THE VICTIM
My beautiful handbag!ALL GONE
My Coach "Hobo" handbag!
And my jade charms!
And my Egyptian blue scarab;
a lucky charm from Trish
for safe travel!
All seen in photo above.
And inside:
My Passport.
My tickets.
My Chanel wallet holding:
All my HK money!
All my ID!
All my credit cards!
My favourite photo of Kele as a baby.
My Octopus Card.
My China Health Insurance Card.
My Australian Medi-care Card.
My private insurance medical card.
My Library Cards.
My camera ... the one that took this photo,
plus three massive memory sticks
and three batteries
because I take so many photos,
all in their new leather case.
Cigarettes.
Two Bic lighters.
My favourite pair of Gucci sunglasses.
Two pairs of reading glasses, one pair broken.
My patently fake Gucci purse for yuan,
almost empty since I'd been buying shoes.
My Hermes coin purse.
My Anna Sui purse with Oz money
in there by mistake.
My ancient Nokia phone.
My Shadow.
Sewing kit.
Aspirin.
Small medical emergency kit.
A notebook to record stuff.
A small case for
My name cards with my address.
A small pouch of uncut precious
and semi-precious stones
given to me by an old prospector in the Outback
so I had something to sell in an emergency.
Never valued/greatly valued.
A thoughtful gift by an old friend
carried with me for 25 years.
And, yes, the bag was very nearly back-breakingly heavy.
CHAPTER ONE
Starbucks
Wherein our hero gets robbed
Guangzhou police are wrong: I am not some brain-dead zombie who deserves to be robbed. I do notice what's happening around me. Besides, I grew up messing around on boats, where it becomes automatic to scan your surroundings for possible dangers, and I indeed do it automatically so, despite what the police say, getting robbed was in no way my fault. Kinda!
So, what happened?
Monday, I'd just spent almost the entire day in the Shoe Wholesale District (which I will be blogging about later, despite losing all the photos), and was carrying six shoe boxes along with my tote and my handbag.
Stupidly, because I didn't want to store my luggage with valuables inside, I'd put everything - even my usual emergency stash of money, piece of ID and a credit card - into my handbag.
So, there I am, at World Peace Plaza Starbucks, carrying my cup of tea, my handbag, six shoe boxes, three of them in my tote. I come upstairs and, yes, I automatically scan the room, looking for a seat, sure, but also looking out for "what is wrong with this scene"!
Downstairs was packed but the large upstairs room was only half-full; mainly of middle-class Chinese drinking cuppachino and talking softly among themselves, and also a sprinkling of solo folk on tiny laptop computers. All the usual! But ...
The first aberration? There's a Masai in the room ...
... I was going to say "You don't expect to see a Masai in China" but, off the Mara, you don't expect to see a Masai anyplace, do you? And you especially don't expect to see an elderly Masai. I always believed that, thanks to their high protein diet of blood-and-milk-soup, they were old at 30 and dead by 40, and this guy - about 6 foot 8 inches tall, ebony-skinned and to-the-bone-skinny, but with bones so thick and dense they looked like they should belong to three different people - was about 60 ... but he was eating a muffin and drinking cuppachino so I guess that makes a difference. However, despite being an aberration, I decided he was harmless and dismissed him.
A less harmless aberration? Three young Arab guys (actually don't know if they were Arabs but they were definitely some generic Middle Eastern types, from somewhere between Turkey down to North Africa, across to Pakistan, and over to Afghanistan, so let's just cut this short and call them Arabs) each sitting alone and strategically placed around the room like they were watching the exits: all in their mid 20s, all in dark blue jeans, one in a tan Burberry collared T-shirt, the other in a white Burberry collared T, and the third in a light blue collared Polo T.; they looked enough alike to be brothers but even if they weren't they were definitely "of the same ilk".
If you've ever been a long way from home, struggling through an alien culture and surrounded by a language you don't speak, you'll know "people of your own ilk" are such a relief to find, you instantly fall on them and, even if they're someone you'd never speak to back home, you bond into "Best Friends Forever", and since these three guys "of the same ilk" were ignoring each other, I automatically thought "They're together and working the room", so thought of going back downstairs only ... my feet hurt and I was carrying all those bloody boxes and I came upstairs because there were no seats downstairs!
And so I selected an armchair as far away from the Arabs as possible. (I returned two days later to film the scene and will eventually put the footage in here so you can see it for yourself.)
And in the armchair immediately behind me - the only other person on that side of the room - was a young Chinese guy who was identically dressed and looked identical to one of the university students I'd met the previous day; wide flat face, unkempt hair, long chino shorts, scuff-style shoes, and a blue-and-white checked shirt unbuttoned to half-way down the chest. They looked so alike I actually looked closely at this guy's face before realising it was a different guy, and was vaguely curious how two guys with such flabby, unsunned, computer-nerd bodies could imagine it attractive to leave so many buttons undone. Strange, huh!
For over a year now, Guangzhou no longer has English newspapers - apart from the Communist Party's China Daily which none of the Starbucks carry - so I put the shoe boxes and tote on the chair opposite my seat and, still carrying my handbag, went across the room to shuffle through all the Chinese newspapers thinking to select one with lots of photographs so to vaguely work out what was happening in the world ... and noticed that one of them had a killer-sudoku, the especially difficult kind I just love, so I chose that one.
Back in my seat I scanned through the news and then folded up the broadsheet to settle in to do the puzzle ...
... and, yes, maybe that's when I took my focus away from my environment, although I did register two middle-aged Chinese businessmen in checked blue-and-white shirts, talking quite loudly, sit down on the now-empty seats behind me, although I can't remember exactly when in this saga they did this.
What I do remember is that, when I sat down with the newspaper I'd put my bag at my feet, right next to the wall, and had later absent-mindedly rummaged in it for a pen, filled in all the numbers I could do easily, then realised that this killer-sudoku deserved my respect so rummaged again for a pencil, filled in several more boxes before realising the pencil was blunt so reached down to rummage again for a pencil-sharpener ... only my bag had gone.
Realising I'd been robbed I looked up in horror, and looked straight into the eyes of tan-Burberry Arab across the room and actually saw him think "uh-oh!". He did! That's what he thought! Odd, huh! And so I gave him a hard look to tell him "You're my #1 suspect!"
Looking around the room: the only other people who've noticed something amiss are the nice businessmen in the chairs behind, who are already searching their space for me, and the white-Burberry Arab who looks on high alert ... so I look around for light-blue-shirt Arab and he's nowhere in sight! New Instant #1 Suspect!, so I grab a passing waiter and physically plonk him next to the chair full of shoes, shouting "Guard!", and race away, first to the toilets, then downstairs, and all upstairs, then out the upstairs door, through the building and out onto the skybridge, looking to seriously kick Blue-Shirt Butt!
He's gone.
When I get back the entire upstairs room is full of waiters, searching the space, and one who speaks excellent English - Sunny - says "We've called the police.", then White-Shirt Arab comes over and, in that gentle sane Arab way, starts screaming at us, hands gesticulating wildly, that he saw the three Chinese guys who did this, and I notice that no one else is taking him seriously either.
The police arrive very quickly and White-Shirt repeats his tale, and the police look like they don't understand a word he's saying - which, as it turns out, they don't - so then it's all on and I get marched out to the police car ...
... oh, and here's something very sweet; there's a French guy outside downstairs having a cigarette and, as I pass with the policemen, I say "Bugger! My cigarettes were in that bag." and the lovely guy says "Here. Have my packet. You will need them." Such kindness from a total stranger! Thank you so much, lovely French guy! Your cigarettes were much appreciated, even though they were Gallic and tasted horrible!
And as I get into the police car two of the waiters - Sunny and Calvin - run out and get in too.
CHAPTER TWO
The Police-Station
The Police-Station
Wherein our hero realises
her Gucci scarf carries more
prestige than she does.
her Gucci scarf carries more
prestige than she does.
You'll recall that line from Longfellow "The mills of god grind slowly but they grind exceeding small"? Through all the brutal hours of interrogation - from 4.30 till nearly 9.30 that night - this phrase kept winding through my head, only this version went "The mills of Guangzhou Police grind slowly but I don't think anything is actually being ground!" and, as it turns out, that nailed it.
The police station in Huanshi Dong (literally The Bribery District) is simply a storefront; one shop in a row of shops in a very pretty, very chic and Parisian-looking area of winding tree-lined lanes in the area behind Bai Yun Hotel, the Kubrick and World Peace Plaza.
The desk sergeant is exactly what you imagine; large, blank-faced, bored, running-to-fat, and you just know he'd dreamed his whole life of joining the Red Guard only kept failing the entry exams. He has a computer he types stuff onto, very slowly, pecking away with one finger. If you've ever been robbed you know the drill, only this time it's more interesting because Sergeant only speaks Mandarin, Calvin speaks Cantonese and Mandarin, Sunny speaks Cantonese and English, and I speak only English and so the entire thing is a translation-relay. Under different circumstances it would have been fun.
Also different is that I can't report the theft because I don't have ID anymore and, in China, without ID you can't make a police report, so Sunny reports it in his name ... although both of us are finger-printed. Huh??? And the questions!!! Honestly! It's all so detailed and irrelevant-to-the-point-of-stupidity, after about 4 hours, when it had crossed the line into downright impertinence, I started getting sarcastic and vitriolic, but only in the sure-fire knowledge that it would be changed as it traveled up the translation-line.
When you're robbed in Fiji, you're in the station filling out the police report, right, and, yes, also thinking "Why is this taking so long?" when two burly Fijian policemen march in with the culprit - with his arm stuck painfully up his back - and all your belongings! Always! That sort of stuff sets the benchmark so I was kinda expecting the same thing here, but ...
... hours and hours of questioning yet nothing was being done!
Horrible to think that a small third-world police force like Fiji's, with no money and fewer resources, can do a far better job of policing than China, with its huge population and great wealth, does! Shocking! But then, these police weren't even trying ...
Turns out that that was what all the hours of impertinent interrogation were about: working out my status to see if they should investigate it or not! Sunny kept telling me to brag and build myself up but I'm a Child of the Raj. I may not be a credit "to my ilk" but, at a very basic level, I'm indeed "Pukka" and right there, deep in the heart of The British Colonial Service Honour Code, is "don't boast", and even though I'm sure I can wave all kinds of Shibboleths of Self Importance - although I'd have to think about that - I'm not going to do it in an alien environment where no one knows the semiological underpinnings, and especially not to some dope of a desk sergeant who can't even get into the Red Guard, so, instead I choose to play it as "I'm a decent, respectable and honest married woman who doesn't deserve to be treated this way."
Big, big mistake!
If you ever find yourself in this situation, take Sunny's advice and BOAST, BOAST, and then BOAST SOME MORE!!!
Yes, I know that Chinese police have no mandate to serve the public and that their job is to maintain harmony for the Communist Party, but you'd bloody well think they'd realise their truly lousy policing makes China look so incompetent they lose face in the eyes of the rest of the world.
Yes, let's say this out loud: the Chinese Communist Party is belittled by their incompetent and indifferent police force! And for a police sergeant to tell Calvin that I was too low status to have my theft even investigated very definitely causes the Party to lose face! And to say I was such a zombie I deserved to be robbed? That is just wrong! And the moment the desk sergeant said it ...
... in my view China as a nation spiraled off the world stage ...
... and came to land among all the tin-pot, despotic, illegitimate little nations that shouldn't be allowed to exist!
It's a Rousseau thing: if you've ever read his book "Social Contract" you'll recall how he talks about Individuals surrendering their power to the State in exchange for certain protections ... and if the State withholds those protections, it lacks any legitimacy and thus you have a duty to withdraw your power and your support. You'll also recall that, when this book was published, everyone who read it instantly said "Dang, that's so true!" so withdrew their power which lead to the French Revolution and the subsequent Reign of Terror, which you definitely wouldn't wish on any nation, so China really needs to address this issue PRONTO!
But here's something very pleasant: right at the start of this questioning ordeal, when I gave the sergeant Keith's number in HK, he immediately rang it, suddenly looked shocked, slowly hung up and then handed the phone over to me to try for myself ... only the phone went straight to voice-mail ... so I just left a message I'd been robbed and wouldn't be on the train ...
... but it turns out that Keith answered the sergeant's call, heard the Chinese spiel, thought it was a spammer - we get several of these calls everyday, always from Triad money sharks asking us, in Cantonese, if we need their help to consolidate our gambling debts - so gave the caller a mouthful of his lowest and most vulgar Cantonese swearwords, hung up and switched his phone over to voice-mail.
Yee ha! You go, Keith! That sergeant so had it coming. Of course, it certainly didn't help my building-up of status in any way, to have a husband who told him what to do with various parts of his lower anatomy, but I don't care! Keith actually did what I wished I could do myself!
My Hero!!!
Oh, and one more point in all this: Starbucks sent us provisions - bottles of water and tuna melts - all through our ordeal, and then rang us at the station to say they'd been through the footage from their camera and thought my bag most likely stolen by a young man in dark blue jeans and a light blue collared T-shirt! Seems Unsunned-Chest-Guy left, Light-Blue-Shirt sat down - they noted he arrived with an empty backpack and left with a full backpack - then Two Businessmen immediately took the chairs. I'm instantly all "It's that Arab guy! Find that Arab guy!" and they say "No. He was Chinese." although they say the guy knew where the cameras were and kept his face carefully screened from them.
It was soooo the Arab guy!
The desk sergeant is exactly what you imagine; large, blank-faced, bored, running-to-fat, and you just know he'd dreamed his whole life of joining the Red Guard only kept failing the entry exams. He has a computer he types stuff onto, very slowly, pecking away with one finger. If you've ever been robbed you know the drill, only this time it's more interesting because Sergeant only speaks Mandarin, Calvin speaks Cantonese and Mandarin, Sunny speaks Cantonese and English, and I speak only English and so the entire thing is a translation-relay. Under different circumstances it would have been fun.
Also different is that I can't report the theft because I don't have ID anymore and, in China, without ID you can't make a police report, so Sunny reports it in his name ... although both of us are finger-printed. Huh??? And the questions!!! Honestly! It's all so detailed and irrelevant-to-the-point-of-stupidity, after about 4 hours, when it had crossed the line into downright impertinence, I started getting sarcastic and vitriolic, but only in the sure-fire knowledge that it would be changed as it traveled up the translation-line.
When you're robbed in Fiji, you're in the station filling out the police report, right, and, yes, also thinking "Why is this taking so long?" when two burly Fijian policemen march in with the culprit - with his arm stuck painfully up his back - and all your belongings! Always! That sort of stuff sets the benchmark so I was kinda expecting the same thing here, but ...
... hours and hours of questioning yet nothing was being done!
Horrible to think that a small third-world police force like Fiji's, with no money and fewer resources, can do a far better job of policing than China, with its huge population and great wealth, does! Shocking! But then, these police weren't even trying ...
Turns out that that was what all the hours of impertinent interrogation were about: working out my status to see if they should investigate it or not! Sunny kept telling me to brag and build myself up but I'm a Child of the Raj. I may not be a credit "to my ilk" but, at a very basic level, I'm indeed "Pukka" and right there, deep in the heart of The British Colonial Service Honour Code, is "don't boast", and even though I'm sure I can wave all kinds of Shibboleths of Self Importance - although I'd have to think about that - I'm not going to do it in an alien environment where no one knows the semiological underpinnings, and especially not to some dope of a desk sergeant who can't even get into the Red Guard, so, instead I choose to play it as "I'm a decent, respectable and honest married woman who doesn't deserve to be treated this way."
Big, big mistake!
If you ever find yourself in this situation, take Sunny's advice and BOAST, BOAST, and then BOAST SOME MORE!!!
Yes, I know that Chinese police have no mandate to serve the public and that their job is to maintain harmony for the Communist Party, but you'd bloody well think they'd realise their truly lousy policing makes China look so incompetent they lose face in the eyes of the rest of the world.
Yes, let's say this out loud: the Chinese Communist Party is belittled by their incompetent and indifferent police force! And for a police sergeant to tell Calvin that I was too low status to have my theft even investigated very definitely causes the Party to lose face! And to say I was such a zombie I deserved to be robbed? That is just wrong! And the moment the desk sergeant said it ...
... in my view China as a nation spiraled off the world stage ...
... and came to land among all the tin-pot, despotic, illegitimate little nations that shouldn't be allowed to exist!
It's a Rousseau thing: if you've ever read his book "Social Contract" you'll recall how he talks about Individuals surrendering their power to the State in exchange for certain protections ... and if the State withholds those protections, it lacks any legitimacy and thus you have a duty to withdraw your power and your support. You'll also recall that, when this book was published, everyone who read it instantly said "Dang, that's so true!" so withdrew their power which lead to the French Revolution and the subsequent Reign of Terror, which you definitely wouldn't wish on any nation, so China really needs to address this issue PRONTO!
But here's something very pleasant: right at the start of this questioning ordeal, when I gave the sergeant Keith's number in HK, he immediately rang it, suddenly looked shocked, slowly hung up and then handed the phone over to me to try for myself ... only the phone went straight to voice-mail ... so I just left a message I'd been robbed and wouldn't be on the train ...
... but it turns out that Keith answered the sergeant's call, heard the Chinese spiel, thought it was a spammer - we get several of these calls everyday, always from Triad money sharks asking us, in Cantonese, if we need their help to consolidate our gambling debts - so gave the caller a mouthful of his lowest and most vulgar Cantonese swearwords, hung up and switched his phone over to voice-mail.
Yee ha! You go, Keith! That sergeant so had it coming. Of course, it certainly didn't help my building-up of status in any way, to have a husband who told him what to do with various parts of his lower anatomy, but I don't care! Keith actually did what I wished I could do myself!
My Hero!!!
Oh, and one more point in all this: Starbucks sent us provisions - bottles of water and tuna melts - all through our ordeal, and then rang us at the station to say they'd been through the footage from their camera and thought my bag most likely stolen by a young man in dark blue jeans and a light blue collared T-shirt! Seems Unsunned-Chest-Guy left, Light-Blue-Shirt sat down - they noted he arrived with an empty backpack and left with a full backpack - then Two Businessmen immediately took the chairs. I'm instantly all "It's that Arab guy! Find that Arab guy!" and they say "No. He was Chinese." although they say the guy knew where the cameras were and kept his face carefully screened from them.
It was soooo the Arab guy!
CHAPTER THREE
Back at the Hotel
Wherein our Hero learns The Horror
of being penny-less and ID-less in China!
Back at the Hotel
Wherein our Hero learns The Horror
of being penny-less and ID-less in China!
At 9.30, after being told they'd be no investigation, we left, all of us feeling very angry, tired, and mostly despondent. Calvin was shattered. Seems I only got the tail end of the lashing. Sergeant had been brutal and unspeakably vile to Calvin; savaging him and Starbucks and calling him and them "Dingbats" - the Mandarin word meaning "Unstable persons or situations that need to be removed in order to maintain the harmony of China." Yup! Starbucks has become a "Dingbat" and China wants them gone and so ... the police aren't about to waste any time with any of this.
You go, Rousseau!!!
Calvin left - probably to make phone calls to pass on this news - so Sunny took me back to the Bai Yun Hotel. Without ID, you can't check into any hotel in China, and since Bai Yun had my records on file, I didn't have a choice anymore.
No go! Turns out I had to have a passport. Those were the rules. We argued for about ten minutes, and eventually Justin, the fellow manning the night desk, agreed to look through their files. He found me and reluctantly agreed to check me in as long as I paid cash up front. Naturally, I had no cash. Sunny definitely couldn't afford it, so I rang Keith at home and asked him to pay by credit card.
It's the first time I'd spoken to him and discover he's in a panic. He'd switched on his phone while coming out of a meeting, got my message and said aloud "Denise has been robbed in Guangzhou" and it was instant THREATDOWN!!! Seems they'd all heard stories about Mainland robberies and, within minutes, the other teachers had peopled my robbery with six - no, nine, no, twelve - triads, all with knives - no, guns! - and they'd sliced me open and I'd had all my organs harvested - no, wait, just my kidneys - no, just one kidney! - or else I'd not have been able to call ...
I laughed. Eventually, he laughed. And then I handed him over to Justin to organise my room for the night.
No can do! Justin tells Keith he has to find a travel agent to read the numbers to him. Keith rings our travel agent, Paul, who says to come around immediately - it's nearly 10pm - and he'll read them. And that's what happens.
No can do! Paul is the wrong sort of travel agent! The RIGHT SORT OF TRAVEL AGENT, as it turns out, has a Mainland Registration Number. And good luck with finding one of those so late at night.
And so that's it. No room at Bai Yun for the night! Sorry, but Rules are Rules, so stop wasting the hotel's time and get out of there.
It's an unimaginably horrible situation. It's not an option I spend the night on the streets - Sorry, but that's just not happening! - so we linger in the lobby brainstorming. Sunny has an idea: the Seven Day Inn nearby, where Starbucks employees always stay because they get a discount, and, although there are no guarantees, he thinks they may be able to check me in with just his ID and discount card and my copy of the police report. The added advantage of this, he tells me, is the Consulate is right up the street.
But, just at that moment, Justin races over and hands me ... a photocopy they had on their files of the front page of my now-gone passport. This was against the rules, sure, but a thoroughly decent thing for him to do, so I'm very grateful to him, and thus willingly accepted his abject, grovelling and humble apology the management forced him to make the following night.
With this and the police report, Sunny is almost sure I won't have a problem, and so, with Sunny trundling my very heavy suitcase and me lugging my tote, a bag of toiletries and six boxes of shoes, we leave the cool lobby of the Bai Yun Hotel and step out into a dark, hot, muggy Guangzhou night!
Also, I have to say I'm extraordinarily grateful to Sunny. It was a horrible situation, but what a true nightmare this would have been without him! Thank you so much, Sunny, for being there for me through all this!
You go, Rousseau!!!
Calvin left - probably to make phone calls to pass on this news - so Sunny took me back to the Bai Yun Hotel. Without ID, you can't check into any hotel in China, and since Bai Yun had my records on file, I didn't have a choice anymore.
No go! Turns out I had to have a passport. Those were the rules. We argued for about ten minutes, and eventually Justin, the fellow manning the night desk, agreed to look through their files. He found me and reluctantly agreed to check me in as long as I paid cash up front. Naturally, I had no cash. Sunny definitely couldn't afford it, so I rang Keith at home and asked him to pay by credit card.
It's the first time I'd spoken to him and discover he's in a panic. He'd switched on his phone while coming out of a meeting, got my message and said aloud "Denise has been robbed in Guangzhou" and it was instant THREATDOWN!!! Seems they'd all heard stories about Mainland robberies and, within minutes, the other teachers had peopled my robbery with six - no, nine, no, twelve - triads, all with knives - no, guns! - and they'd sliced me open and I'd had all my organs harvested - no, wait, just my kidneys - no, just one kidney! - or else I'd not have been able to call ...
I laughed. Eventually, he laughed. And then I handed him over to Justin to organise my room for the night.
No can do! Justin tells Keith he has to find a travel agent to read the numbers to him. Keith rings our travel agent, Paul, who says to come around immediately - it's nearly 10pm - and he'll read them. And that's what happens.
No can do! Paul is the wrong sort of travel agent! The RIGHT SORT OF TRAVEL AGENT, as it turns out, has a Mainland Registration Number. And good luck with finding one of those so late at night.
And so that's it. No room at Bai Yun for the night! Sorry, but Rules are Rules, so stop wasting the hotel's time and get out of there.
It's an unimaginably horrible situation. It's not an option I spend the night on the streets - Sorry, but that's just not happening! - so we linger in the lobby brainstorming. Sunny has an idea: the Seven Day Inn nearby, where Starbucks employees always stay because they get a discount, and, although there are no guarantees, he thinks they may be able to check me in with just his ID and discount card and my copy of the police report. The added advantage of this, he tells me, is the Consulate is right up the street.
But, just at that moment, Justin races over and hands me ... a photocopy they had on their files of the front page of my now-gone passport. This was against the rules, sure, but a thoroughly decent thing for him to do, so I'm very grateful to him, and thus willingly accepted his abject, grovelling and humble apology the management forced him to make the following night.
With this and the police report, Sunny is almost sure I won't have a problem, and so, with Sunny trundling my very heavy suitcase and me lugging my tote, a bag of toiletries and six boxes of shoes, we leave the cool lobby of the Bai Yun Hotel and step out into a dark, hot, muggy Guangzhou night!
Also, I have to say I'm extraordinarily grateful to Sunny. It was a horrible situation, but what a true nightmare this would have been without him! Thank you so much, Sunny, for being there for me through all this!
CHAPTER FOUR
At the Inn
At the Inn
Wherein our hero discovers
what she hates most in the world!
what she hates most in the world!
Think for a moment about what you would most hate to see when you're homeless and trundling your luggage through a deadly hot and muggy night, thinking that, if it all comes to the worst, you may have to spend the night sleeping on the streets afterall?
It would be a dead body, right? Lying on the street? Maybe beaten to death by roving gangs of violent street gangs?
OK, we didn't see one of those, but, just after Sunny had pointed out the enormous building across the road where the Consulate was housed, there, on the street, glistening under a streetlamp, was a huge patch of drying bood. Bits of bone and gore too! Whatever happened had obviously been over an hour earlier and the body was long gone, but I'm thinking "That much blood loss, they're dead." and "Why would there be bits of bone in there, unless it was a particularly savage beating with something like a crowbar ... or maybe a triad "chop" ... and is that brain tissue?" and, trust me, even without the body it was still a horrendous sight to witness probably at any time but particularly so - exceptionally so - under those conditions.
I didn't want to point it out to Sunny because that would somehow make it more real, so I watched him trundle my suitcase through the middle, and watched him leave behind a trail and footprints and wanted to throw up, and decided the thing I hated most in the world was having dead people bits on my belongings.
I wanted desperately to be miles away, and that's when Sunny said "That's the Inn" and it was diagonally opposite and only feet away so I felt even sicker.
And then, in the lobby of Seven Day Inn, deep in conversation and looking like old friends, was Tan-Burberry and White-Burberry and with them was My Masai. They obviously knew each other very well and I felt even more nauseous. And I noticed My Masai was wearing yet another burberry collared T-shirt and wondered if they'd all got them at a three-for-the-price-of one sale, and that he had arms that almost touched his knees and I wondered if that was Marfans or just Masai, and, most sadly, whether those freakishly long arms were paid to snake around armchairs to snatch handbags ... and was just so disappointed that the very first Masai I'd ever seen in the flesh could just be a criminal.
But then they all saw me and were my instant Best Friends Forever and they were all "Are you OK?" and "Did you find it?" and were just so sweet and solicitious and NICE I kept thinking "They can't possibly be guilty!" while simultaneously thinking "You all soooo did it!"
And I notice there's a lot of "London" in their accents, and suddenly note there's quite a bit of "London" in Sunny's too, and I recall the discount card for employees and all sorts of bad, mad, sad thoughts insiduously start winding, unwanted and unbidden, through my head.
But, with the photocopy and police report, the Seven Day Inn kindly lets me check in and Sunny sweetly uses his discount card so he only has to pay half price, and the Arab guys are in the background talking about me and how they can help me and, well, it was just awful because ... well, just because ...
... then Sunny takes me up to my room and it's clean and adequate although the TV doesn't work and the air-conditioner drips and makes strange noises, but I'm so pleased I'm not out of the street where people get beaten to death, and Sunny says "This room is almost identical to my student digs in London." and I'm curious and discover he has an M.A. from a really prestigious British University, and here he is, working at Starbucks! It doesn't make sense, so I'm now asking myself why the Arabs-who-hang-around-Starbucks are staying at a place that gives Starbucks discounts and realise everything is so bizarre it's actually creepy ...
... and that I have no idea who is who and what is what but I don't want to be ungrateful because everyone has been so kind, and two years back those waiters from Starbucks saved my life, when that crazy coal miner tried to strangle me ... but everything's so confusing I ask Sunny if, before he leaves, he can lend me his phone, so I ring Keith.
And I get through to him and almost weep: can you believe it? He's at LoWu Border-Crossing and because it's too late to get a regular China visa, he has asked for a Shenzhen-only visa and plans once he's through to sneak away and catch a train to Guangzhou, and it's just so out of character because Keith, the proud son of a genuine war hero, is someone who'd never ever even think of breaking the law, yet here he is, so worried about me, he's willing to risk everything to reach me and get me a room for the night ... and, at that moment, I just love him so much and totally understand why we've been married for nearly 30 years.
Even though I really want him with me - desperately, desperately want him with me - he sounds so upset and tired I tell him I'm fine and to just to go home and get some sleep.
Then Sunny gives me 100 yuan out of his own pocket for miscellaneous expenses and says he'll be back first thing to take me to the Consulate, and leaves ...
... so I go have a shower and stupidly wash my hair with water that is so hard, undoubtedly last used to cool a nuclear reactor, you must know that from this moment onwards I have stupid, crazy, electric hair that sticks out all over the place, making me look like some freakish Sideshow Bob, right when I really needed to look decent, respectable, honest and someone who should be treated with respect and consideration.
After that, well, I notice again that I have Dead People Bits all over the wheels of my suitcase so I clean it off with antiseptic wipes, and am about to chuck them in the bin when I start having more bad, mad, sad thoughts about the guy who's now so clearly dead and how I should be treating these bits of him with respect, so I use my now empty packet of French cigarettes as a coffin and am about to place it gently in the rubbish when I realise I don't even want to share a room with them, so I go out to find a rubbish bin ... and then, once I'm outside, realise how much I still have to do before I go to sleep, and remember there's free Internet in the lobby, so I go downstairs to let everyone I'm working for know what's happened.
It would be a dead body, right? Lying on the street? Maybe beaten to death by roving gangs of violent street gangs?
OK, we didn't see one of those, but, just after Sunny had pointed out the enormous building across the road where the Consulate was housed, there, on the street, glistening under a streetlamp, was a huge patch of drying bood. Bits of bone and gore too! Whatever happened had obviously been over an hour earlier and the body was long gone, but I'm thinking "That much blood loss, they're dead." and "Why would there be bits of bone in there, unless it was a particularly savage beating with something like a crowbar ... or maybe a triad "chop" ... and is that brain tissue?" and, trust me, even without the body it was still a horrendous sight to witness probably at any time but particularly so - exceptionally so - under those conditions.
I didn't want to point it out to Sunny because that would somehow make it more real, so I watched him trundle my suitcase through the middle, and watched him leave behind a trail and footprints and wanted to throw up, and decided the thing I hated most in the world was having dead people bits on my belongings.
I wanted desperately to be miles away, and that's when Sunny said "That's the Inn" and it was diagonally opposite and only feet away so I felt even sicker.
And then, in the lobby of Seven Day Inn, deep in conversation and looking like old friends, was Tan-Burberry and White-Burberry and with them was My Masai. They obviously knew each other very well and I felt even more nauseous. And I noticed My Masai was wearing yet another burberry collared T-shirt and wondered if they'd all got them at a three-for-the-price-of one sale, and that he had arms that almost touched his knees and I wondered if that was Marfans or just Masai, and, most sadly, whether those freakishly long arms were paid to snake around armchairs to snatch handbags ... and was just so disappointed that the very first Masai I'd ever seen in the flesh could just be a criminal.
But then they all saw me and were my instant Best Friends Forever and they were all "Are you OK?" and "Did you find it?" and were just so sweet and solicitious and NICE I kept thinking "They can't possibly be guilty!" while simultaneously thinking "You all soooo did it!"
And I notice there's a lot of "London" in their accents, and suddenly note there's quite a bit of "London" in Sunny's too, and I recall the discount card for employees and all sorts of bad, mad, sad thoughts insiduously start winding, unwanted and unbidden, through my head.
But, with the photocopy and police report, the Seven Day Inn kindly lets me check in and Sunny sweetly uses his discount card so he only has to pay half price, and the Arab guys are in the background talking about me and how they can help me and, well, it was just awful because ... well, just because ...
... then Sunny takes me up to my room and it's clean and adequate although the TV doesn't work and the air-conditioner drips and makes strange noises, but I'm so pleased I'm not out of the street where people get beaten to death, and Sunny says "This room is almost identical to my student digs in London." and I'm curious and discover he has an M.A. from a really prestigious British University, and here he is, working at Starbucks! It doesn't make sense, so I'm now asking myself why the Arabs-who-hang-around-Starbucks are staying at a place that gives Starbucks discounts and realise everything is so bizarre it's actually creepy ...
... and that I have no idea who is who and what is what but I don't want to be ungrateful because everyone has been so kind, and two years back those waiters from Starbucks saved my life, when that crazy coal miner tried to strangle me ... but everything's so confusing I ask Sunny if, before he leaves, he can lend me his phone, so I ring Keith.
And I get through to him and almost weep: can you believe it? He's at LoWu Border-Crossing and because it's too late to get a regular China visa, he has asked for a Shenzhen-only visa and plans once he's through to sneak away and catch a train to Guangzhou, and it's just so out of character because Keith, the proud son of a genuine war hero, is someone who'd never ever even think of breaking the law, yet here he is, so worried about me, he's willing to risk everything to reach me and get me a room for the night ... and, at that moment, I just love him so much and totally understand why we've been married for nearly 30 years.
Even though I really want him with me - desperately, desperately want him with me - he sounds so upset and tired I tell him I'm fine and to just to go home and get some sleep.
Then Sunny gives me 100 yuan out of his own pocket for miscellaneous expenses and says he'll be back first thing to take me to the Consulate, and leaves ...
... so I go have a shower and stupidly wash my hair with water that is so hard, undoubtedly last used to cool a nuclear reactor, you must know that from this moment onwards I have stupid, crazy, electric hair that sticks out all over the place, making me look like some freakish Sideshow Bob, right when I really needed to look decent, respectable, honest and someone who should be treated with respect and consideration.
After that, well, I notice again that I have Dead People Bits all over the wheels of my suitcase so I clean it off with antiseptic wipes, and am about to chuck them in the bin when I start having more bad, mad, sad thoughts about the guy who's now so clearly dead and how I should be treating these bits of him with respect, so I use my now empty packet of French cigarettes as a coffin and am about to place it gently in the rubbish when I realise I don't even want to share a room with them, so I go out to find a rubbish bin ... and then, once I'm outside, realise how much I still have to do before I go to sleep, and remember there's free Internet in the lobby, so I go downstairs to let everyone I'm working for know what's happened.
CHAPTER FIVE
In the Lobby
Wherein our hero discovers she's more
Donald Sutherland than she realises!
In the Lobby
Wherein our hero discovers she's more
Donald Sutherland than she realises!
And right there, when I'm getting out of the lift, it's The Marfans Masai with ...
... Blue-Shirt-Thieving-Bastard!
I instantly come over all "Invasion of the Body Snatchers" and just want to point my finger and let out a gigantic, unearthly, accusatory SRRREEECH!, but ... you know, knowing the police have no interest in investigating, what else can you do except plaster on a polite smile and think mean thoughts.
But he's my instant BBF and all over me with the sympathy and solace and downright niceness, and then he starts on this huge angry rant that Starbucks is an International Organisation of Identity Thieves and all their waiters are trained criminals and ...
... all I can think is "Why don't you have hair? Seven hours ago, you had a full head of hair and now you don't! You've shaved it off! WHY???" and wonder if he's done is to avoid detection or if he always has it shaved and that backpack he's carrying - that undoubtedly once carried my Coach Hobo - is full of wigs, one of which makes him look Chinese if you don't see his face, and last seen in that camera footage.
Meanwhile, The Marfan's Masai looms nearby, and, despite his collared Burberry, he's looking all sinister gravitas and voodoo, like some ancient Haitian loa.
But then the free internet computer becomes available so I manage to escape and I write to Mary, Halley and Fiona telling them all and that I'll keep them posted. Then I write to several friends also telling them all and asking if they know anyone in Guangzhou who can put me up for a while ...
... then I realise I'm hungry and, moreso, desperate for a cuppa, but although there's a kettle in the room, I noticed there's no tea or fridge, and the tea-making facility at the back of the lobby doesn't work, and because Blue-Shirt is lingering, wanting to talk more Conspiracy Theories, and because I don't want to return to that dripping, noisy air-conditioner, I decide to get out of the Inn and find someplace where I can buy myself a decent pot of English tea.
Yes, I know, it's nearly midnight and I've already been robbed once that day but I'm a particularly original type of idiot who is incapable of learning, and when I notice a Circle K on the far corner, in the opposite direction to the pool of blood, and all lit by street-lights, I immediately head off.
The area around the Seven Day Inn is very pretty; again all winding tree-lined lanes, but it's a different world to my usual Guangzhou and, although more than half the shops are still open, albeit pulling down their shutters, everyone around there acts like they've never seen a hundred yuan note before and, because they definitely can't make change, won't sell me anything. Even at Circle K, where I stock up on teabags and milk, yogurt, fruit and the biggest bottle of water they have, at the check-out they look at my note and simply shake their heads ... so I leave everything on the counter and race outside.
Looking around, I notice, next to the Inn, deep in the shadows, The Marfan's Masai, and he's watching me. It's a tad creepy until I realise he can't help looking like some sinister voodoo Loa of the Crossroads or even Baron Samedi himself, and he's actually there to check that I'm safe, so I'm grateful he's there for me!
So, under the watchful eye of my new friend, I'm wander around the dark, hot lanes holding out the money Sunny gave me, wordlessly asking everyone passing if they can make change and they're all shaking their heads sorrowfully, like they only wish they could, and I'm thinking "This could well be the only place on the planet where you can do something like this and still feel genuinely safe." and "This is the real China! It's not all nasty desk sergeants and insane angry strangling coal miners. It's a country full of decent honest people who just want to make a living."
Eventually a homeward-trundling street vendor stops and indicates he can make change if I buy something from his barrow, so I sentimentally select the world's worst fake Chanel purse because it's such a pitiful copy of the real one I lost. It's only five yuan, and my nice elderly vendor forks over the change in dirty ones and fives, and it's every single note he has on him, only five yuan short, so I let him keep it.
Loaded with groceries, I pass the shadow I know holds My Marfan's Masai and give him a cheery wave and "Hello" and this deep rumbling baritone voice, unexpectedly very BBC, says "I'm so very sorry this is happening to you." and it's such an unexpected thrill.
Blue-Shirt is still in the lobby - undoubtedly everyone has annoying air-conditioners so want to avoid their rooms - so, to avoid him, I race over to the payphone and ring Keith ...
... and wake him up ... only to have him discover he's back in LoWu. Turns out he'd taken the train all the way back to Hong Kong, before deciding, one stop away from the terminus at TST, to just shut his eyes "for a second". It's a credit to the honesty of Hong-Kongers that he still had all his belongings with him.
Get back to my room, plonk down my groceries, sit on the bed, and it's so very hard I think "I'll never get to sleep on this!" and instantly ...
... zzzzzzzzz!
... Blue-Shirt-Thieving-Bastard!
I instantly come over all "Invasion of the Body Snatchers" and just want to point my finger and let out a gigantic, unearthly, accusatory SRRREEECH!, but ... you know, knowing the police have no interest in investigating, what else can you do except plaster on a polite smile and think mean thoughts.
But he's my instant BBF and all over me with the sympathy and solace and downright niceness, and then he starts on this huge angry rant that Starbucks is an International Organisation of Identity Thieves and all their waiters are trained criminals and ...
... all I can think is "Why don't you have hair? Seven hours ago, you had a full head of hair and now you don't! You've shaved it off! WHY???" and wonder if he's done is to avoid detection or if he always has it shaved and that backpack he's carrying - that undoubtedly once carried my Coach Hobo - is full of wigs, one of which makes him look Chinese if you don't see his face, and last seen in that camera footage.
Meanwhile, The Marfan's Masai looms nearby, and, despite his collared Burberry, he's looking all sinister gravitas and voodoo, like some ancient Haitian loa.
But then the free internet computer becomes available so I manage to escape and I write to Mary, Halley and Fiona telling them all and that I'll keep them posted. Then I write to several friends also telling them all and asking if they know anyone in Guangzhou who can put me up for a while ...
... then I realise I'm hungry and, moreso, desperate for a cuppa, but although there's a kettle in the room, I noticed there's no tea or fridge, and the tea-making facility at the back of the lobby doesn't work, and because Blue-Shirt is lingering, wanting to talk more Conspiracy Theories, and because I don't want to return to that dripping, noisy air-conditioner, I decide to get out of the Inn and find someplace where I can buy myself a decent pot of English tea.
Yes, I know, it's nearly midnight and I've already been robbed once that day but I'm a particularly original type of idiot who is incapable of learning, and when I notice a Circle K on the far corner, in the opposite direction to the pool of blood, and all lit by street-lights, I immediately head off.
The area around the Seven Day Inn is very pretty; again all winding tree-lined lanes, but it's a different world to my usual Guangzhou and, although more than half the shops are still open, albeit pulling down their shutters, everyone around there acts like they've never seen a hundred yuan note before and, because they definitely can't make change, won't sell me anything. Even at Circle K, where I stock up on teabags and milk, yogurt, fruit and the biggest bottle of water they have, at the check-out they look at my note and simply shake their heads ... so I leave everything on the counter and race outside.
Looking around, I notice, next to the Inn, deep in the shadows, The Marfan's Masai, and he's watching me. It's a tad creepy until I realise he can't help looking like some sinister voodoo Loa of the Crossroads or even Baron Samedi himself, and he's actually there to check that I'm safe, so I'm grateful he's there for me!
So, under the watchful eye of my new friend, I'm wander around the dark, hot lanes holding out the money Sunny gave me, wordlessly asking everyone passing if they can make change and they're all shaking their heads sorrowfully, like they only wish they could, and I'm thinking "This could well be the only place on the planet where you can do something like this and still feel genuinely safe." and "This is the real China! It's not all nasty desk sergeants and insane angry strangling coal miners. It's a country full of decent honest people who just want to make a living."
Eventually a homeward-trundling street vendor stops and indicates he can make change if I buy something from his barrow, so I sentimentally select the world's worst fake Chanel purse because it's such a pitiful copy of the real one I lost. It's only five yuan, and my nice elderly vendor forks over the change in dirty ones and fives, and it's every single note he has on him, only five yuan short, so I let him keep it.
Loaded with groceries, I pass the shadow I know holds My Marfan's Masai and give him a cheery wave and "Hello" and this deep rumbling baritone voice, unexpectedly very BBC, says "I'm so very sorry this is happening to you." and it's such an unexpected thrill.
Blue-Shirt is still in the lobby - undoubtedly everyone has annoying air-conditioners so want to avoid their rooms - so, to avoid him, I race over to the payphone and ring Keith ...
... and wake him up ... only to have him discover he's back in LoWu. Turns out he'd taken the train all the way back to Hong Kong, before deciding, one stop away from the terminus at TST, to just shut his eyes "for a second". It's a credit to the honesty of Hong-Kongers that he still had all his belongings with him.
Get back to my room, plonk down my groceries, sit on the bed, and it's so very hard I think "I'll never get to sleep on this!" and instantly ...
... zzzzzzzzz!
CHAPTER SIX
The Consulate.
The Consulate.
Wherein our hero finally finds refuge!
No one who knows me will ever believe I was up, dressed and fretting over my crazy hair by the time Sunny arrived. And only seconds after he turned up, the phone rings and it's Oliver, my new BBF.
Seems Keith has been working the phones for hours, and had located the Consul, Lyle, and told him all, so, very concerned, Oliver has been assigned to me to sort out my problems.
And that's when I first discover something very, very interesting:
I probably - undoubtedly - shouldn't be telling you this, but the Consulate up the road is merely some time-wasting, vetting front and the real Consulate is a 39 yuan taxi-ride away. Oliver gives the real address to Sunny and together we make our way there, but I'm rather shocked that, the minute he passes me over to Oliver, Sunny rushes off. I thought we'd become friends ... but I have to say how very, very grateful I am to him for all he did for me in my darkest hour, and I just hope he wasn't out of pocket by it.
I guess I shouldn't be telling you about everything that went on here, so I won't, except to say Oliver and Lyle were kindness itself and that I had an emergency passport and a loan within four hours.
The only annoying parts?
1) That bloody stupid official-photograph-game that the entire planet has recently started playing - obviously a new form of revenue gathering - wherein you can't use the same lot of passport photographs for all purposes. Every country now has different rules for how much of you should be in it, and what colour the background should be, and what size they should be, and passport photos are now different from visa photographs, so you have a buy a range of different shots and they only sell them in packages of a minimum of six of each ... but I didn't know the latter which means I had to go back for more photographs so my second truly annoying thing had to be done TWICE!
2) You can no longer leave anything behind at Embassies and Consulates which means you have to take all your belongings with you when they send you off to get photographs. Remember how I have with me my very heavy suitcase, my very heavy tote, a very heavy bag of toiletries and six boxes of shoes? I can't manage it all by myself, especially since the pavement is the process of being jackhammered up and the road alongside has an open trench, so, for four blocks I'm trying to negotiate my passage through all this, and dragging stuff in and out of gutters and over mounds of cement, all the while thinking that if a wheel falls off my suitcase, it'll be the last straw and I'm just going to sink down in the rubble, crawl into foetal position and bawl my eyes out.
But my bag holds together. Yes, finally I'm grateful that Keith is a very annoying Libra who has to see every single item of the range of anything he wants to buy, and has to test everything out personally, and that he's the person who chose this smallish overnight suitcase especially for my trips to Guangzhou, all the while with me getting all spitty and nasty and going "Bloody hell! Just make a choice, why don't you!"
Thank you, Keith, for having this so-annoying habit! It saved me from the experience of going all-foetal in China!
And massive kudos to Pierre Cardin for making that amazingly resilient suitcase. The amount of punishment it took that day, TWICE, I would heartily recommend it to anyone.
Oh, and here's something you really have to know: the Chinese authorities only accept photographs done by their own registered photographers, so, whoever takes your official visa photographs, make sure you get their registration number. I didn't know that, but thankfully my photographer did, so days later, when I emptied out my tote on some bureaucrat's desk and rummaged through everything I'd casually thrown into there, I still had it.
And here's something you don't need to know: at the photographers I met Hong, the sweetest Australian-Cambodian guy; a former boat-person refugee currently doing his gap-year epic "finding roots" journey around Asia. (The second such person I've met, so, because the other is a very pretty young girl, I'm determined to get the two of them together. Something good has to come out of this horrible experience.)
I'm only telling you about Hong because, as it turns out, we were going through the exact same heinous experience. Naturally, the amount we shared - only the locations were different - meant we bonded into Instant BBFs, and, while waiting for our photo-packages to be developed, snuck off to Starbucks to compare notes. Interesting stuff indeed, but I won't tell you about it because I'm still not sure what to make of it!
And, at the Consulate, Keith rings me to say he's booked me in for eight nights at Bai Yun, and that's when I learn that it takes at least five working days for Chinese authorities to issue Exit Visas and there's a three-day public holiday - thankfully with dragon-boat races - slap bang in the middle. And the wonderful news is that HK also gets this public holiday so he's coming up the following day to join me.
But then it was all over and, although I really, really wanted to, I had no excuse to linger at the Consulate, so I farewelled Lyle and Oliver and ...
... went off to The Labyrinth, so to slay the dragon and get my exit visa, and finally be able to get out of there.
Chinese bureaucracy is legendary for its abject awfulness so, because you've already heard so many stories, and because I really don't want to relive this immense horror, I'll avoid telling you more than I have to: I'll just say that those generations of Dynastic Emperors lied; they didn't castrate their bureaucratics to prevent them dynasty-building; they did it because they damn well wanted to. I know I did!
But what you do need to know about this process is that China is screwed - a Dingbat unto itself - and it's something they need to also address PRONTO! This is that no one wants to deal with photocopies, but no one will hand over originals. It's a kind of unbelievable hell-on-earth, where everyone sends you back to get original documents but which aren't forthcoming. Everyone is all Marie-Antoniette and "Let them use photocopies!" and refuses to surrender anything. It's a war of back-and-forth and having you run around madly and getting nowhere. And there's no good in screaming or throwing a temper tantrum because they have people to drag you off if you do; either to the police station or back to the start of this game, and I can't tell you which is worse.
Also, in this same vein of naming China's problems, is that no one in the Layrinth is allowed to make a decision. I've already told you about how I was trapped between two security barriers and, for ten minutes, they kept bringing in people from higher and higher up the pecking order to witness there was a problem ... yet no one was allowed to send for the folk who could actually deal with the real problem, which was getting me out of there.
Also a problem is that there is no original documentation too stupid to be used. To Chinese authorities, making a case is all about building a mound of original papers and when you don't have anything - when you've lost everything - it seems anything will do. In fact, when I again emptied out my tote onto some random desk, the fellow started selecting "any old stuff", and was even about to add the stub from my ticket to see the movie "Coraline" to the pile when I stopped him by saying "Isn't this getting a little too silly!"
Seriously, if they aren't annually getting the weight of their collection of original documents in gold, this is all inexcusable.
Also inexcusable is the ghastly "culture of bullying" that's well underway among the Nasty Little Alpha Bitches who hand out the electronic passes between the different sections. After so many years teaching high-school, I know how dangerously out of control this can get, so these little girls - all teenagers - need to be brutally slapped into place and it has to be done soon.
One example only, right: I finally get an appointment to see someone high up in the pecking order who, I'm hoping, is finally permitted to actually make a decision. It's at 9.30 am, so I arrive at 9 stupidly thinking this gives me enough time to go through the involved process you have to go through to reach the "take us seriously" section. But Alpha Bitches channel me into Purgatory where I'm given a ticket - H31 - to approach their desk to tell them what I need. The room is packed with Doomed Souls and they've only reached ticket B 41 because Alpha Bitches are ignoring the public because they're engrossed in conversations among themselves.
9.30 is fast approaching, so I keep going to the desks, trying to tell them I have to be someplace else, but they're doing that nasty "talk to the hand" crap and shouting at me to sit down and wait my turn. I so want to slap each and every one of them, but I think "I'll show you!" so I take out my old copy of Vanity Fair (how it remained out of a document pile is beyond me!) and sit down placidly to wait.
10.30 and they've only reached Person D4, when a very angry runner rushes into the room and Alpha Bitches instantly look frightened, and my name is called and I'm instantly given the pass, and they scoot me out of there, terrified. I'm so determined I'm going to drop them all in it and do everything I can to get those girls GONE ... only, when I get upstairs, I'm finally given my exit visa and am so flooded with goodwill and cheer that I decide to let it pass! But someone has to do something about those horrible girls because they are well and truly out of control!
So that's the story. If I think of anything else that needs to be said I'll come back later and throw it in here. But overall, I think you'll agree with me that the best thing to be learned from this entire experience is ...
DON'T GET ROBBED IN CHINA!!!
Update over a month later:
Seems Keith has been working the phones for hours, and had located the Consul, Lyle, and told him all, so, very concerned, Oliver has been assigned to me to sort out my problems.
And that's when I first discover something very, very interesting:
I probably - undoubtedly - shouldn't be telling you this, but the Consulate up the road is merely some time-wasting, vetting front and the real Consulate is a 39 yuan taxi-ride away. Oliver gives the real address to Sunny and together we make our way there, but I'm rather shocked that, the minute he passes me over to Oliver, Sunny rushes off. I thought we'd become friends ... but I have to say how very, very grateful I am to him for all he did for me in my darkest hour, and I just hope he wasn't out of pocket by it.
I guess I shouldn't be telling you about everything that went on here, so I won't, except to say Oliver and Lyle were kindness itself and that I had an emergency passport and a loan within four hours.
The only annoying parts?
1) That bloody stupid official-photograph-game that the entire planet has recently started playing - obviously a new form of revenue gathering - wherein you can't use the same lot of passport photographs for all purposes. Every country now has different rules for how much of you should be in it, and what colour the background should be, and what size they should be, and passport photos are now different from visa photographs, so you have a buy a range of different shots and they only sell them in packages of a minimum of six of each ... but I didn't know the latter which means I had to go back for more photographs so my second truly annoying thing had to be done TWICE!
2) You can no longer leave anything behind at Embassies and Consulates which means you have to take all your belongings with you when they send you off to get photographs. Remember how I have with me my very heavy suitcase, my very heavy tote, a very heavy bag of toiletries and six boxes of shoes? I can't manage it all by myself, especially since the pavement is the process of being jackhammered up and the road alongside has an open trench, so, for four blocks I'm trying to negotiate my passage through all this, and dragging stuff in and out of gutters and over mounds of cement, all the while thinking that if a wheel falls off my suitcase, it'll be the last straw and I'm just going to sink down in the rubble, crawl into foetal position and bawl my eyes out.
But my bag holds together. Yes, finally I'm grateful that Keith is a very annoying Libra who has to see every single item of the range of anything he wants to buy, and has to test everything out personally, and that he's the person who chose this smallish overnight suitcase especially for my trips to Guangzhou, all the while with me getting all spitty and nasty and going "Bloody hell! Just make a choice, why don't you!"
Thank you, Keith, for having this so-annoying habit! It saved me from the experience of going all-foetal in China!
And massive kudos to Pierre Cardin for making that amazingly resilient suitcase. The amount of punishment it took that day, TWICE, I would heartily recommend it to anyone.
Oh, and here's something you really have to know: the Chinese authorities only accept photographs done by their own registered photographers, so, whoever takes your official visa photographs, make sure you get their registration number. I didn't know that, but thankfully my photographer did, so days later, when I emptied out my tote on some bureaucrat's desk and rummaged through everything I'd casually thrown into there, I still had it.
And here's something you don't need to know: at the photographers I met Hong, the sweetest Australian-Cambodian guy; a former boat-person refugee currently doing his gap-year epic "finding roots" journey around Asia. (The second such person I've met, so, because the other is a very pretty young girl, I'm determined to get the two of them together. Something good has to come out of this horrible experience.)
I'm only telling you about Hong because, as it turns out, we were going through the exact same heinous experience. Naturally, the amount we shared - only the locations were different - meant we bonded into Instant BBFs, and, while waiting for our photo-packages to be developed, snuck off to Starbucks to compare notes. Interesting stuff indeed, but I won't tell you about it because I'm still not sure what to make of it!
And, at the Consulate, Keith rings me to say he's booked me in for eight nights at Bai Yun, and that's when I learn that it takes at least five working days for Chinese authorities to issue Exit Visas and there's a three-day public holiday - thankfully with dragon-boat races - slap bang in the middle. And the wonderful news is that HK also gets this public holiday so he's coming up the following day to join me.
But then it was all over and, although I really, really wanted to, I had no excuse to linger at the Consulate, so I farewelled Lyle and Oliver and ...
... went off to The Labyrinth, so to slay the dragon and get my exit visa, and finally be able to get out of there.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Inside the Labyrinth
Inside the Labyrinth
Wherein our hero is forced
through "the belly of the beast".
through "the belly of the beast".
Chinese bureaucracy is legendary for its abject awfulness so, because you've already heard so many stories, and because I really don't want to relive this immense horror, I'll avoid telling you more than I have to: I'll just say that those generations of Dynastic Emperors lied; they didn't castrate their bureaucratics to prevent them dynasty-building; they did it because they damn well wanted to. I know I did!
But what you do need to know about this process is that China is screwed - a Dingbat unto itself - and it's something they need to also address PRONTO! This is that no one wants to deal with photocopies, but no one will hand over originals. It's a kind of unbelievable hell-on-earth, where everyone sends you back to get original documents but which aren't forthcoming. Everyone is all Marie-Antoniette and "Let them use photocopies!" and refuses to surrender anything. It's a war of back-and-forth and having you run around madly and getting nowhere. And there's no good in screaming or throwing a temper tantrum because they have people to drag you off if you do; either to the police station or back to the start of this game, and I can't tell you which is worse.
Also, in this same vein of naming China's problems, is that no one in the Layrinth is allowed to make a decision. I've already told you about how I was trapped between two security barriers and, for ten minutes, they kept bringing in people from higher and higher up the pecking order to witness there was a problem ... yet no one was allowed to send for the folk who could actually deal with the real problem, which was getting me out of there.
Also a problem is that there is no original documentation too stupid to be used. To Chinese authorities, making a case is all about building a mound of original papers and when you don't have anything - when you've lost everything - it seems anything will do. In fact, when I again emptied out my tote onto some random desk, the fellow started selecting "any old stuff", and was even about to add the stub from my ticket to see the movie "Coraline" to the pile when I stopped him by saying "Isn't this getting a little too silly!"
Seriously, if they aren't annually getting the weight of their collection of original documents in gold, this is all inexcusable.
Also inexcusable is the ghastly "culture of bullying" that's well underway among the Nasty Little Alpha Bitches who hand out the electronic passes between the different sections. After so many years teaching high-school, I know how dangerously out of control this can get, so these little girls - all teenagers - need to be brutally slapped into place and it has to be done soon.
One example only, right: I finally get an appointment to see someone high up in the pecking order who, I'm hoping, is finally permitted to actually make a decision. It's at 9.30 am, so I arrive at 9 stupidly thinking this gives me enough time to go through the involved process you have to go through to reach the "take us seriously" section. But Alpha Bitches channel me into Purgatory where I'm given a ticket - H31 - to approach their desk to tell them what I need. The room is packed with Doomed Souls and they've only reached ticket B 41 because Alpha Bitches are ignoring the public because they're engrossed in conversations among themselves.
9.30 is fast approaching, so I keep going to the desks, trying to tell them I have to be someplace else, but they're doing that nasty "talk to the hand" crap and shouting at me to sit down and wait my turn. I so want to slap each and every one of them, but I think "I'll show you!" so I take out my old copy of Vanity Fair (how it remained out of a document pile is beyond me!) and sit down placidly to wait.
10.30 and they've only reached Person D4, when a very angry runner rushes into the room and Alpha Bitches instantly look frightened, and my name is called and I'm instantly given the pass, and they scoot me out of there, terrified. I'm so determined I'm going to drop them all in it and do everything I can to get those girls GONE ... only, when I get upstairs, I'm finally given my exit visa and am so flooded with goodwill and cheer that I decide to let it pass! But someone has to do something about those horrible girls because they are well and truly out of control!
So that's the story. If I think of anything else that needs to be said I'll come back later and throw it in here. But overall, I think you'll agree with me that the best thing to be learned from this entire experience is ...
DON'T GET ROBBED IN CHINA!!!
Update over a month later:
Update on the Robbery!
You know how I've been carrying around my copy of the Guangzhou police report? Although I had no idea what it said, I was thinking of it as something like a talisman against such a time as I'm arrested as a result of something criminal done by the person who'll end up being me when those Arab guys sell my identity off to someone felonious and evil?
Well, at Immigration yesterday (yes, it's more than a month later and I'm still putting together my documentation) (gosh, I detest those thieves!), I hand over a photocopy in order to explain why I need reissuing of all my visas, and the woman behind the desk reads it and says "You can't use this!"
She translates it for me: nasty desk sergeant has written that I reported a robbery to him and that Guangzhou police investigated and discovered nothing in it!
Yup, it basically says I lied! This is undeniably evil, isn't it! There was no investigation. We were told there would be no investigation. Yet, this is what the police report says! That they investigated and discovered it didn't happen!
Wait a second ... why is this the first time I've been told that this is what is says in this report? I used it all through my Travails in the China Official Labyrinth and no one said a word!
Maybe they're all used to it, know the police reports lie, and just know to read between the lines!
China! China! China! Dear oh dear! Our Northern Brethren sooo need to translate and print Rousseau's "Social Contract"! Things can't remain like this. It truly is an evil country, isn't it! I don't want to think this, but when they have officials who do things like this, and get away with it, I can't think of the place any other way!
Well, at Immigration yesterday (yes, it's more than a month later and I'm still putting together my documentation) (gosh, I detest those thieves!), I hand over a photocopy in order to explain why I need reissuing of all my visas, and the woman behind the desk reads it and says "You can't use this!"
She translates it for me: nasty desk sergeant has written that I reported a robbery to him and that Guangzhou police investigated and discovered nothing in it!
Yup, it basically says I lied! This is undeniably evil, isn't it! There was no investigation. We were told there would be no investigation. Yet, this is what the police report says! That they investigated and discovered it didn't happen!
Wait a second ... why is this the first time I've been told that this is what is says in this report? I used it all through my Travails in the China Official Labyrinth and no one said a word!
Maybe they're all used to it, know the police reports lie, and just know to read between the lines!
China! China! China! Dear oh dear! Our Northern Brethren sooo need to translate and print Rousseau's "Social Contract"! Things can't remain like this. It truly is an evil country, isn't it! I don't want to think this, but when they have officials who do things like this, and get away with it, I can't think of the place any other way!
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