I can’t believe it; he’s using the same broom

I’m currently brooding over the day’s events, like a brooding mother Hen in full-on egg brood mode that studied brooding at Oxford. Twenty minutes more and I’d have made the run back from the hotel to the subway station exit C, reuniting with travel buddy and jumping on the subway Line 2 bound for Military Museum. With just enough time remaining, we’d have managed the ten minute walk to Beijing West Railway Station and caught our train bound for Xi’An. Running with a 14.9 kilo bag dangling from my right shoulder, bashing in to locals as I panted back to the subway and glancing at my watch; I knew there was little hope at the time. In actuality, those twenty lost minutes at Simatai – whether fending off tatchants, taking a few more shots or waiting for the next cable-car cabin to come around – meant biting one huge bullet and slumming it on the floor for the night: I missed my train.

The Chinese railway has three main classes of sleeper train: K, T and Z in ascending order of luxury. I’m currently sat on the floor of the T-class sedentary carriage number 2 and with fourteen hours to kill, there’s plenty of time to count heads. The sign at either end states no more than 126 passengers are permitted, though ensuring as much cash is extracted as possible from punters, we were forced in to purchase of “standing” tickets for transit this evening. One hundred and sixty or thereabouts, is what I can see looking up and down the carriage, with some 3-seat berths occupying 5 lucky bodies and the rest either standing or sat crumpled on the floor; legs somehow wedged underneath the privileged seated customers.

Tiredness and I mix about as well as opposing pHs, with both examples generating a great deal of heat when combined. And having spent the previous two hours playing “I-spy”, it’s now approaching midnight. Yesterday I entered the GPS coordinates for Xi’An Railway Station in to my watch and it currently tells me that we’re heading in a straight line with around 5 hours till arrival. I’m hopeful, though I do seem to remember the previous tickets stating a 12 hour journey.

Come 4am and I’m about ready to become a “mushroom cloud laying mother fucker, mother fucker”, as the Serotonin levels have reached maximum output. Try as I might it’s impossible to sleep on the floor, with locals pushing and barging past to get to the toilet every twenty minutes, tapping me on the shoulder as they step over, or needing to stand in order to let the trolley-man through selling noodles. So I’ll try to stay awake instead and check my watch again. At one point I wondered whether we’d ever get any closer than 424km, with the compass actually pointing in the opposing direction to Xi’An. It’s pointless and futile; much like staring at the microwave when impatiently hungry and tapping your finger – it won’t cook any faster. I’m scanning through settings hoping that the “speed” display gets to something like the Shinkansen, instead of a paltry 80km/h and the “dist. to dest.” drops faster the harder my blood-shot eyes stare at it.

As the sun rises it’s a race to hit the lavatory; if it can be called such a thing. Having fasted for the entire night to reduce visitation frequency to an absolute minimum and with parched mouth, carpeted teeth and grimey hands in tow; it’s my turn to step over bodies and find the queue. My advice is to get there early; should the water supply run out (and it will rapidly), you’ll be forced to use a broom wedged in the corner to remove stubborn log formations. It’s as disgusting as it is amusing (you simply have to laugh at this point), although worse still is what was yet to come.

Back to my glorious floor space, there are only a few hours to go. Most people are awakening and heading to the boiling water tap in order to fill their noodle pot; ignoring any kind of safety by clambering over people with scolding hot water, narrowly missing spills that would surely cause disfiguring burns should any mistake be made. Just add water for instant noodles? I’ll add some water to your balls in a minute, if you don’t fuck off and leave us alone.

With less than a hundred kilometres to go the goal is in sight. And good thing too as most people are awake; engaging in mobile phone and shouting conversations from one end of the coach to the other. It’s time to stand again as the guard is approaching sweeping the floor; glancing down I’m in shock and quick to stand up, pulling my buddy with me. I can’t believe it; he’s using the same broom from the toilet to collect rubbish. The sooner this nightmare is over the better; London Underground at rush hour in the height of Summer will forever seem a cakewalk in comparison.