In 1988, American writer Paul Theroux described his experiences of traveling around China by trains in his book Riding the Iron Rooster: ‘The sun moved slowly through the high blue sky…The gulping, wheezing steam engine, with its characteristic rattles and shakes, released a dragon of black smoke.’ For train fans of either the past or present generations, this spectacular sight is more than breathtaking. Nearly thirty year has passed since Paul finished his trip and the railway system in China and even the whole world has undergone several huge revolutions. Nowadays, with white bullet trains shooting across the vast landscape, the speed and efficiency of crawling steam locomotives seem to be far too lame. However, train fans never forget those ancestors of trains. They seek the figure of steam all across the globe, and try all their effort to see the magnificent sight by themselves as Paul did.

Sandaoling, an open-air coal pit in Kumul, China, 1800 miles away from Beijing, is regarded as ‘the steamiest place in China’ by train fans. It is their Jerusalem, and the tour to the place, for train fans in China, is nothing less than a pilgrimage.

Sandaoling is a time capsule hiding in the vast desert of the northwestern China. The only things there, are coal mine, steam trains, and a small town born with the mine—-everything there remains as what it is like 50 years ago. Last Spring Festival, while other Chinese families were having big dinners, watching big shows and playing big firecrackers together, I was heading towards the northwest, riding a fast train cutting through the dark silent night.

In Sandaoling, it was freezing cold. I hated cold weather but this time I was longing for it. The paradox is that the colder it is, the more magnificent the white smoke, thus the more striking the sight of the steam loco. The car had not yet reached the coal mine, and I opened the window, embracing the cold, frozen air gushing in. I sensed a smell of coal in the air, and heard a faint wheezing.

That sound, was the characteristic roaring symphony, in the steamiest place of China.

I stood on the edge of the cliff, overlooking the pit. The white snow had not yet melted, and the spilled coal powders were also everywhere. With the bare land serving as the background, the whole picture was just like a mosaic composed of tan, black and white fragments. The shining tracks circulated along the periphery of the pit, and escalated slowly from the bottom to the edge along a gentle ramp. The land of the bottom still had parallel stripes on it, like a field which had just been ploughed, indicating that there used to be countless tracks in the heyday but they were later removed, with the decline of this mine and decrease of the coal reserved. This coal pit was already in its senior year and so did the steam locomotives. Several years later, the mine might be forever closed and there would be no more reason to pay a visit. In the distance, there was white smoke. That was where the wheezing symphony was produced and where coals were loaded into the train. The train there doesn’t follow a timetable. As the sound suddenly got louder and the tempo faster, I began to realize that a train was approaching.

Cameras ready.

White smokes took off, covering the entire sky. The heavy, black dragon began to bolt along the track. It seemed like the only warm, vibrant living creature on a dead, vast, frozen, silent plain. It was the embodiment of strength, the artwork of industry, the crystal of passion, and the awe-inspiring giant living in every boy’s deep heart. It ran towards me with rapid rhythm—-its breath, and blew the euphonic steam whistle—-its roar. It ran past me, who was standing stunned inside a gust of white fog, and left me, pulling the rattling cars to its faraway destination.

It is surely the most beautiful beast on earth.

\My mind flew to the past and a scene came back to me. It was a boy crouching beside switches of the tram track, waiting for a tram car. He would not go home until he fulfill his daily expectation. The boy’s eyes emitted delight as a tram car approach. The bell on the car rang a few times, warning the boy not to get any closer. He didn’t move, eyes fixing on the front wheel, waiting for it going over the switches. The wheel rode on the switch, pushing a side track aside. Then the side track flipped back, hit on the main track and produced a ‘knocking-metal’ sound like a clock bell. The other wheels came and produced this sound several times again. The boy watched as the tram car went away and disappeared at the corner of the street, and finally stood up with satisfaction, headed towards his home. Teens of years later, the same boy stood beside a vast coal mine, doing literally the same thing, however with a different state of mind. The previous one was curiosity, and the later one was awe.

As the train left me and took a turn in the distance, the most aesthetic picture unfolded. Now the whole train had already climbed out of the pit and was running on a plain. I raised the camera. There was nothing in the frame other than serene snow land. The steam loco appeared on the right side of the frame and gradually pulled the whole train into the middle. The energetic beast now became a quiet elder who was smoking with a pipe. I pressed the shutter. I always believe that some pictures are noisy and some are quiet. As for this one, there was no sound in the frame. There were just snow, the elder, and the smoke he left behind him as he slowly proceeded with his pipe.

Time always passes quickly when I’m staying with those trains.

As the dusk approached, the sun put away its harshness and turned into a burning red balloon above the skyline. The tracks shined with gold lights as illuminated by the setting sun. The workers didn’t have time to appreciate this scene since they were busy unloading the coal into a separating plant. The light in front of the steam loco was turned on as the day got darker. The bright light, which shines as a high beam and illuminate a long distance, was the eyes of the steam loco. As the train laboriously escalated along the ramp, the steam loco struggled with its breath, and ejected countless red burning sparks from its chimney. And those sparks, like rain, gradually wafted with wind, and finally fell onto the snowy ground.

The night of the depot was the most glittering. Tall light towers stood as lighthouses. The warm light shined on the white smoke produced by the locomotive and illuminated the smoke as shifting warm fluid. The water crane turned its direction right above a locomotive which had just stopped in the depot. Water started being poured into the tank in seconds. The train drivers stood in those small houses above wheels, making the last check before finishing their work. Everything here was warm and busy. The depot embraced trains and people like a home.

Night finally fell, and the drivers jumped down the locomotive, wrapped themselves with heavy clothes, picked up their handbag, and made  their way home. I watched them as they disappear in the lights and fog, and finally, the depot became the last bright place on the vast land, and I, became the last companion of these steam locomotives, thinking about those elders, and wondering how long I would still be able to hear their roaring symphony.

Article by: Yishan Zheng (SS90129)