Volume One, Chapter Two: When Venturing Abroad to Make a Living, One Must Rely on Trustworthiness

I clenched my teeth and said nothing, heeding my brother’s words.

It was already late at night, three days later, when we arrived in Changping, Dongguan.

I stumbled off the bus, still dizzy and dazed, but suddenly I was wide awake.

That was the first time I realized there were cities where, even at eleven at night, the streets were ablaze with neon lights and throngs of people.

They wore knit sweaters and sweatpants, riding all kinds of bicycles. To me, a boy just out of the mountain village, it was utterly fashionable and new.

Then I noticed some of them wore slippers, looked unkempt, dressed very casually.

When these people glanced at me, they cast strange sidelong looks, a kind of disdain I later understood was how locals looked down on outsiders.

Outside the station plaza, my father told my brother to watch over me while he pulled out an IC phone card and headed to a nearby public phone booth.

Meanwhile, many plainly dressed men and women approached us warmly, asking where we were headed and offering rides at very cheap rates.

A few men even said they were just two passengers short of departure and could give us an even better deal—five yuan each, guaranteed to get us there.

My brother smiled oddly and waved them off one by one.

Soon after my father finished his call and returned, a middle-aged man with our hometown accent approached us.

He wore a floral shirt and was somewhat overweight, apparently well acquainted with my father, who told me to call him Uncle Nan.

After some casual chatter, Uncle Nan led us onto a small bus curtained with fabric.

The bus was packed with passengers carrying large and small bags.

Curiously, from their conversations, it seemed everyone was headed to different destinations.

But no matter where they were going, Uncle Nan, sitting beside my father, assured that he could get everyone there.

Then he told the driver to take us out of the city.

Once we left the urban area, Uncle Nan stopped chatting and looked toward the other passengers, collecting fares.

He tightened his belt, lit a cigarette, and without the previous warmth toward my father, demanded fifty yuan.

“Wasn’t it five yuan before? Why is it fifty now?” a passenger immediately shouted.

“Five yuan? Do you think I’m Li Ka-shing, with money to burn, here to do charity? Look at this bus—windows, curtains, all colorful. Fifty yuan isn’t overcharging. Pay up,” Uncle Nan said calmly.

But at the bus door, several fierce-looking men suddenly stood up, glaring at the passengers. They were clearly Uncle Nan’s men.

“Well… I’m not riding then,” a young man shouted.

One of the men bellowed at him, “Not riding? Fine! But pay first! Once you pay, you can get off! Getting on means paying! That’s just the way it is! What, you want to freeload? You got that kind of luck?”

The young man immediately fell silent.

“Alright, alright, we’re all from the same hometown, no need to shout,” Uncle Nan waved his hand calmly, as if all this was expected.

“Everyone, just pay the fare. Out here, you want peace of mind, right? Don’t go looking for trouble.”

No one spoke again. Except for my father, brother, and me, all the passengers obediently handed over the fare.

Though I was still young, I already understood what “robbery” meant.

But my father and brother kept pressing my shoulders, silently signaling me to stay quiet.

After the bus drove a while longer, it jolted on a dark road and then stalled.

The driver tried several times but couldn’t restart the engine.

The passengers grew tense, afraid Uncle Nan and his crew were putting on a show—charging fifty yuan and then not delivering them.

Uncle Nan stood up again, telling everyone not to worry.

He said in life, trust is everything. Since they’d paid, he would make sure everyone got to their destinations. He had already called a friend with another small bus, which would come soon for a transfer.

Sure enough, within minutes, another small bus arrived on the dark road.

The passengers visibly relaxed and got off to transfer.

But my brother held me close, not letting me leave the bus.

I was puzzled—why stay when the bus was broken?

Then I saw the other passengers climb onto the second bus, where another group of men quickly pulled the curtains over the windows.

Later, I learned these buses were called “wild chicken buses,” used to transport “piglets” for profit.

The passengers were the “piglets,” held at the mercy of their captors.

No matter if they had paid before, once on the second bus, they had to pay again.

Uncle Nan and my father were from the same hometown. They had taken the same train to Dongguan. My father and brother had managed to get into a factory, but Uncle Nan had been turned away.

During that time, my father often tossed steamed buns over the canteen’s back wall to Uncle Nan outside, helping him survive until he turned to crooked business and joined the “wild chicken bus” gang.

I remember around 2003, Uncle Nan was burned by rival gangs, locked up, and then disappeared without further news.

When we reached the Huaizhu Industrial Zone, my father wanted to pay Uncle Nan the fare, but he refused. My father then sent my brother to buy some Da Qianmen cigarettes to give him.

By then, it was past midnight. My father gave me a stern warning to follow my brother, work hard, avoid trouble, and earn enough to hold our heads high.

He said this because my father and brother worked in different factories.

My father’s factory was full; only my brother’s garment factory had a few openings.

After my father left, my brother didn’t rush me into the factory.

Instead, he told me about life in Dongguan while taking me to the market for a late-night snack to experience the local hustle and bustle.

He said that in a couple of years, once he saved enough, he wanted to open a food stall and be his own boss.

“Ah Hui, you’ll have to help me then. But you’ve got to practice your mouth. Remember, here in Dongguan, when you meet a guy, call him ‘handsome guy’; when you meet a girl, call her ‘pretty girl.’

“Oh, you’re still young, so for guys say ‘handsome brother,’ and for girls ‘pretty sister.’ Got it?”

I didn’t reply immediately.

Because at that moment, I met a woman who would become very important in my life—someone who still haunts my dreams—Wen Yuzhu, Sister Yuzhu.

I remember clearly: we were walking along a narrow alley beside the factory wall toward the market.

Sister Yuzhu stood at a lit factory gate ahead.

She wore tight, well-fitted jeans and a large, bright white knit sweater. She was talking through the iron gate with the gatekeeper inside.

As she spoke, she brushed her long bangs behind her ear, revealing a face that glowed exquisitely under the dim yellow light.

She was truly beautiful, graceful from head to toe, her curves delicate. Just standing there, she was enchanting.

Besides, I had hardly ever been around adult women, so she radiated a mature, big-sister aura.

That aura stirred a primal urge in me to conquer, even though I knew nothing about men and women then.

But when the gatekeeper suddenly turned off the light, Sister Yuzhu grew anxious, repeatedly knocking on the door.

When the gatekeeper didn’t come out, she glanced down the dim alleys on both sides, looking lost.

Then she noticed us and, clutching her luggage, beckoned to us.

“Ah Hui, what are you daydreaming about? Look, this is pretty sister!”

My brother smiled and led me to greet her.

Just then, a motorcycle’s headlights suddenly blazed down the alley.

Two men sat on the bike. The driver, a crew-cut man, revved the engine and barreled straight toward Sister Yuzhu, blocking her path.

The passenger, a long-haired man, jumped off holding a steel pipe, cursing as he tried to snatch her luggage.

“Damn! Old Hei’s motorcycle gang!” my brother pushed me aside toward an abandoned tin shed beside the factory wall.

But I couldn’t stop staring at Sister Yuzhu, who, though frightened, clung fiercely to her luggage, refusing to let go.

Instinctively, I broke free from my brother’s grip.

I wasn’t trying to be a hero.

I could tolerate the pickpockets on the train and Uncle Nan’s wild chicken bus because that was the reality in Dongguan; I couldn’t change it.

But seeing Sister Yuzhu like that reminded me of my grandmother.

Wasn’t she also helpless and desperate when those kids knocked her down in the rain-soaked mud and forcibly took the roast duck she bought for me?

Are the weak meant to be bullied? Is poverty a license to be abused?

Hell no.