Survivor Ma(n): The Costs of Seeking Social Media Fame

The sun was setting outside my apartment when I received word that Ma was still missing. It was around 4pm in the late autumn and I knew that two nights out in the cold without food would mean Ma was in dire need of help. He must be hurt, or worse.

The day before a group of us had hiked what is known as the most dangerous section of the Great Wall. We had departed the day prior from Dongzhimen on the 916 Express where we planned to transfer to another rural bus route. After a 40-minute ride, we disembarked from the first bus and stopped to use the public toilets and grab snacks. As we searched for our next bus stop, we saw our trip leader, Chen, talking with men who were not official taxis but operators of what are commonly referred to as heiche or black cabs. These freelancers were known for price gouging on top of being illegal.

Chen insisted that it would be faster and not too expensive. He had negotiated our round trip down to around 5 USD per person. We stuffed ourselves into two separate vans, bodies touching from ankles to shoulders as we raced along the road sans seatbelts.

We arrived at a small town at the foot of what turned out to be a very steep trail to the Great Wall. When we finally crested onto the crumbling brick, we saw a half a dozen groups milling about. Once we started on our journey, the crowds dissipated rapidly.

The reason why was not difficult to guess. This section of the Wall required hikers to climb steep sections without a harness, navigate sheer drop-offs, and downclimb 15-foot sections. People die each year. I quickly understood why.

The 12 of us worked together as a team to ensure everyone stayed safe. Each time we came upon a section that someone was uncomfortable with, we all stopped, discussed a plan, and stationed the strongest hikers along the route to help those who were less experienced.

Of course, we all stopped to take pictures, but Ma was the one who often lagged far behind to set up his tripod or take out his selfie stick.

About halfway through our climb, we ascended to the top of a crumbling guard tower where we enjoyed rather stunning views of the surrounding mountains as well as the Wall that snaked through them in either direction. We decided it was a perfect lunch spot. Everyone shared food, as is customary in China. A few fellow hikers, all from Russia, had brought the supplies for mulled wine. I watched as they dumped a bottle of red into a pot along with cloves, cinnamon, and allspice and heated it on a camp stove. Everyone was offered a small glass and it warmed our bellies on the cloudy cool day.

We continued on with our journey, working as together to navigate the more technical and challenging portions. These challenges helped to bond a group of mostly strangers.

We eventually got to the point where the Wall turned into rolling ups and downs without the dangerous drop offs. It was a good point to regroup, so we sat on the wall and waited until everyone was caught up and ready to begin again.

Ma was the last to arrive with all of his equipment in tow. His picture taking was starting to become a problem, as it was causing us to slow down and timing was an important part of this trip. We needed to pick up the pace, Chen said, so we could make our bus. There was no more time for extended photo shoots, he told Ma.

The hike Chen was taking us on was point-to-point, meaning that we were getting off the Wall in a very different place than we started. To reach our final destination, we would need to cross over onto a sanctioned section to descend. To do so, we needed to climb a barrier that was patrolled by a security officer who would more likely than not insist that we buy a ticket to descend on that section (and probably not look too kindly on our crossover). We were to stick together.

We took off as a group. When we came to a big hairpin turn in the Wall, Chen suggested that we exit the wall and cut across on a dirt path to save time. When we regrouped 30 minutes later to determine if the timing was right to cross, we found that we were missing Ma.

Chen and Colby ran back the way we came, yelling Ma’s name. We could hear their voices grow distant. After 10 minutes or so, they returned. No Ma. No answer to the calls.

The guard patrolling the wall was gone. “We have to go,” Chen said, “he’ll be fine.” None of us thought too much of it given that the wall served as a rather large landmark. We figured he had fallen behind again taking pictures and that he would eventually make his way down and call a cab to take him home.

We ran down the uneven stone as the light faded. People used their smartphones as flashlights. In groups, we ran through the empty plaza where vendors typically sell stuffed Great Wall dolls, coffee, food, and an array of t-shirts and other souvenirs during the day. Eventually, we made it to the bus where the driver smoked a cigarette, waiting for the last customers of the day.

Once we were boarded, the bus drove us down to the parking area where the two men with vans who had driven us to the starting point waited. We stuffed ourselves back in the vehicles as they raced down the road toward the bus station. “Faster!” Chen told them, “we don’t want to miss our bus back to Beijing.”

We made it to the bus stop just as the last bus back to Beijing was pulling in. Luckily, there was room for all 11 of us and we all sat down, exhausted from our final sprint.

One person suggested dinner. Perfect. We chose a restaurant nearby the bus terminal. We ordered a bottle of wine, beers, and a buffet of dishes to share and devoured them as they came out one by one. When we stepped back out onto the street, it was raining. We never imagined that Ma was still outside or that the cold rain would be falling on him.

The next day when I found out I had been sitting in a warm restaurant eating a buffet of food, laughing, and drinking wine while Ma was huddled under a rock trying to not get hypothermia, I felt beyond guilty. Why had we not waited for him? So what if we missed our buses? Was it really worth endangering a group member?

Chen told me Ma had not responded to any of his texts since 2am (and it was 4pm the next day,) I grew very concerned. It had rained all night and the temperatures were at best in the high 40s. I told Sylvia. Chen told the group over WeChat.

Maybe his phone ran out of battery. Impossible. He had lithium backups.

What if he used all of his batteries to recharge his camera? If he made it to the wall or the guard station, they would have let him recharge his phone.

Why did he insist upon taking so many pictures and lagging behind?

What if he got lost? How could he get lost once it was light? The wall is right there.

What if he tripped and hurt himself so badly he can’t walk?

What if he got hypothermia?

If he spends another night out there…he can’t spend another night out there…

I can’t believe we left without him

What if…?

We all agreed that the police needed to be called. Chen took the lead and people were dispatched to look for Ma.

It was another hour and a half before we heard from Chen again and it was dark. The interim was full of speculation, anxiety, questions, concern.

Chen’s text let us know that Ma was ok. When we took the shortcut, he was too far behind to see which way we went and ended up lost. As it grew dark and started raining, he sought shelter under a large rock but it wasn’t large enough to cover him completely, so he spent hours wringing the frigid rain water from the ends of his sleeves and pant legs to stay warm.

His phone had gotten wet while he was under the rock, rendering it useless. Ma had spent a very cold and wet evening waiting for the sun to rise. Once it was light, he made his way back to the wall and then back home to Beijing.

The sense of relief we all felt could not be overstated. Once Ma’s phone was working again, he rejoined our WeChat group. Ma told us about how he made the night bearable by eating leftover snacks he had somewhat reluctantly taken after our stop on the guard tower. We all sent virtual hugs from around Beijing using emojis and gifs.

But this story has a lesson. Ma had lagged behind throughout the trip. More than once, I peered over the edge of a steep climb and saw him snapping selfies down below while the people in place waited for him to pack up his things and ascend with the rest of us. On our last leg, Ma fell behind to snap a couple more photos and then further behind to snap a couple more, eventually lagging to the point that he lost a group of 11 other people completely.

Why are these photos so valuable to Ma and to many of us?

They are valuable, in part, because they document experiences. They also document people. They communicate. Pictures, in particular, communicate information as well as cultural capital — the social assets a person has, like knowledge, skills, education and more and more so today experiences. If you are able to demonstrate that you have the knowledge, free time, and social connections to help you get to hard-to-access places, you are accruing cultural capital. Cultural capital, like its monetary counterpart, is offers social mobility. It is used to demonstrate.

Whereas cultural capital, when it was first conceptualized by Bourdieu, was demonstrate by one’s collection of books or works of art, today cultural capital is most often accumulated through photos of oneself in a desirable destination, eating tantalizing food, or with one’s arms around an attractive friend or celebrity. The images are then posted on social media, dressed up with the requisite hashtags and handles, and shared in the hopes of attracting attention in the form of likes, shares, and perhaps even sponsorships. If they do, you earn a little more cultural capital. If not, you delete it and hope no one saw your failure.

The problem with this form of currency is that it requires constant reinvestment. By this, I mean that it requires us to constantly post something and to post something new, exciting, adventurous, etc. There is no way to start a savings account for your cultural capital. Post. Accumulate. Reinvest.

This quickly becomes an addictive circle.

What should we do? The easiest advice to give (not receive) is to disengage with the platforms that require this level of attention and labor because they ROI is simply not worth it. This method of accumulating cultural capital is simply not sustainable for most AND it traps us within a cycle wherein nothing is good enough. We always must be doing something new. Going somewhere else. Meeting somebody more interesting that ourselves. Know that what you have is quite a lot. Be grateful. Recognize the abundance.

If you don’t want to cut this out of your life, at least take a hiatus. During your time away, look at media with a new lens. What is all of this cultural capital buying us? Nothing. But it is costing you a lot of labor and contributing to the profits of the ultra-rich…you know…those guys (and they are guys at the top) like Mark Zuckerberg and Jack Dorsey who already have more money than they know how to spend ethically.

Just try it. Let me know how it goes in the comments.