In an earlier entry, I had cause to blog about the highly amusing fact that airlines in India do not permit the carriage of certain pickled items.

O! for those simpler days, when life was so carefree ...

As of two days ago, consider me now firmly, and I mean FIRMLY, sided with the Indian airlines on this one.

The problem is thus: stow two large backpacks in the hold of a bus travelling from Guilin to Liuzhou. Retrieve same backpacks two-and-one-half-hours later, discover we're at the WRONG bus station and are consequently miles from the train station, which is the whole reason we're in this godforsaken place, tramp up too many stairs, flag down taxi, explain destination in crap Mandarin to delight of onlookers, who repeat each word we say, as we say it (only without the crapness), jump in taxi, realise that both massive packs plus daypack and food bag will have to ride ON TOP OF ME in backseat, grab onto Andrew's 20 kilo pack like it's my evil, mute toddler, take off at breakneck speed in total darkness heading towards oncomng traffic without headlights (but hey! that's cool, because THEY don't have any headlights on either!), and suddenly realise, while firting with death-by-head-on-collision, 'Hey darling, the whole bottom of your pack is soaked through with something stinky and it's stinging my hand really badly ...'

Damn our bus companions and their culinary baggage! O foul deeds!

Spend next thirty-odd hours in confined space of sleeper train trying to pretend that the revolting 'pickled eggs gone sour' stench has NOTHING whatsoever to do with us!

Now, said pack is in the corner of our hostel room in Chengdu looking like a scolded child. Andew tried scrubbing it, to little avail, so now it's smelly and sodden and all deflated like a day-old balloon.

How our lives became this glamourous, I cannot say.