This year, because of work, I intensively “unlocked” many new cities—roughly more than I had visited in the past twenty-plus years of my life. Shuttling between cities on the rails, I often leave traces in three cities in a single day, from south to north, from east to west. Every now and then I get a strange sense of dislocation, as if I were just taking the subway to commute within a single city. For most destinations, I enter from the high-speed rail station, transfer to the metro at the city’s transportation hub, then exit the metro and take a taxi that can get me to my destination within half an hour. This is what I call China on the rails.
One place that impressed me most was a destination in the Shenzhen area. It’s only a township-level unit, yet it’s already connected to the high-speed rail. For someone whose own home county doesn’t even have a high-speed rail station, this is deeply envy‑inducing. I found myself starting to look forward to the day when my hometown will have equally convenient transportation.
Also because of work, I’ve had the chance to observe some “infrastructure” still in its embryonic phase up close. Soaring, slender bridges are joined together by solid, sturdy piers, winding their way from here to the far distance. From afar you might be moved by their sheer scale, but only when you stand beneath them can you truly feel their power and vitality. Every pile, every pier, every layer is raised from nothing by workers in yellow hard hats, watered and grown with their sweat. Their safety helmets have been faded by sun and rain; they wear black‑top, white‑soled cloth shoes that clearly aren’t puncture‑proof; they speak in a cacophony of regional accents, climbing up and down the piers, nurturing bridge after bridge, supporting family after family. Yet in both mainstream media and self‑media, they seem to be invisible.
Drifting between construction sites and urban life is another kind of disorientation. Along the way, whether it’s train crew members, cleaning ladies, hardware store owners, ride‑hailing drivers, or the workers on site in white, red, and yellow helmets each performing their own roles, all of this has suddenly blurred the concept of “weekend” that was so clear to me growing up. It seems that “weekends” are merely a kind of “privilege” enjoyed by a small portion of people. Still, knowing that the masters on site will get to take a “winter vacation” in a dozen days or so, I can’t help feeling a bit envious.
With a backpack on my shoulders, stepping on the dust that flies up at the lightest touch, I walk out of a certain “world apart.” The moon shines on me, and I look at the “sun,” and this thought comes to me: from south to north, it seems that behind the phrase “infrastructure powerhouse” there are still four big characters written: “Long live the people.”