(1986-1990) Ticket lines in China were discouragingly long. Holidays stretched them out even longer. A thousand people spelled a day-and-a-half wait. To say the least, there was plenty of action. When the ticket window loomed in sight, some impatient souls leaped onto the shoulders of the mob and reached into the opening with a fist of cash. Once, a young woman who dared to cut in line found herself literally tossed into the street.Occasionally, the crowds pressed so forcefully to block out any “butting-in” that I could not expand my rib cage enough to catch a breath of air. In the heat of tension, fights readily broke out. When riots flared up, the army was called in. Pickpockets were the biggest, most common nuisances. I ordinarily caught them, given that I am so super-ticklish.
Roughing it on future trips enabled me to mingle. For short treks, I rode the cattle car—hard seats. For longer distances, I went hard sleeper: those cars of a hundred passengers, who slept in three stories of hard-mattress bunk beds, containing a washroom with three sinks and a toilet, a dense cloud of cigarette smoke, and—not to forget—the propaganda that blasted day and night over the loud speakers.
On one trip, a little girl fell ill and vomited on her bunk right after I had boarded the train. I swung into action like a shot. After dashing off to the washroom to fetch the wastebasket, I cleaned up the mess. The remaining passengers sat motionless, or should I say, mesmerized.
Being late, as it was, and anticipating the lights to be turned out at any minute, we all retired to our beds. Bright and early the next day, a middle-aged woman sitting opposite me threw out the question.
“Why did a foreigner help the sick child,” she braved, “while we Chinese didn’t even lift a finger?”
So, what about the menswear? Still 1 more day on the train!
Photo by Vmenkov Copyleft at Wiki Commons.Photo by Steve Jurvetson, Copyright Creative Commons Attribution License at Wiki Commons.
