The pictures looked great online. And having no knowledge of the terrain, we judged it not so far from the subway station.
Only 20 minutes away by bus, they said.
After living in small apartments for the past three and a half years, we were ready for an upgrade. It was an unimaginable size for us, over 1,500 square feet, which in most Asian cities is a mansion.
Little did we know, after settling in, that we were living in a typical Chinese ghost town, developed one of those mainland developers starting with the letter ‘V’.
In our building of 22 floors, we’ve counted about five families. We see the same faces in the lobby. A twin building next door to us, reserved only for owners, has one actual tenant, judging by the lights at night.
Inexplicably, about five of the lights come from homes with no curtains, whose owners just decide to keep their lights on for some reason. Maybe to ward off ghosts, maybe to give the impression to prospective buyers that the community is not so deserted.
I’ve wandered a lot of ghost towns and shopping centers in China over the past few years, and the thing that sticks out to me the most, is how quickly a development can be overtaken by nature.
Make no mistake, we are all here by the grace of the planet and not long after we’re gone, there will be no trace. For an unmaintained building, the process might take less than a year, if that.
Next to us a set of villas have a plastered wall around them, literally whitewashing over the fact that they lie in a decrepit, dilapidated state, although you can glimpse the broken windows, missing walls, above them.
But our twin buildings are pristine. The staff who work here, outnumber the residents, and it results in an echo chamber of a residence where you are never really out of surveillance range.
Four children under the age of 10 live across forty-four floors of residences, and two of them walk to a school down the street. And the whole way, from their exit out of our buildings, to the corner of the development, and finally to the converted villa that is their school, vigilant guards with walkie-talkies announce their progress.
Of course, it’s nice living here. It’s serene. When the weather is right, you can see almost the entire expanse of Taipei. And sometimes when it’s cloudy below, it’s sunny up here. Other times, the clouds envelop us, making it seem as if we’re literally floating. And there are no problems with our building. In fact, it’s like a 22-story hotel being maintained for just the ~20 of us.
All of it is maintained, but at what cost?
It’s difficult to imagine a scenario where all this is being maintained profitably.
Especially since next door lays a work-in-progress, triplet of a tower that has been under construction for the past few years, where a single worker shows up several days of the week to operate a drill that reverberates loudly throughout the entire neighborhood, but is otherwise ineffectual.
I can’t help but note that if this building were located anywhere else in China, where there was an actual market for this stuff, the whole building would be taken to completion from its present state, in a matter of weeks, if not days.
I have a problem with the way the media portrays China’s “ghost towns”, because a lot of the developments are in a state of waiting, built in advance of the demand. Sometimes they actually do fill in over time, while sometimes they don’t.
But I’ve always had an underlying anxiety with isolation. And this lays bare why.
Something so far from an urban center has great costs to maintain. The cleaners and clerks commute here by scooter or bus. The landscaping. The maintenance of two minibuses an hour that service the residences. It all seems fragile. Because if for some reason the owner of the development decided one day to stop financing it, it would no doubt within a few years, look as if no one had ever lived here.