This part of town is quite clearly geared towards (predominantly Chinese) tourists. And yet the word ‘spoilt’ does not spring to mind, somehow the balance works. Buddhist monks meander past ladies in high heels, monasteries stand shoulder to shoulder with camping stores. And the soundtrack to it all is not heard but rather smelt - the pleasant scent of the spicy Sichuan cuisine circulates around the lanes and alleys. As I wander the streets at night, the place feels so alive. Or to use some overused terms, it has a ‘zeitgeist’ air to it and seems especially ‘chic’. Whether a teenager or a young professional, this is ‘the place to be’.
Before boarding the train I buy what looks like a pancake. Unlike the Sichuan cuisine I had filled myself up with the night before, the taste of this piece of food is remarkably bland, and not overtly sweet or savoury. But for some reason it is moorish, so I buy a few more for the trip.
The journey is, to put it mildly, an experience. The train is jam packed, and moving across the carriage is a struggle. I budge my way through, and luckily there is a space on one of the overhead racks which fits my possessions perfectly. It is as if all the passengers have subconsciously saved it for me, aware that I will need it. Somehow I also find a seat with no one sat on it, except for the pair of feet belonging to the man sat opposite it. The conspiracy in my mind is complete - the carriage is colluding in my favour. (It later transpires that I had a seat reservation, which quashes my superstition)
Sitting down into the chair, I try to engross myself in a book, but there really is no need – there are enough stories playing out all around me. A lady on the seat across from me is trying on her new shoes, which the woman next to me is eagerly watching, to see if the shoe fits as snug as it would Cinderella. The men next to her, who I think are part of her family, gaze out of the window indifferently. One has started to doze off, although it sounds like a pretend snore. Some traders walk back and forth along the carriage, some selling pairs of socks. Other people seem to be walking back and forth for no other reason than perhaps the thrill of navigating a route through. It is an assault course. As people make their way to the onboard hot water tank to activate their pot noodles, it is entertainment in itself just watching them return to their seat without spilling anything.
One table is full of card players, and the people that seem to be enjoying the game the most are the spectators, who every few minutes get very animated. Soon, though, they turn their attention to me, when I start munching away at some pumpkin seeds. I am unaware that it is not common practice to eat the outer shell. A girl in her early twenties demonstrates how to chew on one, swallow the inner seed and spit out the shell. The next five minutes is spent trying to master this art, which I am unsuccessful at. But my failure is what makes it more fun for everyone concerned. When the next card game commences, I am left to my own devices, and gaze out of the window.
In the distance there are coal power plants – China is opening more and more of these every year. Just as coal helped fuel Britain’s Industrial Revolution, the same substance is being used by the Chinese for the similar ends. The train does not pass many, though, and as the journey progresses the scenery becomes increasingly hilly, almost mountainous. It is difficult to describe, so I will not.
I alight at Guangyuan. Three years ago an earthquake hit here which killed thousands of people. Nearly 1400 years ago, Guangyuan was the hometown of Wu Zetian, the only Empress in Chinas long and eclectic past.
When I leave the train station my thought are not, though, on the history of the place because I have a more pressing concern - I desperately need to urinate. I find a café and ask the staff where their toilet is, but they do not speak a word of English. Hearing my voice, some teenage lads try and help out, but they too do not know what I am asking for. “Toilet? Restroom? Bathroom?” I try all possible words but with no luck, so I try to think of how I can visually demonstrate what I need to do without being coarse. I kneel down and draw a circle with my finger in the ground, attempting to draw an Asian toilet. But this just makes them even more confused. Spotting a bottle of water on the shelf, I point at it to imply liquid, but this just makes them think I am thirsty. Desperately needing to go, I give in with manners and pick up the bottle and hold it between my legs as if it is my…“Ah yes!” they say, and take me outside and point at what looks like a public toilet. Problem solved.
When I get back there are more and more teenagers in this place. I say “Knee How” to them all in turn, and they form a circle around me. I ask how many English people they have met before, and they say I am the first. It does not feel awkward; quite the contrary, they make me feel at home. They give me a glass of the local beer, and let me try some of their food. When I am finished they all say “Welcome to Guangyuan!” – welcome indeed. Before we all go our separate ways they insist on taking some photographs, then they leave with a spring in their step.
I find the bus station, and some friendly women in their early twenties translate to the ticket officer. I hit the first snag of the trip. It had been my intention to travel from Guangyuan to Lanzhou by bus across a newly constructed highway which cuts through a mountainous region. However, no such bus exists. It is my own fault for naively thinking that, like the phrase ‘where there is a will there is a way’, where there is a road there is a bus. But after lengthy broken English conversations, it becomes apparent that it is not possible. They tell me to do it by train, but my determination to go this route will not let me give in, so the girls walk me to a map and show me that it really would be a nightmare to try and cross.
I awake in the morning as the train is shuttling across the southern part of the Gansu Province. When the trains speed slows it starts jolting, rather like an ill person hiccupping. But it soon gets back to full health and rides around changing terrain. The greenery is now starting to fade, and almost disappear.
I am invited by two old men to sit with them on the lower bed bunks. They do not want to talk, though, they just wanted to me to have access to gaze out of the window with them. I sit there for hours. There is something almost hypnotic about the experience. The old men are almost meditating, their attention spans are incredible, and it starts to rub off onto me and I feel no desire whatsoever to seek out some mirth.
The train yet again arrives on time. Maybe the British rail networks could do with some Chinese Officials to take charge of their tracks.
