We arrived in Shanghai, along with about 500 others, with 2 hours to change planes. In theory, we would be leaving the 'checked-in' secure area in order to walk 300 meters to another terminal. There we would check in again. Because the bit in between was 'real' China, we needed both an exit and then an entry visa. We would also have to pick up our bags, carry them 300 meters, and then check them in again. I am not criticising the Chinese people (not much), but it did seem to me that there were more police and officials at the airport than passengers, and between them it should have been possible to organise an efficient transfer from plane to plane. It seems that most of the police are watching each other. Nobody seemed to want to make a decision, but a higher official needed to be consulted in a chain of 'not daring to do something in case I make a mistake and they liquidate me' apathy. The first thing you see when you get off the plane is a policeman in black and with a black fur hat. He smiles at everyone, but his function is not clear. It would appear that he is there to stop anyone getting on the plane rather than to prevent an illegal entry. While you are saying goodbye to the pilot and stewardess, another policeman sticks his head round the corner of that mobile corridor thing. He is just checking to make sure the first one is still at his post and has not hidden himself in the cabin somewhere in order to escape. As we move towards passport control, the number of black-uniformed police multiplies. By the time we arrive at the passport desks they are as thick as flies. There is a maze of yellow rubber tapes to walk through, left, right, left to take you to the desk. About a kilometer of zig-zagging to cover the last 20 meters. A woman ducked under the tape to take a more direct route. There was nobody in front of her, so she was not jumping the queue, but a pair of flies detached themselves from the swarm and frog-marched her back to her starting point, the long way round. We all kept between the tapes. Five policemen held up the queue until a desk was free, and all five pointed at the correct glass box. The examination of the passport and visa takes about 10 minutes. There is a little panel with five faces on the box. The left face is green and smiling, running through to the one on the right which is red and has teeth. A notice says 'Please evaluate my work and press one of the buttons'. I told the kids to press the smiley one, as the man was obviously sweating and terrified of a critical evaluation. Press the red one and he would be out on the tarmac, shot and replaced in seconds. The passports were handed in with our boarding cards enclosed and were studied in great detail, the blank pages included. When the policeman was satisfied, he put an elastic band round our passports and disappeared with them. A policewoman said "You need special stamp. You come me". We all went her and joined a growing group of confused passengers. All the passports were placed on a desk inside another glass box. When everyone had been relieved of their passports, all the checkers moved into the box. There were seven policemen in the box and it looked like a plastic carton of black sausages. The passports were picked up one by one and handed around to the chain of policemen, each of whom examined them carefully, sometimes upside down but examined they would be. At the end of the chain the passports were stamped and then put back in the pile. This was all the more confusing as passports were passed along only to be returned because they had already been stamped. The crowd of 500 passengers began to get boisterous and unruly. Several policemen started ordering people to get behind a yellow line and shouted in Chinese at us. It probably meant that we were a revisionist gang of running-dog lackeys of imperialism ripe for re-education. One huge American confronted the policemen with the most silver stars, ribbons and the sharp sunglasses, and told him it was all a total shambles and what did he have to say for himself, speak up you pompous little turd, and implied that an immediate confession and outing of an apology for the collective failure would not go amiss. To my astonishment, this previously officious little chap stared at his boots and mumbled something and backed off with a bow. It was now an hour since we had lost sight of our passports. Then one policeman held up a passport and said "Mirrer Ossun pliz". There was no reaction from the crowd until the policeman opened the passport and Mr. Johnson cried "That's me!". Since his family were not in the front row, two more policemen were sent to accompany the first to confront Mr Johnson's family and ensure proper identification. Having realised that trying to read out the names in English was not going to work, the police outside the glass box started to walk through the crowd with a passport in hand and staring at people. The seven policemen in the box were still handing passports around to each other and opening and snapping them shut. They were not actually looking at them, but the opening and closing made them look busy. All trying to be snappier in passport-closing technique than the other. It sounded like the applause at the end of a concert. I found this scene so ludicrous that I mentioned that we should have a photo for the blog. Emma took out her phone, but before she could put it away a policeman stood before her. "PHOTO NO. NOW TO DELETE." and watched her do it. All appeared to be going well but slowly, until someone shouted "I've got the right passport but this isn't my boarding pass!" Total panic as everone who had a passport now checked if the ticket was correct. It appeared that a pile of passports and their enclosed tickets had fallen to the floor in the glass box and had hastily been reassembled into pairs, As fate would have it we were the very last to get our passports back. Getting a 'special stamp' had cost us 90 minutes. We rushed off to find Terminal 1. This was not easy, as all signs are in Chinese. If you do find one in English, it points in a general direction and you come to a split. You take a chance and hope that around the next corner you will find another sign. We had to collect out bags, the last of which had only just popped up onto the carousel, so that we would still be waiting 90 minutes even if the passport charade had not occured. We piled our cases onto a trolley, only to find that Terminal 1 is upstairs, there is no lift, and trolleys are not allowed on the escalator. Just throw them all onto the moving steps, and with luck they will fall off at the top, not be stolen and maybe there will be another trolley. No signs for the gate, but by luck we found it by looking to the spot where hundreds of policemen were watching us and each other. The bags checked in again, and we again through the security screens. I noted that the officials were piling our hand-luggage onto a conveyor belt to take it through a scanner where other officials waited. Nobody was looking at the screen, just an empty chair. What a relief to get through all this and we needed the two hour break just to get us and our bags the 300 meters between Terminal 1 and Terminal 2. I can't believe they organised the Olympics on their own.
Onto the last leg, not such a great plane. A 747 with overhead screens that could not be watched because the light fell on them. Food was okay though. And a welcome at Schipol and another at home where our house was bedecked with flags.
We have had a great time. Thanks to everyone. This blog is now closed!
Apart from this message to Chris of the Aquapackers as appreciation of one of many high-spots of this holiday.
A Backpackers HeavenI had never been to New Zealand, nor had I ever done any serious hiking since the Boy Scouts in the 1940’s. At the age of 66 I found myself wandering around the Abel Tasman Park with a pack on my back the size of a small house. The scenery was wonderful, but the pack was heavy and the flies were fierce. After a few hours of staggering up and down stony paths laden like a donkey, one looks forward to the evening rest with some misgivings. Normally this would be in a crowded DOC hut full of fellow travellers snoring and farting and trampling over you to find their beds and shining torches in your face and can you spare some toilet paper. Food you must carry on your back, and unless you have a stove, it will consist of nuts and raisins. If you do have a stove, it will be a packet of dried macaroni with a chemical beef flavour. What it will not be is filling and tasty. Milk will be powder, which, when mixed with water, looks and tastes like paint. You will not sleep because sand-flies also need food, and you will provide it. Instead you will lay awake and dream of real food and cold beer. It was with such a feeling that I tumbled out of the bush at Anchorage Bay and sprawled on the beach. I knew that we were booked in somewhere, but could not care what as I just fell onto the beach and slept. And dreamed that I was some traveller in biblical times who had stumbled out of the desert and found himself surrounded by water , but it was salty and he could not drink it.
“I am dead”, the traveler thought, “for I see a heavenly ship gleaming white upon the blue waters”. A figure sitting in a small boat detached itself from the back of the ship, and skimmed over the water towards him, faster than any man could row. “It must be an Angel”, the traveler thought, “to travel so swiftly without paddle or oar”. The Angel beckoned to him, and he climbed into the boat, which was soft and not made of wood as was the custom in his own land. “Who are you, and by what magic does your craft hurl itself over the waters?”. “I am he that is called Chris” said the Angel, polishing his sunglasses, “and I suppose a Mercury 50 hp four stroke outboard is a bit of magic, mate”. The Angel helped him onto the heavenly ship and the traveler saw a women of great beauty. Angel Chris said “This is Titania, my girlfriend. She will prepare food for you, won’t you Angel“. The traveler marveled. Two Angels! The Angel Chris showed him where he could place his belongings and where he could lay his weary head upon clean, soft bedding. The traveler looked at his body, dusty and bruised from his journey and said “I am unclean and not worthy to lie down upon this pristine silk”. The Angel Chris led him to a magical fountain and showed him how to command it to rain upon him water as warm as the far holy hot springs of Lake Taupo. Much refreshed, he sat upon a throne in the sun upon the deck of the heavenly ship and closed his eyes, and noted that out here upon the waters there were no flies to torment him. He dreamed that he sat before tables sagging with the weight of cooking meat and rice and salads, and that rich smells of cooking arose like incense to perfume the air around him; and found it all to be true when the Angel Chris awoke him with the magical words “Barbie’s ready!”. He ate until he was nearly full, the most delicious meal of his miserable life. “Forget the Mannah”, he said, “I’ll have another of those steaks if I may, and that lasagne is out of this world, which is where I am, I think!”.
Later, as he sat back on the deck of the ship and watched the sun go down, he noticed a vessel of golden liquid in his hand, upon which was the inscription “Speights Beer”. The bottle was as cold as ice, and a mist had condensed all over the glassy surface. With his finger he wrote a message in the mistiness. “I AM IN HEAVEN”.