Communist China versus Capitalist China

What is like to travel with others in the two Chinas, in both communist China and capitalist China? How do people perceive the differences? How are their preconceptions challenged or confirmed? I was accompanied by two women, both from Eastern Europe with youthful experiences of communism, but both had never been to either of the two Chinas before. One was a communist, having grown up in Yugoslavia before it was attacked and dismantled by NATO. The other was mostly anti-communist, having celebrated the end of communism in Bulgaria. We first spent a few days in the massive commercial centre of Shanghai, one of the two great creative cities of the twenty-first century (the other being Beijing). From there we immediately went to Taiwan, long the only officially recognised ‘China’ by the West, location of US bases, capitalist industry and parliamentary democracy.

So how did they respond? In Shanghai it began with the food and eating implements. The celebration of food in China is embodied in the very word for ‘hi’ (Chifan le ma?), which actually means ‘Have you eaten?’ And eat we did. The problem for my friends was that the food was thoroughly unfamiliar and often unidentifiable. What is that strange looking blob in the bowl? What precisely is that yellow hue to the dumpling? From what part of what animal does this squiggly piece with a blob on the end come? And why are there no cafes that sell coffee for confirmed caffeine addicts? Wisely, most Chinese eating places have pictures of the dish that one may wish to choose, so at least you have a rough idea of what it may contain.

One of my friends, the communist, completely gave up at first, seeking out a shop called ‘Croissants de France’, where she could buy her beloved coffee and croissant, or a Korean barbeque restaurant where her much desired and identifiable meat appeared ready to be cooked on the small grill in the middle of the table. The other friend was willing to give some dishes a try, digging her way through the myriad components of a soup from a Muslim Chinese restaurant, or exploring with interest the items of a dish she had simply not encountered before.

Yet her openness to the food was coupled with an extraordinary collection of preconceptions about Chinese people. At one point, we were observing in awe the negotiations of a Shanghai intersection. A vast chaotic jumble of trucks, cars, motor-scooters, bicycles and pedestrians all seemed to be intent on a massive carnage.

Then she observed: ‘There will be a crash soon, for Chinese people have no peripheral vision’.

Imagining that she had some authoritative source in mind, I asked, ‘How do you know?’

‘Everyone in Bulgaria knows it …’ she said … and then laughed with us, realising that it was part of a whole unverified construct of China.

To that she added Chinese susceptibility to microbes – hence the face masks when people have a cold – and the slowness of the East to change. All of which collapsed in the face of the reality of China itself.

But we were not finished with the food just yet – or rather, the implements with which one eats food. Places with the supposedly useful fork were as scarce as a blond Chinese, so my friends had no option but to test their dexterity with chop-sticks. I can say that coming from a land (Australia) where chop-sticks have been part of the culinary furniture for close on 200 years, these two sticks were familiar enough for me, although I still find a good number of challenging items – slippery balls, soft tofu, things with shells on them. But for my friends chop-sticks had been until now part of the mystery of the East. Not any more. Faced with myriad foods they had never encountered, attempting to locate two sticks among five fingers, they dropped their food, broke it apart, were awed by the suddenly massive distance between plate and mouth. One allocated a chop-stick to each hand, bringing them to bear on the plates, with limited success. The other resorted to spearing the various bite-size pieces with one stick, only to realise that it was a terrible faux pas. Initially beaten, they retreated to the small ceramic spoons always available, the blessed respite for foreigners. They told stories about the wonderful invention of the fork that came from the Arab world, via the Byzantine Empire and into Western Europe. Of course, by the time they left the two Chinas, our host had kindly armed us with a small satchel with steel chop-sticks and a spoon for our further adventures.

Deeper than all these engagements, however, was an intangible feel on the streets. How to express what cannot be directly observed? Is it a matter of time? People in Shanghai – even bustling Shanghai – never seem to be in a hurry. One walks at a leisurely pace, taking in the street life. Does the secret lie in that very street-life itself, with its stalls for anything under the sun, bicycle repair-men, steaming metal pots, makeshift outside tables for a bite to eat, a man picking his toenails in a leisurely manner, a cleaner taking an interminable break, a couple of people haggling over some fresh fruit …? Is it the fact that women do not wear makeup as a rule, thereby not absorbing an extraordinary amount of chemicals over a life-time? Is it a deep shift in the coordinates of space and time, in which so many people are still able to find a quiet spot and plenty of time to themselves in the midst of everyone around them? It seemed to be all these and yet more. All I can say is that it gave one a strong sense of collective life, of lived space and time.

How did my friends respond? The communist was absolutely thrilled, noting so many things in this Asian city that reminded her of communist Yugoslavia, from the student accommodation at the university, through the way this vast city was thoroughly lived-in, the health of the endless people who made the streets their own, the absence of make-up on the women, to the way that one struggled to find an overweight person. At a much deeper, physical and psychic level, she felt the difference from her adopted home in Australia in a way that reminded her of what the lost communism of Yugoslavia was like.

My anti-communist friend was thrown. She had embraced the rapidly-imposed capitalism and bourgeois ‘freedoms’ of the new Bulgaria, blocking out their dreadful cost. But now, she was reminded again of the Bulgaria of her teens and twenties, before 1989. And this surprised her immensely. Once she saw through her pre-conceptions about Chinese, she too felt at that intense level the presence of communism here. Perhaps she put it best: they seem to have achieved social peace here.

Too soon did we need to leave communist China, taking a short and newly reinstated direct flight to capitalist China, to Taiwan (for only a couple of years have direct flights begun again, when a pro-mainland government, sensing the way the economic winds were blowing, was elected). We passed from the PRC to the ROC, the People’s Republic of China with its 1.3 billion to the Republic of China with its 2 million inhabitants. Here too were Chinese foods and implements and languages, here too was the same landscape and vegetation, and here too one might expect that Chinese ways of living would be the same. But it was not. Immediately, my friends were struck by a very different set of familiarities, from their lives now: Western chains were immediately evident, from 7-Elevens to coffee-shops. The pace of the traffic was faster, much faster, with everyone racing to beat each other to some putative destination. The young people were more overweight, the air and water and streets far less clean (compared even with the massive Shanghai), the living conditions obviously poorer and more ramshackle, and space itself giving way to the power of capital.

But once again my friends felt the difference at a level to which I could not relate, since I did not have their experience of two worlds, of two modes of production, two different social lives. My anti-communist friend, who had begun to become uncertain and surprised at her response on the mainland, wrinkled her nose in despair. It reminded her far too much of what had happened in Bulgaria after 1989, knowing full well that massive profits were made here by the rich oligarchy, even though the economy was in poor shape. And that wealth certainly did not make its way into the population at large. She withdrew into herself and became resigned, seeking small pleasures within – precisely the way I have encountered her in Bulgaria.

But my communist friend was outraged, her passion flaring up all the more, full of revolutionary fervour and enthusiasm. In Australia I had known her as bitter and cynical, often exploited, living in a cramped quarters, nostalgic for a beautiful country and a life that had been lost. But now she had tasted that world again and she was not going to let it remain a memory. Full of prophetic disdain at the very dis-organisation of time and space in Taiwan, of the way capitalism inhabited the bodies of its people, she found herself re-enlivened. Fired up with vast and forgotten passions, she declared that she had once again discovered that it was indeed possible to change the world.

Capitalism on the High Seas

I needed to get from Australia to Europe and since a sea voyage beats flying any day – for flying is one of the worst forms of transport invented by human beings – I boarded a ship from Melbourne. Not a cruise ship full of bored and overweight passengers desperately seeking amusement in the bars and shops and nightclubs, but a container ship, a working ship plying the run. And a long run it is: from Melbourne to Tilbury, via New Zealand, Panama, the Caribbean and the east coast of the USA. Two massive oceans, five seas, the Panama Canal, all in 37 days. Our ship is the La Tour, owned and run by CMA-CGM, the French company supplying the French possessions in the Pacific, sailing vast stretches of open sea on a route followed by few others.

Chinese built in 2000, La Tour is a smooth, clean, relatively modern and fast ship. Our cabin is anything but compact, reserved for spare voyagers – the ‘owner’ perhaps, company executives, repair crews for engine overhauls, and passengers. A bedroom, bathroom and living space with a couple of portholes, plus access to the communal lounge, small gym downstairs – and pretty much anywhere else on the ship. On board we have 23 officers and crew: the captain and engineers are from the Balkans, from Montenegro and Croatia, while the crew and the three mates are Filipinos – hard-working and competent sailors who are not confrontational, preferring quite means of addressing problems when they arise. Over the next long month I would get to know many of them very well, sharing stories and drinks, singing karaoke, celebrating an equatorial barbeque, gaining an insight into the sailor’s life, pondering sex on the high seas …

But for now I ponder a weightier question: capitalism on the high seas. The ship may be a waterborne village in motion, surrounded by the dominant element on this water planet, and those on board may enjoy the simple solitude of the oceans while bending their thoughts homeward, but the main reason the ship plies these routes is economic. Beneath the patriotic flag-waving and chest-beating claims to being the third largest shipping company in the world, this company is in the business of making a profit. And they do so by generating surplus value – trying not to pay the workers what they are worth and charging more than they should for the goods shipped. In short, cost-cutting here; over-pricing there. This economic reality influences every moment of one’s day on a container ship.

Everyday Life

So let us begin with the seemingly small moments of everyday life and then work our way to the big picture. Initially, the major events of the world seem very distant from our day-to-day reality, appearing only as printouts on the back of used paper from the captain – the World Cup, Tour de France, an oil spill … More interesting and important for our daily lives is the new menu at breakfast. The first meal of the day may be largely the same (four different versions of egg on toast; four types of ‘breakfast meat’, should you want them; some more toast), but the rest vary in the hands of a creative cook. So we read the new menu for lunch and dinner with great interest.

Why? Are we starved for news, seizing on the smallest piece of information like hungry lions? Not at all, for precisely with the food does capitalism on the high seas influence our lives. From the deckhand to the captain, all talk of the dropping food budget – from USD $12 to $9 to $7.25 per person per day – and the consequent pressures on the cooks and what can and cannot be requisitioned. Even more, the company has decided that the second cook is to go in Rotterdam, leaving them with but one cook.

As these complaints roll on, I find a shopping list for 23 sailors and passengers, from the back of a news print-out:

Bonded stores:

Beer                                                               8 Cases

Cigarettes                                   79 CTN        15800 Stick


Johnny Walkers Red, 700 ml,      4 Btl             2.80 Litres

Johnny Walkers Red, 1 Ltr          7 Btl             7.00 Litres


Bacardi Rum, white, 1L               2 Btl             2.00 Litres

Ricard Aperatif, 1L                     7 Btl             7.00 Litres


Sparkling wine Seaviw Brut (75cl) 9 Btl            6.75 Litres

Assorted red/white wine (75cl)   65 Btl           48.75 Litres

Cask wine red/white, $L & 5L each 17 Cask    76.00 Litres


Fuel oil                                                           196 MT

Diesel oil                                                        146.0 MT

Lube oil                                                          51,560.0 Litres

Fresh water                                                    500.0 MT


Detergent & soap                                           40 kgs

Grease                                                            550 kgs

Paint                                                              1,815 Ltrs

Thinner                                                          274 Ltrs

Kerosene and solvent                                     nil


Cereal & pasta                                                35.0 Kgs

Coffee ground & instant                                 5.8 Kgs

Tea (in bag @ 2 gr.)                                        8.0 Box

Sugar                                                              21.0 Kgs

Salt                                                                 8.0 Kgs

Fresh meat                                                     511.0 Kgs

Fresh fish                                                       155.0 Kgs

All canned food                                              310.0 Kgs

Eggs                                                               900.0 Pcs

Fruit, fish                                                        53.0 Kgs

Vegetable, fresh                                              114.0 Kgs

Butter                                                             8.0 Kgs

Margarine                                                       nil

Cheese                                                           33.0 Kgs

Milk                                                               96.0 Ltrs

Bread                                                             30.0 Lvs

Flour                                                              75.0 Kgs

Spices                                                             5.0 Kgs

An extraordinary insight into what makes a ship tick.

Yet, while the dwindling amount of food is the major focus, everywhere one looks, miniscule cost-cutting is in place – all ‘justified’ by the ongoing economic crisis that began in 2008. For example, the first mate feels that he is caught between the crew and the company, with the latter making demands for stringency and the crew complaining. He knows full well that as a Filipino chief officer, he earns far less than someone from, say Europe or the USA, but it is still big money at home and he has more work than he can take on. The chief engineer (from Rijeka) finds it ridiculous that he should be questioned about every request for spare parts and maintenance. ‘We used to have four engineers’, he says, ‘but they want to cut us down to two’. The catch is that then they have to pay for extra personnel while in port for maintenance work. The captain talks of the communications equipment, which was replaced recently with a much cheaper version, which also happens to be far less effective. Now he can wait for up to two hours for a satellite connection in order to carry on the necessary business of a container ship.

Marx’s old point is still perfectly valid: in order to increase profits and market share, companies seek to cut costs in terms of personnel and equipment, shaving wherever possible, flogging people to work harder for less. Of course, the excuse for such cuts is hard economic times, a recession, the worst downturn since the Great Depression. But do they increase expenditure again when business improves?

Sailors (Workers)

The brunt of these perpetual efforts to squeeze out extra surplus falls on the sailors themselves. Seeing them at work, calling the deck of the ship their home for nine months at a time, you soon realise that it is hard, physical labour. Part of the international working class, they toil with heavy machinery, with all its dangers and concerns with safety, much like train drivers and truck drivers, miners and farmers. And it is their labour that keeps capitalism running. Obvious enough, but their work is usually (and conveniently) hidden on passenger vessels; here you simply can’t miss it.

The crew is Filipino, a common enough feature of international freighter shipping. They may be Korean, or Kiribati, or Chinese, but the reason is the same: they are a cheap labour source that keeps costs down. Or rather, they enable a greater profit margin for the companies who employ them and ship all that crap around the world. The perversity of the situation is that at this time and place, the current arrangements suit this Filipino crew. How? Again and again, I ask them – able seamen, bosun, steward, cook, perhaps a third or first mate – why they went to sea. Some say it is tradition, but all say it is money. Even at their reduced wages, it is more than they could earn at home. Better still, as Lindo the steward tells me, they are paid in US dollars – worth even more at home.

Inevitably, they send money home to support families, as do the ‘maids’ and cleaners who work in hotels in Copenhagen, wealthy homes in Hong Kong … wherever Filipino maids are wanted. It is a whole economy that relies on a large slab of its able workforce going overseas to send money home. Although it counts as a rational response in a deeply irrational situation, attempting to extract a morsel or two from a feast that is largely denied them, in the end it suits the owners of capital far more than underpaid Filipino workers.

But are they competent? A captain on an earlier ship, the Hansa Flensburg, once opined: pay peanuts and you get monkeys. And the news reports of shipwrecks (such as the Pasha Bulker in Newcastle in 2007) will always make the point that the crew is Filipino, or Korean or what have you. The implication: incompetence is a national trait. The reality couldn’t be further from the truth, since I encounter capable, hard-working seaman, welding, painting, greasing, operating a neat and tidy ship. Ideal if you are a shipping company: they work hard and competently and accept far lower pay packets.

Perhaps crews like this one may have the last laugh. With their quantitative increase in skills, crews and officers may eventually lead to qualitative change: Filipino, Kiribati, or even Montenegrin or Russian, may well bring about a quiet mutiny at the heart of capitalist trade. One can only hope so.

What about the officers whom these mutineers would overthrow? Do they share the perspective of the crew? Or are they a distinct on-board ruling class? The answer is yes to both questions. On board the ship itself, they do seem to function like a ruling class. Often the shipping companies attempt to reinforce the difference by clearly demarcating the in-board ruling class from the crew by ensuring the officers are from a different linguistic, ethnic and national background. But once we move beyond the confines of the ship, the officers too are subject to the real owners of capital. For example, like the crew, the officers fudge their hours when in port (10 hours is mandated for rest); everyone knows it happens, the authorities keep checking paperwork to pretend it doesn’t. On the Japan (Tokyo, Yokohama), Korea (Pusan), China (Shanghai, Tianjin, Shenzhen, Fuzhou, Hong Kong etc) run, it is perhaps two hours between ports, so in a week you may get one or two hours sleep a night. Then accidents happen.


Ultimately, both crew and officers serve the ship and its contents. Or rather, while they serve the company and generate its profits, the way they do so is to focus all their energies on the ship and its ‘vital’ contents. The ship itself is a product of the Chinese shipyards, about ten years old. A cheap Chinese ship? In some quarters it is fashionable to think so. But as the chief engineer points out, the Chinese know perfectly well how to build prohibitively expensive state-of-the-art ships; it all depends on how much the client is willing to spend and in most cases those buyers want cheaper ships. Why? Firstly, for the buyer an expensive ship that will last thirty years or more is no good, since by the time you have paid it off it will be hopelessly obsolete. So you order a cheaper one without all the fancy gear, which will be paid off in a few years and can then turn a handsome profit for a few more before it is sold – at the moment when problems begin showing up. Secondly, for the manufacturer a ship of lesser quality has a built-in obsolescence, since it will need to be replaced sooner. As with washing machines and computers and mobile phones, so also with ships.

After all, as a buyer you need to reserve funds to run the thing and buy fuel. Halfway between diesel and oil, that fuel is so thick it needs to be warmed in colder climes before it can be used. And given the volumes, they speak not of litres but of tonnes. At about the 80 revs a minute needed to sustain a speedier vessel like this one at 20 knots, the engine burns about 100 tonnes a day. A quick calculation: with roughly three days’ stoppage for six ports in a 37 day voyage, that means we burn 3400 tonnes for our voyage – all of which does not include diesel for the four generators and fuel oil heater. It takes little imagination to see that with Peak Oil, the shipping industry is severely fucked unless it finds an alternative mode of propulsion. The only viable option left is sail.

Nonetheless, the ship’s purpose is to carry cargo. So while we are engaged in calculations, let me offer a few more. The maximum load for this ship is 28,000 tonnes, made up of no more than 1100 containers, some full, some empty. According to Marisec, as of October 2010, the world has about 44,000 ships that carry freight (and 6600 passenger ships). Given that this is a medium-sized ship, we can multiply the amount this ship carries with the number of ships and come up with a reasonable idea of the amount of material goods shipped around the world with each voyage: 1,232,000,000 tonnes. Mind you, that is not per year, but per voyage.

If we want to find a rough calculation of how much freight is moved per year, we may take the number of containers in the world (which ship 90% of all cargo), take their average capacity at 27,500 kg (not including the 4000 kg of the container itself) and multiply by the number of trips made each year for each container. These figures come from 2005.

Number of containers:      18,000,000

Average capacity:              27,500 kg

Subtotal:                           495, 000,000 tonnes

Number of trips per year: 200,000,000

Total:                               99,000,000,000,000,000 tonnes per year

Increase to 100% (from 90%):  110,000,000,000,000,000 tonnes per year.

As the engineer says: people shift a lot of crap.

All of these thoughts – whiling away the time on a long voyage – lead me to another point that first struck me in the middle of the Pacific: what of the much-vaunted volatilisation of the market? This is supposedly the generation of wealth out of speculation on finances and the money markets, the removal of any material base in the old sense for the generation of surplus value (which winds up being profit most of the time). One has only to travel on a medium-sized freighter like this one, or perhaps a tanker, in order to see the hard, physical reality of the stuff unloaded and loaded at each port, the sheer volume that this one ship can hold. Multiply by hundreds and thousands of ships like this, as well as the oil tankers and gas tankers and coal bunkers and, plying the world’s trade routes … they are as concrete as ever and those who work on them and for them are as exploited as ever.