Sleepless in Shenzhen

I will always remember the train from Guilin to Shenzhen as the train where I did not sleep.

It all began with the Man Who Snored.  He came on board when the train stopped at a small station, way past midnight, and after we had left Guilin far behind. 

I was on my bottom bunk, halfway into a dream when I heard someone enter our compartment. Something brushed against my nose and I guessed it was someone’s jacket or backpack. I opened my eyes and saw a man stuffing a backpack and plastic bags- the thin, noisy, crinkly kind- under the bunk opposite mine.

He then took off his shoes, lay down and immediately went to sleep. The only problem was that I couldn’t. 

This man did not snore quietly. There was no gentle build-up. He launched straight into his snoring the second he lay down, blubbering and gurgling away, sounding like he was being murdered underwater.

I looked at my fellow compartment mates. They had fallen asleep hours earlier and didn’t appear to be affected by this annoying man, although I thought I heard the teenager in the top bunk swear. The other three seemed to be fast asleep.

The snoring did not stop, but instead got louder. The train was dimly lit but I could see by the light from the corridor. The man was lying on his back and his mouth was wide open, his lips quivering as the unholy sounds sprung forth.

I gave up. I took my daypack and blanket and went out in search of an empty bunk. It was about 2am. None of the train attendants were in sight, which was a good thing. I would hate for them to see me creeping around, searching for another bunk in the dead of night, looking like I was up to no good.

A little up ahead, I found a compartment which was completely unoccupied. What luck! I thought as I climbed into the top bunk, where nobody would notice me because it was so close to the ceiling.

Soon after I dozed off, I realised my bed was swaying.  At first I thought it was an earthquake, then I realised that quakes didn’t make strange noises in the dark.

A couple had climbed into the bed directly beneath mine. I heard whispers and giggling, then the sounds of kissing and more giggling.

I listened to their whispers, fascinated, wishing I could understand their Cantonese. I was curious about them. Where did they come from? Had they met on the train or had they planned this trip together? 

I don’t remember if I actually slept at all that night. I must have, but it was probably only for a few minutes. All I remember is climbing down the bunk as quietly as I could at 5.25am –I wanted to get back to my own bunk before we were due to arrive in Shenzhen at 6.30. Before I left, I stole a look at the couple. They were young, maybe in their late teens, and fast asleep and smiling contentedly amid crumpled sheets and blankets.

The arrival at Shenzhen was chaotic, as Chinese train arrivals usually are. I was in no hurry. Unlike everyone else, who would be welcomed by their husbands and wives and parents at the station, no-one would be greeting me or taking me home.

There was only one thing I wanted to do – to find a hotel room and sleep.

The Lama Temple, Beijing

Beijing's Yonghegong, or Yonghe Temple, is the closest I've ever been to Tibet. Also known as the Lama Temple, this is one of the most important Tibetan Buddhist monasteries in China.

The Lama Temple has quite an interesting story. It wasn't always a temple- when it was built in 1694, it started out as the living quarters of court eunuchs of the Qing Dynasty, and after that it became the residence of Prince Yongzheng, the emperor's son. It was only in 1744 that the building was turned into a lamasery, or monastery for monks of Tibetan Buddhism.

©Euyasik

I found the temple grounds quite pleasant to stroll through, particularly because of the Tibetan music which was playing in certain sections. A few of the smaller chambers also served as shops for people to buy incense and other prayer items. 

One thing I noticed about this temple, though, was that it had many closed-circuit television cameras, as well as uniformed police guards just standing around and looking at everyone. If you're aware of China and its issues with Tibet, you'll find it difficult not to be offended by the sight of policemen asserting themselves in a place where people have come simply to pray. 

Rubbish bins in the temple grounds, decorated with flowers and dragons

A woman spinning one of the many prayer wheels in the temple. 

Prayer wheels are spun in a clockwise direction to gain religious merit 

Beautiful artwork in the ceilings can be seen throughout the temple

A Tibetan Buddhist monk from inside a doorway. 

You can see the smoke from the incense lit by devotees.

The easiest way to get to the Lama Temple is via the Beijing subway. Get down at Yonghegong Station and take exit C. Opening hours are from 9am to 5pm. 

The Best of 2011

Every Friday, the travel community on Twitter holds #FriFotos and this week, the theme is 'Best of 2011'. The past 12 months were pretty quiet for me but I've started to make plans for next year, which I'm really looking forward to. 

Until I pack my rucksack again for 2012, here are my favourite photos of 2011:

The Blue Mosque, Istanbul

 Nazar boncuğu, or evil eye amulets hanging on a tree near Nevşehir, Turkey

Cappadocia

The Celcius Library, Ephesus

Cute kid waving at passengers on the North Borneo Express, Sabah

River in Donggongon, Sabah

Mural on the Malacca River 

On the T56

Somewhere in a flat or house in China is a Lonely Planet phrasebook in Mandarin which used to belong to me. It has ‘Anis Ibrahim, Feb 2005’ written in a big, happy cursive script on the inside cover. I hope it’s been of some use since I gave it away.

I met Fan on the T56, the overnight train from Xian to Beijing. He was 22, and a student at a university in the capital city. He was sitting at the window bunk in my compartment and had noticed me struggling to lift my rucksack onto the luggage rack. He immediately got up to help and I immediately decided I would try to speak to him.

We introduced ourselves after the train left Xian.  He brightened up when he heard that I’d worked as a lawyer before becoming a journalist. “I want to be a lawyer; I want to help the people,” he said in English, then stopped.

He looked around. The remaining four bunks in our compartment were occupied by a teenager with spiky hair, two sullen men who appeared to have come together but had not said a word to each other and a heavily-made up young woman who was preoccupied with her mobile phone.  None of them seemed to be too interested in where our conversation might lead.

“My father studied politics. Politics is very interesting but of no use in China, there is no point,” Fan said, shaking his head.

I remarked that I too, found politics fascinating. “I just don’t like politicians,” I said.

This time he nodded. “Politicians always want you to do something for them. I don’t like them. They are never sincere.”

Fan looked out the window.  His hometown Xian was already miles away. His Spring Festival break had just ended, he said, and now he was on his way back to “more studying, exams and noisy Beijing”.

I commented on how wide the roads in Beijing were. “On my way to Xi Ke Zhan the other day, I saw a very wide road with six lanes on one side.”

It was the cue for Fan to be negative again. “Oh, Beijing. Its traffic and transportation system is very bad. I never go to the city centre unless I have to.”

I asked him about his university. Was it a national university, or privately funded? 

National, he said. “Thank you to the government that English is part of our syllabus!”, he added in a sudden show of patriotism. “Thank you to the government that I can actually talk to you like this!”.

I suddenly remembered my Mandarin phrasebook and showed it to him.

“This is a good book,” he said as he turned the pages back and forth. “There are different sections for different subjects and there are some English words I never knew.”

Fan looked up. “Say something you learned from here.”

“Wo shi jizhe”, I announced proudly and he laughed. I am a journalist.

He flipped through the book and pointed out to a sentence to me. “Zuijin de cesuo zai nali?” he said, with a very serious expression. It was my turn to giggle. Where is the nearest toilet?

The two men in our compartment looked at us and frowned disapprovingly at our frivolous conversation.

We arrived in Beijing the next morning, only to discover that it had been snowing.

“Xue”, Fan said, pointing upwards when we emerged from the station, telling me the Mandarin word for snow.

I took out my phrasebook, remembering how interested he had been when I first showed it to him. “You can have this. Maybe it will help you.”

He thanked me profusely then apologised for not being able to give me anything in return. He asked for my email address, which I wrote in the book.

“I will write to you and I will tell you about my graduation in July,” he said, and we said goodbye.

I never received that email. We meet so many people in our travels- some we’re happy to see the last of, some, like Fan, we wouldn’t mind hearing from again.

So assuming that Fan never gave away my phrasebook, it’s probably on his shelf, maybe in Beijing, maybe in another city and hopefully not gathering dust. And hopefully helping him along his way.