gone and done it.

I've said it before. I don't do sightseeing.

I don't do cities; hustle and bustle and bright lights and nightclubs and billboards.

I grew up in rural New Zealand amongst cows and bamboo. Part of me is still wild-haired and barefooted, chasing rabbits and throwing cowpats at my brother. I still vie with death every time I step off the footpath in Hohhot; a city of a mere 2.5 million people.

Three days in China's capital and I was a hermit crab without its shell. Holiday it may have been; relaxed it was not.

Arrive Beijing West Railway station Tuesday morning. Enthusiasm already at a low ebb having spent eleven sleepless hours in cattle class wedged between postage-stamp sized table and Ali’s armpit. Still shuddering at memory of watching fellow passenger mow through breakfast of chocolate biscuits and raw chicken’s foot.

Celebrate novelty of new surroundings with own wholesome Beijing breakfast [Subway] before making sudden transition from novel waigouren to Tourist. Tiananmen Square [tick], Mao's portrait [tick], Forbidden City [tick], temple temple temple.

FOOD. Donghuamen night market. Turn down skewered scorpion [still writhing] and fried dog to dine on stinky tofu, sizzling unidentifiable shellfish and sugared pineapple. Momentarily abandon vegetarian morals to sample battered snake. Do not go back for seconds.

Sleep debt now around 36 hours. Tend to waning energy with Chinese beer [and Red Bull and vodka and tequila and gin and tonic]. Wake next morning in hotel bed still fully dressed and surrounded by ketchup-flavoured potato chips.

And somehow climb Great Wall of China. Have photos to prove it.

Spend final day [and funds] on taxi fares between guidebook-recommended Must-Sees. Smirk at American tourists laying sandalwood incense before Buddhist statues. Duly marvel at incomprehensible design of Olympic Stadium Bird’s Nest, though am more fascinated by ingenuity of foam-filled squat toilet [port-a-loo style] in Olympic Park.

Boys decide to end holiday on a high note with final helping of quality local cuisine - Big Mac combos. I have a McFlurry. After all, it is Beijing.

Depart Liuliquiao bus station mid-evening Thursday having forked out extra for comfort of bus with air-conditioning, leather upholstery and irresistibly brief travel time of six hours. Delight in bad Jackie Chan movies showing on overhead projector. Settle back to enjoy journey home.

Reach Hohhot dishevelled and disillusioned some thirteen [sleepless] hours later.

Turns out Chinese highways experience rush hour at 11pm. And 1am. And 2am.

At 4am, rush hour stops. Traffic stops. Lights go out, engines switch off. Drivers curl around steering wheels and fall asleep.

Thus, memory of Beijing is forever marred by being inexplicably stranded on lonely stretch of highway in over-heated bus, surrounded by twenty snoring, farting, fingernail-clipping, sunflower-seed-chomping [but otherwise complacent] Chinese men.

With Jackie Chan kung-fu fighting overhead.

Since ditched guidebook. Have managed to somewhat placate self with knowledge that what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger.

And that I don't do sightseeing.

Beijing. Tick.