Riding the Iron Rooster

He looked very sick. He was out of breath, he fumbled with straps and zippers. He jangled a bunch of keys that hung on a chain from his thick leather belt. His track shoes stank. He constantly said sorry, both in Mandarin and English. His eyes were narrow wounds.

"I drink too much last night."

He abruptly left his bags and ran out of the compartment. When he returned, he cleared his throat and said, "I vomited in the toilet."

Another man entered the compartment. This coming and going was quite usual. Travelers sauntered through the train looking for empty berths and free seats. When they located one they paid a surcharge on their ticket and claimed the place. An empty compartment did not stay empty for long; and the coming and going went on all night, too.

This new man was youngish and rather tough looking, beefy faced, with a big belly and big feet.

"I want to sleep here," he said, slapping the berth on which I was sitting.

"This is mine," I said. "I am sleeping here."

He didn't like my saying that. He was in a sort of uniform—army pants and a khaki jacket. He had the look of a pushy, bullying Red Guard. There was no question in my mind but that he was a Party hack.

I ignored him and continued to write in my diary, pleasant thoughts about Xian. This Red Guard grumbled to the man from Kowloon.

"He says he has to sleep there," the man from Kowloon said.

"Sorry," I said.

Because I had been in the compartment first, and this was my berth, I had the use of the table, and this corner seat. I knew he coveted it when the man from Kowloon said, "He has to write his report."

"I have to write my report," I said.

"His is very important."

"So is mine."

"His report is for the government."

"Then it must be a load of crap."

"He is not writing about a road," the man from Kowloon said.

The two men took out cigarettes and filled the compartment with smoke. I told them to cut it out—a recent ruling on Chinese railways had said that people could smoke only with the consent of other passengers. It was late, and "hot, and stifling in this small compartment.

"It's against the rules," I said.

They put their cigarettes away and began to talk—very loudly, shouting in fact, because the man from Kowloon had the Hong Konger's characteristically poor command of Mandarin, and the Red Guard was from Urumchi and spoke a rather debased version of Mandarin. This language problem didn't stop them yakking, but it meant that most of the time they were interrupting each other and repeating things constantly. I opened the window because of the heat. Smoke from the engine blew in and gagged me, and the chik-chik-chik made my teeth rattle.

"He says he has to write his report."

"First I have to finish mine," I said.

"He wants to smoke."

"Smoking isn't allowed in the compartment unless everyone agrees," I said. "I don't agree."

"He wants to know why there is a smoking box on the wall," said the man from Kowloon, clicking an ashtray on the wall.

"Why not ask the fuwuyuan or the lieche yuan?" I said, because these room attendants were passing our door.

"Each room has smoking boxes," the Red Guard said to me, in an intimidating way. "What are they for?"

"For putting out cigarettes," I said, trying to stare him down.

"We must have cooperation," he said.

This meant: Stop being a pain in the ass.

"For the sake of friendship," he said.

This little formula was spoken through gritted teeth.

"I am minding my own business, so why don't you mind yours?" I said. "Fish face."

I went back to my diary, but their shouting back and forth made it impossible to concentrate, so I went to the dining car. It was past eight o'clock, late by Chinese standards (they usually ate dinner before six-thirty or seven), but the menu was recited to me in the usual way, and I ordered. No food came. I asked why.

"There are some foreigners on board," the waiter said.

"I'm a foreigner."

"But you are alone," he said. "We must wait for the group."

We stopped at Baoji, the junction we had passed through a week before; but this time we turned south towards Sichuan. No food came. It was after eight-thirty. The waiter said, "Foreigners ... Group."

I told him I was hungry and to bring the food soon. "Dying of hunger" was a phrase sounding like ursula. Still no food came.

Then the group of foreigners appeared: fourteen chunky Swedes, with sunburned arms and whitish hair. One had a video camera. As he poked it and whirred it, the others put their elbows on the sticky dining-car tables. Their guide bought all the beer, before I could order any. Then the food came—to them and finally to me. It was after nine o'clock. The Swedes ate slowly, trying to pincer their slippery noodles. Then the train stopped at Liangkou with such a jolting halt the noodle bowls shot into the Swedes' laps.

"I'm still hungry," I said to the waiter. "Is there any more food?"

"We have some sausages."

"Pork?"

"No. Horse."