For the most part it was just that. Tea houses, pearl markets, even the odd chicken-heart BBQ seemed pretty casual after the previous year of debauchery that I knew would dwarf anything the future could throw. There was a weekend looming however, which would put my newly thickened skin to the test. I was heading North, to Beijing, solo, and I had no idea what awaited me.
I booked a ticket aboard the famous bullet train which, after 12 months on the flawless Korean subway was always going to disappoint me. Four and a half hours from city to city didn’t, I felt, deserve such a prestigious title and would be more aptly named the cap-gun carriage.
The most startling thing about China and Chinese transport in particular, is the numbers. 1.3 Billion is a difficult number to conceive until you’re swallowed by it. The Apartheid-like preference that whites enjoy in Korea, just a stones’ throw away, is polarized by the resentment harbored by Chinese locals. You’ll be cut from queues, pushed from ferries and spat on in the street if you’re not on your game. Whether it’s a cultural issue or just every man for himself – it can be brutal.
What this meant for me was that even a pre-booked seat didn’t guarantee a spot on the train. It seemed to be first-come first-serve, which made me wonder why I had purchased a ticket in the first place, (don’t Google the question, the answer has been censored by the Chinese government). So I was forced to hustle onto the train and even without the Johnson bull-horn to assist me, a bit of pushing and shoving got me to seat 14C before the other competitors. Once down I used the “foreigner sleeping” pose that I had picked up when hitching transport (ticketless) in Korea ,and which never failed. There is no Asian conductor willing to try his hand with a sleeping Westerner – regardless of whether he’s in the wrong seat, train or country.
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| The hostel didn't instill confidence |
My roommate was Kay; a Malay Canadian, which meant that he was Malay and was hoping to win a Canadian citizenship lottery. He told me he was planning a trip to South Africa and I advised against applying for citizenship there because he would undoubtedly be granted it and therefore struggle to travel anywhere other than Columbia on the passport.
My primary motivation for the Beijing visit was not its stellar accommodation, and over a few beers that evening the modest community of travellers that had unwittingly found itself at the Chinese Box Inn discussed options for the Great Wall trip the following day. There was a mixed bag of individuals at the table. There were the Brazilains. A trio of grease-balls that would have made an impressive South American Hanson tribute band. There was Hans, a Dutchman who built churches in the horn of Africa, (or some philanthropic crap that made us despise him). There was an American middle-class family, who would probably sue their travel agent upon their return for recommending this dump. Kay, myself, and Sophie – the Chinese receptionist who was 15 and sleeping with the Hanson trio because she thought they were the original.
When it comes to the Great Wall of China there are a couple of options to choose from. First is the American option. This takes 2 hours by bus, a 10 minute walk and you’re there. There are several advantages to this choice. 1. It’s quick. China is a big place and this option lets you tick off a natural wonder of the world and be back in time for lunch. 2. It’s been reconstructed. No climbing stairs and tripping over roots to get a good view. It’s basically a tarred road. You could skateboard on it. 3. It’s the Great Wall of China. Regardless of which part you visit, you are on the greatest thing ever made. 4. There are so many people here, you could cross off Spain’s running with the bulls while you’re at it.
The next option I’ll call the German option. Europeans love this part because it’s beautiful so they can use the cameras they bankrupted their countries buying on tax-free credit. It’s also a bit of a walk but the Croats and Norwegians wear white tennis socks with any kind of footwear, so they can handle it better than the barefoot Californians smoking joints at option 1. Finally, this area is free of American and, more importantly, the English.
The last option is one that you won’t find in any travel-guide and one that we had never heard of. It’s called Badaling which probably translates to “Devils Peak” or something just as sinister. Sophie only brought it up after her 7th brew, and even then told us we couldn’t handle it.
“Onleee fo Chiynameen”, she told us.
At this “Kay and I looked at each other and knew where we were headed. Sophie wasn’t sold though.
“Onleee Chiynameen goh der, no tourist!”
When we reminded Sophie that her government had tortured people for a lot less than sharing national secrets with foreigners she looked like a cornered hound. When we began debating the penalty for a 15yr old girl sleeping’s with a US pop group in between shot gunning beers, she had to fold.
“Okay okay, I get you der”
Kay and I decided that since the 4am departure was only 45 minutes away, we’d have another beer or two”
