Trains from hell

It's been two days of consecutive train journeys. Having departed Lijiang and stopped off en route to Guilin in Kunming, this K156 is 15 hours in to it's 25 hour slog. That makes it exactly 2:08am and with yesterday's 7 hour drop in altitude of 400m ending up as 11.5 hours; it’s fair to say I’ve served some porridge on these metal sloths. I'm awake as I have to monitor any movement of bowel with extreme care so as to maintain boxer short integrity. Presently, the judges gave the first 3-day round of toilet-repetition to me, though I hope this second round ends in a KO one way or the other. You know you have gastro-entiritus when:

• A twelve pack of tissues lasts half the number of hours.
• The train attendant looks at you suspiciously as you enter the toilet for the fifth time that hour.
• A midget seems to be wedged in between your brain and forehead struggling to get out.
• Each burp is actually able to peel paint, disintegrate the bed linen or instantly rust metal.
• When your stomach groans you reach for the nearest container and poise head, instead of ringing the local takeaway.
• One minute your eyes are closed, the next you're fighting a red-eyed potato whilst ascending a spaghetti-fashioned ladder, the next you're staring at a sweat-soaked pillow.
• Your abs have suddenly gone from a flabby mass of unused fat in to a ripped six-pack.
• A dry mouth becomes saviour from another toilet visit, regardless of the urge to drink.
• Regardless of the fifty pound note's proximity, there's no way you're getting up to get it; perhaps missus will though.
• Risking a fart could mean the difference between a humorous noise and creating a makeshift nappy.

I could go on, suffice to say it's an expected part of travelling in Asia. What makes for more interesting material is surely the types of strange, weird and wonderful fellow passengers you will come across when sharing cabin or carriage space. In front of me on the upper berth asleep, is a strange old gent who occasionally appears to be chewing; nothing. Each motion and the sound of grinding rubber fills the room and drowns out even my earbuds. I'm guessing they're dentures as otherwise there's little chance of any nashers being in place come sunrise.

It's been an interesting route through China; I've zigzagged my way across almost everywhere I ever wanted to see and more. Beijing to Xi'An, then Shanghai and on to Xiamen, before Zhangjiajie and the small town of Phoenix (Fenghuang), back to Guangzhou for a Visa run and a long haul to Kunming to traverse the West tourist trap of Dali, Lijiang and Shangri La and finally all the way back to Guilin and a last visit to Yangshuo to relax. I'm annoyed to have missed Shangri La and the Tiger leaping gorge, though the former had it's only monastery closed for renovation and a hefty park entrance fee and the latter is simply a hiking trail that can't compete with Hualien.

Throughout my journey I've needed to go toe-to-toe with each and every ticket clerk when asking for a seat. The mentality is a complete mystery, for every time I or we have asked it's always the same answer; "Meiyoh. No seats". Why have people serve this job when a simple red cross permanently displayed at the ticket counter would suffice and cost far less per hour. For the nine train journeys I've taken, not a single one has managed to produce a ticket on first questioning; I've had to lie, slam fists, shout and swear, demand to see the manager and verbally abuse the staff to extract an elusive train ticket. What is the game here and what possible purpose could it have, I wonder. One train that apparently had "no seats" and I had the entire cabin to myself; another had nothing available for 8 days until I angrily questioned "What the F*CK?" and was suddenly given the option of a soft sleeper the following morning. Making life difficult seems to be the game, with points scored for turning away each customer perhaps. I guess that question will forever remain unanswered.

What has been answered in unequivocal form is that the best way to navigate China is by air and not land; funds permitting. It's enormous, gigantic and overbearing in size and would probably take a further two months to see it all. Not that I want to, as I'm happy to have seen enough of the place to form an opinion, of which I am sure I have eluded to in posts past. Simply put; except for Xiamen, I wouldn't visit or recommend it in a hurry. Just over one hour has passed and I've gravitated outside the cabin in to the hallway for some less recycled air. And in just over a month I'll have three weeks to wrap up my tour of Asia before smashing and utterly obliterating the language barrier, which I'm thoroughly looking forward to.

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7.29 the following morning

Startled by the dulcet tones of traditional Chinese cat-strangling, my headphones simply can't compete with such infernal noise; it's the perfect testing ground for noise-cancelling cans. Five train staff pass by, three more, four more; it's an exodus. They're all carrying standard issue tin pots for breakfast on car 6; the dining cart and hang out of blue-uniformed useless males.

Yesterday having found cabin, first course of action on the list is to locate the volume control and press mute, or dial it down to minus-infinity – there go two more staff, another three – peace and quiet is sanctity after all. Sadly the panel refused to function, randomly increasing in volume until my fingers rolled to become part of fists trying to get the thing to work. I'll go ask one of the staff to take a look; she tries all three buttons, shrugs and departs. In fact in total, no less than eight different people pressed those three buttons and then left; geniuses the lot of them. I know it's broken – two more staff – that much is quite clear, so I’ll dismantle the unit myself. Two screws removed and sadly the feed to the rear is supplied by 3mm cables; it’s probably 220V like the rest of the train – I was hoping for harmless 5V so back together again it goes and earbuds are replaced.

With three hours remaining, my penultimate train journey is coming to a close and rubber-teeth man is finally awake; one less noise to contend with. Soon the familiar city of Guilin will be my stomping grounds once more and to say I’m looking forward to it is an understatement. I think I’m finally empty; there’s nothing left in me and good timing too – we’re just pulling in.