Editor's note: We've been enjoying the stories on Lost Laowai from a number of their contributors from Ryan McLaughlin, to Glen Russell and recently Jalal Afhim (who also writes for Holiday Fu and recently wrote a great article about his trip to Wudang Mountain).

This story we actually came across today on CNReviews, so we're obviously not the first to notice it. And who doesn't love a good old China railway story. Enjoy!
 

I am in some doubt as to where I stand on taking the train for long-distance journeys in China. I have in the past found myself admiring the rail networks ability to transport you to the farthest corners of the country, provided with food, water, and a place to lie down and sleep. On other occasions, I have sat trapped inside a giant rolling sardine can, fighting the urge to jump headfirst out of the window by trying to calculate how long it would take to saw off one of my own legs with a Swiss Army knife.
 

On my recent trip to Wudang Mountain I was clearly presented with what I like about long-haul train journeys in China, and also what I don’t. The experience also underlined one of the more admirable aspects of Chinese culture, along with one of the least.
 

To travel to Wudang I took K351 from Shanghai South to Chongqing, which would depart at 6.21pm, to arrive in Hubei, Shiyan, at 4.45pm the following day. In preparation for the journey I had visited my local bookshop, and bought the thickest English language book I could find for less than 100rmb.
 

Once on the train, I settled in to my bottom bunk hard sleeper, and was surprised to find a TV installed in each compartment. At first I was dismayed, as it blared out puerile advertisements at high volume, with no way of stopping it other than smashing it with my shoe. To my relief, the loud adverts soon gave way to a popular and reasonably entertaining sit-com, set in ‘the classical period’, and I sat back, admiring the Chinese aptitude for slap-stick.
 

Things were looking good. I was enjoying the ride. Sadly, it was not to last. Two men with strong Jiangsu dialects were sharing my compartment of 6 hard-sleeper bunks, and were about to show me their own talents for comedy. From when I got on the train, until lights out at about 11pm, these men, somewhat rustic in appearance and demeanour, had been sitting on the flip-down chairs in the aisle, talking loudly, eating preserved chicken or duck out of a packet, among other things, and drinking from a little bottle of baijiu¬ – never less than 40% by vol. – non-stop. As the lights went out, they got up.
 

I imagined that the background noise of their conversation would stop as the lights went out. Instead, the younger of the two rummaged around in his stuff on the bunk above mine, and pulled out a laptop. This seemed a little incongruous, and I wondered what it was for. The Marx brothers sat down on the vacant bottom bunk opposite mine, ie about 1.5 metres from where I was lying down, under my blanket and obviously desirous of sleep. They put the lap-top on the table, and proceeded to play a computer game – Mah Jong, I deduced from the loud computerized voice, which called out the name of each tile put down as the game progressed. The voice was annoying, but not as annoying as the inane electronic tune which accompanied the game, obviously designed to jolly along the players.
 

I lay in my bunk silently, wondering how long this would last. I could feel my bile rising, and I fought to repress the expat-rage bubbling up within. After about 20 minutes, I couldn’t take any more. I asked them, very politely, if they could turn down the volume, as I wanted to sleep. There was a moments silence, and then a mumbled “hang on a minute”. Then the music seemed to get louder. I wondered what had been lost in translation, and was about to speak again, when the music abruptly stopped. Great. I lay back, and tried to relax. Imagine my joy when the guys, no longer jollied along by the funky little computerized jingle, found that they needed to converse loudly in order to fully enjoy the now-silenced computer game. Perhaps they were discussing tactics. If so, they were master strategists. I lay listening to their conversation, marveling at their inability to make the mental leap required to deduce that their voices were just as annoying as the music, or their failure give a flying flock. Perhaps at this point, for them, it was already about ‘payback’. Continue reading Riding the Chinese Railway: The Good, The Bad and The Ugly.


From Lost Laowai: Jalal moved from the UK to China's Henan Province in 2005, determined not to return until he had made his mother proud. To date he has gambled and lost at the Mah Jong tables of Hunan, washed down sheeps eye kebabs with fiery baijiu, and wrastled the young men of Henan until he could wrastle no more.

For more of Jalal's work, go to his writer's profile on Lost Laowai.