Two or three Russians were in residence. One, overtly using his laptop, promptly dragged himself away from the table, dragging his wired-up notebook with him which clattered onto the floor. Luckily for him, it wasn’t broken. I couldn’t help but stifle a few laughs. I wonder, given his careless attitude, if he’d dropped it likewise before?
The sleeper bus back to Wenzhou wasn’t due to leave until 11:00 am – plenty of time to get up to the Langdong Bus station. I don’t know why I was worried, probably that all my smooth planning would go haywire. The needles worry passed, although I went to the wrong bay waiting area. An assistant directed me to where the bay number, indicated on the ticket, was actually in the station.
As soon as a Chinese claps eyes on a foreigner, it usually means ‘chingbudung – I don’t understand.’ One of the associated drivers took my rucksack and asked: “Wenzhou?”
The air vents above the middle aisle blew hard. I saw an unoccupied bunk on the right one. Not long after, and for reasons known to himself, a guy directly below me asked the driver if I could move. I was not sure of the reason. Didn’t he like foreigners?
His problem solved, mine wasn’t. The sleeping pills I bought were less than useless. I’ll remember to pay more for a stronger variety next time.
One of the noisy chattering drivers brazenly announced that his colleague had nipped out to take a “san-yola” which, in English, means “piss.” The bus bog also reeked of it. I tried to avoid using it by paying 1 yuan to use the service station toilets when the bus stopped. The other Chinese inconvenience was no queuing for things. They’ve never been trained to do otherwise.
Delays on freeways through Fujian Province amounted to small crises – crashes involving cars. It doesn’t seem to enter the Chinese brain: you have to drive carefully. The drivers and passengers were sitting at the side of the central reservation alongside their wrecked vehicles.