Train Culture in Hard Sleeper
This is a continuation of my first long train trip in China in 1988 as described in my book, Memoirs of a Middle-aged Hummingbird, published in 2006.
It was clear to me that my biggest problem would be how to contend with the smoke from hundreds of cigarettes — chain-smoking men who had nothing better to do for the next 28 hours. I decided to position myself on one of the two seats near the open window, and to rarely leave it except to go stand in between the railway cars.
I put off going to the toilet as long as possible, having been warned of its filth and stand-up style. While I can’t claim it was pleasant, it wasn’t as bad as I had expected. I rather enjoyed hanging on to the little railing and watching the scenery fly by.
Music drifted in and out of the car, our car’s speaker either being broken or turned off. Sometimes I heard a distinctly Chinese melody while I looked out upon scenes of water buffalo, growing rice, and shouldered burdens. I felt amazement at being here. Sometimes the music was more like American Muzac style, Richard Cleyderman being very popular.
I watched the people peel off cigarette wrappers, food packaging, papers, and just about everything else that people throw away, and casually toss it out of the windows, or on the floor. I had looked in vain for a wastebasket. Finding something I thought was one, I threw in some trash, only later to watch the attendant simply take the bucket and dump its contents out the window. The floors and windows were indeed the wastebasket. Twice a day or so, the girl responsible for our car swept up all the junk and ran a filthy wet mop ceremoniously, but not effectively, over the floor. The other grunge caked on the windowsills, etc. was never disturbed.
As haphazard as the mopping was, it was welcome because of the Chinese habit of spitting on the floor. I am not at all sure when this became a part of Chinese culture, and the government is trying to stop it through the media and fines, but it will be a long and tiring battle. Heavy smokers tend to spit more, but in places like Israel, the land of both Arab and Jewish chain smokers, spitting has not acquired such proportions and popularity. This abundant spittle is not a part of the Chinese culture that can endear them to foreigners, especially obsessively clean-conscious Americans.
So, amid the spitting, smoking masses, I, too, settled in for the duration. When the train neared a station, our car’s assigned railway attendant rushed by, donned an official cap, locked the toilet door as well as the door to the next railway car (to prevent people without proper tickets from entering), took a clip-on number 5 sign, and prepared for the stop. As soon as the train stopped, she opened the door, clipped on the number, and positioned herself outside the door.
People then poured out from the train and rushed over to some vendors selling a variety of things. They came back with plastic containers of food, skewered chicken feet, and other forms of food I could only guess at. However, having been to the Canton food market that sold many of the animals we would look for in a pet store, I did not allow my curiosity to wander much. Since I could not understand the loudspeaker announcements, and since one is only allowed to re-enter one’s own car or not at all, I dared not stray too far from my unsmiling railroad attendant. Before leaving each station, a uniformed man came by and banged on some part of the mechanism underneath the train. This brought to my mind the question of just how safe the train really was. I did not linger long on that question.
Upon re-entry to the train, people intensely applied themselves to eating. Chinese, although all quite skinny, eat with great gusto, and in a hurry, with chopsticks flying. To a foreigner’s eyes, it is much like shoveling food into the mouth. And then, of course, the plastic boxes flew empty (Chinese rarely leave leftover food) out all the windows.
The smoke cleared a bit between 2 and 4 p.m. when people tended to sleep. The noise level, always quite high, dulled down somewhat. At some point, I sleepily climbed the ladder to my sleeper. My neighbor was sitting on the lower sleeper and lit up another cigarette. As the smoke wafted upward, I donned a surgical mask that I had brought because I had been told it would help to keep me warm in winter. He looked at me in great surprise, and then he began to laugh. He said something to his wife, who also looked up and laughed. I knew she was a silent sufferer of his smoke from watching her earlier. He tried to wave the smoke away, but knowing it was a useless gesture, he left the car to finish it elsewhere. I thanked him.
I watched the scenery from my sleeper and nodded off. Sleeping on a sleeper is actually a pleasant experience. The noise of the train blurs the noise of the people, and the movement is like a cradle, albeit with occasional lurches. There are straps to securely hold you in. And, all lights go out at 10 p.m.
Some people went to the trouble of changing into clothes for sleeping, but most did not. There was, however, much evening and morning movement to the sinks for face and handwashing, and toothbrushing. Eventually the washing water ran out, which I understand is usual, and then people relied on wet towels and the large boiled water containers for tea making. The Chinese seem to have excelled in the art of keeping hot water hot in thermos bottles for as much as 24 hours. Even advanced American technology can’t match up in the thermos bottle time test.
It was good that I had brought some food because buying food was not easy for me. I was ignored in the dining car, which was incredibly filthy, and only finally got a bit of food through the kindly assistance of one of the very few English speaking Chinese on board. This young Chinese man had appointed himself guardian of Jean-Paul and me.
I had first met Jean-Paul in Canton at the CITS (Tourist Office) trying to buy a train ticket. He was on his way to Shanghai, and I to Hangzhou. We found one another on the train, and spent some happy hours talking, trading tourist information (much more helpful than the Tourist Office), and discussing the U.S., traveling, traveling alone, and traveling in China.
Jean-Paul had had the good fortune to receive a hard sleeper next to a young Chinese man who had just spent a year in England with his parents. His English was superb, and he spoke of how his parents had suffered in the Cultural Revolution, and how he was returning to finish college education in Shanghai. He was also helpful in getting me food, and in being sure I got off at the right stop.
At Hangzhou, Jean-Paul and our Chinese caretaker helped me to carry my bags off the train, and we wished one another well. I had said goodbye to my neighbors in the cubicle, and felt a certain pang of anxiety at saying goodbye to these two English-speaking traveling companions.
To be continued….
Tags: Train culture in hard sleepers in China; train travel i, Travel
