Around the World in 80 Trains

by Monisha Rajesh

  An hour into the journey, the fourth berth was as yet unclaimed, and filled with potential. It lay there as a question mark, waiting to be answered by an unknown protagonist in our story. Whether it was to be occupied by a cast of characters, or one sole hero of the tale, whoever came along would change the fate of our journey. The door slid open – and we all looked up as the conductor came in. Wearing prim white gloves, she took our tickets, slotting them into a leather case and handed over three plastic cards for us to keep until Xining.

  Over the previous six months, my brain had become conditioned to expect certain sounds and sights, and any anomaly triggered a short circuit of confusion. Now, as I looked out of the window, I could feel sparks fly. Most trains originated in the heart of a city and were pumped out to the peripheries past shopping complexes, office blocks and high-rise apartments, while the city peeled away in layers; graffiti-covered concrete and stacked living thinned to low-rise suburban housing and green spaces, then flattened to countryside and miles of emptiness, before the layers reassembled and we drew into the next city. But over four hours, this train passed through a single, unending megacity that refused to shake free from Shanghai. Whenever the countryside drew into view, a chain of apartments appeared, then a shopping complex, then a ghost city, then a car park, and then another string of apartments. According to the timetable, we were travelling through a number of discrete cities: Kunshan, Suzhou, Wuxi, Changzhou, Zhenjiang and Nanjing, yet each melded to the next with a haphazardness of construction I’d never seen before. For those who disliked the modern face of Shanghai, or who couldn’t afford the property prices, these extended cities threw up the perfect answer for commuters. They just needed to come.

  I speared a peach slice, wondering if our fourth roomie would ever appear. Marc was editing photos, and Jem was reading up on altitude sickness, paranoid that the few hours we had to wait in Xining were nowhere near enough for us to acclimatise before the overnight train to Lhasa. There was no question about it, four hours was definitely nowhere near enough to acclimatise, we needed at least two days, but the train timetable and our own schedule meant that we had no choice.

  ‘We need to drink as much as possible to stave off headaches,’ Jem read off his phone. ‘And don’t forget what Yuhan said about falling asleep.’

  After staying at the PuLi we had also dabbled with Airbnb, and spent three nights in the home of a pleasant young woman named Yuhan, who owned a three-bedroom flat in the former French Concession. She slept in the single room, rented out one room to a couple who only emerged to take breaks from rampant sex sessions, leaving a post-coital fog in the corridor, and the third room was used for short stays. Each time we bumped into Yuhan she had wet, freshly washed hair and was wearing new pyjamas. It was a pity that she didn’t apply the same rigorous levels of cleanliness to our room, which had a mucky Hello Kitty duvet cover with no duvet inside, a pair of unwashed pants at the top of an unemptied bin, and a sink so clogged with hair that I wondered if I pulled it all up I might find the last guest still attached. Yuhan had recently visited Tibet with a group of friends and had shown us a number of photographs that could have been taken anywhere in the world that had a bit of blue sky. Each one was a photo of Yuhan, or a photo of Yuhan with reapplied lip gloss, or Yuhan holding up two fingers with a monastery in the background. As she flicked through photos of herself, she warned us about the dangers of altitude sickness: ‘Don’t go to sleep if you have sickness, you could slip into a coma and no one will know if you die in your sleep’; and the dangers of eating fish: ‘I travelled with a group of twenty doctors and everybody fell sick. The only one who didn’t fall sick was the one doctor who did not eat fish. Fish are sacred.’ Her final warning was not to haggle with Tibetans. ‘They all keep knives on their person that they’re given as children. And they will use them.’

  Just as I was considering going for a recce down the train, the door opened and a tubby man with glasses peered at the number on the empty berth.

  ‘Ah, this is me,’ he said, glancing around at the three of us with a weak smile.

  I felt bad for him. As much as I was excited about our new arrival, the poor man was clearly dreading spending the next twenty-four hours with three tramps wearing their underwear on the outside of their clothes. He unpacked his things, tucked away his bag, then disappeared into the corridor to make a phone call, nodding on his way out.

  ‘He seems nice,’ Marc said. ‘And he doesn’t stink of cigarette smoke.’

  Our compartment was right next to the vestibule, where most smokers gathered in a haze that drifted through the door every time someone came up the corridor. Technically, smoking wasn’t allowed in the compartments, but no one cared to observe rules, and the sour smell of cheap tobacco hung in the air. The door opened again and the man came back in and sat down next to me.

  Gerry was a retired high-school teacher who had spent the week at his sister’s, and was now heading back home to Lanzhou. He picked up my notebook and ran a finger down the list of trains, letting out a low whistle.

  ‘You are very lucky people,’ he said. ‘I would love to travel like you.’

  ‘Do you always travel by train to see your sister?’ I asked.

  Gerry nodded. ‘I love it, it’s relaxing and I can sleep well.’ He pointed out of the window at the cranes and viaducts dotted with engineers in high-vis jackets. ‘The speed train from Lanzhou to Urumqi is in operation since last year, now they are making the breakthrough with this region. Less than a hundred kilometres is mountainous, so they will complete this construction by 2017 and all the speed trains will be connecting. Shanghai to Xining will take eight hours after this.’

  ‘This route? Just eight hours?’

  ‘Yes. So, when I go to see my sister I will definitely take that one. Of course, I won’t take this one any more.’

  ‘Will anyone still use this route?’

  ‘People will still need the cheaper trains, the high-speed train in future is going to be more expensive than airlines. But like the Shanghai region, as you see, the fast trains are everywhere and they are almost putting the airlines out of business.’ Gerry had a pronounced stutter that made me feel guilty for badgering him, but it was unusual to find a bilingual passenger so willing to chat that I continued to probe, figuring he would shut down the conversation as he saw fit.

  ‘I thought that was just a myth.’

  ‘For not very long distances, people prefer to take the speed train because otherwise you have to go to the airport, there are delays, the travel time, the check-in, the weather, the queues. It is changing very fast here in China. Everything is changing fast in China. You see this kind of train, this soft seat? When I was young it was only for the high-ranking government officials, so ordinary people couldn’t buy this ticket, you were not supposed to take it. You could travel but the people didn’t have the money. Train tickets compared to today were much cheaper, but the whole society was very poor.’

  ‘Did everybody travel in hard sleeper?’

  ‘No hard sleeper. Just hard seats,’ Gerry laughed, thumping the berth.

  ‘Isn’t that quite similar to how North Korea is now?’ Jem asked, swinging down from his berth.

  ‘China was similar to North Korea, thirty years ago, in the sense that there was restricted travel. And at that time, we admired North Korea. We thought that North Korea had the much better life, the best life in the world. We saw the North Korean movies and at that time China was really messed up. Now China is a totally different nation. Thirty years ago, the common people couldn’t hardly put food on the table. We are the luckiest generation in history.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘When I was a boy I never dreamt I would have this kind of life. No, never. At that time it was crazy, the Cultural Revolution was very oppressive. It was very strange, every morning the whole family got up, first thing you are supposed to do is talk to Chairman Mao’s picture and give the report to Chairman Mao about what I have done, wha
t I did yesterday, and what I am going to do today. You had to give a report saying: “Today I will follow your instruction and do your work”, and of course everyone kept their door open so that all the neighbours can see the political show-off. That was a crazy time.’

  ‘What did your parents do at the time?’

  ‘My father was a government official, and my mother, she was the school headmistress.’

  ‘Did people agree with it or do it out of fear?’

  ‘My parents, they were complaining, and we were young. At that time, there was not many industry, we were close to nature, we didn’t have much schoolwork to do and we just played from dawn to dusk.’ He smiled. ‘Even though we didn’t have much food to eat we were happy. We had many adventures and the parents didn’t have time for us. We just played everywhere in mountains, rivers, many dangerous places. Very different from today’s life. Today’s kids they learning and studying all the time. That time was the late sixties and early seventies.’

  ‘When did everything change?’

  ‘After Chairman Mao died, we thought: “Wow, it is the end of the world.” ’

  ‘Were people frightened?’ Jem asked.

  ‘Yes, people frightened, we didn’t know what we were going to do. Mao’s wife was almost in power but later she and three guys in the top position were arrested and a couple of years later Deng Xiaoping came to power and he started reform and opening up. That was the Thirty Years’ Miracle. Life changed, everything changed very rapidly, very dramatic. His first policy was to allow the farmers to have their own land, to produce their own food, before that everything was collective. He just released the power back to the people.’

  ‘How did things change for your family?’

  ‘During the Cultural Revolution my father was persecuted and that time he was released back to power again, and he was the vice governor of this province so everything started to change and life got better.’

  ‘Did people adapt quickly?’

  ‘Oh, absolutely. Now it’s getting better, two years ago before Xi Jinping took the power, the corruption was very serious. People complaining, still some of them were saying: “Ah we miss Chairman Mao’s time”, and we ask them: “You want to go back? You don’t like today’s life? You don’t want your car, your comfortable apartment and your life now?” and they say: “Oh no, no, we want that. Today’s life is better than Chairman Mao’s time.” ’

  The train slowed past yet another ghost city and I asked Gerry what he felt about them.

  ‘It is difficult to say. Even if we don’t like, the government will clear everything that is here and they build what they want. Most people here, even if they own the property, they do not own the land. The government owns the land, so they demolish anything, anytime, and the people, they have no say.’

  ‘Aren’t people compensated?’

  Gerry looked at me blankly.

  ‘Aren’t people given money for their old house and then given a new place to live?’

  Gerry smiled. ‘That would be very nice. But that is not what happens for everyone. People have no rights, and they make protests and they try to get money, but often the government ignores this.’

  He pointed out of the window. ‘You see, China’s landscape is like one big construction site. Every day they build, they build, they build. The farmers’ homes, they are destroyed, all these apple orchards you see, they will all go soon. This is very common all over China.’

  Gerry’s phone began to play a techno dance tune and he glanced at the screen. ‘It’s my daughter, I must answer, this. Please excuse me.’

  I looked out at the stepped hillside, great mouthfuls of which had already been devoured by bulldozers. In ten years’ time, this train route would showcase a different China, one that I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to see.

  The following afternoon Gerry got off at Lanzhou, a few stops before we arrived in Xining. He’d called up a number of hotels close to the station and found a room for us for a few hours so we could shower and nap before the next leg of the journey to Lhasa, and unknown to us, had pre-paid the bill. These gestures of goodwill only ever came from train encounters. As Gerry waved from the platform, I knew we would never see him again. He owed us nothing, yet had extended a kindness that we could never repay, nor have the opportunity to repay. But Gerry was now sewn into our narrative and there he would stay. He could never be unpicked or dropped or forgotten. He could never age or change or fall foul of us. He would just be Gerry, the kind teacher from Lanzhou.

  At Xining station, we followed the signs to the basement taxi rank and were encircled by more than forty drivers wearing blue blazers and ties, waiting by a fleet of polished Nissans – and one hackney carriage. There were no other customers, and their jubilation made me wonder if we were the first people they had seen all week, if not all year. I almost felt that the three of us should take three separate taxis just to give the drivers something to do. Still, I admired their confidence that people would come, and I hoped that one day the stations would be filled, the taxis hailed, and the ghost cities brimming with life.

  Later that evening we returned to the station showered and refreshed, ready for the journey to Lhasa. It was devastating that half the journey would take place in the dark, but no matter which train we took, a large portion would have to be spent travelling overnight, leaving the magnificence of Qinghai province to be admired by no more than my imagination. Under Marc’s dictatorship we had more than an hour to spare at Xining station – another glass expanse that echoed with emptiness. The upshot was that there were no queues at any of the fast-food outlets, so we loaded up on fried noodles, fresh from hot woks, and pork buns as soft as clouds, collecting a feast for the night train that was already waiting at the platform. Stashing bags and unrolling duvets, we got comfy as the train began to move.

  ‘I can’t find my trainers.’ Jem began to look around in a panic, zipping and unzipping pockets.

  ‘Where did you last have them?’ I asked.

  ‘On the Xining train.’

  ‘You didn’t leave them in the hotel?’

  Jem yanked open a carrier bag for the third time, as though some sorcery might magic them into existence, but to no avail. His face collapsed. ‘I think I left them under the seat in our compartment.’

  Both Marc and I looked down at Jem’s flip-flopped feet with deepest sympathy. Havaianas weren’t the finest choice for Tibetan climes.

  ‘Do you think I’ll be able to buy some new ones in Lhasa?’

  ‘I’m not sure you’re going to find New Balance outlets in the middle of Tibet,’ said Marc.

  To console himself, Jem unwrapped his dinner. Almost immediately, cigarette smoke swirled into the compartment, so I went out to investigate the source. The culprit was in the compartment next door, smoking under the covers. Holding a hand up in greeting, I gestured to the door, and he waved for me to slide it shut.

  Ducking back into the safety of our compartment, I bolted the door, and turned around to find Marc and Jem wearing towelling slippers, sharing pork buns and deciding which film to watch before bed. Since Marc’s arrival I could see a change in Jem. While I worked, he had busied himself, but I knew the last few weeks had taken their toll and I could feel his endurance wavering. But Marc had jolted us both into action, pulling us back on course. Pushing the curtains to one side, I cupped my hands to the window as the train’s lights lit up the flats that sped by. The ground appeared to be covered in snow, but perhaps it was wishful thinking. No one else was due to take the spare berth, so we made up our beds, set up a film on the laptop and slid under our duvets. With the lights off, and our stomachs full, we snuggled in for the night. In the warmth, I could soon hear deep, even breathing. Both Jem and Marc had nodded off, the blue light from the screen revealing their sleeping faces. Closing the laptop, I climbed up to my berth as the train tilted and beat on into the night.

  11

  Viva Lhasa Vegas!

  Someone was sitting on my head.
I tried to get up, but my skull was clamped in an invisible vice. I lay in the dark, listening to the hiss from above. Purified oxygen was supposed to smell faintly sweet, but the air being piped into the compartment had the dankness of cigarettes. Waking Jem and Marc, I inched up the blackout blind, allowing the blaze of light to rouse us from the coma of altitude sickness. The Tibetan plateau resembled a Rothko painting: a slab of yellow rose halfway up the window to meet a slab of blue, separated by a squiggle of mountains, dusted with snow. The expanse of desert and sky galloped so far off into the distance that somewhere along the horizon it was already next week. Few sights have taken my breath away, but at more than 3,800 metres above sea level – and climbing – the air was struggling into my chest, making me faint. Marc sat up to photograph the view, while Jem lay slumped against the pillows apparently experiencing the early stages of rigor mortis. My own nails had turned blue, and a glance in the mirror confirmed that I had indeed died overnight; my lips had cracked and my skin had paled to a couple of tones shy of jaundice. Digging out scarves, gloves and knee socks, we passed around Marc’s flask of jasmine tea in an attempt to hydrate and stay warm, sharing a squashed Snickers bar that Jem had slept on and salvaged from his pocket. In the corridor, our fellow passengers weren’t faring much better. Perched on the pull-down seats by the window, our neighbour was sucking at an oxygen nozzle, his lids closing over watery eyes. I felt no sympathy: in spite of signs instructing passengers not to smoke beyond the city of Golmud, when the cabins became pressurised, he’d been puffing away in his berth.