On the Road to Lhasa, by Steve Davey
A hundred pairs of eyes followed me around the cold, dark bus station. It was still only 5.00am and there was another hour to wait for the bus. I glanced over my shoulder to the rows of narrow, hard wooden benches, facing the now defunct departure board above my head. Everyone was staring at me with that implacable, unblinking gaze which I had grown accustomed to in China.
I walked on a few slow, casual paces and looked over my shoulder again. A hundred pairs of eyes had followed me. Five paces forwards and two paces to the left. The eyes had all followed me. Three paces backwards and turn. Yes, they were still looking. I was beginning to enjoy this. I was tempted to break into a song and dance routine or announce the immortal line I suppose you are wondering why I have called you here today? but discretion, as always, gave in to valour. I did not speak enough Chinese to break into a speech, and one of the many squiggled signs lining every available space was bound to ban Frank Sinatra impersonations.
I could not really blame the crowd for staring. It was the coldest hour before dawn at Lanzhou bus station. There was nothing else to do and some of them had apparently been waiting since the previous night. Amongst the passengers were Chinese Muslims and a sprinkling of nomads from the town of Xiahe on the Tibetan Grasslands where I was heading. Very occasionally they would catch the bus to Lanzhou for shopping. Now, on top of all of the bizarre sights of the city they had a 6 2 foreign devil wearing a giant Peoples Liberation Army greatcoat, indulging in a funny walk.
I was so looking forward to getting out of Lanzhou. Set in a long narrow valley, the town manages to trap all the noxious fumes and pollution from heavy industry further down the valley which hangs in a muddy yellow pall over the grey, ferroconcrete building. Dust and dirt blows down the streets, achieving terminal velocity before dashing itself into the faces of passing round-eyes and gouging itself under contact lenses. Too many times in this town I had emerged from the eye-rubbing, pain-gyrating, mouth-open dance which is so familiar to contact lens wearers in dusty locations, to be faced by a large crowd of Chinese people staring at me with impenetrable interest.
To kill time I decided to take another prowl round the bus station. In one corner was a small shop offering to print stills from a video camera onto T-shirts. A souvenir from Lanzhou bus station. Needless to say the owner had no customers. This seemed to be a characteristic of the recently liberalised Chinese economy. Now anyone has the right to lose their shirt on dumb business ideas. A new freedom which many people are gratefully exploiting to the full.
It only seems to be the nature of the business not the nature of doing business which has changed in China. Even entrepreneurs have the same sullen reticence when it comes to serving the public that characterises services in state-run hotels and institutions like the railways. Ask for information or even try to buy something and you will often be treated like a puppy who has just left a stain on the carpet. After travelling in India, I would have thought that the lack of entreaties and impeachments from traders would be refreshing but it was actually rather unnerving. For probably the first time in Asia I felt unwanted!
Even the manner in which the departure announcement for my bus was made was uniquely Chinese. A female conductor, dressed in a tatty, faded blue uniform grabbed a signboard from a series of hooks on one side of the waiting room and swept across towards the appropriate bus with all the poise and arrogance which only a Chinese woman in a position of power can muster. The board above her head, she trailed passengers in her wake. Wakened from their cold and boredom- induced torpor they alternatively picked up luggage, dropped child, picked up child, dropped luggage as they scurried, legs bent after her, desperately trying to match her furious pace.
The bus station opened up onto a raised platform, level with the top of the bus, and the scramble to get luggage on board began. As well as the obligatory personal luggage, great bales of cloth, engine parts and even a couple of baskets of chickens were soon heaped on top of my rucksack.
There is always a problem on Third World buses as to where to sit. Sit at the back and you will be thrown into the air with every bump. Sit at the front and you will be one of the first to die from the inevitable head-on collision and you will see it coming. Sit in the middle and you will be crushed by all the locals who have had Third World bus etiquette bred into them for generations. I opted to sit at the front where I would have a better view and more leg room, and settled into a seat which was so low that I had to stretch my legs over the engine cover to fit in.
For all the rush to get on the bus, it was another hour before the driver turned up another hour to worry as to whether I was on the right bus, double-checking with passengers who did not speak English and fending off the stares of interested passers-by who were intrigued by the foreign devil sprawled half-on and half-off of his seat.
By now I was tired, cold and hungry in just the right state of mind to eat my breakfast. The thin white plastic bag I clutched contained a couple of steamed dumplings. Now, when I travel I love to sample all the local food for lunch and dinner. Breakfast is a little different. Coffee and toast is about all I can manage. Steamed dumplings with a thin scrape of sludgy green or muddy brown in the middle is more than I can face...
