Huoche of Fail (or, how not to take a train in China)

A word of advice: Do not, under any means, buy a "no seat" ticket on a train more than 12 hours in duration. Better yet, make that 10 hours. Sure, it sounds like a good idea at the time: Trains are booked solid for the next 10 days, you've decided you absolutely MUST go to Chengdu this week and honestly, what could be so bad about a mere 31* hours without a seat?

At this point, anyone with an interest in preserving his or her sanity, dignity, back and neck muscles would turn away from the ticket counter and walk away with the 257 yuan firmly in his or her pocket--a little disappointed, but secure in the notion of having spared oneself a couple of days of severe discomfort.

Why didn't I do that?

True, I have little sanity or dignity left to concern myself about preserving. But I do have neck muscles; or, at least, I did before this misguided excursion. It would seem, however, the instinct of self-preservation that would have mentally linked two days standing on a train with physical discomfort required more foresight than I was capable of mastering at the time.

Smooth move.

In my defence, the train should not have been that full: It was a full month before the New Year, when Chinese make the legendary trip home to the interior and the countryside in mind-boggling numbers. Who on earth was heading in such droves to Sichuan from Shanghai now?

I got my answer in Wuxi, a couple of stops outside of Shanghai.

Migrants.

Lots and lots of migrants.

Jobless migrants, whose work in factories, on construction sites and as casual labourers has dried up in the vice-like grip of the notorious jinrong weijin--the economic crisis--that has China and the rest of the world by the balls.

With no work in the industrial or urban areas where they make their living, millions of migrants are heading home to join their families for New Years early. Millions of migrants with no social security who, if there continues to be no work for them come February, will be stuck, in limbo between the rural homes that can't support them and the slumping industrial heartlands that now has no work for them. Millions of migrants who will be desperate, upset and who will have almost nothing whatsoever to lose.

*Cough*"mass incidents"*cough*

They swarmed onto the train in droves, schlepping misshapen tarp, burlap and plastic-y rucksacks they shoved into overstuffed overhead compartments, jostling noisily--and sometimes violently--for space in the crammed hard-seat car. They filled all the seats and then whose were full they filled the aisles and the spaces between the bathroom, the smoking area, the doors and the hot water tanks. They stared at the seat-less waiguoren with a bemused look normally reserved for freaks of nature or aliens from outer space.

Or, in this case, a combination of both.

Waiguoren, for her part, set about engaging in a stilted and awkward conversation. After insulting everyone who could be insulted (hint: "Minggan" means "Sensitive," as in, "That's too sensitive for me to talk about, so back off, jackass"), she discovered the following: The charming folk in her immediate proximity all hailed from Mianyang, Sichuan--one of the cities hit by the killer quake last May (their families were all okay, though--phew). They did "da gong"--part time work, or casual labour--in Wuxi, but now that has dried up, they're headed home for the holidays early. They plan to return to Wuxi after New Years.

And, uh, what happens if there's still no work in February?

Stony silence.

"There will be work."

Hu Jintao had better fucking hope so.