Adrift in the South

by Xiao Hai, Tony Hao (Translator)

When Xiao Hai turned fifteen, his family paid a vocational-school teacher 1,200 yuan to find him a factory job in Shenzhen. So began a decade spent moving between the garment mills and electronics factories of China's fast-growing southern cities.

Adrift in the South is the account of the 'twenty-three dreamlike years' Xiao Hai spent as a migrant labourer, working twenty-two jobs in eight different cities across China. He made iPhones and baby clothes, hand-stitched football shirts and cut plastic into radios; he worked as a courier in Shanghai, a popcorn vendor in Suzhou, and as a second-hand clothes salesman in Beijing. Here he reveals the workplace from a workers' the alienation and tedium of factory life, the small indignities and indifference of the larger system. But he also tells the story of how the poetry he began writing on the factory floor led him somewhere to join a small community of artists living, working, and studying together on the outskirts of Beijing.

This memoir is a landmark text from China's migrant worker literature movement, a grassroots group of writers providing an unvarnished account of what life is like for the 300 million migrant workers powering the world's second-biggest economy.

Genres: China, Memoir, Nonfiction, Asia, Business, Biography Memoir, Literature

320 pages, Kindle Edition

Published May 7, 2026

About the author

Xiao Hai (1965-) was born in Hai'an, in China's Jiangsu Province. At the prestigious Nanjing University, he co-founded and edited the poetry magazine They with other young poets a publication that has fostered a number of important figures in contemporary Chinese literature such as Han Dong, Yu Jian, and Su Tong. He has authored over a dozen works of Chinese history and poetry collections, including Bending to Weed until Afternoon (2003), Villages and Fields (2006), Bei Ling River (2010), The Great Kingdom of Qin (2010), and Song of Shadows (2013). He has published widely in such influential poetry magazines as Shi Kan, Xing Xing, Qing Chun, Hua Cheng, Zhong Shan, Zuo Jia, and Jintian (edited by Bei Dao). Known as a humble poet of discrete sensibilities, he has earned widespread recognition in his home country. His prizes include the Writer's Poetry Award and two Zi Jin Mountain Literature Awards, and he was the Tian Wen Poet of 2012. Beijing Literature included his poetry on their list of the best contemporary Chinese writing in 1998. His poetry has been translated into English, French, Japanese, Spanish, and Romanian. He lives in Suzhou, Jiangsu Province.

Reviews

[emily · Rating 5 out of 5]

‘Now, as I sit by my desk in Beijing on a July afternoon, remembering—as if I were reliving a distant dream—I wrote a poem titled ‘Production Floor #2’, which was inspired by my time in Sino-Nokia. My teenage years were like those wild lychees, growing larger and redder as the weather got warmer. I was oblivious to the time silently slipping away from me.’

If it hasn’t already done so, I’m sure this is going to (eventually) leave an undoubtable, and indelible impression on my heart. Xiao Hai is probably one of the (if not the most) ‘endearing’ writers I’ve come across in a long while. I can’t explain it coherently/well now, but something about his ‘voice’ — the tone and texture of the writing/text — harbouring, and having the ability to generate such profound tenderness (despite the context and all that). It might be hard for me to not raise my brows at (figuratively and/or otherwise) anyone who can’t appreciate Xiao Hai’s writing/work.

‘I watched three generations of farmers hunch their backs in the shade of ploughs—Time had overlain their silhouettes on this earth, autumn after autumn—and the spring wind arrived, it would cut another wrinkle under their eye hollows—their sweat beaded onto the land. But despite all that had been harvested here in these fields, neither my ancestors nor my fellow villagers had ever managed to scrape past the poverty line. That was why youths—fled our village, betraying the land that had both nourished and cursed us. But once away from our hometown, we drifted from one city to another like duckweeds, never arriving at a still surface where we could take root.’

‘I spent a lot of my time out in the fields, weeding, spreading fertilisers—spraying pesticides. And of course I listened to a lot of rock music while I watched the green wheat shoots growing taller day by day. There was something therapeutic about returning to the land like this. It was mesmerising to see the plants grow, and it reminded me how full of life my village had always been—we planted peanuts, wheat and sweet potatoes. Twenty years had passed, and in my village the farmers’ equipment had modernised. But their circumstances had yet to improve. They continued to live difficult lives on meagre incomes.’

‘In 2010, Suzhou’s GDP was over 900 billion yuan, eclipsed only by the megacities of Beijing, Shanghai, Guangzhou and Shenzhen. ‘Only rich people belong here!’ one of my—colleagues said. ‘You can’t even feed yourself if you aren’t one of them.’ It was probably my sixth day on the job. I was leaving—when I noticed an old paperback on top of the TV. The Catcher in the Rye. I was intrigued by the title—the yellowed pages did look out of place in this luxury apartment.’

‘Outside, the dazzling sunlight of the high-end neighbourhood stabbed at my eyes. I found a place—to read—by Jinji Lake—until the evening glow painted the water pink. The late-afternoon wind raked the yellowed pages of the book—Holden’s voice swept through me like a storm. There are people in this world who can’t accept those who carry books around with them, I thought as the sun licked the horizon in the west. But I’d rather lose a job than throw my books away.’

Maybe the best ‘lovers’ are also (simultaneously?) the best ‘fighters’ (whatever that means). Not necessarily because they are physically ‘superior’ or physically more capable, but more importantly because they are more sensitive to ‘timing’ but also to the hearts’ of others, and also for whatever else they ‘are’ (instead of being (simply) a complicit, sacrificial bag of flesh and bones fixed up to partake in mindless matters). Anyway ramblings aside, somehow, after reading Xiao Hai, in a strange, indirect way, I’m reminded of Serge Pey (I don’t know why, but these lines below just popped into my mind) :

‘Voracious readers, they had even devised a literary form of chess in which they assigned a verse to each piece and to each move. At the end of each game, by combination, a poem was composed which they committed to memory and recited to each other on bleak evenings with the window open onto the mountains that dominated the town. They kept their eyes closed, and the poem turned back into a great chessboard and faithfully retraced the inexorable evolution of their game. Light versus dark. Dark versus light. Winning a game in History means knowing how not to win it. Beauty is a double of madness. For chess may be played with the method of love or with the method of death. Tournaments are always tournaments of death. And so—if you play, do not try to win but seek the pure game that will let you witness the emergence of a form. Losing can be winning. Winning is merely the first step in initiation into the game—winning is an illusion to which even children may attain. The true player, who no longer plays, pursues other goals in a quest for the truth of the game.’ — ‘Chess And Beauty’, Serge Pey .

I suppose the whole idea of having poetry keep one afloat and lead one away from, or rather to ‘counter’ whatever troubling ‘darkness’, is also intensely present in Xiao Hai’s writing (but only phrased/constructed differently, with a different tone, I reckon. Arguably though, the (very) core and primary intent is very, very similar).

‘At the local RT-Mart I found copies of a Tang, Song and Yuan poetry anthology—Only nineteen yuan. Right away it became my favourite book—I started reciting poems from the anthology to myself while pedalling the sewing machine—I’d mumble. ‘The river flows by without caring, the gardens have gone to seed.’ My coworkers thought that I’d lost my mind—They had no idea what I was talking about. But I was too obsessed with the verses to worry about what they thought. They probably would have complained—but I kept up a good pace, and so they decided to let it go.’

‘It was as if we were performing some ancient ceremony, I thought, a ceremony for life and death, for love and hate, pursuing the unsolvable equation of my fate—The poem blew me away—The first time I read it I felt myself shivering—verses sliced me open, and out came all my repressed and incomprehensible emotions. I printed out the six full pages—kept it on me, in my pocket, at all times—like medicine—reading a couple of lines whenever I felt like I was on the edge. I relied on it so frequently—It was like being caught in a spell.’

‘During—years I spent at Meishan I memorised almost 400 poems—It was poetry that kept me going. Reading poetry reminded me to appreciate the setting sun, the moon as it waxed, the light of the stars, the wild flowers and the bamboo forests—it reconnected me with the world beyond the factory. When the peach trees came into blossom I noticed, and was moved, and my thoughts wandered to the clouds when I gazed at the moon. I discovered sentiments I could not articulate, questions I could not answer.’

‘I had two different identities—one I relied on in order to survive. And I continued living with two identities after my move to the south—Every day I felt the presence of both selves in my body, layering, though they couldn’t be more different.’

I am pretty sure his poems/poetry are published elsewhere as well. The Granta website has some of them in (English) translation, I reckon.

‘Delivering packages was the most physically demanding job I’d ever had. It was mentally demanding too—at first I was clueless about what I needed to do and how to prioritise, and I couldn’t afford to let my mind drift for a single minute. Whenever I missed a turn or fumbled a package I’d wish I could grow another pair of limbs and work as a hexapod—my coworkers would already be sitting on their bunks, chatting about how many parcels they had handled – but I never took part in these conversations because my numbers were always so much lower than theirs.’

‘—how fragrant cape jasmine flowers could be in the hottest season of the year. I found myself paying more attention to flowers and trees—whenever I saw those white flowers in bloom, I’d let their gentle aroma intoxicate me—On the day of the Mid-Autumn Festival, I was standing under the osmanthus tree—An enormous tree full of golden flowers with such an intense fragrance that I could smell it from my workstation. Where will I be on this very same day next year? I wondered.’

I think perhaps I’m just automatically ‘weak’ about/for people who are just so—how can I ‘say’ this well—like so ‘endearing’ and so ‘gentle’ about (expressing) themselves (in a world polluted with sickening ‘humble brags’, I will always choose/lean towards whatever’s in Xiao Hai’s ‘voice’ / intention instead). A sort of precious and unostentatious sort of tenderness (for the lack of a better description), without any ‘motives’ (ulterior and otherwise). It just sparks hope (for humanity) and joy (for living), that.

‘I had been obsessed with Wang Feng ever since I had discovered his music back when I was still a teenager in Shenzhen. Music had become the sole outlet for my weary soul, which day after day was corroded by the roar of the machines.’

‘Her smile touched me like a cool breeze. I was surprised that she also knew Tang poetry. I hadn’t had the chance to discuss poetry with anyone else until now—I was nervous, but thrilled—But then I began to agonise over how to respond. I couldn’t quite articulate to myself why I was so worried—I started to take the situation far too seriously. I kept thinking: No, no, maybe I shouldn’t go—our hometowns are over a thousand kilometres apart. Would her parents be okay with that kind of match? Am I capable of being responsible for her future? I stood outside the communal bathhouse for ages, thinking of what to do, but I couldn’t make up my mind—It doesn’t matter how it turns out, I told myself, I’ll go. I have to go. A variety of food vendors had set up stalls out front—stir-fried rice noodles, oden, fried stinky tofu and fruit. I figured that it was best not to show up empty-handed.’

‘It was a smothering summer’s night, and the only cooling devices we had were a pair of old electronic fans. I felt like a bee long astray who had at last flown into a garden of blooming flowers—That night I had way too much to drink—beer, wine, spirits, anything that was poured into my cup—but I was drunk not only on alcohol but also on my anticipation of the future.’

‘‘Shall we go to Beilun, and have yellow croakers with mustard greens?’ I texted—on my way back, ‘It’s a famous Ningbo dish.’’

But most of all, I love that Xiao Hai is so clearly ‘aware’ of why things are the way they are (without having to like—overexplain / ‘brag’ about how much he knows about the world?). While still maintaining the ability to be so meticulously caring/attentive about people, and to persist, and continue being truly sensitive to the world (despite being let down so many times; it’s like an anti-nonchalance stance, to put simply (actually, thinking about it—I don’t know what’s worse—being so disgustingly obsessed with ‘self-care’ or being constantly, and indulgently non-chalant. Both are so unattractive to me, frankly). Anyway I just love how Xiao Hai’s heart beats, and I would like to think that the ‘rhythm’ and ‘pulse’ are so clearly indented and present in the text itself.

‘It was pouring rain—I rode my bike to Jing’an Sculpture Park—typing up a 3000-character prose poem on my phone. I fixed my mind on one idea—1921, a group of youths had decided that it was their responsibility to bring change—I just kept writing. What I remember about the poem now is how I focused on paralleling the lives of the youths then with our time, which fuelled an awe in me—faith in what—would become. I—left Shanghai. I felt like a defeathered bird, escaping the city—deflated.’

‘‘Do you use WeChat?’ He told me about—Picun, where migrant workers gather to discuss literature, music and art. The more I talked—the more I felt like Beijing was the place I needed to go—At least out there I’d have a couple of musician friends nearby. I had been adrift now, bouncing between factories—I knew this wasn’t the life I wanted to live forever.’

‘I knew I didn’t belong there, but where did I belong? These conflicting feelings accumulated and fermented in my body—The moment my coworkers and I arrived and donned our dustproof coveralls, our bodies no longer belonged to us. Our blood and muscles became integrated into the machines—when we pressed the start buttons we too powered on.’

‘During his time on the production floor, he had been a poet like me. It made me think that even the smallest mishap at a highly demanding industrial conglomerate like this could wipe away a factory worker’s last hope in life—Afterwards, there had been a few improvements to the living conditions of factory workers. Society began at least to pretend to care about our well-being—before that, no one thought about our existence at all.’

‘As time went on, I slowly emerged from the perennial sense of hopelessness I had grown used to in the south—flowers blooming out of rock.’

‘—I thought back on the year I spent assembling language-learning devices in Shenzhen, the nights I worked overtime at the fabrics factory in Dongguan—I had an unread message in my inbox—I had always loved his music. He was one of the canonical rock musicians—in the nineties. I clicked open the message: a rose emoji. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t responded to me in words—the rose alone brightened up my week. And thus began a friendship that remains strong even today.’

While reading Xiao Hai’s book, I wanted it not to end, and I felt almost upset that it ended so quickly (even though I was the one reading it quicker than I should have done?)—like I just wanted/needed to ‘know’ more? I suppose that’s a clear sign of how much I like the writing.

‘I took deep breaths of air that smelled of fresh grass, but also of the chlorine that they’d been spraying to keep down the virus. Still, I felt an inexplicably profound sense of freedom. I started to run, ran all the way down to the Wenyu River. The water was flowing peacefully under the dark sky. I stood by the river for a long time, watching the pink buds bulge on the thin twigs of the peach trees by the riverbank. Their faint colour brightened the night.’

‘One young factory worker kept telling me how mesmerised he was by Picun’s library—he returned to where he worked in the south & opened his own workers’ library. I was struck by the brutal honesty of her language. Stray dogs and weeds thrived—stubbornly refusing to yield—destiny is like a crop, it takes root & sprouts from the land that nourishes it. I knew my life would never be able to fully take root in this place. For the hundredth time in my life, I made the decision to leave—I spotted a flock of birds—performing a ritual to mark the new season.’

To conclude, I prefer Xiao Hai’s writing far more than the other book I read by a different writer/lad who wrote about delivering parcels in Beijing (because in comparison, that one undoubtedly pales by miles and miles ! Obviously, this is just my subjective view), I wonder what the ratings are on ‘Douban’. Personally, I just adore Xiao Hai’s ‘voice’ which seems to me so full of kindness and tenderness (but without lacking a sense of ‘good’ judgement? I’m having difficulties describing what I’m trying to say, but) basically—he just seems like a lovely person. There’s a bit in the middle of the book—where he sort of gets ‘treated’ unfairly (an understatement). It’s a bit of a shocking read, and it made me sort of—impulsively angry somehow? And I sort of understand why he felt the need to add it in there, but I don’t know—mild trigger warning for readers who are sensitive to (for a lack of a better word) abusive/violent content.

‘The very evening I regained freedom, my neighbour, and a regular customer at the shop, Auntie Tian, invited me to join her family for dinner. She cooked me stir-fried eggs with chives and pork belly with dry-pickled Chinese mustard. I still remember how delicious that meal was—I went back to the kitchen three times for extra helpings. What brought me comfort was not just the homemade food, but the warmth of being taken in and treated as part of the family.’

‘Small moments add fuel to the flames—the pigeons that hover over the dishevelled cables of the neighbourhood, the crimson sun licking at the reed swamp, the Wenyu River roaring beneath Yingezhuang Bridge. Most important are the friends who read poems with me on the riverbank, out in the wild, and around dinner tables—They’re the ones who give me the conviction to keep on writing.’

All in all, I really, really like Xiao Hai’s writing (there’s just a beautiful balance in how he expresses himself so—considerately and in a way, generously, which just makes the entire thing immensely endearing and lovely), and I hope there will be more of it published in the near future. And needless to ‘say’, I highly recommend this one to anyone and everyone.

‘That entire summer wild desire proliferated inside my body, like a kind of weed—I blasted Wang Feng’s ‘Beijing, Beijing’ again and again. It was the first time I’d cried since I moved to the south—This place where I’ve lived, Wang Feng sings, is the place where I’ll die. The words seemed tailored just for me. But I still wasn’t willing to give up, to grit my teeth in regret through the rest of my life—Every generation has its own misfortunes, and every member of a generation experiences their own confusion.’

‘Passing out and waking up, passing out and waking up again—this was how I survived the ride to the south—The train stopped in Huizhou, the farthest we could go without a border pass. I got off, exited the station through its front gate, and gazed at the low mountains and fluffy clouds. I can still remember the thrill and brightness of that moment. It was the first time in my life that I’d seen such a huge expanse of mountains—It all looked even more beautiful and lucid than what I had seen in movies.’

‘We’d have breakfast, then take the bus—we’d follow the road and hike up the mountain. The first time we went we forgot to take any food with us, and had to trek a long distance hungry and exhausted until a few lychee trees saved us. I still remember how sweet—the fruit was—no wonder Su Dongpo wrote that poem about eating 300 lychees a day.’

[Simge · Rating 5 out of 5]

The most gripping memoir I've read in a while. This is the story of Xiao Hai (his pen name), who ends up having to leave his village in Henan at the age of fifteen to go to Shenzhen to work at a factory. The time is early 2000s. The time that economists will glorify in the future, talking about "the Rise of the Red Dragon," or whatever fancy-sounding names journalists come up with for their catchy titles, to refer to China's economic boom. But as in most cases of capitalist extractionism, China's economic victory, too, came on the backs of its most vulnerable and most brutally exploited workers. The author was one of them (even though his careful, subtle self-censorship avoids putting any blame on the government, for sure - but it is not too difficult to read between the lines). So he spends (wastes?) his teenage and early adulthood years doing backbreaking work in various factories around Shenzhen and Shanghai, working 12-hour shifts without a day off and for low pay, drifting around, rootless, "like duckweed." Throughout this dehumanizing ordeal, there is one thing that reminds him that he is human and that nourishes his spirit and helps him keep going: poetry.

This story struck me to my core, not the least because it also puts a concrete face on a story that we are all too used to hearing in the abstract. We often talk about child labor in China, the deplorable working conditions of the people there who make our iPhones or our cheap clothes ordered from Shein... but do we actually realize the true human cost of Western consumerism when we blabber about the statistics? Oftentimes, we don't. There are millions of people exploited in this fashion, and Xiao Hai is one in a million who was lucky enough to get a chance to tell his story. And we are lucky to be able to read it.

[José Cerca · Rating 5 out of 5]

I really enjoyed reading this book, and I think it's one of the best books I have read in the past few years. It gave me a realistic account of how difficult it is to be working-class in China and the weight of having no inheritance or possessions. I could really feel the pain in the author's recollections of how he and his fellow workers were treated.

One thing worth thinking about is an argument sometimes made that developing nations need to industrialize in order to develop. I think this book really shows how that kind of industrialization can lead to a lot of desperation and can result in subhuman living conditions.

[Phoebe Williams · Rating 5 out of 5]

Xiao Hai’s memoir is beautifully written, despite his not-so-beautiful journey. Everything from the metaphors to the poetry and the structure was great and created a flow that was easy to follow and kept me reading. The translation is also incredible, I got the sense that nothing was lost in the process. A new firm favourite!

[Jalen Walker · Rating 4 out of 5]

The first paperback that I’ve read almost entirely on the train during my commute to and from work. Cheers to overcoming the fear of being perceived as a performative reader.

This and 我在北京送快递(I Deliver Parcels in Beijing) have served as my formal introduction to 新人工文学(new workers’ literature) and the incredible works being published by workers across China. Excited to continue reading more—

[James · Rating 5 out of 5]

Fascinating account of where many of our consumer items are produced, and the lives of those who slave away as robots to assemble them. Very easy to read due to the stellar translation. Will be extremely conscientious going forward as to where things I buy are made.

[Kristofer Grattan · Rating 5 out of 5]

They say that a rising tide lifts all boats. What does this matter if 100 million of your population are chained to a factory floor and left to drown as the sea of economic growth floods your nation? An extremely poignant memoir that will leave me thinking about the impacts of my consumption.

[Malachi]

Compellingly written (and translated!) in a very spare style, at odds with the bits of the author’s poetry which are also included in the book.