A Migrant Worker Sees Rural Home In a New Light
In China, Those Who Left Find
City, Village Life Don't Mix;
Showing Off Cellphones
'House Is All Messy and Cold'
DAJIN, China -- For the trip home, Lu Qingmin carried a down jacket, traditional medicine whose chief ingredient was donkey hide, a pink Dooney & Burke purse made by her factory, Nestlé milk powder and a heart-shaped box of candy. She also brought 1,000 yuan -- about $120, a month's pay that was worth half as much as her parents' annual cotton crop. These were gifts for her family. For herself, she brought a mobile phone, an MP3 player, and a makeup mirror she consulted from time to time.
The bus crossed the Yangtze River on a February morning, one week before the Chinese New Year. It takes 22 hours -- three buses and an overnight train -- to get from the city of Dongguan to the Hubei countryside 700 miles away. Lu Qingmin, known as Min to her friends, was coming home for the first time since leaving her rural village two years ago to find factory work in the city.
The bus turned off the highway and Min, 18 years old, spotted her mother. Chen Meirong, 42, was a handsome woman with deep-set brown eyes and prominent cheekbones, who smiled but said little. As they walked down the town's one street and hailed a motorcycle taxi home, Min did the talking. She wanted to buy a DVD player for the house. "Let's buy a hot-water dispenser," she said next. "That way it's more convenient."
At home over bowls of noodles with liver, Min's mother put three eggs in her bowl in honor of her homecoming. Min's father said he wanted to buy a motorcycle. Min said that would cost 8,000 yuan, close to $1,000. Her father, 48, said he could buy one for a third of that price. "That's no good," said Min. "Do you want to spend all your time repairing it?"
After lunch, the phone rang. It was a friend of Min's, calling from the city. "My mother is happy to death to see me," Min reported. "My mother and father have aged a lot. And the house is all messy and cold. You don't feel like doing anything but sleeping."
China has 114 million migrant workers, the largest migration in human history. As the country moves to a market economy, young people who grew up in the countryside are leaving to work in the factories, restaurants, hair salons and construction sites of cities. Urban China offers them hard work and tough conditions but also adventure and opportunity. In a world without parents to guide them, young migrants rely on each other to find jobs and help navigate their new lives.
Amid journeys to strange places and the looming unknown of the future, there is one fixed point: A farming village that is home. In the 40 days around the Lunar New Year holiday, 140 million people travel on China's trains -- more than three times the number of Europeans who emigrated to the U.S. over a century.
Homecomings may be happy, but they also highlight the rapid changes in Chinese society that can lead to clashes and discord. In the countryside, a family eats and farms together and sleeps in one big bed. Older people, especially men, traditionally make decisions. The eldest children discipline younger ones, and younger ones obey. Guests visit unannounced and stay for days, easily absorbed into communal routines. There are no secrets in village life, and interactions between any two villagers are predetermined according to the kinship ties between them.
In cities, this way of life is already dead. In the countryside, migration is putting an end to it. Young people return home with modern ideas and money -- and secrets from a city life their parents don't understand. They have lived among strangers, competed for jobs and promotions, and dated whom they pleased. The village can't easily take them back.
Min spent her first days back at home on a modernization campaign. At meals, she lectured her father not to smoke and told him to rinse his mouth out with tea to keep his teeth from turning black. She plotted improvements to the house: indoor plumbing, a washing machine, a walk of poured concrete. (Min's migration to the city was the subject of a front-page article in The Wall Street Journal in November.)
Lu Qingmin's parents, sister and brother in front of their home in a rural village in China's Hubei region.
In village homes it is common to throw trash, put out cigarettes and spit on the floor. Every so often, someone sweeps up the mess and dumps it in the yard. Min put a plastic bag in the corner of the room and ordered her parents and three younger siblings to dispose of garbage there instead.
The Lus' brick home had been the first two-story house in the village when Min's parents, both farmers, built it in 1986. The main room has a dinner table and ancestral shrine against the wall, with a bedroom on each side. Upstairs are storage areas for rice, kindling, pork and cured fish, and a room knee-deep in cotton balls -- this year's crop, as yet unsold. The house has cement floors and no plumbing or heating. In the winter, everyone wears coats and gloves inside and younger children's fingers often swell up from the cold.
Her first afternoon home, the phone rang. It was Min's boyfriend, calling from the city. "I can't talk now. There are a lot of people here," she said. She had been dating 21-year-old Ah Jie for three months. He was from a province 300 miles from the Lus' village. To Min, that was just a bus or train ride away. But her mother objected, fearing a marriage to someone from that far away might mean she would never see her daughter again. She wanted Min to marry close to home, as she had.
Min had told her mother she had broken off the relationship, but that was a lie. Every time the phone rang, it threatened to expose her secret.
On her second day home, Min took her three younger siblings and two cousins to Wuxue, a city about an hour away by bus. The purpose was home improvement. She bought socks for her father, face towels, two bottles of shampoo. She bargained for a hot-water dispenser and got it for under $11. She picked up a hairdryer for $3.30. She bought disposable plastic cups, more sanitary than the porcelain cups the family shared and seldom washed.
Min had last visited Wuxue two years ago, and it had diminished in her eyes since she had seen the cities of the coast. "This city is no good," she said. "It's not as developed as places outside."
At an Internet café, they met up with Hu Tao, a high-school classmate of Min's who still lived at home. As they threaded through the streets, he asked Min about her factory. It makes handbags and employs 5,000 workers, Min told him. Workers make 700 or 800 yuan a month, between $84 and $96.
He asked when she was going back. In two weeks, she said -- if she could get tickets out. Around the holiday, train tickets become a precious commodity. She made her bid. "You help us get tickets and leave with us," she said. "Our factory is still hiring workers."
They parted. Min felt triumphant. "He'll get us the train tickets back to Dongguan," she said. He would use his local contacts to obtain the sought-after tickets and she would help him get a job. It was her second day home, and she had already figured out the most important thing: How to get out again.
Seven generations of Lus have lived in Liemahuitou Village. Its 90 families, almost all surnamed Lu, grow rice, rape and cotton in the valleys and on blue-green terraced hills. Farm plots are less than an acre per family on average, and villagers mostly eat what they grow. In a small temple, the villagers burn incense to honor their ancestors, buried on a hill of pine trees above. "To live an entire life without making a long journey is good fortune" was a popular old saying.
In the early 1990s, young married couples began leaving the village, drawn by jobs in fast-developing coastal cities. Within a few years, migration became the norm. Village children left during junior high or even elementary school. Many of Min's cousins had gone out to work when they were only 12 years old. Of the 27 kids in her elementary class, Min said, 10 migrated rather than continue with school.
Min's village, Liemahuitou, in winter.
Money sent home by migrants is the chief source of income in the village now. Min and her older sister, who had gone out to work before her, sent home a total of $600 last year, compared with $240 their parents expect to clear after selling the cotton crop. Young migrants home for the holiday dominate the life of the village. They go from house to house showing off mobile phones, comparing jobs and discussing boyfriends and girlfriends. Parents gossip about their children's salaries and marriage prospects. The young give cash to needy older relatives and do matchmaking for each other, tasks once the preserve of their elders.
Min's family has five children -- four girls and a boy. This is uncommon but not unheard of in rural China, where the one-child rule of the cities is more loosely enforced. Min and her sisters are unusual in that all have gone to junior high or high school. "We treat our daughters as sons," said Min's mother, as she sat by her bedroom window one morning, sewing a velvet slipper. Both she and her husband are junior-high graduates, rare for country people of their generation.
"A lot of people in the village disagree with me," she said. "They say daughters don't need to have much schooling since they will marry out anyway. But I believe to have knowledge is better than to have no knowledge."
Min and her older sister commanded respect in the village because they had worked their way up to office jobs in the city. Others from the village, also seeking better opportunities, had traveled to places equally far away: Wenzhou, 22 hours by bus; Harbin, 30 hours by train. "That's our belief here," said Min. "The further away you go from home, the more splendid it is."
Two days before the new year, Min angered her mother. One of Min's uncles had invited the family over for a reunion meal, a key event of the holiday. Then the phone rang with a better offer: A glamorous young aunt who ran a hair salon in the city of Wuxue invited Min to go shopping. Min was thrilled. Her mother wasn't. "Why go out when it's raining?" was all she said to Min. She considered it rude to turn down the uncle's invitation.
Min did so anyway. "It's me that's offending my uncle, not my mother, so it should have nothing to do with her," she said.
Her 25-year-old aunt, Huang Caixia, came by the house, dressed in a chic belted jacket and satin pants. The first thing she did was take out a crimson-colored mobile phone and pass it around to general admiration. On a bus to the city, Min told her aunt she was thinking of dyeing her hair and asked what color was best. She was also hoping to convince her father to build an indoor bathroom.
"He could put a washing machine in there, and there would be a place to bathe," Min said. "They could even add some tile so it would be like a real shower." The aunt suggested a hot-water heater and figured the whole project would cost $600.
"When you have lived in the city for a while, your thinking changes," the aunt said. "You are constantly thinking about how to improve life in the countryside."
Min's aunt and her husband work in the city and rent an apartment there. Their 4-year-old daughter lives in the village with her grandmother, but they plan to bring the child to the city as soon as they have saved some money. Though the husband's parents still farm a third of an acre, the younger couple didn't request a farm plot from the village when they married.
"The village is home," Min's aunt said. "But I don't feel comfortable there anymore."
On the last day of the old year, Min's family walked up a mountain path to pay respects at the grave of Min's grandmother, who died two years earlier. A stone marked the graves of her great-grandparents. Her grandparents were buried about 15 feet away. The mountain is called Lu Forest Mountain.
Min's family inside their home, which lacks heat and plumbing. Her brother, Lu Xuanqing, does his homework.
The older generation presided at the ritual. Family members kowtowed at the graves while young men threaded fireworks in the bushes, like Christmas lights. Min's father burned paper money, set down bowls of dates and candy, and poured homemade liquor on the wet ground in front of the graves, all offerings for the deceased in the afterlife. Because the government is promoting cremation, families must pay a fine of several thousand yuan for every burial. Everyone in the village, no matter how poor, pays the fine when a relative passes away.
On the first day of the new year, the custom among young people of the village is to meet at a Buddhist temple in the mountains. Min put money in a temple collection box and asked a middle-aged nun if she could pray for her good fortune in marriage. Min knelt and prayed that she would meet the person destined for her. The nun gave Min a red cloth that signified blessing and put her hand on Min's shoulder. "Earn some more money and find a good mate," she said.
It was the first time Min had ever asked anything of Guanyin, the Buddhist goddess of mercy. She wasn't sure how much she believed but that didn't seem to matter. "Even if you don't believe it," she said, "you must respect it."
After the new year, Min dropped her home-improvement projects. The plastic trash bag sat in the corner unnoticed, until one day it was gone.
In another village, Min visited the house of a former classmate. The young woman wasn't home. Min learned that she had married a man twice her age and she was now caring for an infant daughter. A neighbor broadcast the details at top volume from her front door: "The husband is short. He is old and ugly. The parents did not approve of the marriage."
For young migrant women, early marriage can spell an end to possibility. "She seemed to have such promise," Min said as she walked through the village. "I really thought she would go places."
On the fifth day of the new year, Min left home. Her classmate Hu Tao had come through with the tickets: The slow train to Dongguan, 16 hours, no seats, but he had been lucky to get them in the post-New Year crush. At the local train station, the two joined a crowd waiting to pass through a narrow gate to the station platform. There was a tense expectancy in the air: The train would be packed and there would be fights to get on. Policemen marched up and down yelling at passengers not to push.
As the train approached, people swarmed to it, but almost every door stayed shut. The crowd thronged to the one open door. Arms and legs reached out from the train into the crush of people; passengers were trying to prevent others from boarding. The police were nowhere to be seen. Min and Hu Tao spotted another open door and squeezed on.
The next morning, the train arrived in Dongguan. It was warm in the south; Min complained of the heat, forgetting already how cold she had been the whole time she was home. She and Hu Tao caught a bus to her factory. She would shower and wash her hair at the factory dorm where she lived, things she had put off for days because there was no running water at home. She would take a long nap.
On the bus packed with returning migrants, Min realized the city now felt like home to her, and home in the village faded away. "I don't think I will ever live in the village again," Min said. "Home is good, but you can only stay for a few days."
打工妹“衣锦还乡”记
这趟回家，卢青敏（音）带了一件鸭绒衣、一包阿胶、一只粉色的Dooney & Burke手袋（她工作的那家工厂生产的）、雀巢(Nestle)奶粉，还有一盒心型的糖果。她还带回人民币1,000元钱（合120美元）──她一个月的工资，却是父母种植一年棉花所得的一半。这些都是她带给家人的礼物。自己呢？她随身带了一部手机、一个MP3播放器，还有一面她不时照一照的化妆镜。
春节前一周的某个清晨，长途汽车带著她跨过长江。整整22个小时的归家之路就要结束了。从卢青敏工作的广东省东莞市到她在湖北省的家乡，一共1,100公里，要坐上一夜火车，然后转乘三趟长途汽车。从两年前离开家乡去东莞打工到现在，这是卢青敏的第一次回乡之旅。
长途汽车刚下高速，她就看见了妈妈。42岁的陈美蓉（音）是个面容姣好的中年妇女，深陷的眼窝配著高高的颧骨。她笑意殷殷，但话不多。母女俩在镇上唯一的那条街上走著，挥手叫了一辆出租车回家。卢青敏一路说个不停。她想给家里买台DVD播放机，“再买一台饮水机，喝水就方便多了。”
回家了。一家人亲亲热热围坐在一起，吃著香喷喷的猪肝面。妈妈给阿敏的碗里卧了三只鸡蛋，欢迎她回家。父亲说起想买一辆摩托车，阿敏说那要8,000块钱。父亲说，不用，只要三分之一的钱就够了。“那可不好，”阿敏说，“难道你想一天到晚地修理它吗？”
饭后电话响了，是阿敏的朋友从东莞打来的。“我妈看到我高兴死了，”阿敏说，“爸妈都老了好多，房子也乱七八糟，很冷。除了睡觉，什么也不想干。”
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中国有1.14亿外来务工人员，是人类历史上规模最大的流动人口群体。中国向市场经济迈进的途中，农村的年轻人纷纷涌进城市，到工厂、餐馆、发廊和建筑工地打工。城里的工作很辛苦，工作条件也很差，但同时也是一段冒险的人生之旅，充满了机会。在城里，没有父母的指引和教导，这些年轻人互相帮助，介绍工作，逐渐适应新生活。
他们向著陌生的地点跋涉，前途未卜，心中只有一点从不更改：农村的家乡。在春节假日前后40天里，大约1.4亿农民工坐火车回家过节，比一个世纪以来从欧洲移民到美国的总人口的三倍还多。
回家探亲无疑是开心的，但也凸现了中国社会的巨大变化，这些变化带来了种种冲突和分歧。在农村，一家人一起吃饭，一起种地，晚上在一张大床上睡觉。长辈、一般是男性，往往是一家之主。长子有权管教下面的弟弟妹妹，弟弟妹妹服从哥哥姐姐。客人往往不期而至，一呆数天，轻轻松松就能融入当地生活。村里各家都没有秘密，村民之间依照亲属关系互相往来。
但这套生活方式在城市里早已销声匿迹。在农村，农民工们正在渐渐为它划上句号。年轻人带著赚到的钱，还有接受的新观念回到家里，还有种种不为父辈所知的城市生活的秘密。他们曾经与陌生人同住，为工作和晋升互相竞争，与心爱的人约会。农村的生活已不能轻松带回他们已经放飞的心灵。
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阿敏回家的第一天呆在家里，给家人上了一堂现代化课。吃饭的时候，她鼓励父亲戒烟，告诉他用茶水漱口牙齿就不会变黑。她还规划著老房子的改善：添置抽水马桶和洗衣机，在门前铺上水泥路。（阿敏的故事本报去年11月曾作头版报道:中国打工妹的追求之路。）
在农村，乱丢垃圾、随地吐痰、扔烟头这些都很常见。常常有人刚把屋里扫干净，一转身就把垃圾倒在了院里。阿敏在屋角放了一个塑料袋，让爸爸妈妈，还有三个弟弟妹妹把垃圾丢进塑料袋里。
卢家的砖瓦房是全村第一幢二层小楼，是阿敏的父母在1986年盖的。堂屋里一张饭桌，祖先的牌位靠墙而立，两边各有一间卧室。楼上是储藏室，堆放著大米、干柴、猪肉和咸鱼。还有满满一间屋子齐膝深的棉花包，这是今年的收成，还没卖出去。屋里是水泥地，但没有抽水马桶和供暖系统。冬天，在家里也要穿著厚厚的大衣，戴上手套。孩子们的手指常常冻得红肿。
阿敏回家第一天的下午，男朋友的电话就从东莞打过来了。“现在不能说，家里人多，”阿敏悄声说。她和21岁的阿杰交往三个月了。阿杰的家乡在另一个省，离阿敏他们村大约500公里。对阿敏来说，这段路坐一趟长途汽车或者火车就到了，但妈妈很反对，担心女儿嫁到这么远就再也见不著了。她希望阿敏和她一样，在附近成家。
阿敏骗妈妈说已经和男朋友分手了。因此每次电话一响，她的小秘密都可能会被揭穿。
第二天，她带上三个弟弟妹妹还有两个亲戚家的孩子，坐了一小时长途汽车，到武穴市玩了一天。她到这儿来是想给家里买点东西，给父亲买了几双袜子、洗脸毛巾、还有两瓶洗发香波。然后为饮水机砍了半天价，最后不到100块钱就买了一台。她还花20几块钱买了一个吹风机，又买了很多一次性的塑料杯。
两年前，阿敏到武穴来过一次。但去过东莞以后，武穴在她眼里就没什么稀奇了。“这里不好，”她说，“不像外面的城市开发得那么好。”
在网吧里，他们遇到了阿敏的高中同学胡涛（音），他仍在住在家里。他们在街上随便走著，胡涛问起阿敏工厂里的事。阿敏告诉他，工厂专门加工生产手袋，有5,000名工人，月工资人民币700-800元。
胡涛问她哪天回去？两周，她说──如果能顺利买到票的话。节假日期间，火车票非常紧俏。阿敏赌了一把，“你帮我们买票，一起走吧，我们厂还在招人呢。”
他们道别分手，阿敏洋洋得意。“他会帮我们买到回东莞的火车票。”胡涛会用自己在当地的关系，买到紧俏的火车票，而阿敏会帮他在东莞找份工作。这不过是她回家的第二天，就已经解决了最重要的问题：怎么回去。
卢家七代人都生活在烈马回头村，这里的90户家庭大多数都姓卢。他们在山谷和丘陵种植水稻、油菜和棉花。平均每户的耕地不到半英亩，村民基本自给自足。在一个小庙中，村民们烧香祭奠著埋葬在一个长满松树的丘陵中的祖先。一句广为流传的古语就说道，终其一生而不出远门，就是幸福。
90年代初时，年轻的夫妇开始离开这个村庄，到高速发展的沿海地区打工。短短几年内，外出打工就变得非常普遍。村里的孩子在初中甚至小学阶段就辍学了。阿敏的许多堂兄妹在12岁时就出去打工了。她说，在班上的27个小学生中，有10个已经走出去，不继续上学了。
外出打工者寄回的钱现在是村里的主要收入来源。阿敏和先她外出打工的姐姐去年就向家里寄回了5000元（约600美元），而她们的父母卖棉花的收入大概是2000元（约240美元）。过节时，衣锦还乡的年轻打工者成了村里的主角。他们走家串户，炫耀著手机，对比著工作，讨论著男朋友或女朋友。父母们也闲扯著孩子们的工资和婚姻大事。
阿敏家共有五个孩子──四个女孩，一个男孩。这种情况虽不普遍，但在农村也不稀奇，在这里，只生一个孩子的政策不象城市中那么严格。敏和她的姐妹都上到初中或高中却非同寻常。阿敏的妈妈坐在窗前，一边缝著绒拖鞋，一边说，“我们把女儿当儿子一样看待。”她和她的丈夫都是初高中毕业，这在她们这代人中也很少有。
她说：“村里的许多人都不同意我的说法。他们说，女儿不用读很多书，因为她们要嫁给别人。但我觉得有知识总比没知识强。”
阿敏和她的姐姐赢得了村里的尊重，因为她们在城市里都从事著办公室工作。村里也有很多其他人到很远的地方寻求发展：温州，坐汽车22小时；哈尔滨，坐火车30小时。阿敏说：“这是我们的信念，离家越远越好。”
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春节的前两天，阿敏惹恼了她的妈妈。阿敏的一个叔叔邀请全家吃团圆饭，这是节日里很重要的一件事情。但后来电话响了，来了一个更令人兴奋的消息：在武穴市开发廊的年轻漂亮的小姨邀请阿敏去逛商店。阿敏高兴极了。她的妈妈却不赞成。“为什么下雨天还要出去？”她认为拒绝了叔叔的邀请很不礼貌。
阿敏还是去了。她说：“得罪我叔叔的是我，又不是我妈妈，所以这同她没关系。”
她25岁的小姨黄彩霞来了，穿著束带夹克和绸缎裤子。她一进门就拿出了深红色的手机，令众人羡慕不已。在去市里的汽车上，阿敏告诉小姨，她正准备染头发，问小姨什么颜色最好。她还想劝她的父亲建一个室内卫生间。
阿敏说，他可以在那放一个洗衣机，还有洗澡的地方。他们还可以加一些瓷砖，这样就象真的浴室一样。小姨建议买个热水器，算下来总共要花5000元左右。
小姨说，在城市里住上一段时间后，人的想法就会改变。你就会不断想著如何改善在农村的生活。
阿敏的小姨和她的丈夫在城市工作，租了一间房子。他们4岁的女儿在村里同奶奶住在一起，但他们计划攒够了钱就把女儿接到城里。她丈夫的父母仍在耕种六分之一英亩的土地，而这对年轻人结婚的时候却没有从村里要一分田。
阿敏的小姨说：“村子还是家乡，但我对这里已经不适应了。”
除夕这天，阿敏走过长长的山路，给阿敏两年前去世的奶奶上坟。爷爷奶奶的墓前立著一块石碑，他们的坟相隔约5米远。这座山叫做卢林山。
老一辈人主持著这个仪式。家庭成员在坟前磕头，年轻男人在草丛中放起了鞭炮，象圣诞节的焰火一样。阿敏的父亲烧著纸钱，在坟前放上几碗糖果等祭品，并将家酿的白酒泼在坟前的湿地上，这都是给死者在阴间享用的。由于政府提倡火葬，每次土葬都要支付几千元的罚款。但村里的所有人，不管多穷，都要在亲人去世后支付罚款，进行土葬。
大年初一，村里年轻人的风俗是在山上的一个庙宇聚会。阿敏向庙里的捐款箱投了钱，然后问庙里的中年尼姑，能不能祈求一个好姻缘。尼姑把一块象征祝福的红布给了阿敏，然后把手放在阿敏的肩上，嘴里念念有词：“挣多多的钱，找一个好丈夫。”
这是阿敏第一次向观音菩萨祈祷。她也说不上相信多少，但这无关紧要。她说，即使不相信，也必须尊重它。
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春节过后，阿敏不再提起她的装修计划。
在另一个村子，阿敏去看望以前的一个同学。这位女同学不在家。阿敏得知，她嫁给了一个比她年龄大一倍的男人，已经生了一个小女儿。一位邻居站在门前大声地讲著有关她的事情：“她丈夫很矮，又老又丑。她父母根本不同意这门亲事。”
对于这里的年轻女性而言，早婚就意味著告别了外出打工的可能。阿敏在走出村子时说：“她本来也有机会。我真的以为她会青云直上。”
初五，阿敏离开了家。她的同学胡涛带著票来了：到东莞的慢车，16小时，没有座位，但能在节后民工潮中买到票，他已经够幸运了。在当地火车站，两人加入到窄窄的检票口前等待进站的拥挤人群中。空气中弥漫著紧张的气氛：火车将会非常拥挤，要大战一番才能挤上去。警察来回走著，喝令旅客不要推搡。
火车到了，人们蜂拥而上，但几乎所有的门都紧闭著。人们挤到仅有的一个开著的门前。火车上的旅客手脚并用，阻止其他人上车。警察突然不见踪影。阿敏和胡涛跑到另一个开著的门前，终于挤上了车。
第二天早上，火车抵达了东莞。南方温暖的气候令阿敏不断抱怨著天气太热，全然忘记了她在家里的时候是多么寒冷。她和胡涛登上了驶往工厂的公交车。她要在工厂宿舍好好洗个澡，洗洗头，由于家里没有自来水，她已经好几天没洗澡了。她还要好好睡上一觉。
在挤满返城民工的公交车上，阿敏感觉到这座城市现在已经成了她的家，农村的家已经渐渐远去。阿敏说：“我想我不会再回到农村生活了，家乡虽好，但只能呆上几天。”
