December 15–December 21
The Special Economic Zone of Shenzhen and Hong Kong
After 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.
• • •
The following morning was the Sunday before Christmas. One of the things we had been enjoying on our travels was attending church whenever we could. Not only did it help us not to confuse our Thou Shalts with our Thou Shalt Nots, it was a great way to meet local people not affiliated with the tourist industry.
We found a 1:30 p.m. English-language service in the Wan Chai district of Hong Kong Island near the home of Paul and Derek, who were returning that day. We would bake cookies for Santa, and they would eat them. We all thought it a fair trade for a few nights’ accommodation. As we boarded a ferry to make our move to Hong Kong Island, I told September and the kids about my adventure the previous night.
“After all that, and you still don’t have your cable?” Katrina asked.
“Nope.”
With glee in his voice, Jordan asked, “Will you miss your brain, Dad?”
I didn’t want to talk about it. That’s when I changed subjects and told them that for a while I had thought the WTO riots were going to keep me from returning at all.
“Those people are so STOO-pid!” Katrina exclaimed, talking of the rioters.
Jordan, however, was quite intrigued. As we had learned at the Blue Mosque when he made his naughty tally of nonscarf-wearing women, Jordan was fascinated with the concept of civil disobedience. The thought that someone could be so naughty made his whole body pulsate with excitement.
“What do the police do to the rioters, Dad?” Jordan asked.
“Well, sometimes they arrest them and haul them off to jail.”
“How many are there?”
“Hundreds, I think.”
Jordan started pacing up and down the ferry aisles with excitement. “How can the police arrest hundreds of people? I mean, that’s too many people, and the police can’t fit them all in one car to take them to jail.” Jordan was talking a mile a minute, and his little body shivered with glee. This was an entire world of defiance of which he’d previously been unaware; it made tallying women without head scarves at the Blue Mosque mere child’s play.
“In cases like this,” I explained, “police might subdue the rioters with tear gas or water cannons and then cart them away in buses designed to hold dozens of prisoners at a time.”
Tear gas and water cannons were something Jordan could identify with, as poison gas was an essential element in most Batman movies and practically every video game he had ever played. Jordan sat down and retreated into his private world, ballistic sound effects occasionally escaping his mouth.
We got off the ferry and went a couple of subway stops to the Wan Chai district, where we dropped off our suitcases at Paul and Derek’s house, then started out on foot toward the church building. Being the Sunday before Christmas, it would probably be our only chance to sing Christmas songs in a congregation, something that is a family tradition dating back at least one year.
Still several blocks away from the building, we started to see some ominous signs of civil unrest. As we drew closer, it was clear the WTO riots were located exactly where we were headed.
Parked along the side of the road were a series of bomb-removal vans and SWAT vans. The ordinarily bustling pedestrian traffic had given way to legions of bleary-eyed police in bulletproof vests. When we got within sight of the church building, there were hundreds of police in riot gear surrounding a few dozen protesters. The WTO meetings were in progress right across the street from the church building. Blocking access to the church were layers upon layers of riot police in full-body riot gear with tall plastic shields, standing shoulder-to-shoulder.
“Church must be cancelled,” I said. “There’s no way to even cross the street without cutting through rioters and police.”
“There’s a pedestrian overpass,” September pointed out. “We can use that to cross.”
“Perhaps this isn’t a good idea,” I protested, nevertheless following her up the steps. We wove through clumps of journalists and the delegation from Uganda, who were on their way down. They gave us a wary eye. I knew what they were thinking: “Aren’t the police supposed to keep the riffraff away?” I gave them a cheery smile and a wave.
When we got to the overpass above the street, we encountered a line of plastic tape emblazoned with big bold letters blocking the path: POLICE LINE—DO NOT CROSS.
“Okay, we tried,” I said. “Forget about church. Let’s get out of here.”
September was not deterred. “This is too cool!” she exclaimed. “How often do you get to go to a riot before church? Stand up straight,” she said quietly to the kids, “look confident and just act like you know what you’re doing.” She lifted up the police tape, dragged the kids under it, and started marching them across the overpass.
I couldn’t believe it. Well, actually I could. September’s mother had spent a day in jail a few years earlier for crossing a police line when she tried to drive down her own street, which had been blocked for a parade. I hadn’t known that a defective gene could cause one to disregard a police line. “You can’t do this!” I protested, trailing along. “You want to get pepper sprayed?”
“I’d like us to sing Christmas hymns as a family in a congregation,” September began to pontificate as she led our children over the overpass. “It’s the only connection we have with home during the holiday season. History was built on small acts of civil disobedience—the Summer of Love, Rosa Parks, and so on. It’s a worthy cause.”
“But there’s no church today. Do you see anyone else crossing the police line?”
September was not showing any signs of turning around. I figured I couldn’t let the three of them go alone, so I followed. As we descended the steps on the other side of the street, we saw dozens of protesters being herded onto police buses, each with an armed escort. I found myself wishing I had brought my camera, but who brings a camera to church?
As we approached the church building, several police in riot gear were sitting near the front door. The entryway was littered with food boxes and bottles. Clearly, the police had been using the area all night long as a place to eat and rest, but by the looks of them, they hadn’t been getting much of the latter.
September approached the door confidently and smiled at the police, who were sitting by the entrance as she tried to open it. Several pairs of bloodshot eyes were giving us quizzical looks.
The door was locked, but from inside came a nervous, heavily accented voice. “Who is there? What do you want?”
“We’re here for the 1:30 service,” I replied.
There was a long pause. I could only imagine what the man was thinking: “These people are clearly not the sharpest tools in the shed.” Finally the voice said, “There is no church today. Please go away.”
I’ve never been told to “go away” at church before, but decided to take his advice without offense. We turned and hadn’t taken two steps before an official-looking woman approached us, saying, “You are not supposed to be here. How did you get here? What are you doing?”
September smiled. “We were just trying to go to church. Merry Christmas!”
We strolled away and wound back through the scores of bomb-retrieval vans, SWAT vans, police motorcycles, and prisoner transport buses. Jordan paused to pick up something from the ground. His eyes grew wide and he exclaimed, “Look what I found!” as he handed me a tattered brochure.
“Jordan’s radar has gone off,” I said to September, looking over the brochure. “It looks like there’s a Disneyland right here in Hong Kong, and it’s only a few subway stops from Paul and Derek’s house. Did you know that?”
“That’s news to me!”
And with a hopeful look in his eye, Jordan said, “You just never know what’s going to happen on the World-the-Round Trip.”
• • •
“You just never know what’s going to happen on the World-the-Round Trip,” September repeated the next day to a feverish Jordan. “We’d like to take you to Disneyland, but if you still have a fever in the morning, we can’t go.”
Missing Disneyland was the least of our concerns at the moment. We had just passed, albeit accidentally, right through Bird Flu Central a few days earlier. We had just put down our tent stakes, so to speak, in the home of our friends Paul and Derek, who we were now potentially exposing to a nasty virus. We were also to fly to our rendezvous with September’s mom in Bangkok on Christmas Eve.
“I remember when we were in England,” Katrina offered, “that Jordan got a fever and we just gave him Tylenol.”
“You can’t pass him through a goat,” Derek said. “With the bird flu scare there are checkpoints everywhere. The stakes are too high.”
“Pass him through a what!?” we asked simultaneously.
Paul chuckled. “It’s a saying around here. A goat will eat anything. You can feed a goat a bunch of fake coins, for example, and when they come out the other side, they look aged—quite authentic looking. But the saying is a metaphor for anything that has been altered for the purpose of deception.”
Miraculously, the following morning Jordan’s fever was gone. Katrina was quick to point out the benefits of going to church even if we were blocked entry, correlating it with Jordan’s sudden recovery, and then summed it up with, “So now we can go to Disneyland!”
I knew she had been praying for some sort of divine intervention, although I wasn’t sure if her motives were out of concern for her brother, or out of her desire to go to Disneyland.
Nevertheless, I marveled at her childlike faith … and wasn’t that what the whole World-the-Round Trip was about? If September and I hadn’t had childlike faith, we wouldn’t have left California.
“I suppose we can,” I said, agreeing with Katrina’s analysis. “You just never know what’s going to happen on the World-the-Round Trip!”