morning, I noticed that the natural foggy, damp climate in Sichuan combined with the smoke from the hundreds of factories in the hills around the
city to create spectacular colours at sunrise. But by mid-morning, the air was almost opaque and the taste of diesel fumes was never out of my mouth.
Hemmed in by the two rivers, until recently Chongqing only had two bridges strung high across the waters. The traffic congestion at these bottlenecks was quite unbelievable. On bad days, it
could take three hours to drive a couple of miles across the city; it was much quicker to walk. In the late 1990s a third bridge was built but it collapsed shortly after it was opened, sending
forty people down to a watery death. Several officials were arrested and at least one was executed afterwards. It was one of China’s recurrent corruption cases, which all seem so drearily
familiar; another contractor using sub-standard materials to save money and officials turning a blind eye in return for bribes. We soon set into a routine that spring, travelling hundreds of miles
a day in our small bus, marvelling at the scale of the countryside around us. Sichuan is a vast and fertile province and, towards the west, it rises up into the foothills of Tibet. It was a
towering landscape and many of the factories that we visited were tucked away in narrow gullies near the mountain passes, hidden from the densely populated valleys far below. As the bus laboured up
the hillsides, I rested my head against the window and stared down over countless steps of rice terracing down to the valley floors. I could see a distant coloured patchwork of fields far below:
squares of bright yellow rape set amongst the emerald shades of the first shoots of rice. Higher up, in among the withered trees and the damp mists, there were little groups of houses made from
rammed earth and with stooping eaves and thatched fences at the front. Groups of scruffy schoolchildren ran out and chased after the bus, shouting as we passed through the tiny villages. Back down
in the valleys, the narrow roads and stone bridges were often blocked by great jostling flocks of ducks running towards the streams while all around, visible only in the distance, the peasants
toiled in the fields, squelching barefoot in the thick fertile mud.
In the following weeks, we visited about twenty factories in Sichuan alone. It was exhausting work. Every day we rose at six, complained that there was no hot water, went down to a breakfast of
fried dough sticks and hot water-buffalo milk and were on our way by seven. Then it was three or four hours on the bus to the next factory where Pat would go through the pitch, with Ai translating.
We’d do a quick tour of the factory, interview the management and then pause for lunch. Unfortunately, we were often the first foreigners ever to have visited the factory so it was
‘party time’ for the locals. Lunches normally involved fifteen or more courses and at least a crate of beer. Then it was back on the bus – with a thick head – for another
three hours and the next factory tour. The evenings normally ended at one or two in the morning in the upstairs room of some awful karaoke bar with cracked mirrors and faded Christmas tree
decorations sellotaped to the walls. I often had a splitting headache and a sore throat from the clouds of cigarette smoke. And all that with nothing else to look forward to except the alarm at six
and no hot water in the next hotel.
Most of the factories that we saw were vast, more like towns than manufacturing plants, with populations of many thousands hidden behind high walls and gateways with their own hospitals,
kindergartens, cinemas and shops. The size of these facilities was startling enough, but it was the choice of location that struck me most. The factories were in the most incredibly remote
locations, far from the cities, out at the edge of the world, hidden right up in the highest mountain passes. Several times
city to create spectacular colours at sunrise. But by mid-morning, the air was almost opaque and the taste of diesel fumes was never out of my mouth.
Hemmed in by the two rivers, until recently Chongqing only had two bridges strung high across the waters. The traffic congestion at these bottlenecks was quite unbelievable. On bad days, it
could take three hours to drive a couple of miles across the city; it was much quicker to walk. In the late 1990s a third bridge was built but it collapsed shortly after it was opened, sending
forty people down to a watery death. Several officials were arrested and at least one was executed afterwards. It was one of China’s recurrent corruption cases, which all seem so drearily
familiar; another contractor using sub-standard materials to save money and officials turning a blind eye in return for bribes. We soon set into a routine that spring, travelling hundreds of miles
a day in our small bus, marvelling at the scale of the countryside around us. Sichuan is a vast and fertile province and, towards the west, it rises up into the foothills of Tibet. It was a
towering landscape and many of the factories that we visited were tucked away in narrow gullies near the mountain passes, hidden from the densely populated valleys far below. As the bus laboured up
the hillsides, I rested my head against the window and stared down over countless steps of rice terracing down to the valley floors. I could see a distant coloured patchwork of fields far below:
squares of bright yellow rape set amongst the emerald shades of the first shoots of rice. Higher up, in among the withered trees and the damp mists, there were little groups of houses made from
rammed earth and with stooping eaves and thatched fences at the front. Groups of scruffy schoolchildren ran out and chased after the bus, shouting as we passed through the tiny villages. Back down
in the valleys, the narrow roads and stone bridges were often blocked by great jostling flocks of ducks running towards the streams while all around, visible only in the distance, the peasants
toiled in the fields, squelching barefoot in the thick fertile mud.
In the following weeks, we visited about twenty factories in Sichuan alone. It was exhausting work. Every day we rose at six, complained that there was no hot water, went down to a breakfast of
fried dough sticks and hot water-buffalo milk and were on our way by seven. Then it was three or four hours on the bus to the next factory where Pat would go through the pitch, with Ai translating.
We’d do a quick tour of the factory, interview the management and then pause for lunch. Unfortunately, we were often the first foreigners ever to have visited the factory so it was
‘party time’ for the locals. Lunches normally involved fifteen or more courses and at least a crate of beer. Then it was back on the bus – with a thick head – for another
three hours and the next factory tour. The evenings normally ended at one or two in the morning in the upstairs room of some awful karaoke bar with cracked mirrors and faded Christmas tree
decorations sellotaped to the walls. I often had a splitting headache and a sore throat from the clouds of cigarette smoke. And all that with nothing else to look forward to except the alarm at six
and no hot water in the next hotel.
Most of the factories that we saw were vast, more like towns than manufacturing plants, with populations of many thousands hidden behind high walls and gateways with their own hospitals,
kindergartens, cinemas and shops. The size of these facilities was startling enough, but it was the choice of location that struck me most. The factories were in the most incredibly remote
locations, far from the cities, out at the edge of the world, hidden right up in the highest mountain passes. Several times
Similar Books
