Standing Room Only
The middle of a lonely street, 11:15 pm. The single motorcab (motorcycle engine and seat on front wheel, with metal box frame on two wheels secured to the back) too small to fit everyone in for the ride to the train station. Chongchong is returning to school, leaving her family. I am going with her.
I met Timothy at a church conference in the Philippines in November, came to stay with his family this month. I have only known his sisters and mother for a little over a week, and yet they feel like my family too. His mother clutches my hand forcefully, silently, and her hand trembles. His sisters cling to each other sobbing, making all of us cry.
Chongchong and I clamour aboard, filling the space completely with our stuff. She takes my hand and doesn't let go the entire way to the station. Even though she doesn't like Zoucheng, she doesn't want to leave. The others stay in the same positions on the pavement until we are out of sight.
Though all through town the streets are empty, the vast waiting hall of the train station is thronged with people. And more bags than seems possible, even for so many bodies. Many of the bags are enormous, people sized woven plastic farm sacks stuffed to bursting and tied with twine. I can't imagine how they will move without machine help. Our tickets are for standing room only. It is going to be a long night.
The toilets are at the far end of the hall, outside past the smoking room. I go into the single lit doorway to stare down a line of men at the urinals. It's late and I'm tired. With cigarettes dangling from nearly every gaping mouth, and a line of stalls behind them, I think dumbly that this is an extension of the smoking room, that maybe the mens and ladies are shared. I stand there far too long, alternately eyeing the stalls and eyeing the men, before turning around and going out without peeing. At the other end of the room is another door (unlit), into which a line of women are disappearing.
Back in the main hall, Timothy rises head and shoulders above the rest of the crowd. Jenjen is beside him in a bright yellow-green coat, bouncing up and down and waving. They've come to see us off. Timothy looks at the massive crowd like it is a dangerous animal, looks at me like this is a very bad idea. When the train is called we all ride the wave of flesh and baggage towards the two narrow turnstiles together. Chongchong and I are not worried. Timothy and Jenjen clearly are. People push and shove, elbows flying, straining for prime positions at the front of the platform. We are definitely not the only ones with standing room tickets. As the station attendents reach to let us through, Chongchong grabs my arm and tells me to run. Jenjen's bright coat is long since lost in the melee, Timothy's head bobs along on the sea of hats, getting further and further away.
We run to the 'northest' end of the platform, to the loading zone for the very last car. Although we are nearly alone before the train pulls up, once the doors open we are suddenly surrounded by a slavering beast of crowd. 'PUSH!' yells Chongchong, 'We only have 2 minutes!' All around us more and more enormous farm sacs appear, and frenzied people trampling each other to board. I have taken a lot of trains in China, but never one like this before. I put my head down, elbows out, dive in.
The car we are in is a 'hard sleeper' - pairs of 3 level bunks stretching from end to end with a narrow luggage rack running along the opposite side. Though the car already seems full, dozens of us (and all our stuff) pile in. Sacs are heaved onto the highest bunks, occasionally onto sleeping bodies, and stuffed into the gap between the raised middle bunks and the walls. The two of us join 3 others already seated on a single bottom bunk, 4 others across from us and a handful more perched on bags in the aisles. One of the men across from us has an enormous purple abscess protruding from the left side of his face, which everyone around him squirms away from making the space seem even more crowded than it is.
It is 8 hours from Zoucheng to Nanjing. The car doesn't get less crowded as the night goes on.
On the one hand, I am thankful that we are sitting. On the other hand, that puts the droning voice of the man beside me very close to my ear. Although we are packed in like sardines and thus inevitably pressed against each other, I have the distinct impression that he is closer to me than absolutely necessary. Despite my headphones, he continues to chatter loudly for the first 5 hours of the journey. About half the time about me. Around 4 am I start to wonder if crucifixion might be preferable to this kind of train ride (Mel Gibson's blood-fest Jesus film having played on TV just before we left fresh in my mind). Chongchong sleeps, head against my shoulder, about half the night. I do not sleep at all.
Finally off the train in Nanjing, we run first to the ticket window and then to another train. This time we have seats, and though they are the lowest class, they seems inexpressably divine. We watch a succession of quaint villages picturesquely reflected in still ponds pass by the windows and imagine the one we are going to.
2 more hours on the train, 2 busses (an hour each, first standing in the door well of one so that each time the bus stopped my right arm and backpack would be squashed behind the metal and then crammed into a mini-bus with broken windows with a couple of dozen other people) and a 20 minute taxi ride later, we found ourselves here. In a village whose only water is a filth-ridden swamp of canal where the raw sewage from all of the houses runs (and people do their laundry). At least in the dim light of dawn and dusk it looks charming.
I met Timothy at a church conference in the Philippines in November, came to stay with his family this month. I have only known his sisters and mother for a little over a week, and yet they feel like my family too. His mother clutches my hand forcefully, silently, and her hand trembles. His sisters cling to each other sobbing, making all of us cry.
Chongchong and I clamour aboard, filling the space completely with our stuff. She takes my hand and doesn't let go the entire way to the station. Even though she doesn't like Zoucheng, she doesn't want to leave. The others stay in the same positions on the pavement until we are out of sight.
Though all through town the streets are empty, the vast waiting hall of the train station is thronged with people. And more bags than seems possible, even for so many bodies. Many of the bags are enormous, people sized woven plastic farm sacks stuffed to bursting and tied with twine. I can't imagine how they will move without machine help. Our tickets are for standing room only. It is going to be a long night.
The toilets are at the far end of the hall, outside past the smoking room. I go into the single lit doorway to stare down a line of men at the urinals. It's late and I'm tired. With cigarettes dangling from nearly every gaping mouth, and a line of stalls behind them, I think dumbly that this is an extension of the smoking room, that maybe the mens and ladies are shared. I stand there far too long, alternately eyeing the stalls and eyeing the men, before turning around and going out without peeing. At the other end of the room is another door (unlit), into which a line of women are disappearing.
Back in the main hall, Timothy rises head and shoulders above the rest of the crowd. Jenjen is beside him in a bright yellow-green coat, bouncing up and down and waving. They've come to see us off. Timothy looks at the massive crowd like it is a dangerous animal, looks at me like this is a very bad idea. When the train is called we all ride the wave of flesh and baggage towards the two narrow turnstiles together. Chongchong and I are not worried. Timothy and Jenjen clearly are. People push and shove, elbows flying, straining for prime positions at the front of the platform. We are definitely not the only ones with standing room tickets. As the station attendents reach to let us through, Chongchong grabs my arm and tells me to run. Jenjen's bright coat is long since lost in the melee, Timothy's head bobs along on the sea of hats, getting further and further away.
We run to the 'northest' end of the platform, to the loading zone for the very last car. Although we are nearly alone before the train pulls up, once the doors open we are suddenly surrounded by a slavering beast of crowd. 'PUSH!' yells Chongchong, 'We only have 2 minutes!' All around us more and more enormous farm sacs appear, and frenzied people trampling each other to board. I have taken a lot of trains in China, but never one like this before. I put my head down, elbows out, dive in.
The car we are in is a 'hard sleeper' - pairs of 3 level bunks stretching from end to end with a narrow luggage rack running along the opposite side. Though the car already seems full, dozens of us (and all our stuff) pile in. Sacs are heaved onto the highest bunks, occasionally onto sleeping bodies, and stuffed into the gap between the raised middle bunks and the walls. The two of us join 3 others already seated on a single bottom bunk, 4 others across from us and a handful more perched on bags in the aisles. One of the men across from us has an enormous purple abscess protruding from the left side of his face, which everyone around him squirms away from making the space seem even more crowded than it is.
It is 8 hours from Zoucheng to Nanjing. The car doesn't get less crowded as the night goes on.
On the one hand, I am thankful that we are sitting. On the other hand, that puts the droning voice of the man beside me very close to my ear. Although we are packed in like sardines and thus inevitably pressed against each other, I have the distinct impression that he is closer to me than absolutely necessary. Despite my headphones, he continues to chatter loudly for the first 5 hours of the journey. About half the time about me. Around 4 am I start to wonder if crucifixion might be preferable to this kind of train ride (Mel Gibson's blood-fest Jesus film having played on TV just before we left fresh in my mind). Chongchong sleeps, head against my shoulder, about half the night. I do not sleep at all.
Finally off the train in Nanjing, we run first to the ticket window and then to another train. This time we have seats, and though they are the lowest class, they seems inexpressably divine. We watch a succession of quaint villages picturesquely reflected in still ponds pass by the windows and imagine the one we are going to.
2 more hours on the train, 2 busses (an hour each, first standing in the door well of one so that each time the bus stopped my right arm and backpack would be squashed behind the metal and then crammed into a mini-bus with broken windows with a couple of dozen other people) and a 20 minute taxi ride later, we found ourselves here. In a village whose only water is a filth-ridden swamp of canal where the raw sewage from all of the houses runs (and people do their laundry). At least in the dim light of dawn and dusk it looks charming.
posted by Roberta | 4:27 PM
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