In practice, however, the law has made no difference for workers like Peng and his colleagues. ‘Even when you are given a contract by these companies, you’ll find that the contracts are always written in the interest of the company!’ Peng told me. ‘[The law] doesn’t take into account the workers’ position at all. Some of us simply don’t dare to sign the contracts because they are written in such ambiguous ways. We are afraid of being cheated.’
Utterly demoralized by their experience in Beijing, Peng and the other two workers returned to their villages. This was the second time in a month that Peng had returned home to Liaoning without any pay.
And the relentless cycle continued. Two months later, I received another call from Peng. Back at home, his father wouldn’t stop hassling him, and he’d returned to Shenyang and the Lu Garden labour market. ‘But I’ve been unlucky,’ he said. He’d found absolutely nothing. Now, his plan was to head back to Beijing. Word was that Daxing’s labour market was flush with jobs. ‘I am determined to find something.’
I was in Beijing at the time and met Peng at the Gongzhufen bus station when he arrived. Dozens of villagers, mostly young men and women in their twenties and thirties, some with children back home, all from Liaoning, filed off the bus. They’d come to Beijing looking for work, some in the building industry, others in domestic service and cleaning. They were all carrying bags of belongings, looking as if they intended on settling for a while.
Then we all boarded another bus, as Peng and his fellows had done just a few months back, and proceeded on to Daxing district. ‘I’m gonna make it this time, sister,’ Peng said to me. ‘I’ve got to find a job that lasts.’ We got off at Yinghai township on the east side of Daxing, where Peng said he knew of cheap lodgings for new arrivals, where you could sleep five to a room. He led me up the stairs of this place and we had some green tea. There was obviously no room for me to stay, and so I wished him good luck and left.
The next day, Peng went to the Daxing labour market at around 9 a.m., a mistake, because most jobs are taken early in the morning. He told me the Daxing market is smaller than Shenyang’s and full of people from everywhere – from the northeast, Shandong, Henan, Zhejiang, Jiangsu. Competition seemed even harsher than Lu Garden. He met four other migrants from Liaoning, and they told him that there were many jobs advertised around Beijing’s train stations, so together they took a bus into the city centre, some fifteen kilometres away, to have a look. At West Station, they found plenty of ads on shop windows, all for low-paid, temporary manual work. Peng spotted one that read: ‘Grand four-star hotel near Beijing West Station. Looking for fit, young men to do security work. Call to discuss pay.’
The five of them, including Peng, felt encouraged and called the hotel recruiter immediately. The ad was clearly aimed at migrants from rural areas, and so Peng and his group did not expect an offer of a reasonable wage. However, they did not expect to be offered only 35 yuan (£3.1–£3.5, $5.5) per day. Beijing’s legal daily minimum wage, meagre enough, is 54.40 yuan (£4.9, $8.5). On top of that, they were asked to pay for their own uniforms, and to do three days’ work, called training, without wages, and they would have to work without a contract.
‘You take it or leave it,’ said Peng. ‘Stay like a slave, or go back to the countryside – who gives a damn about you?’ Without other options, they took the jobs and were housed in a garage by the hotel, where they were given hard bunk beds, no sheets or pillows provided. Peng slept on top of his jacket and jeans. The floor was concrete, and filthy, as if it were never cleaned. The work was straightforward enough, though – guarding the hotel entrance. The men worked eight-hour shifts and were sometimes asked to do overtime. They felt lucky that they all got paid.
But it is impossible to live in an expensive city like Beijing on 35 yuan per day, let alone send money home. After three weeks, Peng was forced to move on. His co-workers stayed. Work isn’t easy to find, and they didn’t feel confident enough to leave.
‘Did I do the right thing, sister?’ he later asked me, obviously looking for reassurance. I told him he had, and he returned to the Daxing labour market next day to try his luck again.
Peng resented the idea of security work, but it was the only work he had substantial experience in and a likely chance of getting. He continued his search. He had only 200 yuan left and couldn’t remain unemployed for long. When I saw that he’d cut down to one tiny meal a day to save living costs, I offered to help. But he refused – he was far too proud.
‘I’m OK. I just need to take up the next job available and make no fuss,’ he said.
As I left Peng at Yinghai township, I wondered how I could possibly help him. The fact is that there is no national minimum wage in China. The minimum wage law that came into effect in January 2004 makes local authorities responsible for setting their own minimum wage standard. The law stipulates that this should be 40 to 60 percent of the average wage in the particular area, making the so-called minimum wage very difficult to live on. In Beijing, the monthly minimum wage of 640 yuan (£58, $101) can provide little more than a substandard living, but what other options do workers like Peng have?
I could have helped Peng only if I’d had connections. Guanxi! A word heard so often in China. You need connections to open doors for you in every aspect of your life. This is particularly true in post-Mao China, ruled by monetary values and the social relations they establish. Sadly, I had no guanxi good enough to help Peng. I was a foreigner.
Fortunately, times, like tides, do change. A week later, Peng called with good news. ‘I’ve got a new job!’ he said excitedly.
‘What is it? And where?’ I asked.
It was another security job, he explained, but this time in the biggest hotel in Yinghai township, Daxing district, the Golden Sail Holiday Hotel. ‘And this time, I am here to stay!’ he said.
I had never heard Peng sounding so positive. I was thrilled for him. He invited me to visit his new workplace for a hot pot (huoguo) dinner when he would be off duty in the evening. We would celebrate his new job and a new beginning.
Peng had just finished his shift when I arrived. He greeted me with a warm hug, wearing a dark blue uniform, and introduced me to his colleagues – Qiang, the thirtysomething team leader from Jiangxi province, and Mr Li, a security guard in his fifties from Henan province.
‘We have ten security guards here, all from rural areas in other provinces,’ Peng explained. It wasn’t a marvellous job, but it paid more than his last, 1,100 yuan (£100–110, $174) per month. ‘I don’t mind working ten hours a day for the whole week,’ he said. ‘I’m gonna work hard.’
I knew that Peng was determined to send money home to his father. He felt that he must do that, no matter what.
Qiang joined us inside the hotel café. ‘Please sit,’ he said. He poured baijiu, or sorghum wine, into our cups, sat himself down and raised his cup: ‘Let’s toast to Peng’s new life here! Success! Let’s toast to sister Hung’s health and safe journey!’
I had to drink up. It’s easy to get drunk on baijiu – its alcohol content is 40 percent – so I followed with a gulp of hot pot soup to dilute the effect. It was delicious, a mixture of all types of mushrooms, spinach, bean curd, and beef slices.
Qiang had another cup of baijiu, and conversation turned to the security industry in Beijing and how it is one of the shadiest industries here, with only 25 law-abiding security firms, compared with over 500 unregistered ones. (Other migrant workers also quote a similar figure.) The companies work with recruiters to pull in migrants from the countryside who are desperate enough to take anything,