The China Journal - Day 37

We left the village of Da Zai, where we had stayed the night before, around noon for what we had planned to be a two-day journey to Zhangjajie in northern Hunan province. No sooner had we arrived in the small city of Tongdao after six hours on the road, however, we found ourselves being escorted back to the bus station by the local constabulary who stood diligently by the door of our mini-bus to ensure that we did not attempt an escape. Why were weren't allowed to stay in town was beyond our understanding. Indeed, while countless passers-by and the policeman himself had attempted to communicate their desire to see us on our way (one helpful woman even going to the extent of writing Chinese characters on her hand for us to read), no one seemed capable of giving us a straightforward answer. It wasn't as if the town seemed unstable and on the brink of revolution (that was going on elsewhere in China). For all intents and purposes, Tongdao was like any other nondescript Chinese city: lots of people, lots of construction and lots of shops selling the exact same thing).

Not that we had any say in the matter, so we had no choice but to take the one-hour bus ride to the nearest village with a train station. Much to our chagrin, however, we discovered that the next train, in fact the only train to pass through town, did so at two in the morning, meaning that we would have to ride out the next six hours waiting inside the one-room train station whose ticket office did not open until twenty minutes before the train's arrival. Thinking better of our current situation, we decided to book a room at a hotel down the street in order to attempt to get some sleep before having to board the train.

After settling in, we ventured down the street to an outdoor restaurant (read: a set of patio tables and chairs set up in the middle of the street) and ordered some dinner by pointing at various vegetables and other ingredients that we wanted for our dinner. As always, what would arrive at our table would be a complete surprise to us.

We'd barely had time to take a sip from our much needed beers before we were joined by two policemen, who through a rather prolonged exchange that had left me, for the most part, staring blankly as several questions were posed in my direction in Mandarin, deciphered that they wished to see our passports.

In the meantime, the entire village, it seemed, had begun to congregate around our table to watch the spectacle of two Mandarin-speaking policemen interrogate to non-Mandarin-speaking foreigners, who for all appearances were the first to have ever set foot in this quaint, provincial outpost. In fact, one woman who stepped forward to serve as a much needed translator, later informed us that despite her very well-spoken English, she had never once spoken to a flesh and blood native English speaker.

After the police had recorded our information, we were free to continue with our dinner, which we assumed had been sitting idly for some time in the kitchen as the serving staff waited to see whether or not we'd be sticking around long enough to enjoy it. I was more than disappointed that the boys in blue didn't show up later the night to see us off, but I suppose that's for the best.

Da Zai and the Dragon's Backbone Rice Terraces




Waiting for the Train