The fishing industry takes center stage in Trapped at Sea, Lost in Time (海上情書), a two-hour documentary that took directors Kuo Chen-ti (郭珍弟) and Ke Neng-yuan (柯能源) six years to complete. But don’t expect to see slave laborers or Greenpeace.
The film instead provides a rare glimpse into the lives of mariners who often spend years at sea, offering an intimate and honest portrait of these seafaring men, their back-breaking work, aspirations and dreams.
The film opens in Kaohsiung’s Cianjhen District (前鎮), where life revolves around tuna fishing, with a pregnant Shu-fen (淑芬) waving goodbye to her husband Yeh Kuo-lung (葉國隆), a sea captain who is about to set out on a three-year voyage in the South Pacific Ocean. Yeh is joined by three seasoned fishermen and dozens of deckhands on a commercial fishing boat.
Photo courtesy of Activator Marketing Company
As Yeh departs, a woman is heard reading a love letter, as if she is writing to her man far away from home. It’s a voice that returns from time to time, providing the film’s resonant, emotional core.
On the high seas, though, it is a man’s world, which caused problems for Kuo, a woman, who reportedly had a hard time finding a fishing company willing to break the taboo and allow her on board.
The Taiwanese officers and deckhands, mostly recruited from China and Southeast Asian countries, primarily catch yellowfin and skipjack tuna as well as slender sprats. Three fishing vessels, each equipped with state-of-the-art fishing gear, form the fleet, and during a good day catch up to 300 tonnes of fish.
Photo courtesy of Activator Marketing Company
The directors document the mariner’s daily routine, and there is no shortage of excitement in watching how the entire operation, which involves a one-man helicopter, is closely coordinated in order to catch a school of tuna. Contrary to their weather-beaten, hard-boiled image, the seamen appear surprisingly caring and tender.
The film catches moments where they banter, cut each others hair, comfort those who are homesick and attend to those who are injured.
When taking a short rest at ports, the mariners often spend time skyping their families at Internet cafes or seeking warmth in the arms of sex workers. Yeh Ming-chih (葉明志), an officer, learns to speak English so that he can woo women from different parts of the globe.
Apart from the Taiwanese, the film crew interviewed only Chinese workers, likely due to the language barrier. Without exception, they all hail from poor towns and villages, spending years at sea so as to provide a better life for their families back home. Some plan to save enough money and quit the seafaring life; others say they want to find a woman and settle down.
Eventually, home is where every seaman longs to return in Trapped at Sea, Lost in Time, whether it means a house full of children and an understanding wife or a dream for the future.
If one asks Taiwanese why house prices are so high or why the nation is so built up or why certain policies cannot be carried out, one common answer is that “Taiwan is too small.” This is actually true, though not in the way people think. The National Property Administration (NPA), responsible for tracking and managing the government’s real estate assets, maintains statistics on how much land the government owns. As of the end of last year, land for official use constituted 293,655 hectares, for public use 1,732,513 hectares, for non-public use 216,972 hectares and for state enterprises 34 hectares, yielding
The small platform at Duoliang Train Station in Taitung County’s Taimali Township (太麻里) served villagers from 1992 to 2006, but was eventually shut down due to lack of use. Just 10 years later, the abandoned train station had become widely known as the most beautiful station in Taiwan, and visitors were so frequent that the village had to start restricting traffic. Nowadays, Duoliang Village (多良) is known as a bit of a tourist trap, with a mandatory, albeit modest, admission fee of NT$10 giving access to a crowded lane of vendors with a mediocre view of the ocean and the trains
Traditionally, indigenous people in Taiwan’s mountains practice swidden cultivation, or “slash and burn” agriculture, a practice common in human history. According to a 2016 research article in the International Journal of Environmental Sustainability, among the Atayal people, this began with a search for suitable forested slopeland. The trees are burnt for fertilizer and the land cleared of stones. The stones and wood are then piled up to make fences, while both dead and standing trees are retained on the plot. The fences are used to grow climbing crops like squash and beans. The plot itself supports farming for three years.
For many people, Bilingual Nation 2030 begins and ends in the classroom. Since the policy was launched in 2018, the debate has centered on students, teachers and the pressure placed on schools. Yet the policy was never solely about English education. The government’s official plan also calls for bilingualization in Taiwan’s government services, laws and regulations, and living environment. The goal is to make Taiwan more inclusive and accessible to international enterprises and talent and better prepared for global economic and trade conditions. After eight years, that grand vision is due for a pulse check. RULES THAT CAN BE READ For Harper Chen (陳虹宇), an adviser
RSS