Hong, by contrast, was ignored. Unlike Malthus, he never developed his thoughts systematically, in part because he devoted his energy to criticizing the corrupt officials whom he believed were looting the Qing state. Appalled at the government’s brutal, incompetent reaction to a rebellion by starving peasants in Sichuan and Shaanxi, Hong quit his job in 1799. On his way out, he shot off a rambling but remarkably blunt letter to the crown prince, who passed it to the Jiaqing emperor (not to be confused with the alchemy-crazed Jiajing emperor, who ruled two centuries before). The angered emperor sentenced Hong to life in exile, silencing him.
The lack of recognition was unmerited; Hong apparently captured the workings of the Malthusian trap better than Malthus. (I use the hedge word “apparently” because he never worked out the details.) The Englishman’s theory made a simple prediction: more food would lead to more mouths would lead to more misery. In fact, though, the world’s farmers have more than kept pace. Between 1961 and 2007 humankind’s numbers doubled, roughly speaking, while global harvests of wheat, rice, and maize tripled. As population has soared, in fact, the percentage of chronically malnourished has fallen—contrary to Malthus’s prediction. Hunger still exists, to be sure, but the chance that any given child will be malnourished has steadily, hearteningly declined. Hong, by contrast, pointed to a related but more complex prospect. The continual need to increase yields, Hong presciently suggested, would lead to an ecological catastrophe, which would cause social dysfunction—and with it massive human suffering.
Exactly this process is what researchers today mean when they talk about the Malthusian trap. Indeed, one way to summarize today’s environmental disputes is to say that almost all boil down to the question of whether humankind will continue to accumulate wealth and knowledge, as has been the case since the Industrial Revolution, or whether the environmental impacts of that accumulation—soil degradation, loss of biodiversity, consumption of groundwater supplies, climate change—will snap shut the jaws of the Malthusian trap, returning the earth to pre-industrial wretchedness. Alarming in this context, China provides an example of the latter, at least in part. In the decades after American crops swept into the highlands, the richest society in the world was convulsed by a struggle with its own environment—a struggle it decisively lost.
“THE MOUNTAINS REVEAL THEIR STONES”
Between the 1680s, when the Qing resumed the silver trade, and the 1780s, the price of rice in Suzhou, a rice-trading center near modern Shanghai, more than quadrupled. Incomes did not keep up—a recipe for social unrest. As if on cue, rebellions exploded across China; the convulsion that dismayed Hong is alone said to have led to several million deaths. Part of the reason for the price hike was the influx of silver to Fujian, according to Quan Hansheng, the economic historian, which drove up Chinese food prices in exactly the same way that the influx of silver to Spain had earlier driven up European prices. The population boom presumably increased demand, putting further pressure on the price. State purchases for granaries sometimes had the same effect. But a big reason for the price rise was that many farmers simply stopped growing rice.
Qing emperors had made a priority of improving transportation networks so that farmers could sell crops profitably. The intent was to facilitate the movement of staple foods; the new roads would help merchants ship rice and wheat from places with abundant harvests to places that needed supplies. Instead smallholders discovered they could make more money by switching from rice and wheat to sugarcane, peanuts, mulberry trees, and, most of all, tobacco.
Initially the Qing court cracked down on this shift, insisting that peasant farmers practice “correct agriculture”—that is, grow rice and wheat. “Tobacco is not healthy for the people,” the Yongzheng emperor proclaimed in 1727. “Because cultivating tobacco requires using rich land, its cultivation is harmful for growing grain.” But as the court grew more insular and debased—seemingly the fate of all Chinese dynasties—it lost interest in enforcing agricultural correctness.
Farmers seized their opportunity. Tobacco required four to six times more fertilizer and twice as much labor as rice, but was more profitable; China’s growing battalions of nicotine addicts were willing to pay more for their pipes than their food. (Some were doubly addicted: they cut their tobacco with opium.) Tobacco appeared in almost every corner in China, according to Tao Weining, an agricultural historian in Guangdong. And it was a big presence in those places: in two typical hilly areas examined by Tao, “nearly half” of the total farmland was devoted to N. tabacum. In consequence, the local price of rice doubled, as did the price of most common vegetables and fruits. Farmers ended up spending their tobacco profits on food expensively imported from other parts of China. As in Virginia, tobacco drained the land. When farmers exhausted the soil from one former rice paddy, they went to the next. And when they ran out of rice paddies, they went into the hills.
The same phenomenon is still occurring today. When two friends and I visited the tulou houses in Fujian, we walked around the mountain hamlet of Yongding. Generations past, the villagers’ ancestors had hacked small, semicircular rice terraces out of the slopes, fertilizing the thin red earth with manure and night soil, then filling the paddies by diverting mountain streams. At the edge of the village a sign proclaimed that China Tobacco, a state monopoly, had contracted with Yongding’s farmers to convert their paddies to tobacco. The company had built a new road to facilitate harvest. From atop the terraces we looked down on horizontal arcs of splayed, fleshy green arrows: N. tabacum.
Even four centuries after its introduction tobacco remains so profitable in China that villagers still turn rice paddies into tobacco plots. These Fujianese farmers are drying tobacco in 2009. (Photo credit 5.5)
In Yongding, the villagers had replaced some of the lost rice with maize, shoving plants into the ground everywhere they could find a scrap of plausible land: roadside ditches, backyard plots, the walls of the gullies below the houses. Somebody had stuck maize seedlings into a pickup-sized heap of dirt and gravel left by a recent landslide. During the eighteenth century, the same kind of thing took place all over China. Jamming maize and sweet potatoes into every nook and crevice, shack people and migrants almost tripled the nation’s cultivated area between 1700 and 1850. To create the necessary farmland, they knocked down centuries-old forests. Bereft of tree cover, the slopes no longer retained rainwater. Soil nutrients washed down the hills. Eventually the depleted land would not support even maize and sweet potatoes. Farmers would clear more forest, and the cycle would begin anew.4
Some of the worst devastation was in the steep, crabbed hills of eastern central China, home of the shack people. Heavy, hammering rains, common in this area, constantly flush out minerals and organic matter. The weathered soil can’t hold water—“if it doesn’t rain for ten days,” one local writer said in 1607, “the soil becomes dry and scorched and cracks like the lines on a tortoise’s back.” The land was arable, in the sense that maize and sweet potatoes would grow in it. But harvesting them for more than a season or two was next to impossible without shoveling in generous amounts of lime or ashes to reduce acidity, manure to boost organic matter, and fertilizer to increase nitrogen and phosphorus. This had to be done every year, because rain kept leaching nutrients.
Shack people, one recalls, rented their farms from landowners in the valleys below. Renting for short, fixed periods, they had no incentive to fertilize, and little means to do it even should they have wanted to. Because the crop was new to their experience, they made beginners’ mistakes. Maize is planted in widely spaced rows, unlike wheat and millet, which is grown across solid blocks. Many farmers did not realize for a long time that maize therefore left more of the soil uncovered and hence exposed to rain. And some didn’t understand that planting the maize in rows straight up and down the hills, rather than across the slope, would channel that rain down the slope, increasing erosion.
Even if one fertilized the upland soil and minimized the impact of rain, upland def
orestation could still cause disaster below, according to Anne R. Osborne, a historian at Rider University, in New Jersey, whose studies of the shack people I am relying on for this account. “The narrowness of the valley plains and basins meant that human settlement and most food production were concentrated along the edges of the rivers,” Osborne explained. When the uplands were covered with vegetation, they released rainwater slowly; floods were rare. Replacing stands of trees on steep slopes with temporary plots of maize and sweet potatoes reduced the mountains’ water-storage capacity. Rainfall went down the hills in sheets, setting off floods. “Flood waters pouring out of the highlands met almost flat land on the neighboring basins and plains,” Osborne wrote. “Slowing suddenly, they dropped their loads of silt, in the river channels or over the farmers’ fields, destroying fertile fields and obstructing the channels for future drainage.”
Floods were especially problematic for rice farmers, even though their livelihood depended on flooding. Paddies require a continuous trickle of incoming water. If the flow is too weak, the water evaporates; if the flow is too fast, the paddy spills over its banks, carrying away nutrients and possibly the rice itself. Farmers used upstream dikes to hold back water until needed, controlling irrigation levels by adjusting gates. In a flood, the sudden gush of water could wipe out both the dikes and the paddies they fed, bringing down the whole system. Paradoxically, the deluges drowned the rice crop—and then, later, dried out the paddies because the dikes no longer held water for them. By cutting down the forests, the shack people were not only laying waste to the land around them, they were helping to devastate the agricultural infrastructure miles downstream. Because this was occurring in the lower Yangzi, the shack people were wrecking a chunk of the nation’s agricultural heartland.
Some locals wholly understood the problem. When the urban scholar Mei Zengliang paid a nostalgic visit in 1823 to the mountain town in which he had spent his childhood, he asked his former neighbors about the shack people. No ecologist today would have much to add to their response.
On uncleared mountains [the villagers told him], the soil is firm and the rocks hold fast; grass and trees are thick, years of rotting leaves cover the ground to depths of as much as 2 to 3 cun [three to four inches]. Whenever it rains, the rainwater runs off the trees and onto the rotten leaves, then into the soil and rocks, before seeping through cracks in the rocks to form streams. This water flows slowly, and as it flows downward the soil does not go with it.… Today [shack people] strip the mountains with blades and axes, and loosen their soil with shovels and hoes, so that before even one rainfall has finished, the sand and rocks wash down with the water, quickly flowing into ravines.
Erosion from the heights drowned the rice paddies in the lower Yangzi valleys, further driving up the price of rice, which encouraged more maize production in the heights, which drowned more rice in the valleys.
As shack people moved into the mountains, floods became ever more frequent. In the Song dynasty (960–1279 A.D.), major floods occurred somewhere in the empire at an average clip of about three every two years. Some farmers, many of them Hakka, illegally moved into the hills during the Ming dynasty (1368–1644), removing trees as they did. Predictably, the pace of deluges increased to almost two per year. The Qing (1644–1911) actively promoted moving peoples into mountain forests. As night follows day, the surge in migration led to a surge in deforestation; the flood rate more than tripled, to a little more than six major floods a year. Worse, the floods mostly targeted China’s agricultural centers. Poring through personal diaries, county gazetteers, provincial archives, and imperial disaster-relief records, the historian Li Xiangjun found that 16,384 floods had occurred during the Qing dynasty. The great majority were small. But 13,537 of them occurred in the rich farmlands in the lower Yangzi and Huang He. And the floods kept growing. Between 1841 and 1911, the Qing faced more than thirteen major floods a year—a Katrina every month, as one historian put it to me. “The government had constant disasters in the most populous parts of the realm,” he said. “The areas that were most important to feeding everyone. It was not good.”
In the 1970s a team of researchers at China’s central meteorological bureau pored through huge numbers of local records, looking for descriptions of rainfall and temperature in past centuries. As one might expect, the researchers found few scientific measurements, but many verbal accounts. When they encountered phrases like—to use their examples—“10 consecutive days of heavy summer rain caused rivers to overflow,” “spring and summer floods drowned countless people and animals,” “summer and fall floods washed away the seedlings of cereal crops,” “several days of heavy rains such that boats could travel over land,” and “massive winds and heavy rains inundated fields and houses,” the researchers concluded that the area had experienced a flood, and marked the map with a 1 in the corresponding area. Descriptions of severe drought were marked with a 5. They gave conditions in between 2, 3, or 4. Although the resultant maps were subjective, the overall course of events was clear. Flipping through the maps in the meteorological bureau book was like watching an animated movie of environmental collapse.
Overwhelmed by the detail on the maps, I decided to look at four rice centers on the lower Yangzi: the cities of Nanjing, Anqing, and Wuhan, and the upper Han River, an important northern tributary of the Yangzi. Between 1500 and 1550, these areas had sixteen number 1s: sixteen major floods. Between 1600 and 1650, they had eighteen—roughly the same number. Between 1700 and 1750, at the height of the colder, wetter Little Ice Age, there were twenty-seven. Then the Little Ice Age ended, the weather became drier, and there was less rain and snow. But the number of 1s in these parts of China’s agricultural core kept increasing. Between 1800 and 1850 these four places alone had thirty-two major floods. Some of the floods extended for hundreds of miles along the river, the 1’s inundating city after city, each digit standing for thousands of wrecked lives.
Officials in Zhejiang Province, dismayed by the mounting problems, announced in 1802 that the government would begin sending the despised shack people “back to their native places.” They also banned planting maize in the mountains. Almost nothing happened. The officials tried again in 1824, banning the species outright—Zhejiang was supposed to be a maize-free zone. Again nothing happened. The imperial government had a network of “censors” entrusted with rooting out incompetence and corruption. Zhejiang’s censors repeatedly asked Beijing to send troops to rip out maize. There was no response. In the kind of phenomenon that makes one despair of the human race’s ability to govern itself, the pace of land clearing actually accelerated in the first part of the nineteenth century.
Click here to view a larger image.
Zhejiang censor Wang Yuanfang couldn’t understand it. In the past, he knew, landlords hadn’t understood that renting their unused upland property would have disastrous consequences. “Now [in 1850] the waterways are filled with mud, the fields are buried under sand, the mountains reveal their stones and the officials and people know of the great disaster, but they do nothing to stop it. Why?” (Emphasis in original.)
In part, the failure was due to an inherent problem with mass illegal immigration. It is not easy to deport huge numbers of people—tearing them from homes and families built up over years—without mass suffering. Governments that seek popular support shrink from inflicting this kind of agony (unless the loss of support from one group is made up for by increased support from another). Logistically, there is also the problem of finding a destination for people who have left their original homes decades before. In the case of the shack people, Osborne argued, neither governmental queasiness nor confusion was the chief obstacle. The main problem was that the erosion represented a classic collective-action problem. A legal loophole ensured that rental income, unlike farm income, was tax free. Landowners with rentable property in the highlands thus had an easy source of untaxable income. The ensuing deforestation might ravage their own fields in the valleys, but the risks would
be spread across an entire region, whereas the landowners’ profits were theirs alone. Absorbing all of the gain and only a fraction of the pain, local business interests beat back every effort to rein in shack people.
In an environmentalists’ nightmare, the shortsighted pursuit of small-scale profit steered a course for long-range, large-scale disaster. Constant floods led to constant famine and constant unrest; repairing the damage sapped the resources of the state. American silver may have pushed the Ming over the edge; American crops certainly helped kick out the underpinnings of the tottering Qing dynasty.
Other factors played their part, to be sure. A rebellion led by a Hakka mystic tore apart the nation, briefly setting up a state of shack people in the Hakka hills of the southeast. A series of weak emperors allowed the bureaucracy to wallow in inanition and corruption. The empire lost two wars with Great Britain, forcing it to cede control of its borders. British forces freely disseminated the opium that the government had gone to war to exclude. And so on—catastrophe, like success, has many progenitors. Unknown to the rampaging European armies, though, their path had been smoothed by the Columbian Exchange.
UNLEARNING FROM DAZHAI
For two generations, one of the most celebrated places in China was Dazhai. A hamlet of a few hundred souls in the dry, knotted hills of north-central China, Dazhai was ravaged by floods in 1963. Standing in the wreckage with his signature sweat-absorbing towel around his head, the local Communist Party secretary refused aid from the state and instead promised that Dazhai would rebuild itself with its own resources—and create a newer, more productive village at the same time. Harvests soared, despite the flood and the area’s infertile soil.
Delighted by the increase, Mao Zedong bused thousands of local officials to the village and instructed them to emulate what they saw. Mainly, they saw spade-wielding peasants working in a fury to terrace the hills from top to bottom; rest breaks occurred while reading Mao’s Little Red Book of revolutionary proverbs. The atmosphere was cult-like: one group walked for two weeks to see the calluses on a Dazhai laborer’s hands. China needed to produce grain from every scrap of land, the officials learned. Slogans, ever present in Maoist China, explained how to do it:
1493: Uncovering the New World Columbus Created Page 23