Looking out the window on this bright morning highlights some of the contrasts there are between Southern China and the Western end of the Eurasian landmass. It is the same sun, and the grass is just as green; but the colour schemes of the buildings are unfamiliar, the roofs are slanting differently, the arches are not Roman and many edifices are covered in tiles.
The landscapes is, for want of a better term, jaw dropping. Much of the Guangxi province is comprised of ‘karst’ i.e. weathered limestone formations. They are visually pleasing, and not surprisingly have been the inspiration for poetry since at least the 6th Century AD.
Throughout the journey there are also glimpses of rice paddies, growing what is one of the staple carbohydrates for many of the inhabitants in this part of the World. The workers toiling the fields serve a reminder that vast areas of China are still rooted in the agricultural economy.
The bus has a halfway stop off, where a charismatic lady serves a range of Cantonese cuisine. As I tuck in I have almost no clue as to what I am eating. But, unlike McDonalds, that is part of its charm and adds to the culinary experience. Mind over body, body over mind, and all that malarkey. Or, to use the words of Captain Frank Younghusband back in 1896, ‘The Chinese are remarkably good cooks, and, though the dishes are often served in a way which is not very palatable to Europeans, there is no doubt that the actual cooking is excellent.’
I arrive at Guilin and find some cheap lodgings. The main roads through the city are haphazard to cross, perhaps in part because the place, like many Chinese cities, is ‘booming’. And yet, whilst there seems to be the constant clanging of construction work coupled with the continued beeping of car horns, when I takes a few steps off any of the main streets there is a completely different atmosphere. Somehow a space of three yards acts as a sound barrier; the noise dies down, there are no cars in the side roads, and no flashing lights. The boom is replaced with tranquillity. Whilst the shops on the main streets have plenty of electronic devices to keep people occupied, the main form of entertainment in the back streets is undoubtedly Mah Jong and card games.
The next morning I awake and, aware that I have a twenty-six hour train journey to Chengdu ahead of me, decide to rent a bicycle and get a final burst of exercise before I depart.
Riding around the busy roads of Guilin is something that no amount of cycling proficiency training can prepare someone for. Every second counts as all sorts of vehicles speed in every direction around me. It feels chaotic, but part of the problem is my own stupidity. After a while I realise that I have been cycling on the wrong side of the road - salmon may be able to swim upstream, but a naïve Englishman cannot, and should not, breech Chinese traffic regulations. I reach the Li River on the outskirts of town and the resulting view is well worth it.
The amount of people piling into Guilin train station is incalculable. There is a vague etiquette which seems be promoting queuing, but it also helps to be quite forceful too, rather like trying to order a drink in a busy nightclub. As I make it through I find a space to sit in the waiting area, and get chatting to the man sat next to me. His English is remarkably polished - he is an engineer born, bred and based in China, but has also spent some time in Sudan working on various projects.
I find my assigned bed on the train, and by chance I am on a bunk above another English speaker, this time a Chinese woman in her thirties who has learnt several languages to become a tour guide. Tourism is really taking off in China, and it is projected to be the most annually visited country in the World within ten years. Her Anglicised name is Maggie, and she is on board with her mother and her son, who unlike her can only speak Putonghua. We talk about China, we talk about travel, we talk about having children (not with each other).
Wandering down the coach, I am accosted - in a pleasant way - by some ladies who are scoffing some sunflower seeds. I munch on a few with them, then work my way down the carriage to get some more substantive food. I look outside as I slurp on the noodles, and see flashes of willow pattern imagery, although maybe I am hallucinating, as the view quickly fades into just the evergreen trees.
The lights go out in the carriage at 10 o’clock prompt, and silence descends upon a once animated carriage as everyone, almost in unison, gets into bed to doze off. The next morning the energy returns to the coach. People of all ages seem to be excited that we are most the way to Chengdu - the end of the rail road is figuratively in sight. When the train finally arrives in Chengdu (exactly on time), everyone bids farewell to each other and we all descend onto the platform.
