To an outsider, Liu Gong Li is a fetid slum. The old pathway into the valley is now a busy street overhung with a shambles of thrown-together houses, its dirt laneway lined with phone shops, butchers, huge steaming woks full of pungent peppers at streetside eateries, merchants hawking clothes, tools, fast-spinning bobbins of thread, a cacophony of commerce spiralling away for two kilometres into dizzying back pathways and snaking staircases whose ungrounded perspectives resemble an upturned Escher engraving. Electrical and cable television lines fill the air: raw sewage spills from the concrete, runs down the sides of buildings, cascades along open gutters into a terrible stinking river beneath the concrete bridges at the foot of the valley. Garbage and waste are seemingly everywhere, accumulating in a small mountain behind the houses. A chaos of vehicles with two, three and four wheels clots every lane. There is no space without people, without activity, and none to be seen with greenery. It might seem, from this vantage, that this is a hellish refuge for the destitute, a last-ditch landing pad for the failed outcasts of an enormous nation—a place for those on the way downward.”
Chances are it didn’t take too long to conjure up the mental image of Liu Gong Li, it’s already quite vivid—you’ve seen it before. No one is oblivious to the fact that many people continue to live like this.
It’s likely you can readily locate and name these settlements in your own cities, the notorious enclaves and adjacent side streets known for their high crime rate, drug gangs, irksome, flimsy architecture, and in some parts, dense ethnic presence. For those of us who can afford to look away, what they offer is nothing more than an eyesore.
But what this passage is missing, and what Doug Saunders will continue to highlight for the remainder of the book is the human face underlying these seemingly unpleasant settlements, and their parallel origins across the developing and developed world.
Arrival City is a fascinating account of rural-to-urban migration, of people moving to neighbouring cities and across countries to escape a decaying and, often, falsely romanticised rural life. The inevitability of human movement from rural spaces to join the wave of a sweeping urbanisation is what Saunders urges us to consider, and in his words, arrival cities “are the places where the next great economic and cultural boom will be born, or where the next great explosion of violence will occur.
The most striking aspect of this book was, by challenging the nomenclature of what we have mostly come to know as slums, favelas, bustees, bidonvilles, ashwaiyyat, shantytowns, kampongs, urban villages, gecekondular and barrios of the developing world, but also as the immigrant neighbourhoods, ethnic districts, banlieves difficiles, Plattenbau developments, Chinatowns, Little Indias, Hispanic quarters, urban slums and migrant suburbs of wealthy countries, Saunders argument is hard to contend with.
I am coining the term "arrival city” to unite these places, because our conventional scholarly and bureaucratic language—”immigrant gateway,”“community of primary settlement” misrepresents them by disguising their dynamic nature, their
transitory role. When we look at arrival cities, we tend to see them as fixed entities: an accumulation of inexpensive dwellings containing poor people, usually in less than salubrious conditions. In the language of urban planners and governments,
these enclaves are too often defined as static appendages, cancerous growths on an otherwise healthy city. Their residents are seen, in the words of the former Brazilian president Fernando Henrique Cardoso, "as an ecologically defined group rather than as part of the social system."
Through extensive research, numerous citations and firsthand interviews with people in rural to urban transition, Saunders urges us to rethink the static nature of these places and, instead, view them as areas of a dynamic and active transition, and their inhabitants as highly prosperous and ambitious entrepreneurs.
He presents us with a plethora of both successful and unsuccessful case studies of this transition. Those cities that have acknowledged the autonomy of the arrival city, the desire and potential of its community to be part of the greater economy, their aspirations and entrepreneurialism encouraged, and have actively and creatively invested in their basic right to land, to transport systems that allow ease of movement essential to a good livelihood and education of their children, and money to flow back into their villages to fund the development of their rural spaces, have successfully permitted their successors to acquire a very strong foothold of the city and its customs, and allowed them to form the country’s next generation of middle class urban dwellers. Those, however, that have failed to recognise these places as places of valuable social capital and understood their transitory nature, have often been confronted with periods of severe instability, unthinkable violence and decay. Its frustrated inhabitants, strangled by poverty and poor social mobility, have often resorted to political radicalisation that has repeatedly played a role in destabilising entire political systems —cases where the politics of the arrival city overtakes the politics of the entire city.
The most fascinating part for me was how the architecture of the arrival city—the distinctively fluid, random, haphazard, horizontal design is essential to its success.
One reason so many slum-rehabilitation plans fail is because they are based on moving people into what seems to be higher-quality housing while ignoring the larger function of the arrival city. The original slum houses in places like Karail, however squalid, offer the considerable benefit of being flexible: rooms and floors can be added as family needs change, and portions can be turned into shops or small industries to provide entrepreneurial income. They are also connected to networks of families, transportation routes and relationships that are crucial to building prosperity and permanence. In a serviced apartment block, however intelligently designed, this is often lost, and residents are reluctant to move into a home that is merely a house.
Demolition projects and vertical designs are sure way to cement people in their poverty.
Perhaps its why it was easy to conjure up a quick mental image of Liu Gong Li, perhaps because the architecture of the human instinct for survival looks the same, across cities, across oceans. If you pass by an arrival city, maybe this time you might see something else beyond the nasty shacks.
For every 20 families like them in Liu Gong Li, there is one like Xian Guang Quan's clan. He and his wife arrived as illiterate peasants, spent years sleeping on open-air slabs on construction sites, moved into a concrete hut in Liu Gong Li, and saved. In 2007, they moved across the road into a 10-storey apartment building that was constructed by Mr. Xian, 46, and his crew. It's a rudimentary structure of unpainted red bricks with a raw-concrete staircase running up the centre, but the Xian family have turned their apartment's spacious interior into something palatial: attractively tiled floors with big swathes of empty space, bright wallpaper, modernist chandeliers, big orange sectional sofa, a large plasma TV and surround-sound system. Mr. Xian, a heavyset man with a balding pate and a permanent smile, spends his spare hours on shopping trips downtown or lengthy smoke- filled mah-jong games with his old village friends, a truly middle-class lifestyle, backed by a genuine middle-class income, that belies the six years he spent here, not long ago, exposed to the elements, with no money or possessions.