Sorry for the Group Email

I used to think that Britain was pretty great, as countries go. It has a more or less functional democracy, a nice health service, and Countdown.

But the trains are a disgrace. By any standard, they’re bad. Too expensive, too unreliable, and too likely to deposit you at your destination hours after they promised they would. Now I know that they’re terrible by the rest of the world’s standards as well. Take China, for instance.

We suspected the train from Beijing to Xian would be better than the ones we’d been used to across Russia and through Mongolia. On those, the toilet flushed directly onto the track (in theory), and the temperature of the car varied wildly depending on whether the cabin attendant could be bothered to feed coal into the boiler or not.

The bed from Beijing made British Airways’ Club Class look like twelve hours in prison. Pristine laundered sheets, power outlets and – get this – a small LCD TV at the end of the bed meant we were in heaven. There was a pedal bin under the table; no more tying plastic bags to the door handle. The toilet was a pressurised airline-style jobby, which in a way is less satisfying, but, at least, was cleaner.

Our cabin contained a quiet man and an unhappy man. Quiet Man spent the first half hour pondering the window, then pondering his phone, then pondering the window some more. Unhappy Man just sat there looking miserable as we spread out things out over my bed. Toilet roll, bread, crisps, cheese; we make ourselves at home on trains.

The reason for Unhappy Man’s sadness became clear when the attendant came to check our tickets. Our Chinese remains what you might gently term “weak”. We were not only on the wrong bed, but we were in the wrong compartment entirely. As we tucked our things back into our bags, Unhappy Man underwent an incredible transformation, and by the time we left he was barking merrily into his phone.

To be fair, it had been three weeks since we’d done any laundry. If I found out I was sharing a cabin with me, I’d be unhappy as well.

We barrelled into Xian the next morning, bang on time (are you listening, Network Rail?). Once again, the map we picked up was laughably small-scaled, but, blessedly, our hostel laid on transport.

Our reasons for being in Xian were simple. It was another interesting Chinese city, and we didn’t just want to have a look at Beijing and Hong Kong before calling it a day. Secondly, there’s the whole Terracotta Warriors thing. The plan was simple. We’d spend the first day pottering (HAH!) about the place, then the second at the Warriors. Then, on day three, it was off on the train to pop off to Hong Kong for five days: our longest stop of the trip so far.

Funny things, plans. On the suggestion of a man who seemed to know what he was talking about, we went to the train station on day two to buy tickets. Big cities in China, you see, have big train stations, and more often than not a window specifically for idiot foreigners who can’t speak Chinese.

When we arrived back at Xian train station it resembled a film scene that called for a refugee camp, but was rejected for being too crowded. There were thousands of people there. People were slumped over their possessions and families, while two useless canvas sheets served as protection from the sun. We fought our way through the touts to the ticket office.

It was the stuff of nightmares. Fifteen different ticket windows, none of them in English, with queues of perhaps a hundred people at each. Maybe more. Unwilling to risk standing for an hour in the wrong line, we went straight to the information point. They didn’t speak English either. A wave of the hand sent us into a cool, quiet room with uniformed officials in it. Things were looking up, until we discovered we were in the police station. They smiled and sent us back to the information point.

We gave up. A word of advice for anyone in Xian: most banks have English speaking ticket windows for the trains. Go there any you’ll be charged a paltry 4 yuan commission per ticket. Never go to the train station.

We went to the Terracotta Warriors instead, of which I can say: there are a lot of them, and they’re made from pottery. You should certainly go if you find yourself in the neighbourhood, but don’t expect a life-changing experience.

By the time we got back the ticket offices had all shut. We extended our stay in Xian for another day and comforted ourselves with the fact that we weren’t in Russia.

The next day we found ourselves at the ticket office too late. Our four days in Hong Kong evaporated before our eyes, and we were left desolately pondering the odds of getting enough in in under 48 hours.

On the plus side, I had a haircut, which my temporary hairdresser thought was perhaps the most hilarious thing she’d ever done. Witness, in fact, how I go from Ranulph Fiennes wannabe to “might just mug you if you’re not careful” semi-skinhead in the space of just a week.

I thought about leaving my moustache on for a laugh, but then I thought, nah, photos of these things just follow you around forever. What kind of idiot would do that to himself?

Dave has jumped through some sizeable hoops to get Firefox’s image spacing working here. Ta, however, to Nik and Bazza. As well as this site, which had the solution.