Barbarian Lost (27 page)

It's hard to get a word in. Viv doesn't try to translate his tirade.

“Like I said to you earlier, he's eccentric,” she merely says under her breath.

Zhou has us sit around an ornate conference table and returns with a stack of photo albums. He hands one to Viv and one to me and urges us to browse through them. Each album is full of classic Chinese-style portraits of groups of people standing upright in rows against a colourful backdrop. In page after page of such portraits, Zhou is often at the centre, grinning like a Buddha. He tells us that they are pictures of clients, officials and dignitaries.

Hovering over us, Zhou bounces between Viv and me, making sure we don't miss a single page. When we're through our respective albums, he intervenes to pass them between us and urges us not to forget to peruse the three other albums remaining on the table. He leaves the room to fetch something else for us. Viv and I exchange an amused look.

Zhou returns with gifts and press clippings. The gifts are ornate publicity folders for his firm, with multiple business cards for himself. Each for a specific purpose, he explains. Litigator.
Consultant. Chairman of some legal association. He hands us photocopied newspaper articles about himself, explaining and justifying each one as if he were filing evidence in a case:
Zhou Litai v. The stillness of the universe
.

Finally, Viv intervenes to get some useful answers out of him. We want to know the specifics of what he does. He starts in on a long series of case descriptions with the same energy he used to establish his credentials. He handles injuries, like Li Gang's, but also wrongful dismissals, complaints about working conditions, about wages. He also mentions lawsuits around worker suicides—families wanting compensation from abusive employers for inhumane conditions.

The abstract of these explanations would go something like this: China in general and Shenzhen more especially are filled with huge manufacturing entities. They sprout up like weeds. In all this activity, labour standards are difficult to uphold. Some entities employ tens of thousands of people. They are rarely simple structures; many subcontract out elements of production to other entities, so the line of responsibility between executives and employees is often blurred and complex. Oversight is also poorly conducted. Trade unions are absent. Production and labour structures are organized ephemerally. Whole operations are constantly being shut down while others spring up. Market forces do work for labour when it comes to wages. Salaries have been growing steadily. Profit, not any notion of welfare, is the prime driver of all this activity. In the confusion and bustle, corners are cut. Safety is sometimes compromised. When there are incidents, the process of filing grievances and making claims against so many moving targets can be difficult. Zhou explains that his first mandate is usually to untangle complex corporate
structures in order to clarify who or what might be held responsible for torts.

In simpler times, government was heavily involved in labour issues. Party players would intervene to manage grievances and hold elements responsible before any legal proceedings even kicked in. Now with industry growing so fast and the heavy orientation toward foreign clientele in the export market, government is often more interested in its cut than in labour issues, so this work must be dealt with through the legal process and in the courts. As it should be. But many corporations manage to hide their responsibility. There's great impunity here, and lots of work for Zhou.

Behind his outrageous boasting, Zhou shows real insight into social-political realities. His work does involve intense clerical and forensic research. He waxes into rhetoric when it comes to the human rights dimensions of his practice: Doesn't the little guy need a voice? How else is he ensured the dignity he deserves in this world of giant factories and globalized economies? He needs an advocate. He needs Zhou Litai.

One might think that human rights advocacy in China would put him at odds with the Communist government. I lead him with questions along these lines. He seems entirely unconcerned about his government. Perhaps
human rights law
is also a misnomer for his practice, a glorified term for something more mundane.
Labour and injury lawyer
might be more appropriate. As such, he's of use to the government rather than a nuisance as it slowly and knowingly surrenders its responsibilities to society at large. Zhou does something the government can't entirely do anymore: hold corporations accountable for negligence toward employees.

We ask Zhou whether the continued strong links between vari
ous tiers of government and large corporations might make things difficult for him. There, he concedes, we might be on to something. The courts are not always terribly impartial. Settlements in favour of his clients are sometimes ridiculously small for substantial negligence and debilitating injuries. Still, he adds, even in the face of localized corruption, higher levels of government generally want justice to be done when it comes to corporate responsibility. The Communist Party of China—the CPC—deems the exercise important; it's part of the drive toward the ever more sophisticated economy that the CPC usually desires.

As Viv and I finally exit into the street, we quickly conclude that we like Zhou Litai. Eccentric as he is, China would be well served by more like him. For the rule of law cannot just be imposed from above but must also rise up from the trenches below.

To get to our factory, we need cross all of Shenzhen. Our taxi driver is pleased with the distance involved in the trip from the far east to the far west. We even allow him to pay tolls so that he can take the northern peripheral around the city.

Thus I get to see the outskirts. Shenzhen doesn't taper off into the countryside but ends abruptly at a solitary range of hills, all covered in jungle. As we glide along the highway beside the forest fringe, I can see that it is quickly falling to exploitation as well. Strip-mine excavations are occurring all along the hillside, making way for high-end residential complexes and golf courses. Then, as we come off the ridge heading south, a vista momentarily opens for us. In the distance, the hazy gulf of the Pearl is dotted with ships: ferries, immense cargo vessels, the tiny specks of fishing boats. The shoreline is a swath of human activity: port,
shipyard, industry, inhabitation and construction. From our position on the hill to the gulf several kilometres to the south lies only city, or city in the making. When the highway drops from hill into city, people, production and distribution disappear. Our single mission shines out to us again in the abstract.

“Viv, tell me about our factory.”

“I'm at a bit of a loss. I frankly don't know what it is that's made there. Something for electronic devices or computers, I think. And please don't ask me how it is that we are visiting this factory.”

“Why not?”

“Trust me, my explaining how I made the contact would be too long and boring.”

“At least admit that it is funny that we are travelling to this one obscure factory through what must be the world's greatest manufacturing centre. It's like looking for a single tree in a great forest.”

“I hope it will be useful to you. But don't blame me if it isn't.”

The highway morphs into a grand boulevard that leads to others. Suddenly, the city tapers off into a dusty wasteland, at least a square kilometre of bare earth, recently scraped clean of whatever had been there before. To its south, I can see the water again. We are working our way to the shore.

Past the wasteland, the city starts again. It's sparse and rough. The taxi halts at the side of a wide, unfinished turning circle. After the driver gets directions from pedestrians, we turn onto a final boulevard that has an almost industrial-park feel. Seven- or eight-storey industrial buildings neatly line up along the boulevard, intercut with sections of manicured lawns. We are going to building 10. The taxi driver says he'll wait for us.

Viv and I walk around the building, looking for an entrance.
We don't find much of a lobby, only a door leading to a stairwell and a couple of elevators. Viv gets on the phone with her contact, the company manager, Mr. Jiang. He tells her to come to the sixth floor.

Jiang, a relaxed man in his forties, meets us as we exit the elevator. He ushers us into his office, where we drink tea. He seems perfectly at ease with our interest in the operation. As is often the case in Shenzhen, our host is a Mandarin, not Cantonese, speaker. He passes us his company's trade catalogue. His outfit makes tiny electrical components for circuit boards, the tiniest needles in the largest haystack, a product so deeply embedded within the chains of production as to have almost no identity with the consumer, like a support column in a building, completely overlooked but necessary.

The resistors are partly for local production, partly for shipping elsewhere in China, but rarely for foreign outfits. Jiang explains that his company has expanded quite a bit in recent years and will be taking over more floors of the building in the coming months.

I ask where his employees live. He tells me that bigger companies nearby have employee housing facilities, but his company doesn't have any dedicated housing. Fifteen years ago, employers had to provide lodging because there was nowhere for people to live and local transportation was undeveloped. Now, people sort themselves out. But it has been getting more difficult to find labour, he explains, even if the wages offered are comparatively high. He hopes that the flurry of development in this part of Shenzhen will help increase the potential workforce.

Jiang invites Viv and me to don white coats before entering the production facility.
Factory
would be a strong word for the
facility; it's more like a large laboratory. Thirty or so workers sit in tight formation, each performing the same tasks. They are nearly all women. A few of the supervisors are men. The women all wear white coats, hairnets, face masks and gloves. The room is windowless but brightly lit and well ventilated. Jiang explains that because the product is precision equipment, the company must carefully control the conditions of the facility.

The women work at their stations, peering through large magnifying glasses. They pick components from trays that contain an assortment of pieces, organized for assembly. They insert the minute parts into tiny white cylinders. The work reminds me of Chinese miniature painting, just as meticulous but more monotonous.

I am at a loss for questions to direct at our host. There seems so little to say. What sense can I truly make of this production? I ask about the workers. They work six days a week, I am told. The women seem mostly in their twenties. They have a pleasant if intensely focused demeanour to them, not surprising considering the precision of the handiwork. Like our grandmothers' embroidery work, Viv comments. I do wonder about what dreams might come to them at night after days spent repeating the same few actions.

In the next room, the resistors are processed through a series of machines. A handful of employees supervise these automated processes. With some effort, I manage to get Jiang to comment on what's involved: heat, pressure, then a vacuum. Another group of employees run a series of electrical tests to ensure that the resistors are up to spec. Finally, the finished product is packaged up in boxes.

We complete our tour in the company's cafeteria. Some employees are on break and are engaged in happy banter among
themselves in Mandarin, scarcely aware of our presence. Many employees originate from other provinces and don't even speak Cantonese. In this way, Shenzhen now forms a strong link between the Pearl and the rest of China, a link long absent in a region that so often stood apart.

We emerge from the building into the golden light of the late afternoon sun. A group of workers coming from another facility walks past us. Cheerful young men and women, happy to have free time, no doubt. I can't quite picture them heading to nightclubs or massage parlours. More likely, for bubble tea at one of the new malls, proud to merely look at the fancy merchandise that they won't buy, just excited that they could.

I can't say what will happen to all these workers—whether they are in Shenzhen for good or they'll eventually return to their villages and towns. A bit of both, I guess. While they're here, everything's changing for them, and if they do return, they'll be different people arriving in changed places. There's no going back to the grime and isolation of before.

“It's a happy time to be Chinese,” I say to Viv. “Such possibility opening up for the young people here.”

“I agree, it's an exciting time. But the base needs to be built upon. Work is good. But the Chinese must work for more than wages, for more than just consumer possibilities.”

“Patience, Viv. The new life's only just starting for them now.”

An elevated train takes us to Hong Kong. There's a border control but it seems perfunctory. Back in the free world, some might think. I've flown back and forth from China into Hong Kong a number of times before, but have never gone by land.

“Of course, we should oppose borders for what they stand for and who they really benefit,” I tell Viv, “but I like the scenes at border crossings. If they ever disappear, I will miss them, masochistically perhaps.”

“I remember when I first came to Hong Kong five years ago,” Viv says. “It was for an internship at the
South China Morning Post
, my first time out of China. It was after reunification, and I was excited to be visiting a place that had evolved under a completely different political system than mine. I can say that I was also proud that Hong Kong had been returned to China, that an old period was over and a new had begun. I know many westerners were afraid of this happening, but for us in China, Hong Kong's return was a moment filled with much hope. It could only be good for us.”

“For me, Hong Kong has always been a sanctuary,” I say, “a place to enjoy some comforts after much rougher travel. I remember dreaming of this place throughout my lengthy 1990 trip to China. I couldn't wait to go shopping for electronics. And coming out of the sweaty tropics of Southeast Asia, I would find Hong Kong's balmy climate ideal and its orderly ways relaxing—I'd go to the cinema.”