IT feels like any other district: Tall buildings, and anonymous blocks of apartments and offices blending into the landscape. "Are you sure this is the right place?" my colleague Amalina Kamal (or Lola as she's known) whispers, doubt creeping into her voice. I glance down at the address, double-checking it for the third time.
Everything matches. Even the Grab driver, who we communicated with through Google Translate, had confirmed it. When I mentioned "Rainbow Village" clearly, he gave a curt nod, though his expression remained blank, offering no hint of recognition.
The cab glides to a stop at the end of a narrow lane. "Lane 56, Chun'an Road, Nantun District, Taichung City?" I repeat, glancing at the driver. He nods, says something in Mandarin, and gestures ahead before pulling away, leaving us standing under the relentless heat, cameras in hand.
"Wait!" Lola grabs my arm and points. "There!" she exclaims triumphantly.
From the horizon, a burst of colour emerges — so subtle at first, we almost miss it. But as we draw nearer, we realise the faded hues are painted across a cluster of modest houses built so close together, they seem to merge into one.
The ground beneath our feet is painted too, a patchwork of flowers, people and animals in colours worn down by time. The walls of these tiny concrete blocks are covered in art, a village brought to life in faded but persistent strokes.
As we squeeze through the tiny lane, the narrow path opens up into a broader space, where the colours are more vivid, the fading less pronounced. Suddenly, we're standing in a hidden enclave, surrounded by a riot of wild colours splashed across every surface.
It's as if we've stumbled into a living canvas, with every corner of this little village pulsating with life and art, a stark contrast to the muted world we'd left behind just moments ago.
Welcome to Rainbow Village.
MILITARY DEPENDENTS' VILLAGE
It all began in 2010 with a simple drawing of a bird on the wall of his home. The then 86-year-old man had just received a letter ordering him to vacate the only place he'd ever known.
His home, the one he had poured his life savings into, was to be demolished. With a heavy heart and nowhere else to turn, he picked up a couple of paint tins and began to express his sorrow the only way he knew how.
Slowly, carefully, he painted a bird on his bedroom wall. What started as one simple gesture of defiance and grief soon became something much more. He kept painting. Day by day, the walls came alive with vibrant images — flights of birds, children, flowers and dreamscapes that seemed to echo his memories, his longings and his love for a home that soon would no longer exist. "This is the only real home I've ever known in Taiwan," Huang Yung-fu had once insisted.
Huang, born in Guangdong, China, in 1924, joined the army at just 15 to fight the Japanese in the Second Sino-Japanese War, which later escalated into World War 2. By 1946, he chose to side with the Nationalist army to take on the communists in the Chinese Civil War. But after the communists claimed victory in 1949, Huang, along with two million Kuomintang soldiers, fled to Taiwan.
To accommodate the flood of retreating troops and their families, they were housed in hastily constructed "military dependents' villages" across the island. These makeshift settlements were intended as temporary shelters until the Nationalists could reclaim the mainland.
That moment never came. The temporary settlements soon evolved into thriving, permanent communities that shaped the island's modern landscape.
After being stationed at several Taiwanese airbases, Huang was shot twice and critically wounded during the Second Taiwan Straits Crisis. When he finally retired from the military in 1978 — earning a gold medal for "Defending Taiwan" — he used his savings to move into a bungalow in one of these villages. Transitioning to civilian life as a security guard, Huang built a reputation for his unwavering sense of justice.
The military settlement in Taichung's Nantun District once bustled with life, sheltering 1,200 veterans and their families. But as the years passed, the homes grew tired, and their walls crumbled with age. Developers began eyeing the land as Taiwan's second largest city expanded, and soon, many plots were sold, the residents lured away with promises of new homes or generous compensation.
For more than 40 years, Huang had called this place home, but he could only watch with a heavy heart as his neighbours packed up and left, their absence casting a hollow silence over the village.
In time, only 11 houses remained, and Huang found himself the last man standing. Unmarried with no family, he had nowhere to go.
Alone and surrounded by silence, he turned to painting. "I was the last one left, and I was bored," he recalled. "My father taught me how to paint when I was 5, but I hadn't picked up a brush since childhood," he used to say.
And so, with nothing but silence around him, Huang began to fill the emptiness with colour.
PAINTING LIFE
From the moment Huang painted that tiny bird on his bedroom wall, there was no stopping him. One brushstroke led to another, and soon the once-blank walls came alive with vibrant, colourful scenes.
The self-taught artist transformed every surface he could find, filling the empty spaces with whimsical flowers, joyful children and the cherished memories of his youth. His child-like, naïve art has turned the forgotten village into a living canvas of happiness and nostalgia.
The former soldier, now an artist, worked relentlessly with his brushes and paint, pouring life into the forgotten village. Day after day, the old man toiled, transforming the crumbling remains into vibrant works of art, breathing colour and joy into spaces once left to fade away.
Not long after, a group of students from nearby Ling Tung University stumbled upon the elderly artist, tirelessly painting in the nearly abandoned village. With his brush in hand, Huang was determined to remain in his home, fighting off the bulldozers threatening to erase whatever was left of his village.
Moved by his dedication, the students snapped photos of his vibrant work and quickly rallied support. They launched a fundraising campaign to buy more paint for the former soldier and started a petition to save the village from demolition.
In just a few months, Taichung's mayor was flooded with 80,000 emails from passionate citizens, all urging him to save the village. Against all odds, their voices were heard.
In October 2010, the mayor officially declared that the remaining 11 buildings in Rainbow Village, along with the streets and surrounding areas, would be preserved as a public park. What once seemed destined for demolition was now a vibrant symbol of hope and community.
Nicknamed "Grandpa Rainbow", Huang's fame flourished as his village became a cherished destination for visitors. Even in his later years, visitors could still find him with a paintbrush in hand, bringing vibrant colours to the walls of his beloved village.
Huang's whimsical, childlike art has captured the hearts of many. Yet as Grandpa Rainbow grew frailer, the fate of his beloved Rainbow Village once again hung in the balance.
On Jan 23 this year, after a long battle with illness, the lone artist who brought life and colour to Taichung's Rainbow Village passed away at the age of 101. His death marked the end of an era, leaving behind not only a legacy of art, but also the question of what will become of the village he so lovingly transformed.
TIDES OF TIME
As Lola and I, along with our videographer Shahrul Redzuan Zulkifli, quietly stroll through this once-vibrant enclave, it's painfully clear that time has not been kind to Huang's little haven.
The once-brilliant colours of his artwork have faded, weathered by years of exposure. Meanwhile, many of the walls that once showcased his joyful, childlike creations are now covered with newer, uninspired drawings that lack the same heart and soul.
The village feels different, emptier, as though the spirit of Grandpa Rainbow is slowly being erased, leaving behind a shell of what was once a vivid celebration of life and memory.
At the heart of the village, a masked man dressed in brightly coloured garb sits on a worn wooden bench, strumming a slow, melancholic tune on his guitar. His music drifts through the air, a haunting melody that feels at odds with his cheerful attire.
Next to him, a message wall stands tall, weathered but central, its wireframe surface filled with faded notes, scribbled messages and fragments of long-forgotten thoughts pinned by visitors over the years.
The wall seems to be the village's last voice, a quiet testament to lives once lived and moments once shared, silently echoing the memories of those who passed through, leaving behind a trace of their presence in a place that now feels forgotten.
We wander further, hoping to find Huang's home or the small museum said to honour his life, but no signs lead the way. The village offers no guidance, no answers. But on some walls, it's easy to recognise Huang's famed artwork. The inimitable childlike art can be seen (on some walls) and painted over some doors.
"This is his work, I think…" I point to a door where one of his signature murals stretches across the surface. We pause, imagining the artist, brush in hand, painstakingly bringing life to these walls with each stroke.
For a moment, it feels like we can sense his presence, as if he's left an indelible part of himself here. We write a little note: "Thank you, Grandpa Rainbow" and pin it on the wireframe wall.
Still, we hear the occasional laughter and gasps of delight as visitors take in the wild colours splashed across the village. Even in its quiet abandonment, Rainbow Village bursts to life in these small moments, offering a reprieve from the otherwise colourless cityscape beyond its borders. It stands out like a defiant piece of art, unapologetically vibrant in a world that has largely moved on.
We leave this little haven with a sense of quiet regret. There isn't much left to see now that Huang is just a memory, but the charm of this place lingers. You can't find anything quite like it anywhere else, and for that, we have Grandpa Rainbow to thank.
Even long after we return home to Malaysia, thoughts of this place and the man behind it remain with us, a lasting impression of Huang's immutable legacy.
Somewhere in that little village of colours, our little note flutters in the wind.