The Worst Place on Earth

Black sludge pours into the lake - one of many pipes lining the shore (Credit: Liam Young/Unknown Fields)

Black sludge pours into the lake – one of many pipes lining the shore (Credit: Liam Young/Unknown Fields)

Just today I came across an article on the BBC Website—frighteningly on their “Future” page—about the Inner Mongolian city of Baotou, about 500 miles north of Xi’an. There’s little that I can add; it’s a must-read and will make you think hard about your desire for another smartphone or other electronic gadget.

http://www.bbc.com/future/story/20150402-the-worst-place-on-earth

The name of my blog, Time Travel in China, springs from my observation that within China, a traveler often feels transported in time as well as space. Visit a remote village where homes still rely on charcoal heaters and are equipped with outhouses, and you’ve gone back to the turn of the American 20th century. Visit Shanghai with its skyscrapers and Maglev trains and you are in the most modern city in the world. Visit Xi’an or Beijing and experience air pollution that lies ahead if we’re not careful. Visit Baotou and glimpse an apocalyptic future.

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Across Time and Space

One of our students poses with a computer built by Jiaotong University in the only air-conditioned room on campus. © 1982, Patti Isaacs.

Because of our isolation in China, letter-writing had been a life saver since early in our stay. The arrival of the mail at the foreigner’s hotel was a highlight of each day. Lao Zhang would bring it up to our apartment with a smile—he could count on finding us in a good mood.

Our favorite correspondence came from my childhood friend Jane and her husband, Dave. One of their first letters included newspaper clippings like “How to Spot a Case of Creeping Conservatism” and the weekly synopses for “One Life to Live” and “The Guiding Light“. Even though we didn’t follow these soap operas while we were living in Minnesota, reading about them made us guffaw. Letters from home let us laugh without effort or explanation.

Most news from the outside world was filtered through Chinese censors, and was slow to arrive. The official Xinhua news agency published an English-language newspaper, China Daily, a sort of black-and-white version of the happy-peasant “New China” magazine we’d read back home. We treated it with skepticism. English-language television programming rarely made it to the Shaanxi hinterland. We could listen to the Voice of America on shortwave radio, but since it was the official propaganda arm of the U.S. government, we were suspicious of it, too. The most reliable source of outside news was the BBC World Service, whose signal faded in and out. For the most part, we felt insulated from the news of the world “out there” as if we were deep inside a high-security facility, hearing only what our keepers wanted us to hear.

In spite of feeling cut off, we wouldn’t even consider a phone call home unless there was an emergency. We’d heard that long-distance telephone calls from China had to be scheduled well in advance, could only be made from the central post office downtown, and were quite expensive: in the neighborhood of $75 for a three-minute call, half of my monthly salary. Even local phone service was spotty enough that we found ourselves biking or walking to someone’s home or office to give them a message.

Letters we sent to my parents began to follow a formula that I likened to a newspaper: first, the front page news (where we are), then a feature story (what we saw), then some amusements (usually my take on some behavior that puzzled me) followed by the business section (in which I asked Mom to assemble a package of supplies for me). Feminine hygiene products and toiletries topped the list. I hadn’t seen tampons or hair conditioner, and didn’t expect to find them anywhere. The store sold toothpaste but since it appeared to contain sugar I was reluctant to bathe my teeth in it before bedtime.

Gauss’ globe-trotting parents lived in South Africa while we were in China. The two countries didn’t have diplomatic relations, so we couldn’t send mail directly to each other. Instead, we added our letters to them to envelopes addressed to my parents in the States. My mom reposted them from Minnesota. It took about a week for our letters to reach the States, another week to get to South Africa, and another two weeks for the return trip, so a month would elapse before we got Aldo and Luisa’s reaction to the news we sent.

The lack of technology made us feel as if we’d traveled across time as well as distance. Offices on campus felt like American secretarial pools from the 1950s. One of our students proudly showed us a refrigerator-sized computer built by university personnel. Data was stored on perforated paper tape, and the takeup reel for the tape had been broken. A young woman was paid to sit on a chair next to the machine and manually wind it onto the reel. The pride and joy of the department was a Tandy personal computer, housed in the only air-conditioned room on campus. Two decades later, when I returned to campus and spoke with the university president, I learned that as a graduate student in 1981, he had been the operator of this rare machine!