Something to Declare?

Today is Chinese New Year, 2016 being the Year of the Monkey. Therefore, I think it’s time for another weird China story from the vault.

On September 11th 2011, the 10th anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attacks (which was nerve-wracking enough in itself) I made the journey from Wales back to my ESL teaching job in China. After getting a lift from my dad to Cardiff Central I got a National Express coach to Heathrow airport and then endured a gruelling 10 hour flight to Shanghai Pudong, where I had to get another bus to another airport in Shanghai so I could make a connecting internal flight to Changsha city, capital of Hunan Province. As you can probably imagine, by that point I was tired, stressed, and not in the best of moods.

I dragged my 24 kg suitcase to check-in at Hongqiao, where a nice young Chinese lady slapped a sticker on it and sent it through an arcane-looking X-ray machine. And then an alarm went off. Uh-oh. A couple of burly ‘security operatives’ appeared and whisked me away to a little side room where my suitcase was waiting, sitting on an oversized metal table. One of the security people motioned to a monitor where several ‘suspect’ items were highlighted, and told me to open my suitcase. He then put on some rubber gloves and proceeded to rummage around in my personal affects, placing several of my possessions on the table for further scrutiny.

The first was a police-issue extendable baton, bought for 20 RMB from a street seller in Changsha the year before. Whatever your opinion on this, in my view living alone in a foreign country where laowai (foreigners) are often targeted, necessitates some form of personal protection. Besides, it was pretty cool.

“Can’t have,” said one of the young customs officers.

“Okay, no problem,” I replied, sheepishly. Fair cop, guv.

The next item was a 5-inch switchblade knife with a retractable spring-loaded blade, kept for the same reasons as the baton (although this one doubles as a handy household tool). They are illegal to own in some places, and certainly illegal to carry. The customs officers opened the blade and admired it for a few moments, tested it was sharp enough, then stuffed it back in my suitcase and told me it was fine.

What? Are you sure? I wanted to ask, but of course didn’t. Besides, things were about to get weird. The next things pulled out of my suitcase was a meagre collection of paperback books.

For reference, the titles of these were as follows:

Horns, by Joe Hill

Breathless, by Dean Koontz

Full dark, No Stars, by Stephen King

Bookie Wook 2, by Russell Brand

Country Driving, by Peter Hessler

As the security personnel picked their way through the pile, flicking through the pages and breaking the spine on at least one (I hate that) vague notions ran through my mind. The Chinese government dislike Peter Hessler, an American who lives in China and writes almost exclusively about his adopted country, and often ban his stuff. Could this be the problem? Or could it be the fact that in 2008 the Chinese government banned ‘horror’ (whatever that means) in reaction to Steven Spielberg pulling out of his role as advisor to the Olympic committee on political grounds?

“Why do you have so many books?”

“I like reading.”

“Really?”

“Really. Why else would I carry so many books half way around the world?”

The customs officer considered this and, apparently satisfied, moved on to the next item, which was a pound of Cheddar Cheese.

“What’s this?”

“It’s a pound of Cheddar Cheese.”

“What is it used for?”

“It’s cheese. You eat it.”

“When?”

“Erm, whenever you want.”

He made a ‘yeah, right!’ face, picked the cheese up and started bending it and sniffing it. ‘Did you pack this yourself?’

“Yes I did. I packed my suitcase myself, and this is definitely my cheese.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“About what?”

“The cheese.”

“Yes, I am quite sure this is my cheese. Is there something wrong with it?”

“I’m not sure you can take this on the plane.”

“Why?”

“No why.”

“So I can take a knife on the plane, but no cheese?”

“Knife no trouble in suitcase.”

“So will the cheese be trouble in my suitcase?”

“Maybe.” He gives the matter some thought, stroking the few wispy hairs on his chin.

“Look, I would really appreciate it if you let me take my cheese on the airplane. Of course I will put in my suitcase, and not get it back out until I get to my apartment.”

“Okay. We trust you.”

I hurried off and hid in the departure lounge before they changed their minds. Angry, confused, and bummed at losing my baton, but happy I got to keep my books and cheese. Happy New Year, China.

One Night in Moscow

 

That title sounds a bit romantic, doesn’t it? Unfortunately, my one and only night in Moscow was anything but romantic.

It’s not like I even planned it. I was en route back to the UK after a holiday in China and flying with the Russian airline Aeroflot (who should rename themselves Aeroflop). I had to fly from Shanghai to Moscow, then transfer to a London flight for the final leg. With stopovers it meant a total time of around 14 hours, compared to 10 or 11 hours had I flown direct with Virgin or British Airways. The pay off was that return tickets to Shanghai from London via Moscow with Aeroflot were £475, compared to £700+ for direct flights.

Smart, right? I had two hours to make the connection in Moscow. However, my plane was late leaving Shanghai and I missed the transfer. Thinking about it, I shouldn’t be surprised. Despite being one of the busiest airports in the world, the air traffic control at Shanghai Pudong must be wank because I can’t remember ever leaving the place on time. On this occasion, there was a 2-hour delay, due to ‘congestion.’ That meant I arrived in Moscow nine hours later, at around 18:50, just as my London flight was taking off. Motherfucker.

Struggling to subdue waves of panic, I went to the transfer desk at Moscow Sheremetyevo airport and politely waited in line, with every other passenger who had missed their connection, to be told what to do next. When my turn finally came, the rather stroppy and stressed-out ground crew woman looked at me as if I’d just slapped her across the face and barked, “You sit! Sit down!”

So, I sat. I sat down. With about a dozen other passengers who were all meant to get the same flight as me. In the ensuing group chat, several harsh realities came to light:

1: We had indeed missed our plane

2: We were stranded overnight in Moscow

3: None of us had any Russian money

4: Or a visa.

This all meant that despite the extenuating circumstances, we were all in the country illegally. One thing was certain, we were Aeroflot’s responsibility so they were going to have to sort us out. There was a flurry of phone calls and emails telling our loved ones and bosses explaining what had happened, then we all waited a bit longer. About an hour later we were moved to another part of the airport, where we waited some more. Eventually, we were escorted out of a back door by a couple of big, hulking dudes in suits who looked like they were in the KGB and onto a waiting bus. Things were getting interesting.

Even in June, it was cold, miserable and wet outside. Glimpsed through the bus window, Moscow was exactly what I had expected; grey and depressing, with coils of barbed wire and electrified fences everywhere. No wonder half the population was permanently pissed on vodka. The bus took us directly to a nearby hotel. Do not collect £200. Do not pass go. When we arrived, we were given a short lecture by an Aeroflot employee and told to stay in our rooms and not leave under any circumstances. Everywhere else in the hotel, and especially outside the hotel, were strictly off-limits. We were reassured by the promise that each room had a free bottle of water in it. That’s okay, then. And just to make sure we wouldn’t think about slipping away (as if!) a guard was posted in the corridor outside, whose only serviceable English seemed to be “Nobody leaves!”

With fragmented images of the film Hostel going through my mind, I retired for the evening. The room was actually quite nice. I had a bath, watched Police academy in Russian (surreal) and the World Cup game between Spain and Australia. At some point a very disappointing ‘dinner’ of warm salad and bland vegetarian lasagne arrived. It was like airplane food, except I wasn’t on an airplane. They clearly couldn’t be bothered catering to everyone’s individual needs, so they gave us each the most inoffensive (or cheapest) thing they could find.

When I woke up in the morning it took a few minutes to figure out where I was, then the bedside phone rang and a voice told me to get my things and meet my companions at the end of the corridor, when we would be escorted to the breakfast room. This turned out to be a meeting room on the ground floor, and breakfast was a bizarre combination of bread, milk, honey, and Swiss rolls. There wasn’t an egg in sight, let alone a sausage. After breakfast we were taken back to the airport by bus, and normal service was resumed after a very bizarre interlude.

Growing up during the Cold War, my perception of Russian people may be a little skewed. In my mind they were all shadowy criminal-types who were always plotting something and never smiled. This idea is probably a result of too many 80’s action movies. The strange thing is, based on my Russian experience, this perception isn’t a million miles away from the truth. I’m sure not all Russians are stoney-faced and dour. There are probably a lot of happy, content people living there. In fact, I distinctly remember the guy on the front desk of the hotel cracking a smile once. Unfortunately however, happiness seems to be at a premium in Moscow, never mind romance.

Leaving on a jet plane…

 

 

Going Back to China.

Back to work in a few days. Bummer. Goodbye friends and family, hello unknown.

On September 1^st I have to get up at 06.30, travel to Cardiff by car, get a coach to Heathrow airport (London), take a long-haul flight to Shanghai PuDong airport, get a public bus to Shanghai Hongqiao airport, take a domestic flight to Changsha, and hopefully meet up with a representative from my new school who will then drive me to my apartment on the outskirts of the city.

All in all the journey will take around 28 hours I guess, providing I make all the connections and don’t die in a fireball somewhere.

I’ll be honest, the thought is a little daunting. Before a long journey I get apprehensive. So many things can go wrong. Adding to my trepidation is the fact that I am starting a new job in a new school in a new area. I have been doing this for 5 or 6 years now, and it seems I spend most of my life ‘settling in’ and walk around in a permanent state of mild culture shock.    

I work as an ESL teacher in China, which I will blog more about in the future (I pwomise!). I don’t pretend to be a real teacher. My job basically amounts to entertaining disinterested Chinese university students and being the token ‘foreign expert,’ that gives an educational establishment added credibility. I actually have a foreign experts certificate issued by the Chinese government which assures me that I am, indeed, an expert at being foreign.

People who pursue this pseudo-career are usually faced with three employment options:

1: Volunteer work. This, in my book, is an instant no-no and geared toward exploiting graduates who need work experience. The parents invariably pay the schools, so why should the foreign teachers be expected to work for free?

2: Private schools. These offer a higher salary, usually 10-13,000 RMB (£1000 – 1300) a month, sometimes more, but you have to work up to 40-hours a week and usually have to pay for your own apartment, transport and everything else. In short, its like having a real job.

3: State-run educational establishments (schools, colleges and universities). These offer a lower salary (on average around 5000 – 6000 RMB, or £500 – 600) but as part of a ‘package’ that also includes a fully-furnished apartment, travel expenses, visa fees, health insurance, return flights back to your country of origin, bonuses, and sometimes even phone, internet and utility bills. The main advantage is a much lower workload, and lengthy summer and winter holidays. It isn’t difficult to pick up extra part-time work to make up the difference in salary if one is so inclined.

Having experienced both sides of the coin, I decided long ago that option three suited my needs better, mainly because the general life hassles are minimized and I get a lot more free time. During the 2-month winter holiday I usually do some travelling around mainland China, and in the summer (when I often change schools, and sometimes cities) I go back to Wales to spend time with friends and family.

During the holidays is when I can apply myself fully to writing. I don’t pretend to be a professional.  I’m semi-pro at best. I don’t make much money teaching, and I make far less writing. But one thing I have learned on this epic journey is that life is about much more than money. It is a sad fact that if I made more I would undoubtedly waste it on stuff I don’t need. A truly fulfilling life should focus more on personal happiness, freedom, independence, setting and achieving goals, and making a difference.

Chris Jay of Army of Freshmen once said, “If experience can be considered a currency, then I am a rich man.”

And I agree.

Probably the worst thing about living and working in the PRC, apart from the general weirdness of it all, is the government-sanctioned internet censorship. Facebook, Twitter, Flickr, You Tube and most blogging sites, including WordPress, are blocked, which makes social networking a constant game of cat n mouse. For this reason, combined with my own general laziness, my blogging over the next nine months or so may be a little sporadic, so please try to stick with me!