Taiwan’s Spirit of Survival Rises From the Ruins

Driven from his home, forced to wear nothing but the same pair of dirty jeans for three days, Hsu Liang-guan conceded Thursday that nature won the opening round here in Nantou County, the epicenter of the magnitude 7.6 earthquake that struck Taiwan this week.

But in his makeshift camp across from the high-rise where he lived until Tuesday’s quake, Hsu vowed to stay put until the bitter end.

“I’m here to watch my house fall--or to move back in,” said Hsu, 25, his eyes flashing, his fingers stroking an amulet dangling around his neck for luck.

Just 20 miles to the northwest in Fengyuan, a vigil of a different sort was in progress Thursday, one overshadowed by the specter of certain disappointment. It was written on the grim expressions of silent relatives who watched as workers tried to dig out six people--at least three of them children--trapped in the rubble of a 12-story apartment block that had broken away from its twin and toppled over.

Thirty-eight of the building’s 88 residents were already known to be dead, and there was virtually no hope that anyone within would still be alive. The last faint cries of a child faded into nothing at 4 a.m. Thursday. Confirmation of death was just a matter of time, said an official at the scene.

Unable to outwit Mother Nature, residents across this quake-stricken area had no choice but to try to outwait her--for the ground to settle down, for the closure of knowing nothing more could be done.

And, slowly, victims of the most devastating quake to hit this island in 64 years began coming out of shock Thursday, for the first time turning their thoughts from present survival to future revival.

The road to recovery will be especially tough for Puli, a tropical valley town 90 miles south of Taipei, the capital, and so close to the quake’s epicenter that 98% of the buildings reportedly suffered some degree of structural damage. The one local factory, a wine distillery, had pitched and pancaked. Roads to outlying areas remained blocked.

Thousands of the town’s residents are still too frightened to reenter their homes, even those that look undamaged. A local hospital was so wrecked that patients were being treated on the street.

But signs of resilience and resolve sprouted from the cracked asphalt, listing power poles, shattered glass and crumpled buildings.

“Escaping with my life was good enough,” said longtime resident Ling Ah-chiu, 62, who is now living on a primary school playground beneath a plastic tarp.

Early Tuesday, when neighbors pulled Ling screaming from her suddenly tilting home, “I had nothing--it was freezing,” she said.

“Now we have something to eat,” she added, pointing to donated provisions around her. Now she can start thinking about getting her home repaired and her damaged grocery shop reopened.

A human enemy of recovery began taking the place of a natural one, as residents complained of some looting and of merchants who jacked up their prices. A bowl of beef noodles at a corner stand more than doubled in price, from $1.20 to $3, after the quake.

Hsu, camped out in front of his empty high-rise in Puli, called for official intervention to speed the rebuilding process--especially on behalf of Taiwanese aborigines like himself and his family, who come from the mountainous central region that bore the brunt of the massive quake.

“I hope the government comes and sees how we’re living and takes care of us aborigines,” said Hsu.

“How will we start over?” he asked, looking ahead at a future filled with uncertainty. “Where will we live?”

Puli provided an object lesson in the indiscriminate way death and destruction often deal their cards, leaving unanswered “whys” trailing behind them.

On one street, a row of four-story apartment buildings had crunched downward, crushing cars in the ground-floor garage and blowing out glass doors opening onto broken balconies. Yet, a rickety wooden structure not far away looked completely intact.

It was the same in nearby Fengyuan, where those waiting outside the toppled 12-story Face-the-Sun apartment block were solemn and tight-lipped.

At the moment it was inexplicable why one of the conjoined buildings had detached itself and fallen over, while the other remained standing in good shape.

On a piece of cardboard, local fire official Dai Chung-kun had drawn a diagram of the building and filled in the number of people who lived in each unit. Then, in red ink, he filled in the death toll.

Eleventh floor, end unit, four occupants; three dead on arrival. Sixth floor, end unit, three occupants; all DOA.

By Thursday morning, six people were still inside the crumpled building. The leg of a child protruded from one pile of rubble, not far from a stuffed animal. Rescue workers backed away in a rush and ran for breathing masks.

“The stench of the dead bodies is too great,” Dai said.

A woman draped in black brushed suddenly past, ringing a bell while a few people followed, chanting in low tones, enacting an ancient Taoist ceremony.

“They’re calling out the dead souls,” a local doctor explained softly, “to lead them to rest.”