From Chongming Island to Shanghai Downtown

Two hands covered with wrinkles, guiding people with his own light-yellow taxi. Routinely, Mr. Yu drove from Chongming Island to downtown Shanghai. Beneath the towers of Lujiazui, he had carried countless passengers, each with their own destination, while his own heart remained anchored to the small island across the water.

 “If I am at the place where I work, my home is somewhere else, where pressure and anxiety are nowhere to be found.”

Here, he wakes up before the sun rises and returns home at eleven. There were times when the work felt endless—traffic jams that stretched for hours, passengers who complained, and nights when his eyes could barely stay open. In the early years, When I started driving, there was no GPS app to use. I relied on my own memory, and the maps just appeared in my mind. For a long time, when I woke up, my phone was filled with bills, shouting at me to pay the debt. And I have been through a lot of stuff even worse than that.”

“Once, I was tricked by a fake hundred-yuan note; another time, a man pretended to fall in front of my car.” He laughed. These moments made him angry, hopeless, and tougher. But all the laughs are given by his continuous strength and motivation to move forward. “That’s just life.” Mr Yu cannot help with that, but he tried to follow his pace and find a way to survive in this city. 

“I used to think a million rmb can make me relax and sustain my rest of life; now that I do own a million, I still feel poor.” Over the years, Shanghai has changed a lot, which changed my dream as well. He no longer dreamed of quick fortune or easy success. 

“Do a job for long enough,” he often said, “and you stop thinking about love or hate—you just learn to live with it.” He knew he would never afford a home in the neighborhoods he drove through, but that no longer bothered him. What mattered now was being steady, honest, and thankful for another day of work.

Mr. Yu Driving

When I asked him about his life after retirement, still, the thought of Chongming never left him. He imagined the calm of the island—the smell of wet soil after rain, the small fields of tomatoes and eggplants, the quiet ponds where fish broke the surface at dusk. One day, he will tell himself to stop driving and go back for good. “By that time, I will plant vegetables, raise birds, and fish by the river every single day.” 

“I used to dream of fishing—I could catch a 10kg ‘Hualian’ fish with my hand—for days and days.” He will live not for money, but for peace. To outsiders, it might seem as a simple dream, but for him, this meant everything. What seemed like a simple dream for outsiders meant everything for Mr. Yu.

As he drove across the long bridge back to Chongming, the city lights faded as saying farewell to him. He thought about everything the years had taken and given back—the tired hands, the quiet pride, the lessons hidden in every turn of the road. 

“Life was not about escaping hardship, but learning to steer through it with patience.” His voice flowed softly as the whistle of the surrounding cars echoed.