Descriptive Essay

The Quest for the Shining Serpent

Weifan Chang

Behind the Science Park, not too far from where I used to live, there is a valley.  The only roads that lead into it are faded and cracked, long-forgotten avenues of winding asphalt tucked behind corporate parking lots and idyllic groves—their existence unknown or a mystery to most.  The only inhabitants of the valley are a handful of farmers, an agricultural community that scrapes out a living by growing rice and vegetables in small plots of mountain land, mountain land shadowed by the hulking monoliths of industry and modern technology.  The futuristic factories just over the hills manufacture 90% of the world’s microchip processors; while the faded red-brick houses standing in front of me are identical to the ones found in historical museums.  Old traditions and lifestyles of a century ago are juxtaposed with the glossy skyscrapers standing just a couple hundred meters away; a poignant contrast between two worlds; the modern world which we now inhabit with the one that our grandparents knew.   To the west, one faintly picks up the grating melody of urbanized industrialization; from the east, an organized mess of iron ribbon, electric wire, and concrete knick-knacks bisects the narrow valley in a straight line—stretching unbroken as far as the eye can see.  The silent murmur from the multitude of crickets and cicadas remains unbroken. 

From afar, Taiwan High Speed Rail seems unobtrusive and unimposing; the white electric poles peeking about the hilly landscape the only betraying hint of its existence; the electric trains glide effortlessly over the welded rails as if made of glass.  The orange and black streaks, thematic colors of Formosan hospitality, contrast vividly amidst the surrounding green.  Up close, one is greeted by high, unending walls of concrete and formidable embankments laced with barbed wire.  Faded signs of “Warning – High Voltage” line the fences.  Entire swathes of forestry are gone, as if a gargantuan beast had taken a hunk out of the mountain, and replaced it with landslide barriers.  Gaping holes have been hewn into the mountain’s face, defacing the natural features of moss and stone.  Tunnels are dark and mysterious caverns that lie in wait with open mouths—patiently waiting to devour their prey whole. 

This is the valley of the shining serpent.  Standing beside the railway tracks, aside from the quiet buzz from the 25kV/60Hz AC voltage dangling a few meters away and the unceasing shrill of summer insects, the valley is quiet and still. 

One always hears the serpent before one sees it.  If it is headed for the southern beach resorts of Kaosiung, one hears a peculiar sound; the rails—they sing.  Resonance—the contact between steel wheels rotating at over 1000 RPM and steel rails bolted down to ballastless slab track, creates a melody of varying pitches and notes; a symphony unique and unlike any other.  A metallic quiver, gentle and soft as the flute, imparted with the exciting tension of a violin, and the tremulous solemnity of a cello; all fused together in an eerily feminine crescendo.   Deftly, she announces her master’s arrival, her melodious voice graceful and unabashed.  It is only after one’s ear has drunken deeply in the sound of her voice that one will see the pair of glowing lights rounding the bend…   

To the south of the valley, the gentle curve of the railway tracks disappear into the Great Abyss; the maw hewn into the mountainside.  For northbound express trains heading for Taipei, the confined space in the tunnel generates a different type of music; sound waves are distorted, compressed, and amplified.  Multiple voices, tied up into one—from the soprano rail squeak, to the eclectic choric hum of triple-V electric inverters, to the very sound of air being pushed aside by the great iron-serpent’s aerodynamic nose-frame; the chant reverberates in the throat of the tunnel.  It is an unbridled performance of fury, a brutal and masculine power that makes the very earth beneath one’s feet tremble with its coming.  The intonation of ten-thousand angry men starts in a low growl, a guttural hymn that begins in such a gentle quiet that one often initially mistakes it for a sinister ambience.  Unlike the short limerick composed by the railheads of the north, which lasts only but for the few seconds that the train takes to scream past one’s vantage point, the Canon of the Deep resounds long and clear like a brass orchestral fanfare, heralding the train’s savage rebirth from the depths of the Underworld back into the land of the living.  The low rumble quickly increases in intensity; a climax rising in both pitch and fervor.  As the train continues further in the tunnel, more air is compressed in front of the train; more sound waves are generated and echo in the natural terrain’s deep vocal chords—more seething men that join in the throng of voices clamoring for a violent exultation.  The cup overflows. 

The rolling thunder breaks. 

A burst of white, a sliver of orange, and a tinge of black; the world is swept into a maelstrom as all hell seems to break loose.  The pantographs atop the roof of the train angrily hiss and spark, the violet electrical arcs exploding in pretty pyrotechnical arrays.  The motors scream.  The ground shakes, as five hundred tons of steel hurtle past with a force nearing that of a small nuclear warhead, and the air itself quivers, palpitating under the immense aerial shockwave and violent eddy currents.  It is a heart-stopping show of strength, an ostentatious exposition of power and aesthetics combined; that of a mighty eagle spreading and flexing its majestic wings.  The two halves of the experience: the graceful, elegant dance-steps of Venus combined with the thundering, herculean footsteps of Mars, represents the union of the two sexes—a dazzling display of modern magic and technological grandeur.   An indescribable sense of euphoria and wonder tingle my bones and sends shivers up and down my spine. 

At full speed, a high-speed train covers the distance of a running track in a little more than a second—a kilometer a little just over ten; a brief whirlwind of chaos, and all is still again—the tail of the train already disappearing behind the curve.  This valley is a magical land; a land frozen in time, populated by mythical serpents and Camelot wonders, tales of heroic knights and adventurous treasure seekers.  The only people who live here are farmers, peasants and serfs who labor this land in the shadow of beasts; for the roads that lead to this valley are faded and cracked, and few are those who tread them.  Already, Nature has reclaimed the blighted areas—blanketing the concrete with a rich carpet of grass and moss, and threading ivy and flowers into the padlocks and through the barbed-wire meshes.  All is still. 

The silent murmur of crickets and cicadas remains unbroken.