry or braise it. Smiling, she says that when she gets a fish now, she too just bakes or steams it. “The best kind of fish is a fresh fish.”

In 1923 the Japanese colonial administration spent ¥650,000 to construct Nanfang’ao Harbor, the first of the east coast’s modern fishing ports.

With the fall of the fishing industry, Nanfang’ao began to lose population in the 1980s, and young people have been leaving for the cities ever since. The population has dropped from more than 20,000 to only 8000 some-odd people.

“Back then I was itching to get out,” says Liao Daqin, 60, at the old Sangang Metal Works next to the police station. Now engaged in historical and cultural preservation in the town, Liao recalls how he desperately wanted to escape Nan­fang’ao when he was in his 20s.

That was a common sentiment held by Nan­fang’ao youths some 30-odd years ago. Apart from dangerous and backbreaking work at sea, there was little potential for career development there. With everyone in a rush to leave, the fishing village was hit hard, as there was no way at first to replenish the ranks of young workers. Since immigration was opened to foreign laborers in 1992, their presence has been having a big social and cultural impact on the town.

Currently there are about 2000 foreign workers in Nan­fang’ao, most of whom hail from mainland China, Indonesia, the Philippines, and Vietnam. They comprise one-fourth of the town’s population and serve as an important pillar of Nan­fang’ao’s economy.

“The average age of a boat captain is now 60,” explains Liao. “Ten years from now, one less captain will mean one less boat. And since owners can’t turn their vessels over to foreign nationals, the fishing fleet will grow smaller and smaller. Although there are six maritime academies in Taiwan, students don’t necessarily want to work on boats when they graduate.”

Liao’s description of his hometown’s past and future is bound up with his own life history.

After he served in the military, he went to work in Tai­pei. He did a lot of different things, including peddling goods on the street. But he ended up back in Nan­fang’ao. During one period of great frustration, he’d hole himself up at home and practice calligraphy to settle his nerves. Ten years ago he obtained San­gang, which had originally been opened by his father and friends, as a base of operations to pursue historical and cultural work. Ever since, he’s been carrying out research, participating in local affairs, serving as a tour guide, and teaching about local history in a nearby community college.

After Taiwan opened to guest workers from Southeast Asia in the 1990s, they quickly became a pillar of the fishing industry in Nanfang’ao. Today they give the town a more multicultural atmosphere. The photo shows foreign fishermen mending nets after coming back from the sea.

After the Xue­shan Tunnel opened in 2006, Nan­fang’ao began to attract new kinds of tourists: pilgrims visiting the Nan­tian Temple’s Mazu, gourmands arriving to eat seafood, and mainland Chinese tourists coming to buy coral. Yu­gang Street is lined with seafood restaurants. On formerly desolate ­Neipi Beach outsiders have been building Mediterranean-style homestays and cafés.

But is Nan­fang’ao destined to have nothing more than a quaint and touristy future and a harbor filled with recreational boats? Will anyone remember the town’s boom years?

Facing the No. 1 Harbor, the Nan­tian Temple, with its upward curling eaves and its gold and jade Mazus, offers protection and blessings to seafarers. Here one can see Nanfang’ao’s exuberance and fading elegance. No matter how things change, people from Nan­fang’ao will always be full of love for their hometown, because it will remain a safe haven for boats, offering protection from the wind.

“It wasn’t until I moved to Nan­fang’ao after marrying that I realized that even though Nan­fang’ao is on the coast, there’s no need to be particularly scared of typhoons here,” says Wu Xiao­mei, who has lived in the town for 16 years. “That’s because harbors are places that are sheltered from the wind.”

During the Japanese colonial era the Japanese introduced harpoon boats and related technology, which have now entirely passed from the scene. An experienced harpoonist would stand at the prow, ready to launch a three-pronged harpoon at large fish.

Nanfang’ao’s No. 2 Harbor on a peaceful early morning. Mt. Bijia, to the right of the harbor mouth, shelters the fishing port from the ravages of the sea. Culture in Nanfang’ao flourishes, locals say, because the fishing harbor, which resembles an inkstone, and Mt. Bijia, which means “writing-brush rack,” provide good literary fengshui. Bearing witness to the town’s capacity for nurturing greatness, three of its native sons have recently served in ministerial-level positions.

Mazu worship predominates in Nanfang’ao, where the golden deity in Nantian Temple is particularly famous. The photo shows the coral Mazu in Jin’an Temple, which was constructed by migrants from Beifang’ao. The Mazu figure was donated by a faithful patron.

Known as “Lover’s Cove,” the sandy beach of Neipi is a favorite hangout spot for locals. Recently, entrepreneurs from out of town have started to build cafés and homestays here.