When he heard that Zhenshuan still worked as a petty laborer, the commander got irritated, "Zhenshuan, oh Zhenshuan. You worked in the unit for five years when you were a kid, and you've been a driver. You're smart. You work hard. Why are you still working for someone else? Can't you get your own team together?"
Zhenshuan had a sudden realization. Yes, of course, back home there are a lot of people who can do construction work; why didn't it occur to me before? Zhenshuan went home, got his older brother Zhenhu and a dozen other brick-layers and carpenters, and returned to the unit with his team. From then on, the two brothers became labor contractors.
In the first year, their team had a dozen people; in the second year, over fifty people; and in the third year, as many as a hundred people. They went from the battalion to the regiment, and from the regiment to the army headquarters. One advantage of working for the army was that there were no late wage payments, and no need to give rake-off s. After 1990, the Li brothers expanded their working domain to include civilian projects. First the team built a hotel and a garage for the Yongfeng Township government of Haidian District in Beijing. Later, they were affiliated to the township construction company and eventually became its subsidiary.
Zhenshuan told me that 80% of the workers, of which there were now over a hundred in number, were from his own village, while the rest were from neighboring villages. Out there people called them "The Li Family Army." Indeed, most of the new houses in the village over the past few years were built by Zhenshuan's team.
"Why didn't you keep working?" I asked.
"I got diabetes in 2003 and couldn't work any more. What's more, the construction business is becoming more and more competitive. Over the past few years, we workers of the first generation who were the first to leave, have now almost all come back home."
One of Zhenshuan's sons is now working in Beijing. When I asked him about it, he said, "Young people today think differently from us. Back then, as soon as we'd made some money, we wanted to go home, but now young people want to stay in the cities whether they have money or not. What did the newspaper say the other day… 'The older generation compares itself to country folk, while the new generation compares itself to the city people.' How can you compare with the city people?"
"Why do you say that?" I asked.
Zhenshuan said, "Well, isn't it obvious? Think of the cost of residence permits and health care, not to mention the astronomical house prices in Beijing. With things as they are now, a year's work won't even buy you a toilet."
Zhao Zhenru interrupted, "House prices in Beijing are unbelievable. I wonder who's buying those houses. How can anyone afford a house on a working wage?"
Zhenshuan said to me, "I heard you're here to find out about the new generation of migrant workers; well I'm glad, after all, someone needs to take notice. When I was young, no matter how busy we were with work, we still got to go home during the Dragon Boat Festival and Mid-autumn Festival to help with the harvest. What about young people today? Once they get to the cities, they don't want to come back. Seriously, I'm worried about it: if things continue this way, who's going to do the farming? You can't hire city people to do farming, can you? If no one does farming, what'll we eat?"
Zhenshuan's questions had us all stumped…
We had lunch at Zhenru's house. There was a large bowl of boiled mutton, a plate of boiled sheep's entrails and several cold dishes waiting for us. I recoiled at the sight: I come from Wenzhou, where people don't eat mutton. Once when I went to Inner Mongolia for an interview, our host roasted a whole lamb for us. After a good few glasses of wine, the host cut a piece of meat from the lamb's tail, put it on my plate and said, "Distinguished guest from Beijing, try this, and may you lead a most peaceful and happy life!" I stared at the piece of fatty tail meat for a long while as I tried to persuade myself to eat it. My companion, the secretary of the county's Communist Youth League Committee, then whispered to me, "It is local etiquette to offer the lamb's tail to the most distinguished guest. If you don't make a move, none of the others can start eating." Looking at the faces beaming at me from around the table, I realized I couldn't muster up the courage to say no. So, gritting my teeth, I swallowed the tail meat whole without even chewing. I still consider this a great personal accomplishment.
Luckily, Zhenru's wife also served sliced potatoes and beans. "Potatoes and beans from the countryside are so much better than the ones you get in the cities!" I said.
Zhenru said, "Of course! We never use any fertilizer on our vegetables. Have some more if you like them."
I supposed that my aversion to lamb was just like the Northwesterners' aversion to seafood. The difference in diet between North and South is a natural characteristic of Chinese cuisine.
A country banquet also couldn't do without wine. But, when everyone toasted me, I hurried to say, "I have an interview this afternoon, so I'll pass. Enjoy yourselves!" Luckily they didn't insist.
During lunch, myself and the six others attending drank two bottles of white wine and six bottles of beer. The meat and wine alone must have cost about 200 yuan. I knew that the county wouldn't foot the bill; neither could the village chief. So the money must have come out of the village's expenses.
Red-faced and groggy, we filed out of the village chief's house, having eaten and drunk our fill. As we crossed the village roads, some residents stared at us indifferently as if they had seen many like us before.
In the afternoon, we went to Shuitou Village in Beidiantou Township.
Several members of the village council—including village communist branch secretary An Aimin, organization commissary Zhang Zengnian and village accountant Wang Zhenhai—were researching how best to provide allowances for families in difficulty.
