Live Life Local

It was 10:30p.m. on a hot, humid night at Pingyao railway station. As the train trundled in, the whistles sounded, signalling the start of the frantic scramble. I looked at my ticket, then the oncoming carriage: the numbers didn't match. Panic-stricken, I dashed towards the opposite end of the platform, skilfully dodging the suitcase gauntlet before me. The whistles sounded again. The crowds were diminishing. There wasn’t time. I stopped, boarding the first carriage I came to. It was hard-sleeper; definitely the wrong place. I hadn’t paid for such a luxury.

My overcrowded carriage was heaving with bodies sprawled over and under chairs, tables, floors and luggage racks. I could taste the warm air, infused with scents of stale beer, citrus rinds and urine. “Yingzuo” - an experience not designed with tourists in mind - was to become my reality for the next 17 hours.

Tired from the day's events, I quietly retired to my wooden seat by the window. But, as I sat down, curiosity rippled through the carriage. Raucous conversations ended. Intense rounds of gambling paused. Baijiu ceased to flow. I turned to take in my surroundings, realising: ‘I’m the only woman; the only Western woman.’ All eyes were on me; I was about to become on-board entertainment.

As the initial wave of curiosity ebbed, eager migrants approached one-by-one to engage in conversation with me. One was particularly keen; a farmer who cosied-up to me and refused to believe that I didn't understand his questions. ‘Change tactics’, I thought, choosing to reply with a simple nod from thereon. It was his final question and my final acknowledgement; his mouth gaped open, cheering and applause erupted among the onlookers. As disbelief washed over his face, a young English-speaking male made haste towards us, smiling broadly.

"So you are the British girl who will marry this man’s son!” he exclaimed, congratulating the farmer. My unwitting acceptance to this proposal had elicited joy among the migrants, but no amount of sunflower seeds could persuade me to negotiate my future marital status. This was a misunderstanding borne out of my pidgin-Mandarin; my mistake. It had to be annulled.

After coming to my aid, the young man turned to me, chortling, as he prepared to disembark. "My advice, young girl, is to remain quiet until you reach Beijing. Be careful and safe journey.” Waving the young man off, I turned to the farmer, who by now was sleeping soundly on my shoulder.

Peace, at last.