Perhaps because of long-held stereotypes regarding the Chinese and communism, there has long been, at least at a superficial level, a portrayal in the West of China as a land of totalitarian control, a place of mass mobilization in which the countless masses march in step to the glory of Party and Country. Regardless of how accurate or inaccurate this characterization might have been in the past, it often lives on into the present-day "China Rising" paradigm. The country's growing military might is visualized through the impeccable marching of soldiers in Tiananmen square, while its powers of production are displayed by countless, identically uniformed migrant workers assembling electronics at a countless number of identical workstations.
Certainly, these images are drawn from reality, usually to be found in the export powerhouses of the southeastern coastal provinces. This China is as real and relevant as any other, with its neat rows of high-rise blocks in instant new towns, with its mind-boggling infrastructure projects and highway networks. It is the China that, through determination and planning, has harnessed the material wealth of urban capitalism to serve the regimentation and control of socialism. It is the rising power that keeps Western politicians awake at night. It is the China of shimmering financial skylines and world dominance.
In April 2005, however, I found myself in a place quite far removed
from that particular Chinese world. In the outskirts of Zibo, a
mid-sized provincial city in central Shandong province, I explored a
very different face of the country's industrialization. Zibo, like many
other cities in the country, covers a huge geographical area, enough to
claim a decent swath of central Shandong. And also like many other
cities in the country, it is in this vast space that the boundaries
between urban and rural are increasingly blurred and ill-defined, lost
in a swirl of cranes, peasants and pollution.
Using rapid urbanization as the weapon of choice, Chinese cities have
been quite busy sprawling headfirst into their surroundings, barreling
into and over older settlements, agricultural land and a decaying
state-owned industrial infrastructure. The result of all this unchecked
expansion is that in many areas, between the over-planned high-rise
'modernity' of the city centres and the isolated poverty of the rural
hamlets, stretches a landscape that is industrial yet poor, urbanizing
yet still somehow remote.
The area I found myself in was certainly not one of idyllic pastures. It was the domain of dusty roads and expansive scrapyards, of roadside stalls and fume-belching trucks. It was a land of haphazard white-tile sheds andelectric folding gates . Unlike its more centralized and superficially prosperous urban neighbour, this space was one of grit, faded signs, smokestacks and twisted metal. And more so than its purely agricultural counterpart, it bore the deep scars of China's concerted assault on its own environment.
Unlike Masterplan China, the subject of so much awe, fear, envy and greed, this place was a chaotic, ill-planned affair. Perhaps this is the inevitable outcome of lax controls, systemic corruption and the astounding entrepreneurship unleashed by the country's economic reforms. Sure, the 'state' is heavily involved at some level in the growth of this peri-urban industrial world, whether through ownership or local official activity. And yet this was a world away from the showcase development zones and post-modern towers of Beijing and Shanghai, and perhaps closer to scenes from the Industrial Revolution grafted onto a dense Chinese rural society. It was urban yet not 'modern' in the stereotypical sense of the term; firmly industrialized but completely out of control. And through it all, there were certainly still farmers quietly tending to their fields.
Through the hospitality of an old acquaintance, I was afforded the chance to tour one of the factories in this area. After a bumpy drive through the dusty blend of melancholic villages and decaying industry so common in the outskirts of northern Chinese cities, we arrived at our destination. It was a small-scale manufacturer of replacement car parts destined for the North American market. Here, in the generic anonymity of the country's hinterland (although Shandong is on the coast, most of it certainly is hinterland), China's adventures in global production continued unabated.
This factory was a far cry from the high-tech export complexes so popularized in glossy news magazines. It was certainly low-tech, perhaps even antiquated by certain standards. The labour was decidedly manual, with shovels and wheel barrels responsible for much of the dirty work. Far from being rigidly regimented, this workspace was haphazard, cluttered and scattered randomly across a few cavernous workshops. The air was thick with metallic dust, enough so that after only a few minutes I worried in vain for the workers' lungs.
The scene was one from an aged propaganda poster pushing for industrial production, albeit without the smiles and socialist optimism. If I was to guess, I would certainly place the age of the installation at several decades: it exuded a retro-Chinese industrial aura, complete with workers in old army jackets and blue 'Mao' coats. Of course, my guess is probably completely off the mark- in China, the combination of the speed of development and poor construction quality ages buildings to the point where something a mere few years old becomes a decaying relic of an age gone by. It's quite possible that this ode to the glory years of socialist industry was built in the 1990s.
Regardless, the surreal moment arrived when I was shown the finished product, neatly packaged in stylish boxes bearing the bilingual wording required by its destination: Canada. Here I was, faced with the marketing style and consumer demands of my home country amidst this scene of hard labour, grime and scrap metal. The car parts were packed into nice, blue boxes complete with logos and images, all piled neatly and wrapped to shipping palettes. I can not easily imagine the final end user across the ocean conceptualizing the environment in which these were produced. Similarly, I can not easily imagine them even caring. With all the hype about globalization bringing us all together, these little boxes were the sole link between what are, quite literally, two different realities.
In this peri-urban industrial landscape of Shandong, the relics of socialist industrialization efforts are being harnessed to serve a new master: the unquenchable consumer thirst of far-off peoples. It is a place in which globalization, which I suspect means nothing at all, is to be found in haphazard, low-tech workshops; in unplanned industrialization; in bastardized rural lands. It is a place where the imperatives of production and profit overpower the need for order, coherence or planning. Far from the showcase boulevards of China's urban cores, this is where, in my opinion, the country's raw capitalism is more purely exposed. As much as China's industrial urbanization can be understood as a deliberate, top-down affair, it is places like this factory that remind me that the country's drive for development is also most equally from the bottom up, let loose and out of control.
Patrick Bennett , in his travels, often prefers fascinating over beautiful.
Patrick,
What a great post! My wife finds my fascination with visiting decaying industrial sites a little--shall we say--odd, so I'm pleased to see that I'm not the only one.
Posted by: Justin | October 17, 2008 at 04:27 PM