农村 directly translates to rural area, countryside, or village. To me, though, 农村 is a strange place between home and foreign land. The 农村 I knew as a child was grass fields and apple farms, mud puddle games and tricycles, saving my grandmother a seat for mahjong every Sunday and food fresh to the bone. Last week, I spent six days in Huizhou, a district of the Anhui province. During that time, I visited four different villages. It was nothing like what I had known.
With China’s rapid economic development over the last decade, I shouldn’t have expected things to stay the same. Last year, when I revisited my grandparents’ 农村 for the first time since I was three years old, it seemed smaller. Smaller because I was no longer three, but also because I realized I had no recollection of what was beyond the village when I was little. I just remember it being my entire world, a place where I couldn’t quite figure out the meandering and splintering paths but could always find my way to the small, one room grocery store for popsicles.
15 years later, the village was shrinking, unlike the natural growing curve of the back that made my grandmother seem more quaint with each passing year. Commercialization had reduced the outskirts of our 农村 to a few hundred piles of bricks. In the distance, I stared at the silhouettes of skyscrapers and scaffolding, the more developed part of 蓉城 where my grandpa now lives. Even he had left.
Inside the village, my grandparents’ old house remained unchanged. After looking around for a little too long, I took out my phone to record every nook and cranny of the house before I left. The entire time, I couldn’t help but wonder, how much longer till this house becomes just another pile of bricks too?
***
The first 农村 we visited was called 新农村, The New Socialist Village. Before our arrival, our teachers warned us that this particular village was rather new and might be different from what we consider to be countryside.
At 新农村, there were no grasslands or farms, nothing countryside or pastoral, no resemblance at all of my grandparents’ 农村. Instead, 新农村 was a commercialized village that thrived on the hostel industry, one where villagers focused on cultivating their online presence instead of produce and raising online-ratings instead of cattle. Admittedly, my perception of what a rural area should be is biased and out-dated. But sill, it was unsettling to see picture-perfect rooms with white linen sheets, rating plaques from American sites, and aesthetic pebble pools in a “rural area.” The two houses we visited were both air-conditioned and modern, designed more elegantly than most of the establishments I’ve been to in Beijing. It was, again, much different from the village I knew as a child, where holes in the wall were covered up with bright magazine pages and glue, and the beds were merely wooden surfaces with a few blankets on top for cushion.
Though we didn’t stay long, I saw enough to imagine a typical day for the villagers of 新农村. Perhaps it involves creating new advertisements to attract more guests, or doing research to see what the current trends are for travelers. What I do know, however, is that it definitely involves sharing their home with guests who will take from the village and go, snap a few pictures of the Chinese countryside and forget their hosts—names, faces, and all.
***
During my one-on-one class a weeks ago, my teacher asked me what part of the Huizhou trip left the deepest impression. I talked about the stone pools, the bright sheets, the commercialization—everything I could say with my limited grammar and vocabulary. At first, I thought my lack of coherence was the reason why my teacher looked so confused. But to my surprise, my teacher explained that the countryside I saw was representative of all the new rural areas in China. In reality, it wasn’t that modern day 农村 had run too far from its roots; my grandparents’ 农村 had simply stayed behind.
Nowadays, many villagers rely on tourism to stay afloat. Those who live in the city increasingly seek the fresh air and food that rural areas promise. As a result, more and more villages convert to being a 农家乐区, accommodating urbanites as a means of living. The point is that these areas can provide a taste of the peaceful, natural countryside life. And I get that. Metropolitan areas are busy. Work can be stressful. Sometimes, people just want to escape. But as more and more people decide to go to 农村 for vacation, the less of a “农村” it becomes.
宏村, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, is a perfect example. 宏村 is a village in Anhui, famous for its ancient architecture and rich history. But the moment I pushed through the turnstile after a machine scanned my ticket, I looked around and realized that much of what I was seeing was preserved, but much of it was also constructed. The Hongcun village dates back to the Ming and Qing dynasties, yet the most emphasized point during our tour seemed to be the fact that both Crouching Tiger and Hidden Dragon were filmed at the location. 宏村 truly was once a village, one where people lived a peaceful life, but it’s hard for me to say that it remains one.
***
My perception of villages in China is heavily influenced by my childhood experiences. But if a farm turns into a hotel, is it still a farm? This is an extreme way of expressing what I think has happened to the 农村 in China, how commercialization has stripped away the essence of what a 农村 is. At the same time, I wonder if I ever really understood the essence of a typical Chinese 农村 to begin with. If economic growth means less farms and more business, allowing more people to live a more comfortable life, is commercialization stripping away anything at all?
Of course, my answer is still yes. Because from the outside I don’t really understand the rapid development that has happened here, but from the inside I feel it. It is new—in the unsettling way.