A piece of travel writing from a forthcoming book about travel in China by a good friend of ours. Don’t miss the photos under the extract!
THE FINAL SHUNT- THE T62 TO PEKING by Farhat Jah
The departure of the T62 was announced in Chinese and English. We struggled up flights of steep stairs laden with our backpacks, rugs and prayer flags. We were Xrayed yet again. Worrying for my films, I threw my bag of exposed film down the front of my jacket and ignored the metal detector when it “beeped”. The grey-coated security guards did not notice. The Chinese Police Constable standing behind them did. He smiled at me and ignored the indiscretion.
We staggered into the waiting hall. Chinese Railways run their big stations like airports with security, waiting lounges and boarding calls. Only instead of 150 people boarding an aircraft by row numbers, they threw open three small doors and boarded all 3,500 people in one fell swoop. We stumbled along in the seething mass of Chinese people onto the platform. Carriages 7, 8, 9, went by as the river of people surged forward to hard seat. I constantly looked to my left and eventually saw a metal number 11 hanging off the carriage.
“Here” I shouted to Cisca, and we detached ourselves from the hard seat marathon and walked up to the door. A svelte Chinese girl in uniform checked our tickets and invited us in. We walked down the corridor and I noticed that the carpet had a second thinner carpet on it.
Our carriage was the last one in the car. If Kunming had been mildly warm, our soft sleeper compartment had four berths, a large window and was gently airconditioned. It was warm enough that you could not wear a jumper, but cool enough to want to use the crisp Chinese Railway bedding.
We have wisely chosen one upper and one lower berth. It took me a few minutes to store all of our gear, but after some shoving and much cursing, it was all made to disappear. Two young Chinese businessmen joined us for one night only. They stashed their kit, dived into their bunks and started sending text messages for what was to prove hours. Most people in China, generally lie down on their bunks for train journeys. Conversations, and meals can all be taken in the comfort of the berth.
It was dark when we pulled out of Kunming. My last memory was of the svelte girl kicking the thin carpet into a roll. This was obviously only for welcome purposes!
I woke briefly at 06:15am to say goodbye to our cabin mates and then dozed off for another hour. When I decided to get up, I realised that I had just had the best night’s sleep in the whole of China. The controlled temperature combined with a hard bed, thick cotton sheets and a fluffy duvet have totally softened me. By the time I realised what a bonus the bed was, I was wide awake, and I cursed myself for not sleeping longer.
But it was far too late for sleeping- I was so excited by the train journey. The window was a technicolor screen. I sat transfixed for hours, looking at the scenery; and felt I was watching a non-stop film on rural China. Every view could be a postcard, or a documentary. We left Yunnan and crossed into the next province and the next. Brown waterlogged fields abounded with small hump like hills in the background. The train climbed slowly into the hills. Hauled by twin electric locomotives through long tunnels and around steep peaks. We clattered over metal bridges that spanned enormous brown rivers before plunging into green forests. Eventually, many miles from Yunnan the T62 picked up speed and started to fly along at over one hundred miles per hour.
The T62 was a time capsule of comfort passing through rural china. We were in a gently air-conditioned hotel with the softest of sheets, the firmest of beds, the finest of restaurants and out of the window was man in a paddy-field, up to his knees in watery mud guiding a ploughshare dragged by a buffalo. Different variations of this scene were repeated often.
The T62 shared the same attributes of the Trans Siberian Express. If the Rossia was a microcosm of Russia, then the T62 was a microcosm of China. Slim and lithe young ladies who could fit in between the compartments and berths ran the entire train. They had flags and lights and magnetic carriage numbers that they displayed at the 4-minute halts. Behind them were small cadres of men. Half a dozen police constables, a chef de train, a chief clerk of the beer, one chef, four cooks, mechanics various, and a small minority of carriage stewards (most are the svelte ladies). Everyone who served in the restaurant was a girl.
At each station, there was a ceremony for the opening of the doors. First the hydraulic locking system was disarmed with a trainman’s’ key. Then the girl would select “high platform” or “low platform”. As the train halted, the door was opened by a push of a button which powered a piston. With a hiss the door slip open and the correct amount of steps appeared. A magnetic carriage number was placed on the outside of the carriage and the attendant would then at attention by the door.
“Two minutes” we would be told. “As soon as the bell sounds, you have to re-board”.
The bell always sounded three minutes before we pull out. The contrast between the Rossia and the T62 amused me. In the height of summer the Chinese wore gloves and in the height of winter, the Russians would never wear gloves.
The restaurant car was a well-organised world. The car was a field kitchen that fed the entire train pork by trolley. I waved my “no pig please” card and was offered excellent chicken with (many) carrots and cashew nuts. I grew to like this meal, as it became a two-day staple. We were allowed to stay in the restaurant for quite some time, but eventually we were thrown out “Because the workers need to eat”. I thought this meant that they needed a rest, but upon returning to our berths, we found the train crew members heading to the restaurant clutching their individually numbered tin bowls. When we walked to the car in the evening, every seat was full of carriage girls, engineers and policemen smoking their after meal cigarette.
