Riding the Iron Rooster

"I went ten years ago. In 1976." He made a face.

"What did you think?"

"I didn't like it," he said. "It is not good for the people. It is a bad place."

"But Chairman Mao was born there."

"I know," he said, enigmatically.

"Wasn't he a good leader?"

"Mao did harm. The Cultural Revolution delayed our development. Shaoshan is not a good place."

He told me that with such solemnity that I was determined to go there.

"Which Chinese leader do you respect the most?"

"Deng is not dead yet, so he might make mistakes. Better to mention a dead one. Zhou Enlai is liked by many people."

"Do you like him?"

"Yes. Very much."

"Where is his village?"

"It is Huai'an, in Jiangsu Province"—far away, in the east, some distance north of Shanghai.

"What do you think of Zhou's village?"

"In my heart I like it. I would like to go there."

"Why do so many people respect Zhou?"

"Because he worked hard for the Chinese people."

"Isn't Deng Xiaoping working for the Chinese people?"

Mr. Wei frowned. "As I said, he is not dead yet. There is still time for him to make mistakes."

As the sun climbed towards noon and the foliage thickened by the tracks, the landscape became tropical—bamboos and bird squawks. And some houses came into view. They were not Chinese houses. They were stucco, with green shutters and heavy verandahs—just the sort of houses that you see in the French towns of Vietnam. I had seen such houses in Hue and Da Nang and in the back streets of Saigon: it was French government housing, for the colonial officers—in this case, railway personnel. It was so strange, this touch of Frenchness, deep in the hills of Yunnan, still intact—still lived in—after almost a century.

And that was Yiliang. A sign at the station said, the people's railway is for the people (Renmin Tielu Wei Renmin).

"I am hungry," I said.

"You cannot eat here," Mr. Wei said.

What?

Before I could complain, he rushed me out of the coach and onto the platform. My feet had hardly touched the ground before I was on my way back to Kunming—I was still breathless when we were under way. I had scarcely seen Yiliang. And I had wanted to stroll around the old French town, look into the houses, talk to the people, loiter in the market.

Mr. Wei said he had just been following orders. It was Mr. Fang who explained. I had insisted on taking this train, although the train was off limits to foreigners. Foreigners were not allowed in the deep south of Yunnan because it was a security risk—the Chinese were fighting the Vietnamese on the border. But Mr. Fang had explained that it was the train I was interested in, not the towns. And so the railway authorities had said that, as long as I did not stop in any of the towns to look around or eat, I could take the train. But at a certain stage of the journey I had to stop and be spun round and sent straight back to Kunming, without looking left or right. That was how I took the train without violating the law. It was a very Chinese solution.

11: The Fast Train to Guilin: Number 80

The young girl and boy entered the railway compartment holding hands, which was very unusual. But they had a Chinese explanation.

"We got married this morning," the boy said. "We are going to Guilin for a few days."

Honeymooners! He was in his twenties—very thin, rather furtive, but stylishly dressed in a leather jacket and pointy shoes. She wore a dress. In a train a dress was just as unusual as hand-holding. It was blue satin, with a fringe of lace, and though it matched strangely with her yellow ankle socks and red shoes, the hemline was high enough so that I could see her legs. It was not their shapeliness that interested me, it was their very existence. Women's legs are a rare enough sight in China for them to be a complete novelty.

"Do you want me to go into a different compartment?" I asked. "I'd be glad to."

"Why?" the boy said.

"So that you can be alone."

"We can be alone up here," the boy said, flinging his bag on the upper berth and hoisting his bride on the one opposite.