Country Driving

by Peter Hessler

  In Lishui, these strategies seemed to work, at least initially. During the middle of 2009, Director Wang Lijiong told me that he expected the city’s GDP to grow by at least 10 percent for the year. It was the same story across the country—Chinese exports were down by 20 percent, but the national economy was still growing at a rate of about 8 percent. China had traded overseas consumers for the ones at home; the sheer size of the nation made it possible. Even the car market did well, especially after the government reduced taxes on new vehicles. In the first quarter of 2009, for the first time ever, Chinese consumers bought more motor vehicles than people in the United States.

  During the heart of the economic crisis Luo Shouyun finally made the transition from Big Master to Boss. For a quarter century, nearly the entire span of the Reform period, he had worked for other people. Having started out as an illiterate assembly-line boy, he had bounced across the country, from city to city, factory to factory, rising at last to become a skilled technician. He had dealt with unreliable bosses and broken contracts, and he had manufactured so many bra rings that he dreamed of them at night. But in 2009 he left all of that behind. He started his own company, partnering with his nephew, and they set up operations in the southern city of Foshan. They recycled—they purchased trash from overseas and converted it into raw materials for Chinese factories. The company specialized in high-grade plastic, and they relied on Luo’s technical skills to set up the machinery. By the middle of the year they had a dozen employees, and Luo was making more money than he ever had with bra rings. His wife worked with him, and their son remained in Guizhou, living with relatives and attending nursery school.

  He laughed when I referred to him by the new name: Boss Luo. “We get trash from your country,” he said. They received regular shipments from the United States, Europe, and Australia, and most of it arrived in good condition; he could recognize refrigerators and televisions and even parts of cars. They separated the materials, processed the plastic, and sold it to Chinese manufacturers. “Some of them use it to make toys,” Boss Luo said. “But we also have a lot of customers who make refrigerators, televisions—the same things we get from the foreigners. It’s all the same stuff, basically.”

  IN ZHEJIANG, THE TAO sisters and Ren Jing left the bra ring factory not long after the move to the Wenzhou region. That turned out to be another aspect of Mr. Tao’s plan: he negotiated hard for a higher salary before the holiday, and then, once the bonus and the red envelopes were in hand, he pulled out the girls. All of them came back to Lishui, where together they found jobs in a factory that produced ashtrays. After Yufeng turned sixteen, and it was easier to find work at a big plant, they jumped to Huadu pleather, where they worked in quality control. They inspected the finished product, checking for defects, and with their approval the rolls of pleather were sent out to the great wide world.

  During my last visit, I stopped at the Taos’ one-room shack. Yufeng had just gotten off work, and she chattered happily about the job. “They pay overtime!” she said. “I make nine hundred a month, but with the extra hours it’s usually about fifteen hundred.” It was a high salary, about two hundred American dollars, which was more than double the earnings of an entry-level assembly-line worker. Yufeng told me proudly that the factory made pige, or pleather, of an unusually high quality: some of it was used for motorcycle seat covers and automobile interiors. “I like the boss,” she said. “If we get tired and fall asleep, he doesn’t get so angry. And if we work a really long day, he’ll buy us fruit or some snack like that. It’s fun.”

  She intended to stay at the pleather factory for another year or so, and then she’d use the family savings to go into business, probably with her father. They wanted to start a real shop—a place with a roof and doors, not just a stand in the street. “You can’t stay very long at a pige factory,” she said. “There’s poison, and it’s not good for you. It’s better where we are in quality control, but it’s still not healthy. You stay for one or two years and then it’s time to leave. If it weren’t for the poison it would be a great place to work.”

  Yufeng was about to turn seventeen. I had met her nearly two years earlier, when she applied for her first job with her sister’s ID. Back then she had pudgy, boyish features, and she clutched the bra rings like casino chips and sold the boss a line about experience. But over the last twenty months she had grown into her stories. Her baby fat was gone, and all at once she had become pretty—she had high cheekbones, a delicate chin, and well-styled hair. Her nails were manicured, a rarity among factory girls. The village was two years gone and a world away; she said nothing about her grandparents or her former classmates. All she wanted to talk about was tomorrow—new jobs, new plans, new lives, everything that seemed promised by the thrill of rushing time.

  ONE AFTERNOON I DROVE to the former site of the bra ring factory. On Suisong Road, the three-story building was still empty, although eventually Geley would probably expand into the space. They were in full swing, cranking out copper wiring and Jane Eyre light switches; a security guard told me that business was good. I asked if I could stop in the old factory space, and he said it wasn’t a problem. I walked past the stone lions, the folding security gate, and the American flag. The owner’s gold calligraphy still gleamed bright on the wall:

  THE TREMORS OF THE FUTURE

  ARE HAPPENING RIGHT BEFORE YOUR EYES

  Inside the factory, the first thing I noticed was all the rings. Nobody had bothered to clean the place since the move, and they were everywhere: black rings, red rings, bent rings, broken rings. In the room where Yufeng used to work, twisted underwire lay thick as straw. There were empty Double Deer beer bottles, crumpled packages of State Express 555 cigarettes, and used rolls of packing tape. A dead plant in a broken vase. A chess player’s pawn, an orphan chopstick. A tear-off calendar stuck on November 22. An empty diaper bag, a child’s shoe. On the first floor, where Old Tian once slept, a string of lottery numbers stained the plaster:

  95 1.3.17.20.21.24 + 16

  97 1.5.9.13.15.33 + 14

  97 11.14.15.20.26.27 + 12

  98 6.7.10.11.15.23 + 16

  99 7.12.18.23.24.27 + 5

  There was writing everywhere workers used to live. They had written in pen, in pencil, in paint; their self-help slogans crisscrossed dirty walls. I made my way through the former dormitory, past all the mottoes:

  FIND SUCCESS IMMEDIATELY

  PASS EVERY DAY HAPPILY!

  A NEW DAY BEGINS FROM RIGHT NOW!

  FACE THE FUTURE DIRECTLY

  A PERSON CAN BECOME SUCCESSFUL ANYWHERE;

  I SWEAR I WILL NOT RETURN HOME UNTIL I AM FAMOUS.

  A cool wind blew against the windows. The busy fall season had arrived, and most factories in the development zone were working hard. From outside I heard the rhythms of machinery—the rattle of glassmaking, the rumble of plastic molds, the whirr of wrapping wire. But there wasn’t a single human sound, and for half an hour I stood alone, reading the walls of the empty factory.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A DECADE AGO, WHEN I WAS LIVING IN COLUMBIA, MISSOURI, and finishing the first draft of River Town, I asked a neighbor if he’d take a look at the manuscript. I had heard about Doug Hunt’s skill as an editor, but I never imagined how much I would come to depend on him. Over the course of ten years, he gave advice on virtually everything I wrote from China, and this book, like the others, was much improved by his sharp eye and good judgment. I’m sure that Doug had no idea what he was getting into back in 1999. (Nor did he realize that this Stewart Road guanxi would also lead to his giving editorial counsel for Ian Johnson’s A Mosque in Munich and my wife, Leslie’s Factory Girls.) All I can say to Doug is thanks—for patience and generosity, and mostly for friendship.

  In Beijing a couple of close writer friends were willing to read an early draft of the book. Ian Johnson offered excellent advice, especially with regard to cutting. Michael Meyer helped me improve the book’s focus—and over all the years, from Sichuan to
Beijing, it’s been wonderful to share the journey with a fellow Peace Corps alum. Another former volunteer, Mike Goettig, accompanied me on a couple of rough stretches of the driving trip. At home in Beijing, Travis Klingberg was always willing to discuss projects (as well as give good advice on covers).

  I am deeply indebted to David Spindler’s research. I’ve never known anybody as meticulous and dedicated, and he completely changed my concept of the Great Wall. He also proofread a draft of this book, for which I’m grateful. As for the broken kneecap—it was worth it.

  I was fortunate to share my house in Sancha with Mimi Kuo-Deemer. In the early years it was a challenge to deal with local authorities, and I wouldn’t have been able to negotiate these issues without Mimi’s patience and good sense. And her friendship helped make Sancha such a joy. I’m also grateful for Mimi’s help in fact-checking that section of the manuscript, and thanks to her and Aaron Kuo-Deemer, we still have a house in the village—I look forward to sharing it over the years.

  When Wei Jia was ill, I depended heavily on three physicians in the United States: Ted Scott, Eileen Kavanagh, and Vincent P. Gurucharri. I also appreciated the help of Kathrine Meyers, who explained the complexities of blood testing in China. The expertise of these people was invaluable, but mostly I appreciated their generosity of spirit—despite busy schedules they responded quickly to all my questions. I wish that I could thank Dr. Gurucharri in person. But I would like his wife and daughters to know that even in the midst of his own battle with cancer, he took the time to think about a sick child in China.

  ALL THREE SECTIONS OF this book were connected, in various ways, to projects at The New Yorker or National Geographic. At The New Yorker, during the years in which I researched these stories, I was fortunate to work with three great editors—Nick Paumgarten, Dana Goodyear, and Amy Davidson. I’m grateful that David Remnick’s breadth of interest allowed me to write about such different subjects: village life, Chinese driving, Lishui artists, Chery automobiles, and the Great Wall of China.

  At National Geographic, I worked with the photographer Mike Yamashita on the Great Wall story, and his enthusiasm, energy, and flexibility helped make that project so enjoyable. It was also great to work with Elizabeth Krist, whose interest in China pushed these projects forward. My long driving trip across the north would not have happened without the early faith of Oliver Payne at National Geographic. Ollie took an interest in my writing before I had published much, and he allowed me to embark on a road trip with an open mind—no planned itineraries, no pre-arranged interviews, no promised themes. He encouraged the same kind of spontaneity in Zhejiang. For a researcher hoping to spend time with people and places, this kind of support is invaluable, and it’s hard to find in the current climate of journalism. Carolyn White at the magazine was also an early proponent of the Lishui project. And I’m deeply grateful for Chris Johns for devoting so much space to that story.

  Many of my magazine pieces were illustrated with the distinctive photographs of Mark Leong. I’m especially glad that we shared the Lishui project—in addition to his ability with a camera, Mark is both observant and thoughtful, and he enriched my understanding of that corner of Zhejiang.

  Without Helen Chang’s help, I wouldn’t have understood the classical Chinese of the old Sancha land contracts. Rania Ho provided maps of Beijing cloverleaf exchanges. Michael Dunne, managing director of the China office at J. D. Power and Associates, answered countless questions about the Chinese auto industry. Jiang Hong, now at the University of Hawaii, generously suggested people to meet in Wushenqi, Inner Mongolia. Dou Changlu at The Wall Street Journal gave me early driving tips, and Lily Song helped me keep various registrations current. I first became interested in Zhejiang because of former students who had migrated there, and they helped me in different ways: William Jefferson Foster did fact-checking in the province, and Shirley Zhao vouched for me at the Wenzhou Prosperous Automobile Rental Company. Cui Rong at The Wall Street Journal found background material on the factory towns. For fact-checking, I depended heavily on Kersten Zhang—I much appreciate her willingness to work overtime.

  Many thanks to Angela Hessler, who in the course of her own empire building—the Rome of Cesare and Adriano—took time off to draw beautiful maps of the People’s Republic. Birgitta gave good advice on covers, and throughout the years I benefited from the support of all the Hesslers and Gundys and Nybecks.

  Over the course of three books at HarperCollins, I’ve had one editor, Tim Duggan. As a writer working from far away, it’s helped enormously to have such stability and support. Jane Beirn has been a wonderful publicist, and Allison Lorentzen did a great job coordinating the various (and endless) edits of this book. And I’ll always be grateful to my agent William Clark for reading an unsolicited manuscript back in 1999, and for taking such good care of everything that followed.

  IT’S NOT EASY TO leave China after a decade. And it’s especially hard to take a project on the road, which is how it had to happen—two displaced people, each of us with a book researched, driving around southwestern Colorado and looking for a place to write. But we found it and we survived; for whatever it’s worth, two China books took shape atop Log Hill Mesa. It was inspiring to watch Factory Girls come to life, right in the next room; and it was just as inspiring to share these projects in China, discussing what we each learned on various research trips down to the south. For Leslie—with respect for the work, and joy in the writing.

  I’m most deeply indebted to the people I wrote about in China. I have no way of thanking the folks I met on the road, the hitchers and the migrants and the generous villagers; but I hope this book captures some of their spirit. I suppose that renting a car in Beijing would have been an adventure regardless, but it wouldn’t have been such a pleasure without Mr. Wang at Capital Motors. In Lishui, I was fortunate to meet Gao Xiaomeng and Wang Aiguo, and I appreciated their openness at the factory. The Tao family was always willing to spend time together, and most of all I’m grateful to Luo Shouyun for his friendship and hard-earned expertise. In Sancha I was blessed to know Wei Ziqi, Cao Chunmei, Wei Jia, and Wei Zonglou. Thank you for sharing your home; thank you for sharing your table; thank you for opening your hearts. Because of your kindness Sancha will always feel like home.

  September 2009

  Ridgway, Colorado

  SOURCES

  MOST OF COUNTRY DRIVING WAS RESEARCHED THROUGH personal observation, but in some sections I also relied on published sources and interviews with experts. I have not included footnotes, because most readers find them distracting in a work of narrative non-fiction (and most readers will be happy to ignore this section). But I want to make my sources clear for anybody who is conducting research of his own. I’ve organized references in order of appearance, listed by page number.

  This is a work of nonfiction, and I’ve tried to be as accurate as possible. I haven’t deliberately changed events, details, or chronology; any errors are accidental. I used real names throughout the book, with the exception of Wei Jia’s elementary school classmates; the names of those children were changed.

  This book was researched from 2001 to 2009, and during this time some important figures changed significantly. China’s total number of migrants, as estimated by the National Bureau of Statistics, grew from 89.61 million in 2001 to 132.12 million in 2006. Today most experts believe the figure to be over 140 million. But these statistics should be considered rough estimates, given the difficulty of tracking and even defining migrants.

  Currency exchange rates also changed during this eight-year period, so I have not used a flat rate for dollar conversions throughout this book. Instead I calculated them according to the exchange rate at the time of the reference.

  BOOK I: THE WALL

  Part I

  almost a thousand new drivers: According to China’s National Bureau of Statistics, the number of registered automobile drivers in Beijing increased by 300,000 in 2001.

  223. If you come to a road: Chine
se driving laws are national, and they are listed in the “Zhonghua Renmin Gongheguo Jiaotong Anquan Fa” [“The People’s Republic of China Traffic Safety Laws”]. Driving examinations are similar from place to place, but there are slight regional variations. I researched training methods and testing in the city of Lishui, in Zhejiang Province. The Lishui Public Safety Traffic Bureau provided me with a copy of their official study booklet, which lists questions that appear on the exam. The study booklet is entitled “Lishui Shi Qiche Jiashiren: Like Peixun Fuxi Ziliao” [“Lishui City Automobile Drivers: Scientific Training Review Materials”]. All quoted exam questions come from this study booklet.