But as the ferry enters the Pearl River delta my thoughts are not on the future expedition ahead, but of other expeditions which Europeans have made along these waters in the past. This was where, two hundred years ago, British ships were sailing with bundles of opium to sell to the Chinese population. The scale of this drug pushing led local officials to observe how ‘there is a class of evil foreigner that makes opium and brings it for sale, tempting fools to destroy themselves, merely in order to reap profit’. My thoughts then revert to the present, as I realise that not only am I passing through for a more innocent purpose, but also the hum of the ship’s engine is a reminder that this is a ferry which bears little resemblance to anything which would have been used in the 19th Century.
The hydrofoil technology hoists the front of the boat upwards out of the water, allowing it to pick up an admirable amount of speed. As the ferry reaches the mouth to the Pengjiang River it suddenly slows down, as if it is catching its breath. The ferry then continues to zoom underneath the many bridges along this river, most of which look like new constructions. Some of these bridges have no traffic on them, nor do they appear to lead to anything. Others are filled with activity, as well as clusters of tower blocks at each end.
The hydrofoil ferry is not the only vehicle in the river. There are other, older boats which drift along at a more leisurely pace. It is hard to tell what is specifically occurring on board them, but most appear to have several people and a small amount of cargo. Despite the human activity both on and beside the river, mother nature is making sure there is enough room for other species to enjoy the beauty of existence. A more trained birdwatcher could identify the living things which are flying outside the ferry better than I can, but I try and go out on deck to get a closer look. Alas, it is not possible to leave the enclosed seating areas, and anyhow my belly is rumbling.
I order some noodles (my third helping now), and return to my seat and try to indulge myself once more in the joys of Cantonese cuisine without slurping too loudly. I decide the only way to achieve this balance is to eat very slowly. This is a mistake - halfway into the bowl an announcement in is made on the public address system, and whilst I cannot understand the language well, in a nanosecond it becomes clear that we are arriving at our destination as people stand up left-right-and-centre and make their way to the exit door.
I hastily finish the noodles, clumsily spilling some liquid down my front, and join the vague queue which has been formed informally by the passengers. My legs start to tingle, partly due to sitting down for several hours, but also due to a feeling of exhilaration, a buzz that comes from a sense of adventure, an exploration of the unknown. The exit door opens.
A red carpet is in place for us to step onto and lead us up into the mainland. It is the tone of red that signifies we are entering a Chinese border, and is a lovely welcome, although it instils a false sense of security leading everyone up to the obligatory beaurocratic procedures when entering a new territory (Hong Kong is considered a ‘Special Administrative Region’, so has her own border controls).
No country should be judged by it customs officers; suffice to say, it takes me about thirty minutes of conversation and pandering to finally let me through. I am not surprised that it takes so long, as my passport has taken so much of a beating over the last few years that it could almost be put on a pile of kindle for a fire and go unnoticed. Also, the visas I have from visits to Pakistan and Iran back in 2008 are viewed with some suspicion. But what really holds things up is my face. The passport photo was taken when I was sixteen, and my features have presumably changed quite a lot since then. I am finally let through when I hoist up my fringe and pull the exact expression which is in the photo.
As I walk through it is a surreal experience. Pushy taxi drivers offer to take me anywhere I want (except for England), and people I can say for certain I have never met in my life are waving at me. I wave back and they smile. Presumably this is all they wanted as they look away and talk amongst themselves. The friendliest of all the people in this station is a lady in uniform who asks me where I need to go, and informs me that there is a free bus service which goes into the city centre. As she walks me outside, she firmly puts one of the pushy taxi drivers in his place with alarming - yet rather alluring - efficiency.
The rain is pouring it down and it seems like everyone has prepared themselves for it except me. Quite a few people are wearing ponchos, and those who are not have got umbrellas. Some have conical hats on their heads, which not only keep out the sun but also double up as rain shields. I race to the bus the kind lady is pointing at, and lob my bags and my body through the sliding door.
The ride is short-but-sweet, given a pleasant feel by the warmth of the passengers on board. They each say hello in either Cantonese, Mandarin or English. One lady gets her daughter to do the same, and she relishes the opportunity by turning the greetings into songs, to well deserved cheers. I am dropped off the road at a level crossing, and instructed on how to get a bus to my next destination - Zhaoqing.
It occurs to me that I have to get on the coach, but as I race back into the station the staff at the information desk tell me that I am too late. I am panicking, although I do my best to hide it externally. What if this was the last one this evening? The women on the desk are giggling at my bemused and confused expressions. They tell me in broken English that there is another one in an hour, and as I made a mistake I can still use the same ticket. I sit on a chair right by the spot where the coach is set to pull up, to make sure that I definitely don’t fail to get on this time. Boredom is something I have never suffered from, and anyhow I have enough reading material with me to last the whole journey. I dive into a novel by Eileen Chang, and a little while later the coach arrives. Far from the jam packed coach I was expecting, it is practically empty. I monopolise the backseats to myself, and make a makeshift bed, but cannot doze off as I do not want to miss the view outside, even though it is pitch black, save for the street lights and neon signs.
A few hours later the bus arrives at Zhaoqing, and I am kindly helped by a chap I stop in the street, probably in his twenties, who helps me find a (very) cheap hotel. I check in and stretch my body out on the double bed and finally feel capable of getting some rest. A dog barks in the distance, and there is a little noise coming from some late-teens gossiping in the street, but I shut my eyes and find no problems in entering the land of nod.
