Prologue

Shanghai, 18 August, 2005

When I opened the door to the hostel room, I found a makeshift room of stretchers filling a meeting room that housed the other travellers who hadn’t pre-booked a proper bunk. There were no lockers, tables or any real comforts, but as soon as I heard a conversation in English I wanted to scream in delight. I felt the urge to run over to the guys speaking and hug everyone I understood. I wanted to curl up in a ball and let the sound of them speaking lull me into a deep sleep. Their eyes reached mine as I closed the door behind me.

“Gidday,” I said with somewhat subdued exuberance.

A couple of young men from Britain and America greeted me, all thinking they had recognised my accent.

“What part of Australia are you from?” Angus, of London, asked from his semi-comfortable looking stretcher.

“I’m from a small group of islands just off the east coast called New Zealand,” I replied as I walked across to my stretcher.

“Sorry,” Angus said, slight embarrassment showing on his cheeks.

“Getting mistaken for an Aussie must piss you off,” said Sam, the other Brit.

“Not too much. I wish I was an Australian, really.”

“You don’t like New Zealand?”

“Yeah, I like it,” I replied. “It’s just nobody would mistake my accent then.”

I apologised for the jibe but they took it good-heartedly.

And this was the first real conversation I’d had in English for about a week and the first joke I’d said that was understood in over eighteen days. I could’ve cried with joy when they laughed.

While I unpacked and prepared for a much-needed shower, they discussed their plans with guidebooks in laps and maps spread across bunks. Figuring it’d be rude not to, I began to distribute my hopefully well-accumulated wisdom to each of them. Angus planned to do a boat cruise down the Chang Jiang, the Chinese name for the Yangtze River, and wanted to know what it was like.

“How much money do you have?” I asked.

“Why is that?”

“Well, for all the foreigners on our boat, the enjoyment factor correlated with which cabin class you paid for. The lower the class, the more people and I mean Chinese people, in your cabin. The more Chinese people in your cabin and the closer you are to suicide… or genocide.”

Owing to their interested and intrigued looks, I continued as I lay on my stretcher in the makeshift lodgings.

“My friend and I went second class and we had a cabin mate who put us through hell.”

“How?”

“Have you ever known anyone in this world to be able to snore and spit at the same time?” This was greeted with a laugh from Brett, the American. “Plus, he smoked continuously and was a door-open kinda guy.”

“Door open?”

“Toilet and shower with the door open.”

“So first class is better ‘cos there’s no Chinese, yeah?” asked Angus.

“Dude,” I said, “it’s not that Chinese people are all like this. In fact, I would say that was purely unlucky of us on that occasion to have that particular guy in the same cabin. But the ability of some Chinese people to drive you nuts is not small and you’ll notice them more often than the people who don’t effect you at all.”

Brett strolled over and sat on the seat provided alongside my stretcher.

“I’m thinking of going to Xi’an and Chengdu,” he said. “What do you think of those places? Is Chengdu interesting?”

And I lay back, my head resting on my hands resting on my pillow. I thought about Chengdu, I thought about Xi’an and about these guys asking my advice and asking my opinion, all interested in my travels around China. I wondered if this feeling is how the popular kids felt at school when we fawned over their every selection of clothing, music and whatever they considered cool. And I wondered if I should just shut up now in case they found out what I thought of myself. Chris the fake traveller who has a fake interest in China and is expelling a fake knowledge of the country. The only reason I started talking was because I wanted someone to talk to me.

I kept looking around the room hoping one of the guys would interrupt to get me out of the conversation. It was lunch time so if I stalled for a little while, I might get invited to join one or two of them for something to eat.

“I’ve heard Chengdu’s a real cool place to check out for a few days,” Brett said, still probing for information.

“Chengdu is okay,” I started, “but it’s the surrounding towns, cities and area that made the place worth going to for me. I suggest using Chengdu for a day or two as a hub to see the mountains and other sites.”

He nodded his head appreciatively.

The British lads said they were going for lunch and I invited myself along. They weren’t really sure what to order, so I ordered a spicy beef dish and some bowls of rice that would feed us all easily enough. They looked impressed, which made me feel helpful and knowledgeable.

During the next few days, I met more people in Angus’ and Brett’s situation having little experience of travelling in China, and found I could help them with snippets of information or warning them off certain types of food. I chatted the days away, imparting my wisdom when I could, discussing politics and sports.

I could’ve stayed there chatting forever as I didn’t want to travel anymore. I was sick of China, both the country and the people, yet I didn’t want to go home. I just wanted somewhere to hide.