by K.M. Morris
photos by Ian Hoke

Originally published in Chengdoo City Life Issue #10

The Qinglong Flyover

Look at any China guidebook or read any mainstream media article on China, and you’re likely to pick up on a theme: the destructive conflict between vaguely construed concepts “modern China” and “old China.” In these narratives, “modern China” is an aggressive, industrial behemoth, a hungry conglomeration of soulless concrete high-rises and clogged infrastructure that swallows up the quaint traditional architecture and narrow streets of “old China.” The tragic victims of this conflict are not just the unwitting and unwilling residents of these ancient communities but, also, the country itself, which (if the tone of these dire narratives is to be taken seriously) loses a bit of its cultural soul each time another community is razed.

Yet, while it would be wrong to say China is not rapidly changing, these changes are not necessarily defined by a conflict between “old” and “new.” Relics that are to us outsiders “traditionally Chinese” might have long ago become rare in the daily lives of most Chinese people. What China is losing in the face of rapid development are not just the beautiful things that have become its clichés, and the people who are losing their way of life are not just the people who live in neighborhoods that our minds so easily see as “classically Chinese.” Affecting a far greater number of people in China is the destruction of places and ways of life, sometimes ugly, and often unromantic, that have nevertheless defined the urban landscape of this country for decades.

***

Northeast of the North Train Station in Chengdu is the Qinglong Flyover, a massive, looming land bridge that stretches for nearly half a mile. Here, throngs of people weave in and out of the structure’s huge support columns as they go about their daily business, some, commuters on their way to work, others, shoppers on their way to one of the markets that borders on the bridge.

One of these, the eponymous Qinglong Market(“Green Dragon”), peels off from the bridge and stretches a few hundred meters north before it disappears off into small homes, farmland, and scattered construction. Far from the tourist heart of Chengdu and far from the city that most of us would recognize, this is a relatively small and yet sprawling place composed of unpretentious shops selling ordinary goods: butchers, vegetable stands, snacks sellers, small restaurants, teahouses, and the like.

In China these street markets, which often form in the narrow alleys between apartment complexes or next to major transportation routes, can provide a kind of health test for these older urban communities. As new development arrives and old buildings are torn down, business slows down and eventually dries up; the flow of people slows to a trickle, and, in time, the market either disappears or is itself torn down and replaced by new construction. Indeed, just like the people and neighborhoods around it, Qinglong Market is a place constantly being moved and removed, shifted and re-shifted.

Old Liang, a long-time resident of the area who we met in a small tea house, has been a frequenter of the market area for over 10 years. A retired factory worker, he spends his free time, every day, going to different teahouses in the area, chatting with friends and playing mahjong. Liang recalls that just five years ago, the entire market was located a mile or so south of its current location, but, in the wake of sweeping development, the community that supported it was uprooted. What is today’s market is but a temporary replacement of another one; the people have leased new property and built upon what was once farmland. They will stay here another year or so until the construction of their government-provided housing is completed, and they can finally move in to more permanent housing. And just in time, too–the temporary residences and market will also be demolished in about a year or so.

***

In the wake of development comes human movement. The construction that forced the market to move in the first place has gentrified the whole area south of the Qinglong Flyover, and as a result, more and more poor families are moving north, away from increasingly expensive housing south of the bridge. A year before its scheduled demolition, the Qinglong Market is enjoying a period of increased vitality.

A discarded doll at the north end of the market.

At the entrance of the market street, where it meets the throngs that pass beneath the flyover, some people are taking advantage of this influx of new residents. Mrs. Chen and her husband, fruit sellers, have started operating here because they see it as a stable place to conduct business. Originally from Zhongjiang, a small town on the outskirts of Chengdu, they moved to Chengdu so that their two children could have better educational opportunities. To do this, however, they defray huge monthly costs: 350 yuan a month for their two children’s education, 500 for food, 250 for rent, and 300 to rent her fruit stand. Though business at Qinglong is relatively good, these monthly expenses leave them nothing to save–they are betting everything on their children’s education.

To a certain extent, however, it seems that Chen is lucky. Since her business is only partially dependent on the location of the market (a significant portion of her earnings come from the commuters moving under the flyover), she may stay here for a while yet. Fruit vendors like her have the luxury of mobility. Shops do not. Teahouses–and their long-time patrons, who become as much a part of these places as the decor–do not. Liang and the people he know will all disperse to different parts of the city.

What is now Qinglong is nothing more than the temporary replacement of a much larger market. It has been constructed by people who have been dislocated from their homes, and, in a year or two, it too will face the wrecking ball.

But by then it may already be dead, its residents and customers having moved and dispersed to new government-provided housing throughout the city and the vendors who serve them moving on to find other areas newly bustling with activity. For Liang, at least, who has made this area of the city a part of his daily routine and knows just about everyone on the street, the disappearance of the market will mark a sad day indeed. This thriving corner of Chengdu, not beautiful enough to be put on postcards and sold to tourists, and not quaint enough to be mourned by those who have never lived here, is nevertheless the corner of Chengdu that he knows and loves–and in a year or less, it will be gone forever.

NOTE: In modern China, poor from the countryside face extraordinary discrimination in society; this discrimination is based largely on the fact that they are of the “peasant” class. Unfortunately “classism” and “class integration” are terms loaded with Marxist connotation. I am most certainly not a Marxist, nor a Marxist-Leninist, nor a Trotskyite, nor a Maoist, and I use these terms in the least politicized sense possible.

SPOILER WARNING–Below I give away a major (but totally predictable) plot point.

Mr. Zhou (played by Steven Chow) and his son have a gander at the little green alien dog thingy.

In one scene early in CJ7, Steven Chow’s character and his son. Zhou Xiaodi, are perusing a toy shop in downtown Ningbo. Dressed in near rags, faces covered in a thin layer of Chinese citygrime, this migrant worker and his son stand out in this upper class area like two stray dogs in a pack of pedigrees. Sales attendants eye them with leery glances. When the kid argues with his father about buying an expensive toy that all the other kids in school have (”Just buy it for me this one time” he begs, “then you never need to buy anything again”) his father resorts to spanking him, and the boy runs out of the store crying.

Thus is the promising beginning to Steven Chow’s new movie, which has been dubbed by many as “China’s ET” and which has been hugely successful in mainland theaters. Though migrant workers have been portrayed in many other smaller (usually banned) Chinese movies, it is rare for them to be propped up in lead roles in mainland blockbusters. Could this be that rare popular movie that transcends its normal limits and become serious social commentary?

At first it certainly seems possible. The father and son duo are squatters living in a dilapidated and half-destroyed concrete block; Mr. Zhou works overtime every night at dangerous construction projects so he can afford to send his son to a private school. For these two, eating rotten apples is a treat; flushing out and stomping on cockroaches is a pastime.

As one would expect, the other students at the private school don’t treat Zhou Xiaodi particularly well. The schoolyard “Boss” (an abusive CEO/mob boss in miniature) bullies him, his teacher won’t even let him touch him, and the other kids just generally take pleasure in laughing at him. Of the teachers at the school, only the angelic Miss Yuen (played by the . . .er . . . angelic Kitty Zhang Yuqi) is blind to his, and his father’s, poverty—in one scene she doesn’t even balk at shaking the extended hand of Mr. Zhou.

Leave it to a little green alien dog to mess things up. Mr. Zhou finds a green ball of weirdness in a junkyard while searching for something to replace the toy he couldn’t buy earlier; within a day it morphs into the eponymous “Chang Jiang 7 Hao” (CJ7) or 7Zai (7仔) as Zhou Xiaodi calls it. In just a short while we’re treated to a pointless, five minute long dream sequence replete with the requisite, unnecessary, and annoying stylized Kung Fu scenes. And, not surprisingly, once the Kung Fu enters the movie, the plot dissolves; issues that were building into a meaningful point of conflict fizzle away into nothing.

Zhou Xiaodi and Miss Yuen, played by Kitty Zhang Yuqi

Chengdoo Citylife

Other Consumers: Two Trash Collectors in Chengdu

by K.M. Morris

Outside an apartment complex on Chengdu’s northeast side, on a cold and wet October day, Lin* is struggling to work and talk at the same time. “I get up at 8 a.m. every day,” she says, sorting through a pile of junk and pulling out a piece of cardboard. “Then I work until about one or two in the afternoon. I do this every day. I don’t have weekends. I don’t take days off. The only time I ever take a break is when it’s raining.”

To her left is an old bicycle with a cart attached. She has placed her day’s worth of collections in the back—piles of cardboard and other papers stacked and tied neatly, dozens of bottles put together in neat little rows, and other assorted odds and ends. She has collected these by making a near-10-mile circuit that starts on Chengdu’s eastern side and takes her past UESTC, in the northeast, and then back down to where she lives, at Erxian Bridge, near Chengdu Ligong University.

In her mid 30s, with dark skin and a smile that always stays slightly askew, Lin is not shy about her profession, even though many might look down on it. To her, it’s just a way of life, and, more importantly, one that pays reasonably well. “A piece of cardboard,” she says, “is worth 3 mao for 1 jin; newspapers are 6 mao, and beer bottles 3 mao. On average, I can make about 30RMB a day, but if the business is really good I can bring in maybe 50RMB.” At 30RMB a day, she will make roughly 900RMB a month—enough to both meet her daily needs and still save.

by Brandon Yoder and K.M. Morris

Part 1 of 2

Chen Shui Bian, in that inflammatory way that he seems to have mastered over the past few years, will be jumping around the US and Central America over the next few weeks in a bid to cement ties with Taiwan’s allies. Also on the agenda? Promoting his latest work of international relations genius—an attempt to have Taiwan officially recognized by the United Nations, not as “The Republic of China,” but as “Taiwan.” If public opinion polls are to be trusted, 95% of Taiwanese support this endeavor.

Chen Shui Bian–Hoping to make Taiwan officially independent without officially declaring independence.

It will, of course, fail. China, with a permanent seat on the UN security council, will veto it, and the US has already promised to vote against it.

And yet, despite this lack of support from his country’s most important ally, Chen is continuing on with his plan, continuing to prod at both the China and the US, clearly trying to use whatever means possible to balance the scales to secure nominal independence for Taiwan in addition to its current de-facto independence.

Part 2 of 2

Back to Taiwan

The one exception to China’s non-coercive foreign policy is Taiwan. This is far from the unreasonable position that it is made out to be in the Western press, yet regardless of which side has the moral high ground (note: it’s not the US), China’s relatively uncompromising and confrontational attitude towards Taiwan, combined with sustained US commitment to its defense and the growing separatist sentiment on Taiwan itself, is, indeed, one situation that provides realists with a feasible mechanism by which the predictions of their theory could prove correct.

While it appears that the situation is precarious and that the slightest disruption of the status quo by any of the three actors involved would spark a conflict, this pathway breaks down when we consider the rational calculations that each country makes in formulating its foreign policy.