I cannot complain. We are three weeks into the final module at IUP; I have been doing intensive Chinese for 37 weeks. The break is welcome. Lauren and I have decided to hit up the province of Gansu. Gansu lies about 1900 km west of Beijing, and for long marked the beginning of the frontier for successive Chinese empires. It is shaped rather oddly, with two large chunks of land lying roughly along the same latitude, connected by a thin sliver of land known as the Hexi corridor, a ‘landlocked isthmus’ of sorts. This little sliver of land is the homestretch of the famed silk route as it snakes its way between traditional China and Dunhuang, an oasis town on the western borders of Gansu. Dunhaung was the great starting-off point and culmination for caravans that fanned out in multiple directions: India in the south, central Asia and the near East further west.
Our plan, to the extent we have one, is to take the overnight train to Lanzhou, Gansu’s capital. From there we plan to take a bus to Xiahe in southern Gansu, home to the biggest Tibetan Buddhist monastery outside of Tibet. Returning to Lanzhou, we plan to take another overnight train another 800 km west to Jiayuguan, the tiny town that marks the westernmost reaches of the Great wall. From there we plan to hope on another bus and head further westward and southward to the desert oasis of Dunhuang, before flying back to Lanzhou, and catching a train back to Beijing.
Our plan, seemingly good on paper, is contingent on an intangible: we can only buy one-way tickets from Beijing to Lanzhou. All future travels are subject to the availability of tickets, which given that it is Labor week might not be easy. As a constraint on our gallivanting and to provide us with some sort of a marker for the homeward journey, we buy airline tickets from Dunhaung to Lanzhou for the following weekend.
This brings me to a bit of a digression, but it is a subject that has puzzled me: one cannot purchase round trip train tickets in China, and one can only purchase tickets 5-7 days in advance. This means one cannot plan a vacation beyond one’s departure. Things get especially uncertain during the three Chinese national holidays. I have asked a reasonable number of people now, and have yet to get a coherent response. The system is computerized yet you cannot buy a ticket for a train that doesn’t depart from the city in which you are purchasing the ticket, i.e. no return ticket or onward ticket. It is a great tool for controlling population movements, I guess. But seems awfully inefficient from any public good point of view.
As our train pulls out of Beijing West, we stretch back on our upper berth bunks. Our time is well spent since Lauren’s foresight has ensured that we are supplied with interesting little snacks for the ride, including a bottle apiece of Hoegaarden. During the journey, both of us strike up conversations with our fellow passengers, who are almost uniformly impressed at the level of our Chinese.
“Excuse me sir,” a young fellow states, as he proceeds to request some time to practice his English with me. He is 18 years old, a recent high school graduate. He has been in Beijing for about six months, devoting almost all his time to English language training in an attempt to study business and finance in Australia. He is not a fan of the Chinese Gao Kao (Lit: ‘high/tall test;’ the shortened term for the centralized Chinese school leaving exam, the results of which determine which college or university a student can enroll in), noting that it is almost impossible for him to gain admission to a decent university. Not unlike things in India I guess, though admittedly, the Indian system seems much more decentralized (and arguably better, as a result?). Amazing what a shift in perspective affords you.
His friend, a thinner, slightly more self-conscious kid, soon joins in. They are eighteen and nineteen years old, both Gansu natives, on their way home for the holidays. I ask them why Australia. Because it is feasible comes the answer. English is the language of the future, but US visas are hard to get, ergo we have Australia. They seem to have misinformed notions about the US, and no real perception of India at all. But they are not indoctrinated in CCP jargon either. One of them blandly states that in China there is no choice, everything is fixed, alluding to the system of government and its vagaries. I play dumb, ask him what does he mean. He looks over to his friend and barks out in Chinese, “how do you say CCP in English?” I say, “a mingbai le!” I understand.
All this time Lauren’s been engaged in a conversation first with an elderly man who is of the Tu minority and then with another Gansu native, a neat-looking middle-aged man. The Tu man has seen Americans before, but no Indians. He is part of a large group that is on its way home after their first visit to Beijing. During her conversation, Lauren asks them why one cannot buy return train tickets or book them more than a week in advance. No coherent reason is supplied.
Our train pulls into Lanzhou a little early. We step off the train and into a light drizzle. This is not good. Lanzhou is notorious for the meager rain it gets. And on the very day we arrive, with 4 hours to kill before our bus to Xiahe, it is raining. Undeterred, though somewhat miffed (I am more miffed, Lauren is more undeterred), we head west to the bus station, purchase our tickets, grab some noodle soup (only soup and bread in my case), and decide that the best way to combat the rain is the check out the Gansu provincial museum. It turns out to be an interesting hour or so. I have in general been impressed with the curatorial work I have seen in China’s museums, but am still taken aback at this spanking new museum, in what is otherwise one of China’s poorer provinces. Everything is presented beautifully, but many displays, it is unambiguously clear, are mock-ups: the dark underbelly of China’s attempts at recreating and renovating its heritage.
The rain prevents us getting a look at the contours of Lanzhou. One difference is in the people. There is a noticeable percentage with white caps on, Hui min [peoples], China’s Muslim minority. It is only the men who wear them though. Women are harder to spot.
Back at the bus station we are herded into a minibus. Our driver is a Tibetan. “Namaste,” he says when I respond to his query regarding my origins. The first of a few tiny surprises I have in store for me in Xiahe. We travel south through the low hills. Soon the excellent highway gives way to a single lane road. After being held up by a bus that had driven into the roadside open sewer and nearly upended itself, we arrive in Xiahe in the evening around 7: tired, but glad to finally be here.
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