This morning required another early start. This time Gavin was on time. Our taxi almost wasn't . Despite unfailing friendliness and helpfulness the staff at our hotel's English skills weren't always perfect. Despite having a far superior grasp of our language than us of theirs, they seemed too abashed to ever suggest they had not understood something, instead, with smiling certainty they'd make bookings for us that were wrong. As it was, our 6:30am taxi to meet our 8am train at the station had been booked as an 8am taxi. To the airport. Nevermind, we got there on time. Surely no omen in this near miss?

As we waited amongst the assorted travelling populace of Beijing's main train station, Kathryn's, to be frank about it, paranoia grew. Everywhere lurked thieves, cholera, pickpockets and Genghi fever (after Genghis Khan, obviously). This trepidation was not resolved by boarding the train. Despite being in first class, the 70's wood paneling, yesteryear decor and questionable bathroom facilities made Kathryn doubt the survivability of 4 weeks of rail travel. In contrast Gavin was nigh bouncing off the walls. Although to be fair this is easier to do in a small compartment on a moving train. But here we were and as we pulled out of the station with either and equal anxiety and excitement we looked forward to Moscow.

Within a hour or two both of us had calmed down a bit. We quickly found ways to entertain ourselves. Given a powerpoint in our compartment, we had quickly transformed the table into a tech arena of games, blogs, cameras and phones. However our newest and best past time was 'the Game'. You see if went through a tunnel or over a bridge or whatever you had to a special hand sign. If the other person didn't do it you got to exact a small punishment. It was soooo much fun and soooo funny. LOL. Awesome.

The game was great whilst we passed through the mountains beyond Beijing. We passed through some 45 tunnels and half as many bridges before we got bored counting. This petered out a little as we entered the flat dustiness of Northern China, also known as Mongolia, despite not actually being Mongolia. Here, instead, we marveled at the ability of anyone to be able to extract some sustenance from the earth. As much we could figure they were farming dirt. There was certainly lots of it. People tending and turning the dirt. Dirt on the houses and in the streets. The area could stand to be the world's primary exporter of dirt. Secondary to dirt production was the aeration or vines (extracted from the dirt). These vines were held aloft by wires, all in same orientation, with their attached roots drooping back into the soil. There were no leaves or fruit on these vines to identify them. If anybody can shed any light on the turning over of dirt or elevated of vines we'd love to know what they were doing. Especially as, in fairness, it is the driest part of the season and perhaps in a few months the vines would all be sprouting, I don't know, beef with black bean or number 3 with rice. In-between the dirt and vines, soviet modernisation made its presence known with behemoth coal power-plants and incongruous, dour apartment blocks in otherwise barren areas.

In the restaurant carriage we met the first of our fellow Trans-Mongoloids. A group of 3 Dutch guys whom had spent a few weeks in China with a friend of theirs who was studying there. As a result their Chinese was significantly better than ours. Including knowing that tapping the table, without even looking at the waiter/ress, was expression of thanks. If only all expression could be so simple! If only we'd known back in Shanghai things could have been easier. As a sign of appreciation for this wisdom Gavin banged the table, hard, spilling all our drinks*.

Amongst the others on board were an Intrepid tour group including a few Australians - a retired army engineer who had 'taken under his wing' two utterly Brisbane girls; a pair of British boys with rucksacks, 'travel trousers', a large camera and an obvious interest in the Brisbane girls; a Sundowner's tour group of older Aus/NZ types; an Australian family of two doctor parents, two daughters, one a soon-to-be med student; and perhaps most stereotypically an American -cum-Australian Mongolian travel writer with his oh-so-proper publisher, Magnus. They were the archetypal odd-couple. The big-bellied writer with his loud manner and never empty glass of wine and the blazer wearing, note-taking publisher. Interestingly, for a Mongolian guide writer, he seemed not to speak a word of Mongolian.

By now it all seemed quite real. From a planning at 3 a.m. on night shift months ago to here in Northern China. Catching snapshots of the real China out the window. Seeing what this part of the world is really like at ground level. As the sun set impressively over a foreign horizon we both felt some sense of adventure.

*This may not have happened.