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We must “let some get rich first，” Deng Xiaoping famously stated， summarizing a development strategy that has turbo-charged China’s urbanization for decades. As emerging megacities drained the countryside of working-aged people， China gave rise to the second most billionaires in the world， all the while leaving behind 600 million in rural areas who live on less than 1，000 RMB （150 USD） a month.
Now， China’s leaders are promising a great recalibration： President Xi Jinping declared in 2014 that China would invest hundreds of billions of RMB into the countryside to eradicate extreme poverty by the end of 2020， at the pace of one million people per month.
On the eve of Xi’s audacious deadline， we go on the road in Jilin， Zhejiang， and Sichuan provinces to witness on-the-ground efforts to inject new life into declining villages. Some residents experiment with new methods of income—such as livestreaming and tourism—while others bring back rural cooperatives. As remote corners are connected to roads and internet， and college graduates forego the city grind to pursue more bucolic dreams， China’s countryside seeks a second life. So how far away is that “rich and rural” country life？
扶貧四十多年来，中国农村发生了翻天覆地的变化。
走进四川凉山“悬崖村”、浙江温岭“彩虹村”和吉林延边州，看网红直播、旅游农业、新型农村合作社和越来越多选择
回乡创业的年轻人如何改变了当地人的生活
LIVE FROM LIANGSHAN
Residents of “cliff villages” broadcast their lives at 2，500 meters’ altitude
When 39-year-old Mose Erti first saw young people in his village holding selfie sticks and gesticulating wildly at their phones， he thought they looked like lunatics.
It was incomprehensible to villagers of his age that people could earn money just talking nonstop at an invisible audience. “How can they have so much to say？” he mused to Beijing Youth Daily in 2018.
“Good morning， sisters and brothers！ Today Wu Da is carrying a 50-kilogram bag of rice and oil up the mountain，” the young man yelled into the camera， his face dripping with sweat.
He gripped the railing of a steel staircase in one hand and a selfie stick in another， so that his 1.2 million followers on the video streaming app Kuaishou would not miss witnessing his vertiginous climb up the 800-meter cliff. “It’s really heavy. Hope you give Wu Da a double heart and star， and follow me！ Thanks for your support！”
Just four years ago， the closest distance between Atulie’er village and the online world was an internet café 70 kilometers away. There was no mobile network coverage in the village， and few residents had a phone， except members of the village committee. Yet by the beginning of 2020， over 180 people in a village of 500 had made accounts on livestreaming platforms Douyin and Kuaishou with the word “Cliff Village” in their usernames， showing the world their lives at 2，500 meters above sea level in the mountains of the Liangshan Yi Autonomous Prefecture.
The village in Sichuan province first rose to internet fame due to a viral video in 2016 that showed 15 children going to and from school via ladders made of vines， their backpacks strung together with rope for safety as they edged up the sheer cliff. The video shocked millions of viewers， and even President Xi Jinping， before a full assembly of the nation’s leaders at China’s congressional meeting in 2017， said it “made the heart heavy.”
The theme of President Xi’s speech was China’s poverty alleviation campaign， which aimed to lift 70 million out of poverty by the end of 2020. “Cliff Village” quickly became the campaign’s poster child， as a mountainous and isolated part of the country that symbolized a “last frontier” for poverty alleviation. From 2012 to 2020， Sichuan’s investment in transportation infrastructure exceeded 100 billion RMB for nine consecutive years in the final push to connect every last village to a road.
With all eyes on “Cliff Village，” changes came swiftly. The town built a steel ladder to replace the one made of vines in 2016， and erected a cell tower in 2017. The arrival of these physical and digital channels to the outside world transformed village life indelibly.
When the cell tower was completed in 2017， 22-year-old Mose Labo， who was part of the ladder’s construction team， bought a smartphone and asked a friend how to upload videos. He started to shoot gravity-defying footage of himself leaping across steel railings and walking across suspension bridges， becoming known as the “Cliff Village Flying Man.”
Gaining 126，000 followers in five months， Labo soon discovered that one video could earn him between a few dozen to 500 RMB in donations from fans， credited to his user account and redeemable through WeChat. Previously， his income from farming was less than 1，000 RMB a month.
Labo’s friend， Mose Subure， who also goes by Yang Yang， started livestreaming the same year. Rather than performing heart-stopping stunts for the camera， though， Yang Yang promoted agricultural products， eventually using the platform to help villagers sell walnuts and other produce.
Many households have eagerly bought smartphones and internet routers. “The elderly people love our internet routers very much. Many covered theirs with a thick cloth to protect it from dust and mice. We had to advise them to remove the covering， as it interfered with the signal，” Mose Erti told Beijing Youth Daily in 2018. “Young people would hold their phones day and night and refuse to leave it， watching videos and chatting.” However， Mose Erti recounted， the transition was not without rough patches. Unaware of the difference between Wi-Fi and mobile data， many families racked up phone bills of up to 3，000 RMB in the first month， far surpassing the 100 RMB monthly stipend they received under the poverty alleviation project （the village leaders negotiated with the phone companies to drop the charges）.
Yang Yang notes that interactions with those outside “have brought big changes in customs in the village. During my broadcast， some netizens asked why we squat when we eat，” he told Beijing News in 2017. “Now， many people in the village have begun to sit and eat.”
Ah Niu， an Atulie’er resident with 190，000 followers on Douyin， told TWOC that he is the owner of his village’s first dining table， a gift from a netizen who watched his videos last year. The wooden table was shipped to the nearest town， where Ah Niu picked it up and carried it up the mountain on his back.
He has since also paved the dirt floor of his home with cement， and strung flowered cloths to decorate the walls that hang with the backpacks of his four children. “Before， we could only guarantee that we weren’t hungry，” said Ah Niu.
Chen Guji， a 39-year-old collector of wild honey， took to livestreaming in 2018. Selling his honey at 300 RMB per kilogram， he made 7，500 RMB in his first year， and celebrated by slaughtering a 50-kilogram pig for the Yi New Year to share with his family and neighbors.
The pace of change has created a gulf between those fluent in Mandarin， and those who aren’t. On the way up the mountain， a 24-year-old man named Qiongtie told TWOC in broken Mandarin that he is unable to livestream because he can’t read， and doesn’t have the money to buy a smartphone. Instead， he can make 150 RMB a day carrying baggage up for tourists.
Ah Niu， though， pointed out that he only attended school until the second grade. He posts videos by memorizing the buttons， and chats with his followers using voice messaging and speech-to-text functions within the livestreaming app.
Not all of Cliff Village’s residents look positively on the new trend. “Every young person in the village is doing it，” said Lao Ma， livestreamer Wu Da’s uncle. “But 50-year-olds like me，” he clucks to TWOC， “are too attached to our dignity to act like that in front of a camera.”
Village doctor Hailai Jiji was even more critical. “To display your suffering to others and elicit their sympathy is very bad，” he told Xinhua News in July. He surmises that audiences may eventually tire of watching young people in the village eat potatoes and climb the ladder， and young people should instead pursue skills or knowledge that can lead to reliable work. Lao Ma relocated to the base of the mountain 20 years ago， and this year moved into a modern apartment subsidized by the government through the poverty alleviation project. His grandchildren have come down from Cliff Village to attend school， which he hopes will afford them more choices in the future than farming—or livestreaming.
The blogger Peigen insisted in his 2019 vlog “Around China in Ten Years” that “what people in Liangshan need is not injections of money， but education.” He notes there are villages in similar conditions near Atulie’er that cannot rely on internet fame to improve their living standards.
As the poverty alleviation program heads into its last months， livestreamers in Liangshan now face new challenges and divergent fates. Many villagers， including the 84 households officially designated as “impoverished households，” have been relocated by the government to homes below the mountain.
On May 3， Labo livestreamed his departure from Cliff Village into a furnished， 100-square-meter apartment in Zhaojue county seat. Through his lens， lines of villagers descended the steel ladder with bags and baskets for the last time.
Without fields to cultivate， and often without Mandarin and other marketable skills， many relocated villagers have struggled to find a job in town. Thanks to Labo’s numerous interviews on TV from his livestreaming career， though， he has been singled out for a contract with a tourism company.
Some， like Yang Yang， have chosen to stay behind. While many fans comment on his videos that life on the mountain is “too poor” and encourage him to move， he tells media that he hopes to one day open an inn in the village to share with visitors the life and culture of his community.
In the meantime， he continues to promote local products through the screen of his phone. People livestream because they “simply want to showcase themselves，” he told Beijing News. “Some tell jokes， some are cooking. I also want to try and show our mountain because it is beautiful.” – Tina Xu （徐盈盈）
CHASING RAINBOWS
A fishing village seeks “internet fame” against the tides of rural migration
Xiaonuo’s residents say the village got its colors when a local official took a trip to the seaside of Greece and Italy， and came home convinced that he could make the declining fishing community in Zhejiang province look just as postcard-perfect.
Over several months in 2017， each of the 500 households of Xiaonuo village was assigned a pastel hue to paint over their stone and cement homes： coral pink， sunflower orange， lemon yellow， or sky blue. After that， it didn’t take long for cool-hunters to begin flocking to the remote village， with some even christening it “China’s Santorini.” “Nowadays， when people travel， taking photos is as important as actually going there，” says Dai Hong， 27-year-old owner of the pink-washed Lindo Art Space， sitting in her coffee shop overlooking the sea.
On a sunny afternoon at Lindo， visitors stake out positions for snaps： lounging by the pool against a turquoise wall， sipping lattes next to tropical plants. “I have created a space to fulfill the dreams of our generation，” boasts Dai.
Dai credits the rise of “Rainbow Village” to Xiaohongshu and Weibo， social media platforms popular among young Chinese. The former， officially known in English as RED， is home to 300 million users， the majority of whom are female and under the age of 30. It is a mecca of lifestyle bloggers who have helped numerous consumer trends and travel destinations shoot to fame， including “Rainbow Village.”
The rise of Xiaonuo village is emblematic of an economic model prevalent in the Yangtze River Delta where entire villages made their fortunes by mastering a single product. Yet as China’s manufacturing rush cools， its leaders have turned their development focus toward rural communities—either by reviving agriculture， handicraft industries， or traditional architecture as vehicles of “rural nostalgia，” or adopting new-age themes like becoming “the ultimate fairytale backdrop，” as some bloggers have described Xiaonuo.
Like other villages， Xiaonuo had been gradually losing residents as young people joined the 280 million Chinese moving from the countryside to the cities， with the population dwindling so low that three other villages’ governments were merged with Xiaonuo’s last year.
Once an island in the East China Sea， Xiaonuo was connected to the Zhejiang mainland in 2018 when the strait separating it from the shore was filled to form a land bridge， much of which is now a vast parking lot that can fit over 100 cars. The 50 tour buses that arrive at “Rainbow Village” every day unleash new tides of DSLR-wielding visitors into the hilly complex of splendidly colorful houses.
Like many similar “theme towns” that pursue development unmoored from local culture and history， the village strains for a narrative—some residents tell visitors that the colors began with a woman who painted her house to guide her husband home from sea， and other women copied her until the whole village was saturated with colors. “It’s a nice story， no？” smiles Dai wanly.
Betting on the village’s touristic rise， the Dai family， originally from the nearby Jiangsu province， borrowed money from relatives to renovate old buildings at the crest of Xiaonuo Village in 2018. Having signed a 10-year lease to rent the land from local families， they are the first—and， so far， only—outsiders to come to Xiaonuo to open a business catered to tourists， taking a lion’s share of visitors. Dai Lianhua， Dai Hong’s mother， informs the visitors that they must cough up 10 RMB to take photos， or buy a cup of coffee. “It cost 3 million to build this place，” she explains. “They can’t be taking up our space for free， right？”
The influx of visitors from the outside world has turned life in Xiaonuo upside-down—in some senses， literally. Real estate values have flipped; fishing families used to prefer houses at the base of the island to avoid a hilly climb home after a long day’s labor at sea.
“Now， they all ask us： Do you have an ocean view？” says an exasperated local， Ms. Chen， whose family lives at the bottom of the hill. Chen’s family charges 200 RMB a night for a room in their family home-turned-guesthouse， while Lindo can charge up to 800 RMB for its rooms at the top of the hill with Scandinavian-style furniture and a succulent-filled courtyard.
Income from tourism hasn’t benefited all residents equally， with profits accruing to those with the money to invest and know-how to attract young Chinese tourists. Shi Jiaomi， a 67-year-old local， sells mass-produced plastic pinwheels and bubble guns as souvenirs in front of her home， as well as wooden plates on which tourists can write their wishes and hang them on a wall. “I can’t even make 1，000 RMB a month，” Shi sighs， as she struggles to communicate with visitors in her thick accent.
“So if you ask me if tourists have changed my life， the answer is no，” Shi says， though she notes the newly renovated cement sidewalk up the village has made it easier for her to climb.
Shi is like the many elderly living in Xiaonuo—her husband’s crab-fishing ship is now out somewhere in the waters off Shandong; her children have left the village to find work in the cities. She walks around the town in slippers， scooping up neighbors’ toddlers with ease. “Look， our village is only the elderly and children. Plus tourists.”
However， more and more of Xiaonuo’s residents are choosing to stay in the village， rather than sail away on fishing ships or head to work in the cities.
Chen’s husband began working on his father’s boat when he was 12 years old. Thirty years later， he no longer heads out to sea every summer. Instead， his family has opened a restaurant and small hotel， Great Wave Seafood House， advertising sour-and-spicy fish soup in neon yellow just above the parking lot.
“I didn’t graduate from elementary school. But now， at 40， I can sit indoors and make good money. Not bad， right？” he chuckles， tallying up the income from China’s “Golden Week” holiday in October. Chen Xuecheng （no direct relation to Ms. Chen）， a 23-year-old Xiaonuo native who works at Lindo Art Space， scurries about helping carry visitors’ suitcases to the gate， taking coffee orders， and showing guests to their rooms.
“My parents won’t let me go into fishing. They say the work is too hard， and too dangerous，” he notes. He had considered following a cousin to work in an air-conditioner factory in Wuhan， but when the job at Lindo opened up， he chose to stay at home.
Although paint instantly transformed Xiaonuo into Rainbow Village from the outside-in， the coming years may change it from the inside-out.
At night， the family converges in the Great Wave Seafood House for a late meal as Ms. Chen’s husband， also surnamed Chen， closes up shop. He gripes of how the Dais allegedly paid one family in Xiaonuo double what they negotiated with others for the lease of their land. Mr. Chen says the deal has created acrimony among villagers.
The newcomers have their own gripes. “Out here it’s pretty， but it’s not well-planned，” Dai Hong tells TWOC， citing kilometers-long traffic jams on holidays and a dearth of public seating areas in the village. As to her leases， she notes that there was no standard price for renting out land in the area， so she only paid as much as the residents were willing to offer.
With the local government planning to install a sea viewing terrace， and connect more roads to the village， Dai dreams of a time when the village is filled with artist studios and wedding venues—“a kind of utopia， where you can come and forget all your worries.” Dai said that the government intends to help move some sea-facing graves onto the mainland to reassure superstitious tourists， though Mr. Chen， alarmed， says he hasn’t heard of any such plans.
In the parking lot， a Taizhou city government worker on his third visit to Xiaonuo for work mourns over the changes to the community. “Before， when we did work here， there was no cheating or scamming，” he says. “Now people start to think of all kinds of ways to make a buck. The local fishing people’s lives are no longer simple or pure.”
Between the nostalgic who wish for the countryside to remain pastoral and unchanged， and those who want rural areas to rush down the same paths of development as cities， scholar Yang Guiqing seeks middle ground. “We cannot equate rural modernization with rural urbanization，” the urban planning professor at Tongji University said in a 2018 interview with People.cn， advocating instead for “organic renewals” in which “villagers can participate and share benefits.” “I don’t hope this island will be overdeveloped， but it needs fresh blood. If your planning is not well-done， you may as well not develop it，” mused Dai. “You’ll not only waste a space， but ruin it.” – T.X.
Working From Home
Urban entrepreneurs return to the countryside
Among the lucent waters and lush mountains that surround the “farmstays” springing up all around Changting， Fujian province， Zeng Xianfu can hardly believe the great transformations that have taken place in his home county in the past few decades.
The 43-year-old used to be a programmer in Zhongguancun， a high-tech hub in Beijing. Troubled by the high pressure of his job， and unaccustomed to the northern weather， Zeng returned to Changting in 2017 to operate a “leisure agriculture” and tourism business using his technological knowhow.
The county of 400，000 people is one of the heartlands of the minority Hakka culture. Often persecuted by their neighbors， the Hakka people were forced to settle in this mountainous area prone to floods， mudslides， and soil erosion， which made it difficult to grow crops.
Soil recovery efforts by the government have improved conditions in the region. “It is environmentally friendly to develop leisure agriculture here for herbs and other products，” Zeng told a team of researchers from the University of International Business and Economics， who visited in January. “It didn’t take me long to decide to come back.”
In 2017， China’s Ministry of Agriculture estimated that 7 million entrepreneurs， 40 percent of whom have at least a high school education， have relocated to the countryside to start businesses in recent years. Many of these are returning to their hometowns， citing reasons such as lower costs and competition， and a chance to live close to family or nature. These trends dovetail with the government’s plans for poverty alleviation， part of which aims to attract highly educated workers to the countryside by appealing to their “nostalgia” for a simpler life.
Zeng’s 119-hectare farm is called Huanghua Yuanzhi， after two herbs that are used to relieve stress and fatigue in Chinese medicine. He got the inspiration from his life in Beijing， where he witnessed the rat race suffered by urbanites， and his customers hail from nearby cities like Xiamen and Longyan.
Huanghua Yuanzhi employs 20 workers， who also plant agricultural products like rice and passion fruit， which Zeng promotes and sells online. His herbs go for 200 RMB per kilogram， but when packaged as medicinal tea， they’re sold for as high as 2，000 RMB a kilo. “Ecological agriculture is booming， but it also faces challenges like a lack of government promotion and operating knowledge，” Zeng told the researchers， admitting that his sales in 2019 were lower than he had hoped， and that it had not been easy for him to learn agriculture from local farmers.
Yet Zeng is still optimistic. He operates a homestay on his farm， demonstrating ecological farming to guests， and desires to establish an “honored brand” for his hometown. “Changting is my home，” he tells TWOC. “Living for so many years [in the city]， where I developed many strategies for industry， it had been a wish long hidden in my heart to help with development at home.”
– Aaron Hsueh （薛凌橋）
GROWING TOGETHER
To fight poverty， China’s farmers pool their land—again
Golden rice crops almost ready for harvest stretch to the horizon around Guangdong village in late September. The hum of activity in the fields， though， does not come from farmhands or machinery， but the tourists snapping selfies， and photographers’ drones whirring overhead.
The village， located in Yanbian Korean Autonomous Prefecture of Jilin province， is using cooperative farming methods to combine tourism with agriculture in the hope of enriching residents. A local travel agency is in charge of marketing the town and its bountiful harvest of “big rice” to visitors， and shares the profits made from the land with villagers.
There are over 2.2 million similar cooperatives in China today， up from 110，000 in 2008. They account for more than 120 million rural households， or around 50 percent of the rural population. Seemingly a throwback to the collective farming of the Mao era， but without government quotas， cooperatives now must adhere to the principles of the market， while also hoping to improve the lives of their members.
The cooperative model existed in China even before the Communist Party came to power in 1949， but has become widespread since it was formally endorsed with the Law on Farmer Specialized Cooperatives （FSCs） in 2007. Through FSCs， farmers may pool their land so that a cooperative organization takes responsibility for employing workers and selling the produce， and gives members a share of the profits.
By encouraging farmers to pool together land， the government hopes to encourage the consolidation of China’s small household-operated farms into more efficient large-scale modern agriculture. Farming in China’s countryside has been small-scale for millennia， but as the young and able-bodied migrated to the cities in the last three decades， much of the land in the countryside was left unworked. In theory， pooling resources allows the farmers to access benefits like purchasing better equipment at lower prices， sharing farming techniques， and generally improving yields and returns. Collectivizing the land under FSCs is meant to improve the efficiency of land use， which enhances China’s overall food security.
In Guangdong village， though， cooperative agriculture goes hand-in-hand with tourism in bringing in revenue. Fang Sunlei， an ethnic Korean villager who has lived in the area for 30 years， used to till his own land for meagre returns， but now rents his plot to the cooperative while he heads the new village dance troupe that performs traditional Korean dance for tourists. “Each member of our group made around 6，000 to 7，000 RMB last year，” claims Fang， who also ferries tourists around the town in an electric buggy for extra cash.
Many villagers have also turned their homes into guesthouses. Now， “everyone has been lifted out of poverty，” Fang asserts. Annual per capita income of the village reached 13，000 RMB in 2018 according to Minsheng Weekly， with the cooperative’s rice brand， Maxida， providing income on top of tourism.
But not all cooperatives prove effective， and many are dormant， or even exploitative. A study of 50 cooperatives released in 2017 by researchers from Singapore Management University found that all but two were operating as private businesses without any element of cooperation， had gone bankrupt， had fallen victim to corrupt leaders， or simply lacked members. The same year， a report by the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences found that 50 percent of all cooperatives in some areas of the country were “empty shells” set up to gain government subsidies， but not operating or providing any benefits to members.
Even when cooperatives are well-intentioned， they are not always welcomed. “When we first set up the cooperative， a lot of villagers didn’t really understand it…so there were only around 20 members，” says Xu Zhendong， a Shandong native who returned to his home village of Xuhuanglu from Shanghai to help establish a cooperative in 2011.
Often， villagers are put off by the idea of losing autonomy over their land， harboring traumatic memories of collective farming under the Maoist people’s communes. Liao Yue， a doctoral student at the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign who has researched the cooperative at Xuhuanglu， found that some farmers were reluctant to give up their right to choose what to plant and which fertilizer to use， and adverse to sharing their profits with other villagers. Despite early setbacks， Xu’s cooperative now boasts 430 households. Xu claims that because the cooperative provides better equipment， farming techniques， and has promoted switching to more profitable crops， villagers can now make 20，000 RMB a year from 1 mu （667 square meters） of land， whereas before they would only make a few thousand RMB. “Thirty percent of the profits [from the cooperative] are given to members as dividends. This is how we help poor families escape poverty，” he explains.
But “shell cooperatives” remain a huge problem， and a poorly run or deliberately fraudulent venture can be disastrous to small farmers. In 2016， the founder of a cooperative set up in Zhaizi town， Hebei province， disappeared with 26 million RMB of villagers’ savings that he had encouraged them to invest. “This was my entire life’s savings，” Li Xiaozhong， a villager who lost 21，000 RMB， lamented to the Beijing Times. “It was for my son’s marriage.”
Though life in Guangdong village has improved dramatically in the last decade， the draw of money and glamour is still potent in the city， or abroad： “There’s not one young person in the village; they’ve all gone to South Korea to work，” laments Fang. “Those left behind are all old. There are no children.”
The rice is thriving in the fields， and the cooperative is building new guesthouses in the hope that more tourists will come. Other houses in the village are deserted， with weeds growing in the yards. Farming may be returning to the countryside—but it remains to be seen if new generations are willing to cooperate to make it grow. – Sam Davies
Behind the Victory
Grassroots workers struggle under immense pressure to meet anti-poverty targets
Lijiagou， an arid township in Shanxi province， wants to eliminate poverty in five remaining villages. But for Liu Feng， head of Lijiagou’s “poverty alleviation workstation，” it has also eliminated something else. “If hair loss can lead to poverty loss， then I can’t wait to go completely bald，” Liu quipped to China News， looking older than his 40 years.
To meet poverty alleviation targets， Liu once stayed up for 48 hours， and returned to work 15 days after a car accident for which he needed surgery. Behind the anti-poverty numbers China has touted throughout domestic media this year， its deadline for eliminating poverty and achieving a “moderately prosperous society，” the pressure on grassroots-level cadres to meet these targets goes underreported. According to China Comment magazine， a staggering 17 cadres dispatched to alleviate poverty in one unnamed county in southwestern China resigned in 2018 alone. “The closer to the grassroots level， the heavier the workload， and the fewer the people able to execute it，” one former head of the county workstation said.
In some cases， accountability measures have proven counter-productive. The state-run Xinhua News Agency reported in December 2018 that a cadre in a county in western China lost his annual bonus because of two punctuation errors he made in a booklet of reports.
Overwhelming workload has even triggered death. Liu Yongfu， head of the State Council’s Poverty Alleviation Office， estimated that over 770 poverty alleviation workers have died in the line of duty as of June 2019. According to news reports， cadres have died of natural disasters， health conditions due to overwork or harsh local conditions， car accidents on country roads， and even violent attacks by locals.
Poverty elimination is often a form-filing nightmare， exacerbated by constantly updating standards and incomplete digital registration systems. A cadre in western China told Xinhua that housing information of poor families alone needs to be input on two different apps. “There are over 200 impoverished households in the village. Cadres have to fill in their information day and night. Every day is like a battle.”
Low income is the last straw for many. A civil servant of over 20 years in southwestern China resigned last year due to his paltry salary， according to China Comment. Chen Yue， a cadre who has worked for eight years in an impoverished county in Shanxi， told South Review magazine that his monthly disposable income was just 2，000 RMB last year， with no overtime pay.
The State Council released measures last year to improve the safety of cadres， including “eliminating formalism and bureaucratism， decreasing the number of meetings， forms， and evaluations，” and “not punishing [cadres] for natural objective conditions that delay their work，” such as adverse weather or natural disasters. – Yang Tingting （楊婷婷）
Now， China’s leaders are promising a great recalibration： President Xi Jinping declared in 2014 that China would invest hundreds of billions of RMB into the countryside to eradicate extreme poverty by the end of 2020， at the pace of one million people per month.
On the eve of Xi’s audacious deadline， we go on the road in Jilin， Zhejiang， and Sichuan provinces to witness on-the-ground efforts to inject new life into declining villages. Some residents experiment with new methods of income—such as livestreaming and tourism—while others bring back rural cooperatives. As remote corners are connected to roads and internet， and college graduates forego the city grind to pursue more bucolic dreams， China’s countryside seeks a second life. So how far away is that “rich and rural” country life？
扶貧四十多年来，中国农村发生了翻天覆地的变化。
走进四川凉山“悬崖村”、浙江温岭“彩虹村”和吉林延边州，看网红直播、旅游农业、新型农村合作社和越来越多选择
回乡创业的年轻人如何改变了当地人的生活
LIVE FROM LIANGSHAN
Residents of “cliff villages” broadcast their lives at 2，500 meters’ altitude
When 39-year-old Mose Erti first saw young people in his village holding selfie sticks and gesticulating wildly at their phones， he thought they looked like lunatics.
It was incomprehensible to villagers of his age that people could earn money just talking nonstop at an invisible audience. “How can they have so much to say？” he mused to Beijing Youth Daily in 2018.
“Good morning， sisters and brothers！ Today Wu Da is carrying a 50-kilogram bag of rice and oil up the mountain，” the young man yelled into the camera， his face dripping with sweat.
He gripped the railing of a steel staircase in one hand and a selfie stick in another， so that his 1.2 million followers on the video streaming app Kuaishou would not miss witnessing his vertiginous climb up the 800-meter cliff. “It’s really heavy. Hope you give Wu Da a double heart and star， and follow me！ Thanks for your support！”
Just four years ago， the closest distance between Atulie’er village and the online world was an internet café 70 kilometers away. There was no mobile network coverage in the village， and few residents had a phone， except members of the village committee. Yet by the beginning of 2020， over 180 people in a village of 500 had made accounts on livestreaming platforms Douyin and Kuaishou with the word “Cliff Village” in their usernames， showing the world their lives at 2，500 meters above sea level in the mountains of the Liangshan Yi Autonomous Prefecture.
The village in Sichuan province first rose to internet fame due to a viral video in 2016 that showed 15 children going to and from school via ladders made of vines， their backpacks strung together with rope for safety as they edged up the sheer cliff. The video shocked millions of viewers， and even President Xi Jinping， before a full assembly of the nation’s leaders at China’s congressional meeting in 2017， said it “made the heart heavy.”
The theme of President Xi’s speech was China’s poverty alleviation campaign， which aimed to lift 70 million out of poverty by the end of 2020. “Cliff Village” quickly became the campaign’s poster child， as a mountainous and isolated part of the country that symbolized a “last frontier” for poverty alleviation. From 2012 to 2020， Sichuan’s investment in transportation infrastructure exceeded 100 billion RMB for nine consecutive years in the final push to connect every last village to a road.
With all eyes on “Cliff Village，” changes came swiftly. The town built a steel ladder to replace the one made of vines in 2016， and erected a cell tower in 2017. The arrival of these physical and digital channels to the outside world transformed village life indelibly.
When the cell tower was completed in 2017， 22-year-old Mose Labo， who was part of the ladder’s construction team， bought a smartphone and asked a friend how to upload videos. He started to shoot gravity-defying footage of himself leaping across steel railings and walking across suspension bridges， becoming known as the “Cliff Village Flying Man.”
Gaining 126，000 followers in five months， Labo soon discovered that one video could earn him between a few dozen to 500 RMB in donations from fans， credited to his user account and redeemable through WeChat. Previously， his income from farming was less than 1，000 RMB a month.
Labo’s friend， Mose Subure， who also goes by Yang Yang， started livestreaming the same year. Rather than performing heart-stopping stunts for the camera， though， Yang Yang promoted agricultural products， eventually using the platform to help villagers sell walnuts and other produce.
Many households have eagerly bought smartphones and internet routers. “The elderly people love our internet routers very much. Many covered theirs with a thick cloth to protect it from dust and mice. We had to advise them to remove the covering， as it interfered with the signal，” Mose Erti told Beijing Youth Daily in 2018. “Young people would hold their phones day and night and refuse to leave it， watching videos and chatting.” However， Mose Erti recounted， the transition was not without rough patches. Unaware of the difference between Wi-Fi and mobile data， many families racked up phone bills of up to 3，000 RMB in the first month， far surpassing the 100 RMB monthly stipend they received under the poverty alleviation project （the village leaders negotiated with the phone companies to drop the charges）.
Yang Yang notes that interactions with those outside “have brought big changes in customs in the village. During my broadcast， some netizens asked why we squat when we eat，” he told Beijing News in 2017. “Now， many people in the village have begun to sit and eat.”
Ah Niu， an Atulie’er resident with 190，000 followers on Douyin， told TWOC that he is the owner of his village’s first dining table， a gift from a netizen who watched his videos last year. The wooden table was shipped to the nearest town， where Ah Niu picked it up and carried it up the mountain on his back.
He has since also paved the dirt floor of his home with cement， and strung flowered cloths to decorate the walls that hang with the backpacks of his four children. “Before， we could only guarantee that we weren’t hungry，” said Ah Niu.
Chen Guji， a 39-year-old collector of wild honey， took to livestreaming in 2018. Selling his honey at 300 RMB per kilogram， he made 7，500 RMB in his first year， and celebrated by slaughtering a 50-kilogram pig for the Yi New Year to share with his family and neighbors.
The pace of change has created a gulf between those fluent in Mandarin， and those who aren’t. On the way up the mountain， a 24-year-old man named Qiongtie told TWOC in broken Mandarin that he is unable to livestream because he can’t read， and doesn’t have the money to buy a smartphone. Instead， he can make 150 RMB a day carrying baggage up for tourists.
Ah Niu， though， pointed out that he only attended school until the second grade. He posts videos by memorizing the buttons， and chats with his followers using voice messaging and speech-to-text functions within the livestreaming app.
Not all of Cliff Village’s residents look positively on the new trend. “Every young person in the village is doing it，” said Lao Ma， livestreamer Wu Da’s uncle. “But 50-year-olds like me，” he clucks to TWOC， “are too attached to our dignity to act like that in front of a camera.”
Village doctor Hailai Jiji was even more critical. “To display your suffering to others and elicit their sympathy is very bad，” he told Xinhua News in July. He surmises that audiences may eventually tire of watching young people in the village eat potatoes and climb the ladder， and young people should instead pursue skills or knowledge that can lead to reliable work. Lao Ma relocated to the base of the mountain 20 years ago， and this year moved into a modern apartment subsidized by the government through the poverty alleviation project. His grandchildren have come down from Cliff Village to attend school， which he hopes will afford them more choices in the future than farming—or livestreaming.
The blogger Peigen insisted in his 2019 vlog “Around China in Ten Years” that “what people in Liangshan need is not injections of money， but education.” He notes there are villages in similar conditions near Atulie’er that cannot rely on internet fame to improve their living standards.
As the poverty alleviation program heads into its last months， livestreamers in Liangshan now face new challenges and divergent fates. Many villagers， including the 84 households officially designated as “impoverished households，” have been relocated by the government to homes below the mountain.
On May 3， Labo livestreamed his departure from Cliff Village into a furnished， 100-square-meter apartment in Zhaojue county seat. Through his lens， lines of villagers descended the steel ladder with bags and baskets for the last time.
Without fields to cultivate， and often without Mandarin and other marketable skills， many relocated villagers have struggled to find a job in town. Thanks to Labo’s numerous interviews on TV from his livestreaming career， though， he has been singled out for a contract with a tourism company.
Some， like Yang Yang， have chosen to stay behind. While many fans comment on his videos that life on the mountain is “too poor” and encourage him to move， he tells media that he hopes to one day open an inn in the village to share with visitors the life and culture of his community.
In the meantime， he continues to promote local products through the screen of his phone. People livestream because they “simply want to showcase themselves，” he told Beijing News. “Some tell jokes， some are cooking. I also want to try and show our mountain because it is beautiful.” – Tina Xu （徐盈盈）
CHASING RAINBOWS
A fishing village seeks “internet fame” against the tides of rural migration
Xiaonuo’s residents say the village got its colors when a local official took a trip to the seaside of Greece and Italy， and came home convinced that he could make the declining fishing community in Zhejiang province look just as postcard-perfect.
Over several months in 2017， each of the 500 households of Xiaonuo village was assigned a pastel hue to paint over their stone and cement homes： coral pink， sunflower orange， lemon yellow， or sky blue. After that， it didn’t take long for cool-hunters to begin flocking to the remote village， with some even christening it “China’s Santorini.” “Nowadays， when people travel， taking photos is as important as actually going there，” says Dai Hong， 27-year-old owner of the pink-washed Lindo Art Space， sitting in her coffee shop overlooking the sea.
On a sunny afternoon at Lindo， visitors stake out positions for snaps： lounging by the pool against a turquoise wall， sipping lattes next to tropical plants. “I have created a space to fulfill the dreams of our generation，” boasts Dai.
Dai credits the rise of “Rainbow Village” to Xiaohongshu and Weibo， social media platforms popular among young Chinese. The former， officially known in English as RED， is home to 300 million users， the majority of whom are female and under the age of 30. It is a mecca of lifestyle bloggers who have helped numerous consumer trends and travel destinations shoot to fame， including “Rainbow Village.”
The rise of Xiaonuo village is emblematic of an economic model prevalent in the Yangtze River Delta where entire villages made their fortunes by mastering a single product. Yet as China’s manufacturing rush cools， its leaders have turned their development focus toward rural communities—either by reviving agriculture， handicraft industries， or traditional architecture as vehicles of “rural nostalgia，” or adopting new-age themes like becoming “the ultimate fairytale backdrop，” as some bloggers have described Xiaonuo.
Like other villages， Xiaonuo had been gradually losing residents as young people joined the 280 million Chinese moving from the countryside to the cities， with the population dwindling so low that three other villages’ governments were merged with Xiaonuo’s last year.
Once an island in the East China Sea， Xiaonuo was connected to the Zhejiang mainland in 2018 when the strait separating it from the shore was filled to form a land bridge， much of which is now a vast parking lot that can fit over 100 cars. The 50 tour buses that arrive at “Rainbow Village” every day unleash new tides of DSLR-wielding visitors into the hilly complex of splendidly colorful houses.
Like many similar “theme towns” that pursue development unmoored from local culture and history， the village strains for a narrative—some residents tell visitors that the colors began with a woman who painted her house to guide her husband home from sea， and other women copied her until the whole village was saturated with colors. “It’s a nice story， no？” smiles Dai wanly.
Betting on the village’s touristic rise， the Dai family， originally from the nearby Jiangsu province， borrowed money from relatives to renovate old buildings at the crest of Xiaonuo Village in 2018. Having signed a 10-year lease to rent the land from local families， they are the first—and， so far， only—outsiders to come to Xiaonuo to open a business catered to tourists， taking a lion’s share of visitors. Dai Lianhua， Dai Hong’s mother， informs the visitors that they must cough up 10 RMB to take photos， or buy a cup of coffee. “It cost 3 million to build this place，” she explains. “They can’t be taking up our space for free， right？”
The influx of visitors from the outside world has turned life in Xiaonuo upside-down—in some senses， literally. Real estate values have flipped; fishing families used to prefer houses at the base of the island to avoid a hilly climb home after a long day’s labor at sea.
“Now， they all ask us： Do you have an ocean view？” says an exasperated local， Ms. Chen， whose family lives at the bottom of the hill. Chen’s family charges 200 RMB a night for a room in their family home-turned-guesthouse， while Lindo can charge up to 800 RMB for its rooms at the top of the hill with Scandinavian-style furniture and a succulent-filled courtyard.
Income from tourism hasn’t benefited all residents equally， with profits accruing to those with the money to invest and know-how to attract young Chinese tourists. Shi Jiaomi， a 67-year-old local， sells mass-produced plastic pinwheels and bubble guns as souvenirs in front of her home， as well as wooden plates on which tourists can write their wishes and hang them on a wall. “I can’t even make 1，000 RMB a month，” Shi sighs， as she struggles to communicate with visitors in her thick accent.
“So if you ask me if tourists have changed my life， the answer is no，” Shi says， though she notes the newly renovated cement sidewalk up the village has made it easier for her to climb.
Shi is like the many elderly living in Xiaonuo—her husband’s crab-fishing ship is now out somewhere in the waters off Shandong; her children have left the village to find work in the cities. She walks around the town in slippers， scooping up neighbors’ toddlers with ease. “Look， our village is only the elderly and children. Plus tourists.”
However， more and more of Xiaonuo’s residents are choosing to stay in the village， rather than sail away on fishing ships or head to work in the cities.
Chen’s husband began working on his father’s boat when he was 12 years old. Thirty years later， he no longer heads out to sea every summer. Instead， his family has opened a restaurant and small hotel， Great Wave Seafood House， advertising sour-and-spicy fish soup in neon yellow just above the parking lot.
“I didn’t graduate from elementary school. But now， at 40， I can sit indoors and make good money. Not bad， right？” he chuckles， tallying up the income from China’s “Golden Week” holiday in October. Chen Xuecheng （no direct relation to Ms. Chen）， a 23-year-old Xiaonuo native who works at Lindo Art Space， scurries about helping carry visitors’ suitcases to the gate， taking coffee orders， and showing guests to their rooms.
“My parents won’t let me go into fishing. They say the work is too hard， and too dangerous，” he notes. He had considered following a cousin to work in an air-conditioner factory in Wuhan， but when the job at Lindo opened up， he chose to stay at home.
Although paint instantly transformed Xiaonuo into Rainbow Village from the outside-in， the coming years may change it from the inside-out.
At night， the family converges in the Great Wave Seafood House for a late meal as Ms. Chen’s husband， also surnamed Chen， closes up shop. He gripes of how the Dais allegedly paid one family in Xiaonuo double what they negotiated with others for the lease of their land. Mr. Chen says the deal has created acrimony among villagers.
The newcomers have their own gripes. “Out here it’s pretty， but it’s not well-planned，” Dai Hong tells TWOC， citing kilometers-long traffic jams on holidays and a dearth of public seating areas in the village. As to her leases， she notes that there was no standard price for renting out land in the area， so she only paid as much as the residents were willing to offer.
With the local government planning to install a sea viewing terrace， and connect more roads to the village， Dai dreams of a time when the village is filled with artist studios and wedding venues—“a kind of utopia， where you can come and forget all your worries.” Dai said that the government intends to help move some sea-facing graves onto the mainland to reassure superstitious tourists， though Mr. Chen， alarmed， says he hasn’t heard of any such plans.
In the parking lot， a Taizhou city government worker on his third visit to Xiaonuo for work mourns over the changes to the community. “Before， when we did work here， there was no cheating or scamming，” he says. “Now people start to think of all kinds of ways to make a buck. The local fishing people’s lives are no longer simple or pure.”
Between the nostalgic who wish for the countryside to remain pastoral and unchanged， and those who want rural areas to rush down the same paths of development as cities， scholar Yang Guiqing seeks middle ground. “We cannot equate rural modernization with rural urbanization，” the urban planning professor at Tongji University said in a 2018 interview with People.cn， advocating instead for “organic renewals” in which “villagers can participate and share benefits.” “I don’t hope this island will be overdeveloped， but it needs fresh blood. If your planning is not well-done， you may as well not develop it，” mused Dai. “You’ll not only waste a space， but ruin it.” – T.X.
Working From Home
Urban entrepreneurs return to the countryside
Among the lucent waters and lush mountains that surround the “farmstays” springing up all around Changting， Fujian province， Zeng Xianfu can hardly believe the great transformations that have taken place in his home county in the past few decades.
The 43-year-old used to be a programmer in Zhongguancun， a high-tech hub in Beijing. Troubled by the high pressure of his job， and unaccustomed to the northern weather， Zeng returned to Changting in 2017 to operate a “leisure agriculture” and tourism business using his technological knowhow.
The county of 400，000 people is one of the heartlands of the minority Hakka culture. Often persecuted by their neighbors， the Hakka people were forced to settle in this mountainous area prone to floods， mudslides， and soil erosion， which made it difficult to grow crops.
Soil recovery efforts by the government have improved conditions in the region. “It is environmentally friendly to develop leisure agriculture here for herbs and other products，” Zeng told a team of researchers from the University of International Business and Economics， who visited in January. “It didn’t take me long to decide to come back.”
In 2017， China’s Ministry of Agriculture estimated that 7 million entrepreneurs， 40 percent of whom have at least a high school education， have relocated to the countryside to start businesses in recent years. Many of these are returning to their hometowns， citing reasons such as lower costs and competition， and a chance to live close to family or nature. These trends dovetail with the government’s plans for poverty alleviation， part of which aims to attract highly educated workers to the countryside by appealing to their “nostalgia” for a simpler life.
Zeng’s 119-hectare farm is called Huanghua Yuanzhi， after two herbs that are used to relieve stress and fatigue in Chinese medicine. He got the inspiration from his life in Beijing， where he witnessed the rat race suffered by urbanites， and his customers hail from nearby cities like Xiamen and Longyan.
Huanghua Yuanzhi employs 20 workers， who also plant agricultural products like rice and passion fruit， which Zeng promotes and sells online. His herbs go for 200 RMB per kilogram， but when packaged as medicinal tea， they’re sold for as high as 2，000 RMB a kilo. “Ecological agriculture is booming， but it also faces challenges like a lack of government promotion and operating knowledge，” Zeng told the researchers， admitting that his sales in 2019 were lower than he had hoped， and that it had not been easy for him to learn agriculture from local farmers.
Yet Zeng is still optimistic. He operates a homestay on his farm， demonstrating ecological farming to guests， and desires to establish an “honored brand” for his hometown. “Changting is my home，” he tells TWOC. “Living for so many years [in the city]， where I developed many strategies for industry， it had been a wish long hidden in my heart to help with development at home.”
– Aaron Hsueh （薛凌橋）
GROWING TOGETHER
To fight poverty， China’s farmers pool their land—again
Golden rice crops almost ready for harvest stretch to the horizon around Guangdong village in late September. The hum of activity in the fields， though， does not come from farmhands or machinery， but the tourists snapping selfies， and photographers’ drones whirring overhead.
The village， located in Yanbian Korean Autonomous Prefecture of Jilin province， is using cooperative farming methods to combine tourism with agriculture in the hope of enriching residents. A local travel agency is in charge of marketing the town and its bountiful harvest of “big rice” to visitors， and shares the profits made from the land with villagers.
There are over 2.2 million similar cooperatives in China today， up from 110，000 in 2008. They account for more than 120 million rural households， or around 50 percent of the rural population. Seemingly a throwback to the collective farming of the Mao era， but without government quotas， cooperatives now must adhere to the principles of the market， while also hoping to improve the lives of their members.
The cooperative model existed in China even before the Communist Party came to power in 1949， but has become widespread since it was formally endorsed with the Law on Farmer Specialized Cooperatives （FSCs） in 2007. Through FSCs， farmers may pool their land so that a cooperative organization takes responsibility for employing workers and selling the produce， and gives members a share of the profits.
By encouraging farmers to pool together land， the government hopes to encourage the consolidation of China’s small household-operated farms into more efficient large-scale modern agriculture. Farming in China’s countryside has been small-scale for millennia， but as the young and able-bodied migrated to the cities in the last three decades， much of the land in the countryside was left unworked. In theory， pooling resources allows the farmers to access benefits like purchasing better equipment at lower prices， sharing farming techniques， and generally improving yields and returns. Collectivizing the land under FSCs is meant to improve the efficiency of land use， which enhances China’s overall food security.
In Guangdong village， though， cooperative agriculture goes hand-in-hand with tourism in bringing in revenue. Fang Sunlei， an ethnic Korean villager who has lived in the area for 30 years， used to till his own land for meagre returns， but now rents his plot to the cooperative while he heads the new village dance troupe that performs traditional Korean dance for tourists. “Each member of our group made around 6，000 to 7，000 RMB last year，” claims Fang， who also ferries tourists around the town in an electric buggy for extra cash.
Many villagers have also turned their homes into guesthouses. Now， “everyone has been lifted out of poverty，” Fang asserts. Annual per capita income of the village reached 13，000 RMB in 2018 according to Minsheng Weekly， with the cooperative’s rice brand， Maxida， providing income on top of tourism.
But not all cooperatives prove effective， and many are dormant， or even exploitative. A study of 50 cooperatives released in 2017 by researchers from Singapore Management University found that all but two were operating as private businesses without any element of cooperation， had gone bankrupt， had fallen victim to corrupt leaders， or simply lacked members. The same year， a report by the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences found that 50 percent of all cooperatives in some areas of the country were “empty shells” set up to gain government subsidies， but not operating or providing any benefits to members.
Even when cooperatives are well-intentioned， they are not always welcomed. “When we first set up the cooperative， a lot of villagers didn’t really understand it…so there were only around 20 members，” says Xu Zhendong， a Shandong native who returned to his home village of Xuhuanglu from Shanghai to help establish a cooperative in 2011.
Often， villagers are put off by the idea of losing autonomy over their land， harboring traumatic memories of collective farming under the Maoist people’s communes. Liao Yue， a doctoral student at the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign who has researched the cooperative at Xuhuanglu， found that some farmers were reluctant to give up their right to choose what to plant and which fertilizer to use， and adverse to sharing their profits with other villagers. Despite early setbacks， Xu’s cooperative now boasts 430 households. Xu claims that because the cooperative provides better equipment， farming techniques， and has promoted switching to more profitable crops， villagers can now make 20，000 RMB a year from 1 mu （667 square meters） of land， whereas before they would only make a few thousand RMB. “Thirty percent of the profits [from the cooperative] are given to members as dividends. This is how we help poor families escape poverty，” he explains.
But “shell cooperatives” remain a huge problem， and a poorly run or deliberately fraudulent venture can be disastrous to small farmers. In 2016， the founder of a cooperative set up in Zhaizi town， Hebei province， disappeared with 26 million RMB of villagers’ savings that he had encouraged them to invest. “This was my entire life’s savings，” Li Xiaozhong， a villager who lost 21，000 RMB， lamented to the Beijing Times. “It was for my son’s marriage.”
Though life in Guangdong village has improved dramatically in the last decade， the draw of money and glamour is still potent in the city， or abroad： “There’s not one young person in the village; they’ve all gone to South Korea to work，” laments Fang. “Those left behind are all old. There are no children.”
The rice is thriving in the fields， and the cooperative is building new guesthouses in the hope that more tourists will come. Other houses in the village are deserted， with weeds growing in the yards. Farming may be returning to the countryside—but it remains to be seen if new generations are willing to cooperate to make it grow. – Sam Davies
Behind the Victory
Grassroots workers struggle under immense pressure to meet anti-poverty targets
Lijiagou， an arid township in Shanxi province， wants to eliminate poverty in five remaining villages. But for Liu Feng， head of Lijiagou’s “poverty alleviation workstation，” it has also eliminated something else. “If hair loss can lead to poverty loss， then I can’t wait to go completely bald，” Liu quipped to China News， looking older than his 40 years.
To meet poverty alleviation targets， Liu once stayed up for 48 hours， and returned to work 15 days after a car accident for which he needed surgery. Behind the anti-poverty numbers China has touted throughout domestic media this year， its deadline for eliminating poverty and achieving a “moderately prosperous society，” the pressure on grassroots-level cadres to meet these targets goes underreported. According to China Comment magazine， a staggering 17 cadres dispatched to alleviate poverty in one unnamed county in southwestern China resigned in 2018 alone. “The closer to the grassroots level， the heavier the workload， and the fewer the people able to execute it，” one former head of the county workstation said.
In some cases， accountability measures have proven counter-productive. The state-run Xinhua News Agency reported in December 2018 that a cadre in a county in western China lost his annual bonus because of two punctuation errors he made in a booklet of reports.
Overwhelming workload has even triggered death. Liu Yongfu， head of the State Council’s Poverty Alleviation Office， estimated that over 770 poverty alleviation workers have died in the line of duty as of June 2019. According to news reports， cadres have died of natural disasters， health conditions due to overwork or harsh local conditions， car accidents on country roads， and even violent attacks by locals.
Poverty elimination is often a form-filing nightmare， exacerbated by constantly updating standards and incomplete digital registration systems. A cadre in western China told Xinhua that housing information of poor families alone needs to be input on two different apps. “There are over 200 impoverished households in the village. Cadres have to fill in their information day and night. Every day is like a battle.”
Low income is the last straw for many. A civil servant of over 20 years in southwestern China resigned last year due to his paltry salary， according to China Comment. Chen Yue， a cadre who has worked for eight years in an impoverished county in Shanxi， told South Review magazine that his monthly disposable income was just 2，000 RMB last year， with no overtime pay.
The State Council released measures last year to improve the safety of cadres， including “eliminating formalism and bureaucratism， decreasing the number of meetings， forms， and evaluations，” and “not punishing [cadres] for natural objective conditions that delay their work，” such as adverse weather or natural disasters. – Yang Tingting （楊婷婷）