Development poker
SI PA PHIN - Compared to other farmers in Vietnam's impoverished northern highlands, Dieu
Van Luyen is rolling in it. Nineteen months ago, he and his family moved to
a spacious new home that resembles a Swiss chalet on stilts, complete with a
wrap-around balcony, shiny peach floor tiles, electricity, running water and
satellite TV. Instead of walking all morning to reach his crops, Luyen can
now zoom off on his new motorcycle and get home in time for dinner and a
movie on his new DVD player. "I have everything," says the 40-year-old
father of six.
Luyen's newfound creature comforts represent the ruling Vietnamese Communist
Party's opening bid in an unusual, high-stakes game of development poker.
The bet: By dramatically elevating the lifestyle of villagers like
Luyen--whose homes, rice fields and orchards are destined for a watery
grave, thanks to a planned dam in northern Vietnam--the government will
persuade foreign donors and export-credit agencies to help finance the
megaproject.
The government wants to raise $2.5 billion for the hydroelectric dam in Son
La province--at 2,400 megawatts, the largest single power project Vietnam
has ever attempted. The nation's leaders claim the dam, officially dubbed
the "project of the century," is crucial to meeting the country's future
energy needs and maintaining Vietnam's 7% annual economic growth. They say
it's also a vital bulwark to protect the capital, Hanoi, from annual floods.
Construction is supposed to begin by late 2005, but the government still
doesn't know how it will foot a large portion of the bill. Officials project
that some 30% of the project will be financed from external sources.
Eventually, some 91,000 people, mostly from ethnic minorities, will be
displaced by the dam, known as the Son La hydropower project. The government
has earmarked more than $640 million of the overall project budget to
relocate them and provide cash bonuses--a huge sum for the nation. That
includes more than $6 million lavished so far on Si Pa Phin, Luyen's model
relocation village located in Dien Bien, one of three northern provinces
affected by the dam.
"As long as [donors] see that we are improving people's lives, we will get
support from them," predicts Nguyen Dang Dao, vice-chairman of the people's
committee in Lai Chau province. Officials also want to placate internal
critics of the dam project who have voiced fears in the national assembly
that it will disrupt the lives of ethnic minority communities. Indeed,
foreign resettlement experts say it is unclear whether the treatment given
to the first batch of families will translate into improved living
conditions for all the ethnic minorities slated to move.
The attention focused on resettlement marks a surprising shift. When Vietnam
built its first major hydroelectric dam in the northern province of Hoa Binh
in the 1980s, the 56,000 villagers displaced then got little more than some
gruff advice to find new homes on their own. Plunged into isolation when the
Vietnam War ended in 1975, Hanoi paid little heed to foreign critics or
disgruntled locals.
Things are different today. Unlike China--home of the controversial Three
Gorges dam--Vietnam remains highly dependent on foreign aid. And while some
Vietnamese officials don't expect organizations like the World Bank to chip
in for its hydropower ambitions because of overseas sensitivities about the
large population displacements, they're still hopeful that Japan and other
overseas organizations will respond when Hanoi formally asks for help.
Vietnam and neighbouring Laos are global pioneers in building model
relocation villages. But such outposts are destined to become a common tool
for developing countries that are striving to win overseas funding for dam
projects, predicts American anthropologist Thayer Scudder, a former
commissioner for the World Commission on Dams.
A scenic new home
Give or take a few hairpin bends, it's a smooth ride up a freshly-chiselled
mountain road to reach Si Pa Phin, at about 900 metres above sea level. The
forested vistas are probably even more spectacular for those who manage to
hitch a helicopter ride with Communist Party officials who often drop in to
check on the remote village's progress.
Rising from the distance amid sloping rice terraces and sugar-cane fields,
Si Pa Phin's neat rows of cream-coloured houses hover like a mirage. Up
close, packed mud lanes indicate that the village remains a work in progress
for the 175 ethnic Thai families living here, including Luyen's.
Before piling into trucks for the move from their distant lowland village,
along with their water buffalo, pigs and farming tools, many family members
were shown three model houses. Most opted for an airy, 120-square-metre
cement confection, perched on cement pillars to mimic the traditional wooden
stilted houses of their former village.
That leaves plenty of room below for raising pigs, stacking firewood and
parking their new motorbikes. "Even in their dreams, they wouldn't imagine
such big houses," relocated farmer Lo Van Choi says of his former
neighbours.
The village only had accommodation for about half the 400 families that
signed up to move. Among the new arrivals, 25 families from Vietnam's ethnic
majority Kinh group are housed in a separate cluster. Occasionally, both
communities gather at a pristine "cultural centre," where eight electric
fans keep everyone cool.
Choi's home occupies a particularly scenic knoll, overlooking a slope where
he and his neighbours are growing a breed of tall grass for cattle feed.
They're gearing up for the first shipment of 50 pregnant Red Brahman cows
from Australia, which have been bought by the Vietnamese government for the
relocated families at $1,245 per head. If that experiment works out, 7,500
more cows will be bought, officials say.
The farmer is also looking to earn extra money from his new fish pond, five
times bigger than his old one, he says. Gazing at his elaborate new stereo
system and sturdy wooden furniture, he doesn't appear particularly nostalgic
for Chan Nua, his native village located 105 kilometres away.
As the leader of Chan Nua's agricultural cooperative, Choi was recruited to
join a "relocation management board." He gets a $13 monthly stipend to
persuade his neighbours to move. In addition to touting clean water, indoor
toilets and electricity, the board dangled cash bonuses of up to $2,250 per
family. Even the bones of ancestors are being relocated with state funds.
Still, not everyone back in Chan Nua can be so easily lured away. "Here, we
have fish in the river, meat in the forest, and trees all around us," says
farmer Lo Van Phin, who treats visitors to fresh coconut juice. Doubts also
plague co-villager Dieu Van Nhieu. "I don't think there will be enough food
for us over there," the farmer mutters. "I prefer to stay here."
In Si Pa Phin, what do the neighbours think of the newly rich arrivals? Some
villagers say they are benefiting from the fresh government attention to the
area, including new schools and a nearly completed $1.2 million irrigation
system. Yet hints of jealousy creep in. "I would like a big and beautiful
house like that, but I have no money," says resident Mua Van Lau, an ethnic
Hmong whose home is a dark, dilapidated wooden structure typical of the
area.
For all the trouble the government is going to, the $2.5 billion question
remains: Will donors come ? Some are dubious. "It's very difficult to carry
out that project," concludes Nishimiya Koji, programme coordinator at the
Japanese government's International Cooperation Agency in Hanoi. "The
relocation issue is very, very critical."
By Margot Cohen - Far Eastern Economic Review - January 01, 2004.
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