Laos farmers cling to a way of life that’s vanishing as developer drains marsh they rely on for water

As the sun begins to set in Vientiane, herds of motorbikes, SUVs and luxury trucks approach That Luang Lake, located on the Laos capital’s periphery, constructed within the That Luang Marsh, one of the city’s last remaining wetlands. In the past few years, the circular lake has become an important public space for a growing middle class, in a city dominated by exclusive private spaces. Here, locals jog and exercise on the lake’s banks, influencers shoot promotional videos and young couples snatch intimate moments. This beloved water feature is part of a much larger investment, the That Luang Lake Specific Economic Zone (SEZ), developed by the Shanghai-based Wanfeng Real Estate Group, which promotes the project as being part of China’s Belt and Road Initiative. In 2012 – a year before the initiative came into existence – the Laotian government granted Wanfeng Group a 365-hectare (900-acre) concession of state land for a period of 99 years, as part of its policy of “Turning Land into Capital”. Wanfeng Group has already constructed a set of high-rise condominiums that foreigners can now buy thanks to a 2019 amendment to the Land Law, and the developer plans to expand amenities within the zone by attracting other investors to build shopping centres, hotels, business towers and residences. Although the public has come to accept and make use of the transformed wetland, when an earlier project was announced in 2007, in which the government planned to grant 80 per cent of the wetland’s 2,000 hectares to a different Chinese company, the legitimacy of such a project came into question after the public learned that the land concession was part of a “marsh for stadium” deal. The land had been granted in exchange for a US$100 million loan from the China Development Bank to the Laotian government, for the construction of a national stadium to be used for the 2009 Southeast Asian Games, hosted in Laos for the first time. Additionally, rumours circulated that the development would become exclusively for meuang chin (Chinatown in Lao), the likes of which Vientiane had never seen, hosting 50,000 Chinese families. Ultimately, that project proved too controversial, among government officials as well as the public, and was moved further outside the city. The SEZ plan put forth by the Wanfeng Group was intended to address critiques of this earlier project. Not only was it much smaller, but the government and developer emphasised its openness to the Laotian public. It would not be gated, and Laotian businesses were welcome to invest in real estate projects or, in the meantime, set up temporary restaurants and food stalls until more permanent businesses could be established. Despite the downsizing of the project, the SEZ has affected the wetland ecology and livelihoods of residents who depend on it. Water from the Mekong River flows northwards, and the wetlands act like a sponge, collecting run-off during heavy rains and flooding. Residents have long treated the area as a natural common, fishing and collecting snails, crabs and aquatic vegetables. Many residents also own paddy rice fields along the periphery: aided by irrigation infrastructure developed by the socialist government since the 1980s, with assistance from international donors, farmers were able to grow rice during the wet and dry seasons, giving them a decent income. As such things so often go, these social ecologies have been displaced by the SEZ, with many farmers dispossessed of their lands and compensated at low rates. To ensure that the land would be dry enough for construction and not flooded during the rainy season, the centre of the wetland was dredged to create a deep canal, channelling the water away from the land to the sides and towards the artificial lake. Ai Seng, a young rice farmer living on the eastern, less urbanised periphery of the marsh, was initially relieved that his paddy field had not fallen within the project zone and that he was able to retain his land rights. But he was dismayed when district officials started dismantling irrigation pumps that he had used to water his field during the dry season – part of the reconfiguration of the area’s water flow as “meuang chin can’t be built unless the water is drained”. Double-season rice crops in this formerly fertile area was no longer a viable option for Ai Seng, or his neighbouring farmers. As the flow of water through the marsh became constricted to engineered channels, the areas where aquatic life could be found had severely diminished. Deeds sold on drained land encouraged farmers to speculate upon and sell their properties. Plots near Ai Seng’s had begun fetching the high prices seen in other parts of the city, up to US$300 (HK$2,350) per square metre. As the SEZ project and adjacent real-estate development advance, the That Luang Marsh is in the midst of a transformation. Next to the artificial lake, farmers continue to raise cattle, ignoring the boundaries of the zone despite restrictions on grazing inside it, their houses dotted throughout the construction zones. Text by Miles Kenney-Lazar and Wanjing Kelly Chen

Laos farmers cling to a way of life that’s vanishing as developer drains marsh they rely on for water

To Vientiane’s new middle class an artificial lake is a jewel; to farmers reliant on wetlands a Chinese developer drained to create it, it’s a curse