By Hou Siming(侯思铭)
Observer, page 41
Issue 568, May 7th
Translated by Tang Xiangyang
Original article: [Chinese]
In Sichuan province, there’s a city so small that its streets are never jammed and its mayor would never consider digging a subway. Instead of cars and motorcycles; there are porters and rickshaws.
The soil is not poor and has sustained a large population, most of who are living a comfortable life.
The city, whose name is Lingshui, has seen its short buildings replaced with multi-storey blocks, making it increasingly unfamiliar to people who have left the city. A five-star hotel is being built - for people who grew up in the city, made a fortune elsewhere and need somewhere to stay for the few days that they spend there each year.
As young people move out in search of better work opportunities, Lingshui is quietly dying. The only reason for its existence seems to be the memory of its pensioners. They have no interest in the outside world, and that would has also forgotten them.
Waiting for death
There are three traditional streets in the city. The first one is where porters gather; the second specializes in funeral supplies; the last one is called the “Street of Waiting for Death”.
No one knows how or when it got this name. But everybody seems to understand it. It’s the most populated area in the city, a place where the pensioners can spend the day chatting, playing mah-jong and, of course, waiting. Most of time, their sons and daughters don’t live up to their hopes. So the last thing they can wait for is: death.
Zhang Cuiping is an old local. She has raised one son and one daughter, then her grandchildren. They now live in Chengdu, the nearest big city to Lingshui, and they seldom come back. Zhang wants her descendants to live together with her, but she has had to give up the hope.
“How can they make a living in this small city?” she has told herself.
With most young people having left, Lingshui has found its own way of killing time: celebrating everything from birth to death. Formalities are always too complicated, but that seems to be the only thing those seniors can do.
Unemployment
Although Lingshui has a new industrial area though, most locals say “there’s no industry at all”.
Chen Lixin used to be employed by the local state-owned factory. He was laid off in 1997, when the factory went bankruptcy. He had dreamed about one day being given a new job at the factory, but has been disappointed ever since.
His wife worked for local power plant and lost her job too thanks to the recession in the early 1990s.
The couple is not alone. Most of those who lost their jobs moved to bigger cities and have stayed there ever since, but Chen Lixin chose to stay.
“It’s not possible that I won’t be able to find a job here,” he told himself in the early years.
However, the fact is that it’s impossible for him to get a real job again. With no industry, the only people in Lingshui that are fully employed are the public servants. However, those positions aren’t for the elderly, poorly-educated or indeed those lacking well-connected friends.
So Chen Lixin spends most of him time playing mah-jong. His sons and daughters have grown up and are employed in bigger cities. He has nothing to worry, so mah-jong has become his best companion and source of comfort.
It's not only the unemployed who gather around the mah-jong tables - retired public servants play too. They’re seen as rich, but they never go in for gambling.
“Mah-jong won’t make me worry about money. I don’t want to worry about money,” a retired government employee said on the condition of anonymity.
Time flies in mah-jong houses. No one bothers to go home to cook, instead the houses are surrounded by nice restaurants.
Onlookers
There’s another group of people. They were born in nearby villages and spent most of their lives there. When they get old, their children, who are normally employed in other cities, will buy them an apartment in Lingshui and have them move in. This is a traditional way of showing filial piety since the quality of living in cities is generally better than in villages.
However, today Lingshui is losing its appeal. Those former farmers find themselves always in the Street of Waiting for Death. They’d like to chat, but they don’t know each other; playing mah-jong can quickly draw people together, but they don’t know how to play and are afraid of losing money. So the only choice for them is silence.
Liu Chungen moved from a nearby village to Lingshui County two years ago. He doesn’t know why his son wanted him to live here. “To take care of my grand children, maybe,” he suggests.
Outsiders
Outside of Xilaideng Hotel, the best one in Lingshui, there are often lines of Mercedes Benz and BMWs with license plates from other cities. The cars are owned by locals who now work in bigger cities. They have family here, some even have properties; but they prefer to stay in hotels whenever they’re back. Some of them are already registered in other cities; they might come back to see their parents, but they don’t find the city familiar anymore.
Huang Yu will take his wife back to Lingshui every year. But he admits the only way of communication with his parents is by playing mah-jong. He can’t bear the winter chill here. So in the first years he stayed in the hotel with his wife and later he installed heating in his parents’ home.
Local residents admit Lingshui has no industry to bring in money; all the money here is from outside. The problem is: when the economy is dead, people’s minds can’t develop. No one can be optimistic about the prospects for an empty city.
