April 30 – Yinchuan, Ningxia Province

The music they play is never the same – at least not in my experience – but it’s always horrible. It skitters across your sleeping consciousness like a shard of shattered glass on a freshly finished wood floor, cutting little, ruinous scratches as it goes. And then everything, no matter how little the scratches, is ruined, and you’re back on the stinking, rocking bunk as the 6 a.m. light sneaks through the window shades, outmatched the by too-bright lights that are already on throughout the cabin.

It was a special horror though, arriving in Yinchuan (银川) capital of China’s smallest province, Ningxia (宁夏), a special minority province, homeland of China’s Muslim minority group, the Hui, which was created to include all Muslims anywhere in China, no matter how culturally or geographically different. It was my own fault, really. Somehow, I’d forgotten to buy anything to drink before I boarded the train – which, at the time of boarding having sat in the sun for hours, couldn’t have been less than 95 degrees. I nodded off, sweating, in my bunk. And when I woke up and hour after the train departed and the air conditioning had finally caught up to speed, I was parched. And screwed.

I wandered the length of the train, up and down, looking for a dining car. Nope. Then I wandered the length of the train, up and down, looking for the left-out water bottle of some sleeping rube. No, I’m not proud of it, but can you blame a starving child who steals an apple. But still, nope, nothing. Then I did something I’m even less proud of. At least it was victimless. I fished a bottle out of the bathroom trashcan, cleaned a smattering of discarded green tea leaves off the top – screwed shut, thank god – and washed it off with the non-potable cold water. I knew it wasn’t going to count for much when I put that jellyfish-thin bottle underneath the only water available on the train – the scalding hot stuff people use to make tea – but I was out of options.

I stood at the tap handle and tried to decide which was worse: trying to sleep through the thirst I had a’going or drinking melted plastic. The former, I decided, was much, much worse. So I tried to hold the bottle under the tap – the tap I’d found where no one would see what I was doing. Exactly what the sign above it told me would happen, happened. I burned my hand, then nearly poured boiled water all over my crotch.

I went back to my bunk. I was starting to feel crazy and starting to act it, too, prowling back and forth muttering to myself. One of the train staff asked me what I was doing and where my bunk was. I mumbled something and pointed and I think he saw the look in my eyes so he nodded and sped away.

Then I saw my savior: A metal pitcher designed for hot water. I could fill it up and let it cool. It was going to be OK. I picked up the pitcher. It was, in fact, too well designed for hot water. Vacuum sealed. Still screwed. Whatever, worth a try. I filled it up. I didn’t burn anything. I let it sit.

The train left at 8 that night. By then, by the time I’d put the steaming pitcher at my feet under a miniature table to hide it from the train staff, to hide my shame, it was nearly 11:30. The train was scheduled to arrive at 6:30 the next morning, and I knew I was going to need my sleep. But man, I needed a drink of that water.

I let it sit for an hour, then tried to drink out of the pitcher. As I blew, the steam burned my eyes, but I couldn’t care anymore. I poured it on my lips, yelped, poured the rest of that swig on my thighs, and then some on the floor.

I knew then, as I scrubbed the wet spot with some used tissues – I was out of those as well – that I had only one choice left.

I poured the water in my plastic bottle and watched it as it crumpled beneath the heat. It burned through the plastic shell. I thought I could smell it burning. I waited five minutes, and drank the whole thing.

I was the best bottle of water I’ve ever drank. I got to sleep about 2:30.

When that music skittered across my brain four hours later, I could swear I could still feel the plastic coating my teeth.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s