' ^ J ’oing hard seat on a Chinese train is some of the most difficult travelling in the world," he told me. "It's painful, it's claustrophobic, frustrating and generally wonderful." He was a veteran traveler, four years on the road; I had traveled, but only in the United States and Europe. I was a newcomer to Asia. We were drinking glasses of lemonade, lounging in the sun at the rooftop cafe atop the YMCA in Kowloon. Victoria Harbor spread out below, with its shifting fleet of freighters and yachts, junks and hovercraft. A flotilla of U.S. warships lay at anchor near Wanchai. The thousand towers of Hong Kong island stood gleaming in the sun. “You’ve been to Manhattan?” he continued. “Right? You’ve been on the A- train at five o’clock, uptown. Wall-to-wall people. Imagine that for forty hours.” “Can you get a seat?” “Maybe. Look. Picture a train car, with maybe fifty high-backed benches, set up back-to-back, like booths at a restaurant. They’re covered with green plastic and cushions of a quarter inch of foam. Up above the benches are big racks, crammed full of stuff—sacks, boxes, bags of food—not an inch to spare. “Now fill the seats with people, three or four to a bench. Put more people in the aisles, filling the aisles, people standing, crouching, sitting on newspapers on the floor. When night comes, put in a few more, stretched out asleep beneath the benches. Throw in any number of screaming infants, and keep in mind that smoking is very popular in China, and that spitting in public is socially permissible in China. And that most people on the train will stare at you, and that nobody on the train will speak your language. It’s intense. I think you’ll love it.” .JL awoke at about five in the morning, my head on my arms across my knees. A man sat on the floor, his face inches from mine. He snored softly. His hair was cropped close to his tanned and weathered head, and the breast pocket of his khaki jacket was stuffed with pens and smoking pipes. I sat up, and pain shot up the back of my neck. I looked at my watch. Five-twenty. A gray twilight barely revealed the farms rushing by outside. The old woman on the bench facing mine was awake and watching me. She was stout and strong and dressed in black wool pants and a gray jacket. Her smooth silver hair was parted in the middle, pulled back with pins, and chopped straight at her neck. Her face was tough and cracked, like the leather of an old wallet. With her high cheekbones and small eyes, she could have been an Oglala Sioux. She pulled a green orange from her pocket and held it out to me. I politely refused. She continued to hold it out. Finally, I took it and said “X/e x/e.” Shay shay, thanks. She smiled. The fruit inside was sweet and juicy, perfect for a parched throat first thing in the morning. I was on the train from Guangzhou, or Canton, to Beijing; thirty-six hours in hard seat, the Chinese euphemism for third class. It was as my friend had told me. The car was packed with people, most dressed in the standard issue blue or gray or khaki work clothes of China. It was like a troop train out of a World War II movie. People began to stir. The overhead flu- orescents, which had been dimmed at midnight, cut off completely. An orange sun began to rise over the low hills to the east, sending shafts of light in through green curtains. People dashed to the small sink in the corridor at the end of the car; it soon ran out of water. Others washed with facecloths that they had hung up on cords stretched across the windows. The loudspeaker came to life with a woman’s voice, then some Chinese music, then a Strauss waltz, then an elevator music version of the theme from Alfie. A young woman of perhaps eighteen came down the aisle. She was small and slight, and wore a blue trainworker’s uniform and a blue beret adorned by a red star. Long braids hung down her back. W h e n I lookedup, seven or so pairs of eyes were watching me. I looked at them and nobody looked away, as I had expected them to. Then a very skinny man, about fifty, smiled and pointed to my left hand. I'm left-handed; I held it up, and waved the pen back and forth. Everyone laughed. She carried a tremendous, several-gallon tea kettle, and stepping gingerly over those on the floor, she poured out scalding water into outstretched cups that came at her from every corner. A little later, a man came down the aisle with a push broom. He made everyone stand as he swept beneath the benches, picking up orange peels, cigarette butts, bits of paper. Hard on his heels came a guy with a mop, making a valiant effort to tackle the accumulated mixture of spittle, spilled tea, and grains of rice from last night’s box dinner that coated the floor. I wasn’t hungry; I ignored the cart of hard-boiled eggs that came through. Several from our car headed toward the dining car, but I decided against breakfast, figuring it would be porridge and soy milk, for me not the most appealing vision, first thing in the morning. The loudspeaker played a few recognizable themes from movies, and then some Chinese orchestral music. I recognized a bit from Spring Warms the Water Village. I pulled out my notebook and wrote for awhile, and when I looked up, seven or so pairs of eyes were watching me. I looked at them and nobody looked away, as I had expected them to. I looked at them for a couple of minutes, and they looked at me. Then a very skinny man, about fifty, smiled and pointed to my left hand. I’m left-handed; I held it up, and waved the pen back and forth. Everyone laughed. A young woman, more brazen now, pointed at my shoes, heavy size thirteen hiking boots; no doubt the largest shoes on the train, by far. We all smiled again, and I went back to my notes. We stopped briefly at three or four small stations, and then at the next there was a mass stampede from the train. I looked out of the window and then quickly joined the rush. Across a wide platform stood a sleepy blue stucco station building, and beside the station were long sinks, almost like big troughs, and rows of faucets overhead. Spongebath Clinton St. Quarterly 23
RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy NTc4NTAz