ORDOS FABLE

TEXT AND PHOTOGRAPHS BY llU JUE (劉玨)

ORDOS FABLE

TEXT AND PHOTOGRAPHS BY llU JUE (劉玨)

A sojourn to a land of ancient highways, odd architecture, and ghost cities

回到久別的家鄉(xiāng)鄂爾多斯，我卻只感到它的富有、空曠，個(gè)人和歷史都變得渺小了

FORTY MINUTES AND 600 KILOMETERS AWAY FROM BEIJING, THE PLANE BEGINS TO DESCEND. THROUGH THE CLOUDS, A VAST HIGHLAND WITH A THIN LAYER OF VEGETATION UNFOLDS. GULLY AFTER GULLY CRACKS THE EARTH, EXPOSING PALE, BROWN SOIL SUFFERING FROM PERPETUAL DROUGHT. RAINFALL IS LIMITED EVEN DURING THE SHORT, COOL SUMMER—TYPICAL MID-WEST INNER MONGOLIA. ON A PLATEAU LIES THE CITY OF ORDOS, A MONGOLIAN WORD MEANING “PALACES”. IT IS SAID THE CITY WAS FOUNDED BY A TRIBE OF MONGOL WARRIORS WHO GUARDED THE PALACE YURTS OF GENGHIS KHAN. IT ALSO HAPPENS TO BE THE PLACE I CALL HOME, A SAFE HAVEN FROM THE SWELTERING CITY HEAT OF MY ADOPTED REFUGE OF BEIJING.

Ordos (鄂爾多斯) is situated south of the Great Bend of the Yellow River. It's spread over a wide area, more than fi ve times the size of Beijing and consists of seven banners (“banner”is an Inner Mongolian demarcation similar to“county”) and one capital district—Dongsheng (東勝). Older generations like my grandparents relied on farming and animal husbandry for a living, whereas, traditionally, the Mongolian people lived mainly by ancient herding traditions.

The climate wasn't always cool and dry. Hundreds of millions years ago, Ordos was covered by one of the wettest and most luxuriant forests on the planet, but today, they are coal deposits, one sixth of the entire national reserve. As I was struck by the thought of this prehistoric rainforest, a herd of sheep peacefully nibbled grass outside the fence of the airport runway, suddenly scared away by the clamor of the monstrous, aluminum, fl ying tube, scattering like a bag of cotton candy spilled down a hillside. Azure sky, wild plains, and herds of domesticated animals—these are the images of childhood for me; 600 kilometers may as well be a million light years from Beijing.

“It wasn't blocked last time,” my father grumbled.“Now what are we gonna do?” In the gentle morning breeze, the dry land on which small trees and bushes grew exhibited a rugged beauty, but the fi rst bump in the road was hit on a newly built highway throughthe suburbs; three bright yellow traff i c cones fi rmly occupied the street ahead. Always impatient behind the wheel, my father frowned and turned to look for an alternative route.

A ghost apartment complex, a remnant of the area's coal boom

This yellow brick road leads to the City Museum, one of Kangbashi's many odd architectual wonders

“Guess we'll have to go through the town,” said my mother in the passenger seat matter-of-factly, rolling her eyes a little and turning to exchange a humorous glance with me. After all, it wasn't exactly a surprise—the city was constantly building, erecting, and constructing something new. We passed three disturbingly orange Bird's Nest-like stadiums under construction for the next year's National Traditional Games of Ethnic Minorities the city has to host. I was told that the project cost around 1.7 billion RMB.

Ever since 2000, the booming coal industry put Ordos on the fast track to development. At theindustry's peak, over 1,900 mines, big or small, were scattered in Dongsheng and its neighboring banners such as Jungar Banner and Ejin Horo Banner. Coal trucks roared nonstop, and major highways were tinted black with coal dust. Anecdotes of coal bosses fi lling sacks with cash in a matter of hours spread quickly throughout the town. Both individuals and the government accumulated a vast amount of wealth in a very short time. In less than a decade, the city's GDP grew almost exponentially, at one point reaching a yearly rate of 31 percent, giving rise to the “Ordos Fable”.

AS WE DROVE THROUGH THE STREETS OF EJlN HORO BANNER, BUllDlNG AFTER BUllDlNG OF EMPTY APARTMENTS WAS lEFT lN OUR REARVlEW MlRROR

However, for the local residents, the good times wouldn't last. The highly prof i table coal business attracted large amounts of underground private investment. Many families put their life's savings in the hands of the small mine owners, expecting to get rich overnight. Real-estate developers built apartments several times more than the entire urban population. The bubble grew bigger and bigger, until it burst. The golden times ended at 2011, when the coal market was hit by a shift in the national energy policy. The movement to standardize local mining operations forced the small mines to close. Nearly every industry and household was affected. The local economy crumbled, and the government was on the verge of bankruptcy. Large scale municipal projects were hastily cut short, leaving only the essentials. As we drove through the streets of Ejin Horo Banner, building after building of empty apartments was left in our rearview mirror, either brand new or delayed indef i nitely, relics of the coal rush heyday.

Powered by the wealth of the coal mining boom, the city's makeover still had positive effects. Driving along the highway connecting banners and districts and through the downtown areas, there were solar powered street lights, moats and bridges, museums, squares, and parks. The city somehow became an experimental ground for architects and artists with bizarre tastes: a shining steel statute that looks like a giant grill; a huge fountain resembling a smiling, spitting face; and a government off i ce building with Baroque domes. I felt strangely lost when none of these said “home” to me.

The absolute peak of a journey through the urban area is Kangbashi, a sparkling town built from scratch, 25 kilometers from the old town of Dongsheng where my family lives. The whole district was designed to hold one million people, but the people never came; back in 2010,Timecalled it “a modern day ghost town”. Over the years, the local government along with a few schools all moved to the new district, slowly attracting residents. But, despite all the effort, the population today is still only around 80,000.

We stopped at Manmade Lake in the south of Kangbashi to stretch our legs. We tried a bowl of Mongolian yogurt sold at a lonely food cart while admiring the modern day miracle of a giant pit in the dry plain to draw water from the Wulanmulun River nearby. When night falls, a large musical fountain lights up, putting on a show for the locals and a few tourists. Across the lake is the supposed CBD area where a group of skyscrapers stands—the quietest CBD I've ever seen.

We continued north, passing the city library that leans strangely to one side, the irregularly shaped city museum resembling a burnt meteorite, the Mongolian hat-shaped grand theater, and a (thankfully) normal rectangular cultural center. The square in front of the city government is naturally the grandest of all—copper statues of Genghis Khan's life on full display.

Rushing hastily out of the city and hoping to put every strange statue and stately building behind us, the city, once fi lled with hope and wealth, now stands testament to hubris and greed. But, the scenery soon changes back to wilderness, a peace and calm only available on the vast loneliness of the plains.

In the spirit of experiencing Mongolian culture, conspicuously lacking in urban life, we stopped at the racetracks to check out the horses. The racetrack was a part of the venue built for Naadam, meaning “game”or “entertainment”—a Mongolian sports competition featuring wrestling, horse racing, archery, and other traditional games. Typically held in late July, I certainly got my hopes up, expecting to see groups of strong Mongolian athletes practicing and sweating in the fi eld under the sunshine.

A reconstruction of the Straight Road of Qin, an engineering marbel from Emperor Qinshihang's reign

The ever-vigilant terracotta warriors reenact a scene for the benefit of passing tourists

To my dismay, there was not a soul in sight. We walked right into the stable, which was quite modernand spacious. A grey horse paced alone in its barn, seeing us coming and sticking its head out with excitement. “Horse riding doesn't begin until 5pm,”said a voice from behind. We turned around and found a woman in her 50s wearing a straw hat, holding a bucket.“This one is naughty; it bullies the other horses,” she pointed to the grey horse, adding, “but if you want to check out more horses, come with me.”As much as I wanted to stay with the outcast, she led us to the racetrack right behind the stable. A dozen horses—red, black, and grey—ambled about.

The woman told us that she and her husband were the only employees at the racetrack.“Horses were popular back then, we even have a female ranger in town. Our daughter was in the rangers,” she told us.“But later, due to budget cuts, it was dismissed, and she got transferred to the patrol team.”

“What about the horses?”I asked.

“Right here,” she pointed to the racetrack. Once full of strength and pride, built for speed and excellence, now you can ride one full circle for 10 RMB. “Such a pity,” the woman added. “Expensive horses brought all the way from Germany.” After a few seconds of solemn silence, we burst out laughing—so much for our genuine Mongolian cultural experience.

West of the old town of Dongsheng, we hit our fi nal stop, Qinzhidao (秦直道) or “The Straight Road of Qin”, the earliest “highway” in recorded Chinese history and built over 2,200 years ago per the orders of the Emperor Qinshihuang to better defend against the fi erce Huns in the north. This 700 kilometer-long road allowed military provisions to be transported directly and quickly from the capital city Xianyang (today's Xi'an) to Qin's northernmost county, Jiuyuan (today's Baotou) right behind the ancient Great Wall. It is said that the two greatest projects of Emperor Qinshihuang were the Great Wall and Qinzhidao. A section of the road is located in the west of Dongsheng, and a replica was built for visitors.

It turned out to be a perfect day; we practically had the place to ourselves. Divided by a bit of hilly, wild land, two palaces representing the starting and fi nishing points of the road are connected by a wide dirt road. Knowing it's just a replica, I still couldn't help but be impressed by the gorgeous scenery. Climbing the palace museum on the north, the whole road project is spread out before our eyes, with kilometers disappearing into the distance and terracotta warriors providing their important services. A few clouds slowly rolled our way, their shadow gradually covering the road meter by meter until it caught up with a square of terracotta warriors loyally guarding the carts loaded with army supplies.

A little golf car took my parents and I down the road to the palace on the other end. Passing the troops, I shouted at them: “Thank you for your service, comrades!” It was a pity that they didn't reply with “Serve the people,” but the driver was amused enough, offering to stop and let us take pictures with the hard-working Qin soldiers.

The history amazes, the grand view leaves one awestruck—but the fact is that Qinzhidao was built as much for its historical value as for its function as a large TV drama set. Supported by the local government back when the funds were ample, today the site's ownership has passed to a private company because the local government was unable to repay its debts.

Not many trips match the expectations of the visitor. Like many other cities in China, Ordos was caught up in the overwhelming torrent of development and couldn't resist the easy move to exploit its own resources. The swift changes and the speed at which the city expanded left many of its people disoriented. Even though the GDP isn't skyrocketing anymore, Ordos seems somehow disconnected from me and indelibly intertwined with China. Perhaps this is because I'm not sure which future I'm looking into: maybe the resource rich areas of China are doomed to overdevelopment, exploitation, and the loss such things leave in their wake; or, perhaps it's a different future—a future to be found in the brilliance of that ancient highway, the ambition to build, and the foolish hope only found in a long journey ahead.

“THlS ONE lS NAUGHTY; lT BUlllES THE OTHER HORSES”