Hong Kong

It was time to head to Hong Kong and so we crossed the border from the People's Republic of China (PRC) into the "Hong Kong Special Administration Region."  Our visas would not allow us to go back, so as we crossed the border, I couldn't help but wonder what we accidentally left behind, as we always seem to.  I could only hope it wasn't something important.

We prefer the open spaces of the country more than the bright lights of the city, so Hong Kong was a perfect place for to spend a few days.  A quick ferry ride or a few subway stops and one can escape the crushing pedestrian traffic of the city for the solitude of hiking alone.  In a place with so many people, it is amazing how easy it is to escape.  We settled in on Lamma island in the Hong Kong harbor only a few miles from the bright lights and bustling crowds of the city.

Other than my family, my constant companion on this trip has become my Pocket PC palm top computer.  It has a name, too.  It is known as My Brain.  It is part long-term memory, part short-term memory, part address book, part word processor, part e-mail device, and part entertainment system.  But it is also much more then the sum of its parts.  It is, in short, my faithful friend.

We had been in our grotty hostel room on Lamma island a few days and our suitcases had exploded leaving no horizontal surface uncovered with layers of our, if you'll pardon the expression, crapola.  I could no longer deny My Brain was very low on power and I could no longer avoid peeling back the layers of our crapola to look for the bag that contains all kinds of power and data cables.

After some minutes, I found the bag, but the power cable to charge My Brain was not there.  I dumped the contents of the bag out on the bed and started to untangle the the spiderweb of cables, as if tidying things up would make the cable I needed reappear.  It didn't.

After spending a fruitless day calling and visiting different shops in Hong Kong's famous electronics district, I contacted HP (who makes My Brain) in Hong Kong.  They all told me the same thing.  I could order a cable, and it would take a week.  Didn't these people understand I was going to be in Bangkok in a week?  I started to hyperventilate.

September quickly recognized the symptoms of Electronic Gadget Withdrawal Syndrome (EGWS) and tried to get me out in the fresh air and sunshine, an antidote that usually works.  Usually.

On Day 2 without the companionship of My Brain I started to research options for returning back to mainland China.  Our guidebook gave me a ray of hope.  It said that "sometimes" one could show up at the border and obtain a special day visa to go to the "Special Economic Zone" of Shenzhen.  It was time to use the telephone and see if the hotel in Shenzhen even had the blasted thing.

All I could communicate with the hotel staff in Shenzhen was that I left something in my room.  By this time I was clearly in the more advanced stages of EGWS, manifested by the tendency to think irrationally and then follow through.  September was frantic to apply more and more fresh air and sunshine as an antidote.  I wanted to keep calling the hotel in Shenzhen until I found someone I could talk to.  September made me go on a hike around the island.

After weeks of being cold in China, we were finally warm.  The sun and the ocean spray and hiking along the trails of Lamma island were starting to have an effect on my EGWS.  But every once in a while we would pass a little restaurant or shop and there would be a phone booth and I would have a relapse.  I would tell September I had to use the restroom and then sneak off to the phone and call the hotel back in Shenzhen.

By the time we made it to the far side of the island  I finally got the right combination of phone card, working phone booth, and the right person at the hotel in Shenzhen.  They had my power cable.

So, I did what any unreasonable person in my situation would do.  I started back to the PRC in a dead run.  I left September and the kids mid-hike and ran straight toward the ferry dock.  By this time it was about 5:00 in the afternoon and the last boat back to Lamma island was 11:30 p.m., which was really not enough time.  I ran faster.

An interesting thing happened on the last leg of the train journey toward the border.  The WTO had the audacity to schedule its annual talks to coincide with our trip to Hong Kong, and protesters were rioting in the streets.  The PA system on the train informed me that all access back to Hong Kong Island (and therefore Lamma island where I needed to go) had been suspended due to police activity because of WTO protesters.

With that piece of information, I knew that there was no reason to try and make the 11:30 ferry back to Lamma island because I couldn't go back anyway.

I reached the border and exited the Hong Kong Special Administration Area uneventfully and into the middle area that was no longer Hong Kong, but not yet the PRC.

There was a long wait in line to cross the border.  I talked to a couple of European passport holders who were doing exactly what I was doing.  They had come to Hong Kong, and wanted 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 over 100 years ago.  I watched as my new European friends got to the Chinese border control desk and crossed over into mainland China.  They turned to me and smiled and waved.  Cool.  If they could do it, I should able to, too.

The nice lady at the Chinese border control flipped through the pages of my passport and asked me where my visa was.  I explained my situation,  "I don't have one.  I was here a couple of days ago and forgot something important.  I thought maybe I could go back for a 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 at their own borders for Americans.

"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 flowing beard and flowing robes who was clearly Muslim and who looked like he had been there a day at least.  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."

These people had my passport, and they had me holed-up in a guarded, windowless room. They kept me there just long enough for me to start wondering if they had room service.  Finally a uniformed officer walked into the room with my passport in his hand and without uttering a word, ushered me back across the border to Hong Kong.

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 Brain was dying for lack of power, and I had no way to get my power cable back.

As it turns out, the police arrested hundreds of WTO demonstrators and the routes back to Hong Kong island had been reopened while I was in immigration purgatory.  I was able to make the ferry back to Lamma island that same night after all.

It was only after I got dropped off back on Lamma Island that I realized that we had just changed where we had been staying the day before.  I had only been to our new place only once, and that was in the daylight.

We were staying at a guest house that was really an apartment in a hutong.  A hutong is another word for a black hole.  Taxi drivers in Beijing refuse to drive into a hutong because they know they can never come out again.  Hutongs are composed of a labyrinth of narrow alleys lined with buildings that all look alike.  The alleys are laid out haphazardly to confuse even residents who have lived there all their lives.

I went by the office that had helped us with the apartment.  Funny, they weren't open after midnight.  I started walking throughout the hutong calling out for Katrina and Jordan, hoping I would stumble into our apartment and September would be awake and hear me.  (I would have called out for September, but I have found by experience that people look at me funny and then call back, "October!")

After several minutes, and several nasty looks from people I would never see again, I noticed a sign with my name on it in September's handwriting taped to a light pole, with an arrow pointing the way to go.

Bless her pointy little head.  If I wasn't already married to her, I would propose all over again.

September was sweet enough to hang signs all over the town to point me which way to go, knowing that I wouldn't be able to find the apartment on my own, but she wasn't sweet enough to stay awake and pace back and forth across the room to worry about me.  She and the kids had the nerve to be asleep when I got home!

The following morning was the Sunday before Christmas.  One of the things we have enjoyed the last 6-1/2 months is to attend church whenever we can.  Not only does it help us not to confuse our Thou Shalt's with our Thou Shalt Not's, it is a great way to meet local people and even obtain the occasional dinner invitation.

There was a 1:30 p.m. service back on Hong Kong island in the Wan Chai district near the home of some friends we had made along our travels who had invited us to stay with them.

As we started to make our move from Lamma island to Hong Kong island to stay at the home of our friends, 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.  I was already working on a Plan B, but it was too early to divulge details.  That is when I changed subjects and told them that for a while I had thought the WTO riots were going to keep me from getting back at all.

Katrina's response to the reported WTO riots was, "Those people are so STOO-pid!" but Jordan was quite intrigued.  In fact, he is fascinated with all kinds of civil disobedience.  For example, while visiting the Blue Mosque in Istanbul he whipped out a notebook and wandered around the mosque, tallying in his book every woman he saw who wasn't wearing a head scarf, literally jumping up and down with excitement that someone could be so naughty and not get busted.

We talked a long time about the rioters, and what would happen to them.

"What do the police do to the rioters, Dad?" Jordan asked.

"Well, sometimes they get arrested and hauled off to jail."

"How many are there?"

"Hundreds, I think."

By this time, Jordan was 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 a car."

Jordan was talking a mile a minute.  This is an entire world of naughtiness that he was previously unaware of.  I explained that in extreme cases the 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 are something Jordan can identify with.  Poison gas is an essential element in most Batman movies and practically every video game he has ever played.

We got off the ferry and went a couple of subway stops to the Wan Chai district where we dropped off our suitcases at our friends' house before heading on foot toward the church building.

We were still several blocks away from the building when we started to see some ominous signs of civil unrest.  As fate would have it, the WTO riots were also in the Wan Chai district.

There were bomb removal vans and SWAT vans parked along the side of the road.  As we got closer we saw bleary-eyed police in bullet-proof vests and the normally bustling pedestrian traffic began to thin considerably.  When we got within sight of the church building, there were literally hundreds of police in riot gear surrounding a few hundred protesters.

The WTO meetings were in progress right across the street from the church building, and there were layers upon layers of riot police in full-body riot gear with tall plastic shields, shoulder-to-shoulder in front of the church building.  Somehow we had to make it across the street to the front door of the building.

I said, "Church must be cancelled.  There is no way to get across the street."

I was ready to give up, but September said, "There is a pedestrian overpass we can use to cross." So we weaved through clumps of journalists and various uniformed police officers to climb the steps to the overpass.  While we were going up the steps, we passed 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 public away?"

When we got to the overpass above the street there was a line of plastic tape emblazoned with big bold letters:

POLICE LINE - DO NOT CROSS

I was nervous enough to be near clusters of police officers laden with all manner of Taser guns and tear gas and other things I probably haven't even heard of, and so I announced, "OK, we tried.  Forget about church. Let's get out of here."

But September had other ideas.  She said quietly to the kids, "Stand up straight and look confident."  She lifted up the police tape, dragged the kids under it, and started marching them across the overpass.  I wanted to think September was driven by a hunger for spiritual nourishment, but I knew she simply couldn't stand being told she couldn't cross the street when she wanted to.  I trailed along, protesting, "You can't do this!  You want to get pepper sprayed?"

I couldn't believe it.  Well, actually I could.  I remembered that September's mother had ended up in jail for a day a few years earlier for doing essentially the same thing when she tried to drive down her street when it had been blocked off for a parade.

I hadn't known that a defective gene could cause one to disregard police barricades. With renewed urgency, I said to September, "You can't just cross a police line!"

September replied, "Oh PLEAAAASE.  Police aren't in the habit of gassing nice church-going families."

"HA!" I replied.  "There isn't any church today.  Do you see anyone else dressed like they are going to church crossing the police line?!"

September was dragging Katrina and Jordan by their hands (both of whom were protesting mightily) and not showing any signs of turning around.  I figured I couldn't let them go alone, so I followed.  As we descended the steps on the other side of the street we saw dozens of protesters being arrested and herded into police buses, each protester 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, we saw several police in riot gear 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, not getting much of the latter.

We approached the front door to the church as if nothing were amiss, with several pairs of bloodshot eyes giving us quizzical looks.  September smiled at the four or five policemen who were sitting by the entrance.  I tried the front door.

It was locked, but from inside came a nervous, heavily accented voice, "Who is there?  What do you want?"  I replied, "We are here for church."

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."  He finally said, "There is no church today.  Please go away."

So we did.  We hadn't taken two steps before an official looking woman approached us, "You are not supposed to be here.  How did you get here?  What are you doing?"

September smiled at her and said, "Oh, we didn't know.  We were just  trying to go to church.  Merry Christmas!"

As we strolled away winding through the scores of bomb retrieval vans, SWAT vans, police motorcycles and prisoner transport buses, Jordan said, "You just never know what is going to happen on the World-the-Round Trip."

Truer words have never been spoken.