Beitou, Hot Springs, and the Radioactive Past

Where the gates to some old city once stood – Dongmen, Ximen, Beimen and Nanmen – are now MRT stations. The red line runs from the Elephant Mountain (Xiangshan; 象山) to Tamsui (淡水), where the sea takes over. We do not go that far today. My friends and I get down at Beitou (北投) and begin a stroll down to the hot springs.

The Japanese colonial rulers discovered the source of some hot springs at Beitou and found the waters here are laced with Radium, that radioactive material known to a generation in the shape of wristwatch dials that glow in the dark.

I do not wear a wristwatch, but my nana does, or I should say he used to before retirement. It was as much a part of daily ritual as hot springs, public bath houses and onsens are to this day for many in Japan, Korea and those who occasionally visit the hot springs in Beitou, Wulai or Yangmingshan.

A narrow mortar, aggregate and coal tar road runs up a slight incline to the source of the spring. Every footstep closer means a rise in the water temperature. A basin installation midway offers visitors a chance to dip their hands. I run my fingers through the stream, diverted by way of galvanized pipes and a faucet, and feel the heat quicken the flow of blood in the palm of my hand and the sinews of my fingers.

Further up, the path diverges around an oval-shaped pool, circumferencing its perimeter. We take the walkway to the right and begin an anti-clockwise circumambulation. Steam hisses and rises perpetually, covering the hot waters below in a mist of their becoming. My friend wonders what the first person to arrive here must have thought. The scope of speculation beggars my imagination.

To imagine a distant past, one must rub an eraser through the inventions, additions and annihilations of time, undoing a stroke, deconstructing a wall, replanting the forests that were cut down, resurrecting the birds and the beasts whose calls would have echoed through the thicket of woods. And still, that would not be enough.

Every few steps, we pause and lean against the rails, feel the sulphurous vapors deposit on our cheeks and mix with the oozing beads of sweat. ‘What if someone falls in the spring so close to the source?’ Who does not have such questions! Down below in the depths veiled by the steam rising, many a skeleton must rest, the flesh having already cooked away and eaten by extremophiles. My friend ruminates on humanity’s highest achievement. ‘Language,’ he begins, and then quickly adds, ‘mystical thinking.’

Up the slope and down some stairs, we arrive right back where we took a right and begin a saunter. A string of shops and stalls sells eggs boiled in the waters of the spring. In the log of our minds, we make a note to come back and walk right on to the entrance of the public bathhouse.

My friend is forced to buy a swimsuit; those without one are strictly disallowed. The flimsy thing costs a hundred and fifty, but necessity forges a path to resignation. He is in Taipei but for a couple of days to meet his dear friend from college, who tenders an invitation to me to come along.

Inside, we change insider gender-separated cubicles that look a lot like a porta-potty with showers instead of urinals. Facing the shower booths rise a series of pools to the left, and water temperatures rise as we climb up closer to the source of the spring. I begin with the first, find a place to pop a squat and feel the heat. Immediately, I feel my throat dry and the first inkling of a thirst rises.

Out I come, climb a few stairs to the entrance of the second pool and dip my feet in its waters. Hot! Hot! Hot! You might say I suppressed a yelp and pretended to be okay. The Zen-like older folk next to me gestures, ‘Be still, and all will be okay.’ I follow his calm and true to his experience, what was verging on unbearable begins to feel outright blissful. I begin to fall over the edge of alert wakefulness into a slumberous lassitude.

Dust and dead skin begin to peel off the surface of myself. A pat on the back of my shoulder rouses me from a daydream and offers me her bottle of water. Gratefully, I sip in long sips. ‘Do not stay longer than fifteen minutes at a time,’ she points towards the set of instructions painted on a wall, or was it a flax print?

Nodding goodbye to my old teacher, I rise, splashing water as I do so, climb out and walk down to the lone cold pool. Uncontainable shivers seize hold, heart pounds like a tank on the ramparts of my chest, and I cannot control the tremors. It seems the Zen method works only for hot water. I give up, get out and climb up to the highest pool, the hottest pool, the one closest to the source.

Red burnt skin of old folks who seem like regulars of the establishment sit still inside like icons of the highest stage of meditation. Their calm is falsely reassuring, I realize as soon as I take my place alongside them. Pain, throbbing, pulsating pricks of pain, I feel my skin will come off. My nerves are in a state of shock. I am out of my depths and about to step out when the old man next to me asks the usual question, ‘ni na li lai de (你哪裡來的)?’ Where do I come from?

‘Yin Du (印度),’ I reply, meaning India, and he begins to talk to me. We speak for a while. There is something about him that reminds me of my nana. I cannot recall a word of what he says to me, though I listen with absolute concentration. In his words, I forget how hot the water is, if my nerves will survive the ordeal or not. I remember he wishes me well when I finally emerge and say goodbye.

Though we go to the hot spring together, in its waters each one of us goes on a separate journey. Outside, the air is beginning to hum with hues of late afternoon, and a hunger wells up within. It is time to retrace the steps to the boiled eggs. In the hours that follow, I experience a new sensation. It is a concoction of slowness mixed with satisfaction; languor brewed with rejuvenation.

For our last destination for the day, our footsteps carry us to the Hot Spring Museum, facing a delectable public library across a narrow canal. Photographs, frames, and installations record the rediscovery of the hot springs (I refuse to believe some solitary walker had not been here before) and their radioactive qualities. We learn about the horrors of the occupation and the red-light district that popped up around Beitou. The past is as radioactive as the hot springs.

On the second floor of the museum, visitors take off their shoes. Atop tatami mats covering the floor, people gather, some sit down and rest their backs against wooden pillars and gaze at the city overlooking the verandah. Elders, younger folks, kids, sketching, painting, folding origami, and doing calligraphy. Radioactive hot springs are believed to heal; can the radioactivity of the past do so, too?