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The first time Bai Xiaolin remembers riding China's rails, the rickety cars teemed with Chairman Mao's Red Guards. It was the 1970s and Bai's father, a bank worker, was being sent to the mountains of Fujian in eastern China as punishment for his overeducated ways. The car was hot and smelled of nervous sweat. No one was sure of their final destination, only that they were heading farther from home with each clank of the train. "It was a scary time," says Bai, now 47. "Then, the trains represented something that was taking us away from everything we loved."
Today, Bai hops on China's trains with a lighter heart. For one thing, the car is air-conditioned, and she has a full bunk all to herself. Around her, the Little Red Books have been replaced by notebook computers, the red scarves by neckties. Bai herself is dressed in pink: she wears a salmon-hued suit, carnation frosted lipstick, rose-colored pumps. A bespectacled businessman rubs his eyes and glances over, giving Bai a chance to break into her irresistible sales pitch: "Working is very tiring, isn't it? Have you considered taking vitamins? How about visiting one of our Amway stores?"
China's trains are filled with missionaries of China's newest religion: consumerism. Once mocked by the Communist Party as the scourge of humanity, these traveling salespeople are no down-and-out Willy Lomans. Bai, for one, makes $12,000 a year—about 10 times the average national income—selling an array of Amway items: everything from nutritional products to the latest face cream. She has visited dozens of towns, setting up show-and-tell sessions to convince prospective buyers about her wares. In April she even scored a free trip to Malaysia for her spectacular sales record. On the backs of people like Bai, Amway racked up $480 million in sales in China last year, up from just $39 million in 1998.
China's trains were not always filled with so many salesmen. Zhou Xing, an enterprising youngster from Fujian province, remembers trying to transport some cheap glass to the southeastern town of Xiamen in the early '90s. First, his cargo was routed to the remote southwest, because there were no direct tracks for cargo trains down China's coast. Then, he had to spend a month in faraway Jiangxi province, trying to convince greedy railroad officials to give him the documents needed for his trip back east. By the time he finished all the wining and dining, the price of glass in Xiamen had plummeted and Zhou made no profit. "China's transportation system was working against us then," he says.
Not anymore. On a gleaming train from Shanghai to Nanjing, Li Wen tucks her magenta hair behind her ear and opens a Hello Kitty briefcase. This being China, everyone in the vicinity leans in for a look. Inside are vials of skin-replenishing serum and bottles of facial toner. Li eyes a stout, middle-aged woman and asks, "Your husband doesn't love you as much as he did before, does he?" A dozen heads swivel to look at the older woman and she nods sheepishly. "This cream will make your face much smoother, much more beautiful, just like before," says Li. Several hands reach out for a free sample, and the middle-aged woman rubs the miracle cream over her worry lines. Just then, a train conductor strolls through the car and Li hurriedly stuffs the bottles back into her briefcase. The authorities have cracked down on direct-selling schemes, saying that they target unsophisticated customers. But as soon as the conductor passes through the car, Li is back in sales mode. Like many of China's entrepreneurs, she and people like Amway's Bai are used to the ever-shifting regulations of China's byzantine economy. "We can always change with the market," says Bai. "We can figure out a way to do good business—as long as the train takes us there."
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