360 Degrees Longitude (31 page)

The next morning provided another break in the gloomy weather. We headed for the town of Yangshuo for the day. It was an easy bus ride from Guilin and a bike ride along the Li River sounded like a great way to keep out the chill and see the bizarre Seussian landscape. The nice lady at the bicycle rental place seemed to know just what we wanted and she gave us a map in English and pointed us down the road. She forgot to mention that if we were paranoid about bird flu, we shouldn't ride bikes beyond the town limits.

Making our way out of town, we discovered first-hand that bicycles ranked just above pedestrians in the right-of-way tug of war. Gradually the bustling cars gave way to wooden carts and mopeds.

It was liberating to be cycling again and we took our time cycling the dirt roads around and between the Dr. Seuss-shaped mountains. We stopped to look around and munch on apples we had brought with us. A man zoomed by on a moped. He was holding two live ducks by their feet in each hand so that the ducks were dangling upside down from the handlebars. The ducks did not look happy, but I strongly suspected that they wouldn't be unhappy for long.

“Did you see that?” September asked.

“I've been seeing that a lot the last few miles,” I replied. “Except those were the first ducks I saw. Every other time it's been chickens dangling upside down. There are chicken farms all over the place.” It became clear the Yangshuo countryside is chock-full of chicken and duck farms, but this realization came when it was too late to do anything about it.

“Why do they carry ducks and chickens upside down dangling from the handlebars like that?” Katrina asked. “It's not very nice.”

“It's nicer than what will happen next. Those chickens will be McNuggets before the day is over.”

Katrina looked thoughtful and I wondered if she was making a plan to free all the chickens in the area.

“Maybe riding our bikes in the traffic isn't our number one concern today,” I said.

“What do you mean?” September asked.

I whispered so that the kids couldn't hear. “Bird flu.” Of course whispering is the surest way to hold a public conversation in our foursome. “What?! What?! What are you guys whispering about?”

September frowned. “You can really be a half-empty kind of guy.”

Thinking of everything that can go wrong, and how to avoid it, was once a big part of my job. “Some habits are hard to break.”

December 15–December 21
The Special Economic Zone of Shenzhen and Hong Kong

A
fter traveling through China for the better part of a month, we were making our way to Hong Kong where we had a flight to Bangkok in a few days. Officially, Hong Kong has been part of the People's Republic of China since the British Crown transferred sovereignty to the PRC in 1997. That may be, but coming from mainland China, one still must clear passport control to enter the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region. We found ourselves in the Special Economic Zone of Shenzhen, as it is the portal for passing to Hong Kong from the PRC.

I was poring over our guidebook, while September was trying to book a place to stay in Hong Kong. “It says Shenzhen is ‘not interesting enough to warrant more than passing through on the way to Hong Kong.' Maybe we should just take the subway to the end of the line, pass through the border, and hope for the best.”

“Every place I've tried is full,” she said, placing our cell phone down. The GSM cell phone we had bought in London was serving us well. Whenever we got to a new place, we simply popped in a new sim card. “The WTO is meeting in Hong Kong and demonstrators from all over the world are in town. The problem is, demonstrators are like us—cheap. The last person I spoke to said all the budget places are full.”

While we sorted out our lodging problem on the other side of the border, we made Shenzhen home for a couple of days. Contrary to our guidebook's description, we found Shenzhen fascinating. In 1980 Shenzhen was a sleepy fishing village of 30,000. A generation later it was four million strong. Shenzhen, and its “Special Economic Zone” is where China officially announced its experiment in “capitalism mixed with socialism and Chinese characteristics.” Any visitor would be awestruck by the modern city and conclude that the Chinese had succeeded with their experiment.

Despite the veneer of success, I can't help but wonder if it will unravel. It hadn't been that long ago when we had been the only shoppers in a large department store. Growth for growth's sake isn't sustainable. Nor had it been that long since we had been followed by the Water-Bottle Lady, trying to gather thirteen empty plastic bottles so she could trade them for a bowl of rice. Despite all its flaws, I couldn't help but conclude that capitalism serves its citizens, even its poor, better.

• • •

As we approached the immigration officer on our way to Hong Kong, passersby were being scanned with a heat sensor for anyone with a fever, quarantining anyone who might have bird flu.

“Did we forget anything important?” September asked. “As soon as we pass through here, there's no returning.”

“Why not?” Jordan asked. “Why can't we come back?”

“Our visas are for single entry. To get new ones will take longer than we have.”

“We've never had to worry about that before,” Katrina noted. “Why is China different?”

“China is uptight about foreigners,” I replied. “Just like America is.”

After passing through the checkpoint, we boarded the train that would take us to central Hong Kong. “We'll enjoy the outer islands for a few days,” September explained to Katrina and Jordan as we boarded a ferry an hour or so later. We simply were not able to find accommodations in Hong Kong proper. “Then when Paul and Derek return, we'll stay with them in the city.” Derek had been our on-the-spot interpreter when we hiked the Great Wall and had offered to let us stay at their place in Hong Kong.

Lamma Island was a short ferry ride from Hong Kong Island. We stopped at a tourist office that specialized in finding apartments for short-term stays. After a bit of paperwork, a woman from the office led us into the dark recesses of a
hutong
. After a few quick turns we were standing in front of a furnished apartment that would be home for two days.

“Have you seen the power cable for my e.brain?” We had been in the apartment only an hour, but our suitcases had already exploded, leaving no horizontal surface uncovered.

“No,” September answered. “When was the last time you used it?”

“At our hostel back in Shenzhen.”

“Maybe it's still there.”

A cold chill swept over me. It was just on the other side of the PRC border, at most twenty miles, but a world away for me. I grabbed the cell phone and ran outside, away from the noisy chatter of the kids. A few moments later I returned.

“What's the story?” September asked.

“I, uh, they, uh. The hostel in Shenzhen has my power cable.”

After weeks of being cold in China, we were finally warm. The sun was bright and the ocean spray kissed the hiking trails that beckoned across the island. But I had only one thing on my mind: our guidebook said that “sometimes” one can obtain a special one-day visa to visit Shenzhen just by showing up at the border crossing.

So, I did what any unreasonable person in my situation would do. I started toward the PRC in a dead run. I left September and the kids and ran straight toward the ferry terminal. The last ferry back to the island was in about six hours and the round trip to Shenzhen and back would be at least six if not seven hours. So I ran faster.

After catching the ferry, then connecting to the subway, I found myself nearing the PRC border about an hour and a half later. I was making good time and started to relax and watch the TV monitors in the train. Not being able to understand what was being said, or read the captions, it was nevertheless clear that somewhere in the world the police were clashing with rioters in the streets of a big city.

Suddenly a wave of gasps rippled through the car. The look on my face must have given away my bewilderment because someone leaned toward me and said, “The police have closed all access back into Hong Kong.”

The big city I was watching on the monitors was Hong Kong and the rioters were WTO protesters. I was cut off, and there was no way to return to September and the kids, at least not that night. I smiled, knowing that there was no longer any reason to rush to make the last ferry, as I couldn't go back anyway. I had my priority, and that was to get my power cable. Once I accomplished that I would worry about where to spend the night.

As I left the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region, the man behind the glass examined my passport and then gave me a smirk. What was that all about?

Hong Kong was now in my rearview mirror, but I was also not yet in the PRC. A hundred or so yards away I could see lines forming for entry into the PRC.

There was a long wait in line to cross the border. I talked to a couple of European passport holders who were going in the same direction I was. They had come to Hong Kong without a Chinese visa and found themselves wanting to visit Shenzhen for a day. I only wanted to visit for an hour, but it still required crossing this line in the sand that someone had drawn on a map more than a hundred years ago.

I watched as my new European friends got to the immigration officer and crossed over into the PRC. They turned to me and smiled and waved. Cool. If they could do it, why couldn't I?

When it was my turn, the nice lady flipped through the pages of my passport. Slowly at first, then faster. “Where is your visa?” she asked.

“I don't have one. I was here this morning and forgot something important. I thought maybe I could go back for an hour or so to retrieve it.”

The smile slid from her face and was replaced by a grim expression. It turns out that
most
people can get a special day pass to visit the “Special Economic Zone” of Shenzhen, but Americans can't. No way, no how. It seems that the Chinese are a bit grumpy about how their citizens are being treated by the U.S. immigration authorities post-9/11, and in a tit-for-tat hissy fit are making things a bit difficult for Americans at their borders.

“This is not possible,” was the firm and grim reply of Ms. Immigration Control. She confiscated my passport and I was escorted to immigration purgatory between the two borders and into a room of bleary-eyed people who looked like they had been there a long time. I sat down. On my left was an older gentleman with a flowing beard and robes who was clearly Muslim. He looked as though he had been there at least a day. On my right was a young Asian couple dressed in tight black leather, covering as little skin as possible without being arrested for incident exposure. They looked really nervous about something. I couldn't help but think, “Oops.”

As I sat there, I found myself wondering about room service. After I had long concluded there was none, a uniformed officer walked into the room with my passport in his hand. Without uttering a word he ushered me back across the border into Hong Kong. As I left the room, I smiled and waved to the bearded Muslim gentleman and the mostly naked Asian couple. Nobody waved back.

On the train back to Hong Kong I silently cursed the U.S. Patriot Act and those uppity U.S. immigration officials who are so successfully annoying the rest of the world. My e.brain was dead for lack of power and it was all their fault.

While I was languishing in immigration purgatory, the police had arrested hundreds of rioters and the routes back to Hong Kong Island had been reopened. I rushed to the ferry terminal only to watch the last ferry sail away.

“An extra ferry has been added tonight,” the ticket agent said, “because lots of people have been stranded.”

An hour later I was back on Lamma Island. The smugness from catching the last ferry was quickly replaced by the disquiet of the formerly proud. I had only been to our apartment once and that was after blindly following a chattery tourist office employee for several minutes through a
hutong
.

Oops again.

I rambled aimlessly throughout the
hutong
, shattering the stillness of night.
“Katrina!”
I called out at the top of my lungs.
“Jordan!”

Maybe I'll stumble into our apartment and September will be up waiting for me, I thought. (I would have called out for September, but I have found by experience that when I try that, people look at me funny and then call back, “October!”)

Calling out for my kids garnered nasty looks from people I would never see again. It was only after deciding to return to the pier and spend the night on a bench that I noticed a sign with my name on it, taped to a light pole. It was in September's handwriting and read,
JOHN: GO THIS WAY
with a big arrow pointing the direction I should go. At the next corner was another sign, and then another and another until I finally reached our apartment's front door. Bless her pointy little head. If I wasn't already married to her, I would propose all over again.