A humble link in the global delivery chain
A pigeon keeper in old Beijing finds he must support his family by becoming a carrier pigeon for the new century -- hauling express-mail packages through the supermodern capital of China. Sandy Tolan reports.
Mr. Wang (Sandy Tolan)
More on International, Jobs
- Related
TEXT OF STORY
Tess Vigeland: Time again for "Working," our monthly profile of workers around the world.
So the guy from your mailroom drops an express mail package from China on your desk. It got there overnight. Big deal, right?
Actually, yes. Worldwide delivery is a $130 billion business with more than a million workers. Today, we meet one humble link in the vast delivery chain. Our Working profile is produced with Homelands Productions. Sandy Tolan introduces us to Mr. Wang, Chinese courier.
Sandy Tolan: Every morning, Laowong climbs a ladder to the tin roof of his simple brick home. Then he opens the door to a small cage, crouches low, and begins shooing out his birds.
Mr. Wang (voice of interpreter): When I wake up every morning, the first thing I do is release my pigeons. It signals to the birds that they can fly now, high up to the sky.
Mr. Wang's birds fly together, joining other flocks, whose keepers — just for the pleasure of the sound — have adorned them with bamboo whistles.
Now, Mr. Wang watches his rise in ever higher circles above his ancient Beijing neighborhood, called a hutong.
Mr. Wang: I always feel that I like to live in a hutong rather than a modern apartment building. Because in apartment building, nobody knows you and will talk to you, even the neighbors.
From this rooftop, Mr. Wang looks upon the waves of tiled roofs, low-slung buildings clustered together, armies of cyclists navigating narrow alleys, vendors calling out over walls of ancient courtyards.
But the place is not so insular as it seems.
Mr. Wang: I am a postman for EMS, Chinese express mail.
Every Monday through Friday, Laowong gets on his bicycle and rides out of his beloved hutong into the wall of sound known as modern Beijing.
[Sound of Beijing traffic]
It's mid-afternoon now, and Mr. Wang is sifting through a leaning tower of packages, mostly documents.
Mr. Wang: Seventeen, 18, 19 . . .
He's is a carrier pigeon for the 21st century. Mr. Wang's work is all about carrying messages — these ones, in tightly-wrapped packages, bound from Beijing to more than a hundred countries.
Mr. Wang: USA, Hong Kong, France . . .
Now, does Mr. Wang ever wonder what's in these packages? Where they're going? Why? And what's the big rush?
Mr. Wang: No, I never think about that.
Mr. Wang shifts into gear now, easing his green express mail van into the flotsam of Beijing traffic. A spec in a vast river of commerce.
Mr. Wang: Just look at the cars on the roads of Beijing. But everybody's eager to come to live in Beijing.
The fact is, he's like a lot of us — dare I say, hundreds of millions of us around the world. Mr. Wang works to live. He doesn't want to know more about the quarter million or more packages he's picked up in the last dozen years — those urgent documents, factory samples or packages that must be there the next day. For Mr. Wang, it's just a job.
Mr. Wang: I just want to make some money.
And so, Mr. Wang makes his rounds from a little corner of Beijing his company has carved up for him. He designs his own routes, and picks up 100, sometimes 200 packages a day.
Mr. Wang: Could you please tell the sender of this mail he didn't package it in the right way, and now we have to redo it.
And if he's thinking not so much about the destination of the packages, he is thinking how far they might take his young daughter.
Mr. Wang: All done for today, I'm leaving. See you next Monday. Bye-bye.
And now, the van parked at the post office, Mr. Wang pedals back in time — with one little stop along the way.
Wang Zheng: I like KFC better [than] Chinese food.
And that is Wang Zheng, Mr. Wang's only child — the driving force of his labors. Shy and round faced, Wang Zheng is 12. She's in pigtails and pink sneakers, waiting in line at the KFC to order her nuggets.
Mr. Wang stands beside her, beaming as she tries out her English. She prefers KFC over Chinese food. Though, she says, it's not her favorite.
Wang Zheng: I like Mcdonald's better.
Every time Mr. Wang takes Wang Zheng here, on his salary of $55 a week, it's going to cost him half a day's pay. And that's just for the chicken. Wang Zheng's tastes run to shiny things, like CDs of Chinese pop stars. Things her dad never could have imagined back in the days of the cultural revolution.
Mr. Wang: Because you know, now the children spends more than adults.
Sometimes when they come here with Wang Zheng's mom and grandma, Mr. Wang will just wait outside, smoking a cigarette. He says he feels out of place here. He looks oddly at his fries, then at me. He has a question.
Mr. Wang: Is it true that in America that people live separately and never care about their neighbors?
Because that's starting to happen here, Mr. Wang says. Hutongs are falling before the wrecking ball, and he no longer knows all his neighbors. In fact, these days, Mr. Wang lives only part-time in the hutong. The family sleeps in a modern apartment across town — so Wang Zheng can have her own room, chat with her friends online and get a competitive edge in her studies.
Nowadays, Mr. Wang says, it's all about getting ahead. Why else would he spend so much time hauling packages through traffic?
Next morning, Mr. Wang is back at the pigeon coop in his old hutong, ready for another day in the express mail van. He's already fed his birds and released them. Now, he's calling them home.
[Sound of Mr. Wang calling back his birds, wings flapping]
In Beijing, I'm Sandy Tolan for Marketplace.
Vigeland: Our story was co-produced by Lou Li with help from Elizabeth Chur.
