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Published: June 27th 2011
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With tickets in hand and confidence at a high we catch a Taxi for Guangzhou Railway Station. The driver speaks a rudimentary form of English. He and Kathy merrily converse along the way as he weaves in and out of traffic like a hare in front of headlights. At the end neither was much the wiser but both seemed pleased with their success in Chinese and Australian diplomacy.
Twenty Two Yuan for the Twenty minute ride. About Three Dollars Australian. The cheapest, cleanest and most efficient ride I have ever experienced in the world.
We purchase some noodles out the front from the local vendors. Hot water is supplied in the carriages. We pass through the security with the other thousands of travellers. How any one is apprehended I don’t know, it is just a mass of bodies pulsing through a narrow opening than gasping out the other side. One must just ride the wave with back pack in tow. And be careful not to trip over.
Inside the station we have to find our waiting room. Waiting rooms it seems are very important in Chinese trains. The orderly society I guess. With 1.3 billion people you don’t want too many
individuals.
We find our room, number 9, the only signage in this massive building I can understand. It is full to the brim with fellow train travellers. I purchase some water off the girl in the corner who shows me the price on her mobile phone. 12 yuan. The guy sitting opposite me is busy shelling sunflower seeds, chewing on the kernel, a pile of shells collecting at his feet. Natarsha is a great interest to the crowd, they stare at her in amazement. Not sure what the attraction is; her blond hair, her blue eyes, her height. Maybe they think she is a beautiful movie star, maybe they just feel sorrow for her, who knows? She is becoming very resentful of the piercing leers.
The electronic board clicks over. The crowd jump to their feet as one and head out the passageway. We join the throng, what else is there to do but join the sheep? The speakers are blaring, something incomprehensive to my ears but somehow enchanting to the crowd. We march down the escalator, along the tunnel, up the stairs and spill on to the platform.
One thing I understand on the ticket is the number 17,
the last carriage on the platform. The conductors are all ladies. Whether the men actually do anything here I am not sure. They are very stern and if asked for advice they brush you away like an annoying fly, with a wave of their hand and a shake of their head. These women seem to run and own these trains, smile graciously to them because you will need them later.
Our carriage has a corridor running along one side. On the other, there are open compartments, with six bunks, three on each side. Small tables with fold down chairs are placed next to the windows. What use these are I am not sure, even the hungriest locals would not be capable of using them. A token gesture I think.
Thomas idly stretches out on his bottom bunk, his feet hanging over the edge. Watching him, I think to myself that he was born too tall for this country, constantly towering above the crowds and overflowing from his own mattress.
The train slowly and effortlessly moves off. Kathy is worried that we have only purchased some noodles to eat and water to drink on our long journey, but don’t despair, as soon as the train leaves the platform our friends the conductresses appear. The first is selling fruit, the second has magazines, followed by soaps, drinks and meals. I feel a little bit of good old entrepreneurial capitalism is at work.
I stare out the dirty window at the lush green countryside passing by, eating my noodles, sipping on a lukewarm beer, purchased off one of the ladies. The rhythm of the train lulling me into a relaxing dream like state.
12 hours, 883 km later, we arrive in Guilin. Not sure whether refreshed, but certainly safe and a great adventure.
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keith
non-member comment
good stuff
Keep it up Jamie. Sounds great. Just remember, NO PIG IN BAG REFERENCES. Hi to everyone. Keith.