Country Driving [32]
At his new job in Wuhu, Yin immediately put this international experience to good use. He first went to England, where he bought equipment from an outdated Ford engine factory. Then he traveled to Spain, where he acquired manufacturing blueprints from a struggling Volkswagen subsidiary that formerly made a car called the Toledo. The Toledo shared the same platform—the basic frame and components—as the Jetta. In secret, Yin moved the British Ford engine factory to Wuhu, incorporated the Spanish blueprints, and set up an assembly line. Strict national regulations forbade new auto manufacturers from entering the market, so the officials in Wuhu simply called it an “automotive components” company. The factory produced its first engine in May of 1999. Seven months later it turned out a car. It had a Ford-designed engine, a body that came from Volkswagen via Spanish blueprints, and many authentic Jetta accessories. The folks in Wuhu had simply tracked down Chinese parts suppliers who were supposedly exclusive to Volkswagen, and then they worked out deals on the side. Volkswagen was furious, and so were people in the central government.
But everybody knew the basic principle of the Reform years: It’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission. For more than a year, Wuhu’s leaders negotiated with the central government, and in 2001 they finally received permission to sell their cars nationwide. (Reportedly, they paid a financial settlement to Volkswagen, which decided not to sue.) They named their company Qirui, two Chinese characters that have connotations of good fortune. It sounds a little like “cheery,” but the English name was Chery. Chery officials said the name was missing one e because the company would always be one step away from the complacency that comes with happiness. Almost immediately they began to transform the market, producing cheap cars that contributed to a price drop across the industry. It wasn’t long before Chery declared their ultimate goal: to become the first Chinese car company to export to the United States.
EVER SINCE I HAD started driving in China, I was curious to know where the cars came from, and one year I went to Wuhu and accompanied some engineers on a Chery test-drive. They were working on two prototypes, the T-11 and the B-14, neither of which had been given a proper model name yet. The vehicles were top-secret—they had taped plastic wrapping along the sides, to foil any industry photographers who might be looking for a surreptitious shot. The B-14 was a crossover, and the T-11 was a small sport-utility vehicle that bore a remarkably close resemblance to the Toyota RAV4. That had become Chery’s specialty: they were notorious for making cars that were suspiciously similar to market leaders. The T-11 wasn’t destined for American consumers—Chery’s quality still wasn’t up to U.S. standards—but the vehicle was supposed to represent a step in that direction. They were aiming for the new Chinese middle class, the people with outdoor interests who hadn’t been around when AMC first developed the City Special.
An American engineer named John Dinkel had been brought in as a consultant, and his specialty was test-driving. “You find out how good a car is when you do bad things,” he explained as he guided a T–11 out of the main Chery factory. I sat in the front seat, serving as translator; three young Chinese engineers were in the back. None of them wore a seat belt.
Outside the plant, a big transporter truck was loading stacks of new Chery sedans. Dinkel drove the T-11 past the truck, and after he reached an open road he ran through a series of tests: accelerating, braking, turning. “It’s picking up a wheel,” he said in the middle of a tight turn. “The wheel is spinning. You need a limited slip differential for that.” He accelerated to ninety miles per hour, cruising through the industrial district where Chery was located, and glimpses of the factory world flashed past: a