The Japanese colonial administration built Zhengbin Fishing Port in 1934, and for a period it held the distinction of being the largest fishing port in Taiwan. Its location in Zhongzheng District, at the southern edge of Keelung Harbor, gave it access to the fishing grounds of the East China Sea and the Pacific approaches to the north. But Zhengbin's significance was not only about fish. During the colonial period, the port also served as a main export terminal for copper extracted from the Jinguashi mine — the substantial gold and copper operation in the mountains behind the northeastern coast. Ore and concentrate moved through Zhengbin on their way to Japan, making the port both a fishing hub and an industrial artery for one of the most productive mining operations in Taiwan's colonial economy.

The Jinguashi mine's copper exports are long gone; the mine itself closed decades ago and is now a museum. Taiwan's fishing fleet has contracted and redistributed to other ports. Zhengbin no longer holds any records. What this means in practice is that the port moves at a different pace than it once did — slower, more measured, the activity of a working harbor that has found its appropriate scale rather than straining for the one it used to hold. Fishing boats still tie up here. The predawn hours of market days still bring the trade that fishing ports live on. But the overwhelm of the colonial-era peak has passed, and what remains is something easier to inhabit: a corner of Keelung where the water is close and the city does not press in quite as hard.

The row of 16 multi-colored houses on the harbor bank has become the port's defining visual. Painted in a sequence of bold, distinct colors — each house its own hue, the effect read as a spectrum when seen from across the water — they have become one of the most photographed spots in Keelung and a reliable draw for visitors who might not have sought out a working fishing port otherwise. The transformation from industrial harbor to Instagram landmark is not unique to Zhengbin; colorful painted waterfront rows have performed similar work at ports in other countries. What makes Zhengbin's version feel genuine rather than manufactured is its setting within an actual port: the painted houses stand alongside real fishing infrastructure, real boats, real work. The color is decoration, but the context is not.

Five minutes on foot from the harbor brings visitors to the Keelung City Indigenous Cultural Hall, which documents the history and culture of the indigenous peoples of the Keelung area. The proximity is not accidental — Zhongzheng District has a layered history that includes its pre-colonial inhabitants alongside the Japanese and Chinese stories more prominently told. The port sits within a district that also contains Zhongzheng Park and its artillery emplacements, Ershawan Fort, and other reminders that Keelung's position on the north coast of Taiwan made it a strategic point worth fortifying across multiple eras. Zhengbin, with its fishing boats and painted houses, is the quietest layer of that history — the layer where people worked the sea rather than defended it.

The best time to see Zhengbin is early, before the tour groups and the photographers take up their positions. In the morning, the light comes off the water flat and bright, and the painted houses are most vivid when the harbor is still in the hour before the city fully wakes. Fishing boats are already returning from the night's work; the market on the quayside is the place where the night's catch becomes that morning's transaction. By mid-morning the recreational visitors have arrived, and the port shifts registers — from working harbor to scenic destination, without being entirely one or the other. This dual identity is Zhengbin's particular quality: it has not been converted into a theme park version of itself. The fishing remains. The color is real. Both things coexist on the same waterfront, in the same morning light.