By Alice Lu
I once owned a new pearl-white bike to take me from class to class. But five months ago it broke, so I pushed it to the shabby, dark bicycle repair center on campus to get it fixed. I showed my bike to one of the old men there, but he didn’t even take out his tools. Instead, he gave me a mean long moan, and stared to reproach me in Taiwanese, which I couldn’t understand at all. I thought he was totally delirious so I scurried away as fast as I could. That day was the end of my bike. I left it somewhere near the LTTC and never touched it again. But one sweating hot day in May, I saw my rusting bike again and told myself that I just couldn’t bear a life without my bike anymore. So it was back to the bike man. But this time I wanted to get their story instead. So here I am back at the repair center, on a Tuesday afternoon with two friends who speak fluent Taiwanese who have agreed to serve as my interpreters. There were four men working at the time, and we found the man in charge and told him that we come from the Department of Foreign Languages and wanted to interview him. “We are very interested in knowing more about you,” I began, “because we appreciate your devotion and think you are very important to the school.” “Did the school send you here?” he replied. “I don’t know much about interviews, and I don’t think we are very important, but you can ask me some questions if you like.” He gave us a shy smile. Mr. Yeh, the boss of the repair center told us that he came to Taida as a staff worker forty years ago. And he’s still there! Mr. Yeh was first employed by the school to take care of the bikes around campus. Forty years ago, there were eight special areas for students and teachers to park their bikes. Things were far more strict then. And what’s more, you needed to ask for a license from Mr. Yeh if you wanted to park it in the bike parking lot. One reason for this was because bikes used to be a luxury for poor students; a new bike cost $NT 200 when the average income for most families was only $NT 300 per month. Therefore, the university hired many people to take care of these costly forms of transportation. But then, twenty years ago, all of a sudden bikes were not extravagant any longer, but frivolous and handy and every student had one. “The parking lots weren’t enough,” Mr. Yeh told us. “So the bike lots were rented out to us to start our own bicycle businesses on campus. Of course there used to be more than just one bike shop, but as time went by, mine is the only one left.” Then I asked him where he learned to fix bikes. I wasn’t sure if he would think this was a stupid question, but he nodded his head as if to say “good question!” “It was in 1945, the year of Taiwan’s Restoration that I started to learn this skill. When Taiwan was still a Japanese colony, all bikes belonged to the Japanese government. Only the aristocracy had the chance to use them.” After the Restoration, when the KMT took over in Taiwan, Japanese residents were forced to go back to Japan. Only a few stayed, and his master was one of them. “I began as an apprentice living in my master’s house. I had to wake up early to sweep the front yard and obey my master’s wishes.” Rough time, I would say. “Worst of all, my master was very moody sometimes.” I was simply transfixed by his story and had no idea what to say next. “I don’t consider my self a lucky man,” Mr. Yeh continued. “I should have learned some other skill that could make more money.” Then Mr. Yeh talked about his impression of students in Taida. He said no matter what generation it is, there are always many kinds of students, both good and bad. “More good ones of course. Students’ lives are simpler than people out in society, and that why we like doing business here, in spite of the lower prices.” By this time it was nearly 1:30 p.m., but people kept coming in to have their bikes fixed. “Did you have lunch yet?” I asked. “Not yet, lunch break is often the busiest time of day if the weather is fine. Our job depends on the weather. If it’s pouring down rain, all we can do is wait and wait and wait for customers.” I didn’t want to keep Mr. Yeh any longer so we thanked him for spending time with us. We also thanked him for devoting his life to the school to give us a hand when we’re in need. And we were impressed that at the age of 70, Mr. Yeh still sticks to his job with all his heart. When we were about to leave, Mr. Yeh’s friend saw me holding a tape recorder, he gasped, “Wow! She’s got a tape recorder, maybe you can ask her to replay it so you can hear your voice!” He wasn’t very interested, but I promised him I would pass on his story to let it be known. When I gazed at my lonely bike once again, I realized it was not just something with two flat tires and an extra basket, but an object that was repaired by hard-working old men sweating in the noonday sun. I will always remind myself that even an ordinary character like Mr. Yeh has a story to tell. And a good one. So I guess I’m taking my bike back there after all! #Volume 6 Issue 4 a
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The Taida Student Journal has been active since 1995 with an ever-changing roster of student journalists at NTU. Click the above link to read about the authors Archives
May 2024
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