Waking up in Beijing that morning, my sole task of the day was to get to the airport and fly back to Hong Kong. Simple? You'd think so. But Beijing was trying its hardest to make sure I left in a bad mood.
Did you know that Hong Kong officially became part of China again in 1997 (called 'the handover' by the Brits and 'the return' by the Chinese)? I knew that. Beijing apparently is still a bit confused about it, though. My flight back to Hong Kong was classified as international, meaning that I was subject to that ridiculous 100ml all-your-stuff-in-a-teeny-plastic-bag rule. I hate that rule at the best of times, but on a domestic flight? I was carrying one small suitcase which I hadn't thought to check in, this being a domestic flight and all, and as my original plan was to catch a train back to Hong Kong my packing wasn't very 100ml rule-friendly. So I had to watch with resignation as they confiscated my shampoo and deodorant and dumped them unceremoniously into a garbage bin, then with sadness as they did the same with my fake swiss army knife from Burma. Resignation and sadness then turned to horror as they pulled out the luxurious handcream that my grandma had just bought me in Australia. Noooooooooo! I don't usually carry luxuries when backpacking, and I'm not much of a handcream user, but this one I was very, very attached to. Ignoring the images in my head of being clapped in irons and thrown mercilessly into a Chinese prison, I kicked up a bit of a fuss. Unsurprisingly, they were rather inflexible. Eventually the uniformed gentlemen agreed to run it through that machine that allegedly reveals whether the contents are of the scary, bomb-building variety. Apparently they were. But, but, but...
Did you know that Hong Kong officially became part of China again in 1997 (called 'the handover' by the Brits and 'the return' by the Chinese)? I knew that. Beijing apparently is still a bit confused about it, though. My flight back to Hong Kong was classified as international, meaning that I was subject to that ridiculous 100ml all-your-stuff-in-a-teeny-plastic-bag rule. I hate that rule at the best of times, but on a domestic flight? I was carrying one small suitcase which I hadn't thought to check in, this being a domestic flight and all, and as my original plan was to catch a train back to Hong Kong my packing wasn't very 100ml rule-friendly. So I had to watch with resignation as they confiscated my shampoo and deodorant and dumped them unceremoniously into a garbage bin, then with sadness as they did the same with my fake swiss army knife from Burma. Resignation and sadness then turned to horror as they pulled out the luxurious handcream that my grandma had just bought me in Australia. Noooooooooo! I don't usually carry luxuries when backpacking, and I'm not much of a handcream user, but this one I was very, very attached to. Ignoring the images in my head of being clapped in irons and thrown mercilessly into a Chinese prison, I kicked up a bit of a fuss. Unsurprisingly, they were rather inflexible. Eventually the uniformed gentlemen agreed to run it through that machine that allegedly reveals whether the contents are of the scary, bomb-building variety. Apparently they were. But, but, but...
So I did what any normal, self-respecting, sleep-deprived, slightly unhinged, weary traveller would do in times such as these. I took the handcream back, opened the jar, and proceeded to smear it all over my body. Everywhere. I rolled up my jeans and rubbed the handcream all over my legs. I rolled up my sleeves and put handcream all over my arms. I covered my face with handcream. I was a greasy, gooey, handcreamey mess, but they still wouldn't believe that it wasn't made of bomb-stuff and wouldn't let me take the rest of it (less than 100mls) on the plane with me. Bastards. I refused to let them sweep it into the bin while I was watching, so it sat on its own at the end of the table while I turned and sloped forlornly away to catch my plane.
I had arranged to meet up with a school friend in Hong Kong that evening, but - can you guess? - China decided to throw some more spanners into the works. The flight was delayed for half an hour in Beijing, then another hour during the stopover in Shanghai. I finally got to my hostel in Hong Kong half an hour after the time I was supposed to have met my mate at the pub. Forsaking a badly-needed shower, I dumped my gear and rushed out to meet H and her fiance. When I arrived at the pub I was flustered and distracted (though my skin was smooth and handcreamey soft) but all the trauma of leaving the mainland was quickly forgotten over cocktails and beers and 7 years' worth of catchup chats. We all had such a good time that I stumbled back to my cheap, grimy, windowless hostel only 4 hours before I was due to wake up and go to the airport to catch my flight to London. What could possibly go wrong?
I had arranged to meet up with a school friend in Hong Kong that evening, but - can you guess? - China decided to throw some more spanners into the works. The flight was delayed for half an hour in Beijing, then another hour during the stopover in Shanghai. I finally got to my hostel in Hong Kong half an hour after the time I was supposed to have met my mate at the pub. Forsaking a badly-needed shower, I dumped my gear and rushed out to meet H and her fiance. When I arrived at the pub I was flustered and distracted (though my skin was smooth and handcreamey soft) but all the trauma of leaving the mainland was quickly forgotten over cocktails and beers and 7 years' worth of catchup chats. We all had such a good time that I stumbled back to my cheap, grimy, windowless hostel only 4 hours before I was due to wake up and go to the airport to catch my flight to London. What could possibly go wrong?
If I was hungover when the alarm went off, that would have been ok. Unfortunately, I was still heavily intoxicated when the alarm went off. I didn't even hear it until it had reached the rapid, high-pitched screech that kicks in after it's been ignored for a few minutes. I think there was a ringing phone in my dream, but I was more than happy to ignore it. So when I eventually stirred, I reached out my hand, grabbed the alarm and...switched it off. I fell instantly back into a heavy and drunken slumber. That was a bit silly, really.
Still, I've decided I must have had a guardian angel (of non-specific religious denomination) who was determined to ensure I made it back to the UK. First, he/she/it compelled me to race along the streets in Canberra to collect my passport from the Embassy seconds before it closed for the weekend; then conspired to have me inexplicably arrive at Sydney airport three hours early only to find that my flight had been moved forward by two hours. I have to believe there was some external intervention happening, because it was very early in the morning, I was in a very dark room, was very drunk, had been asleep for a very short time, and had just switched off my alarm.
But, for some unfathomable reason, I woke up again 20 minutes later and suddenly (ok, slowly) realised where I was and that I needed to get to the airport immediately. I launched myself drunkenly out of bed, had the world's quickest cold shower, and left the hostel. I nearly got on the wrong bus, was almost physically ill the whole journey, but then finally, mercifully, managed to board the flight back to London...
...only to have it grounded for an hour and a half. So I folded my dehydrated, queasy and sleep-deprived self into a cramped, uncomfortable economy-class seat and counted down the minutes - all 87 of them - until the plane took off and I was on my way back - at long last - to London town.
But, for some unfathomable reason, I woke up again 20 minutes later and suddenly (ok, slowly) realised where I was and that I needed to get to the airport immediately. I launched myself drunkenly out of bed, had the world's quickest cold shower, and left the hostel. I nearly got on the wrong bus, was almost physically ill the whole journey, but then finally, mercifully, managed to board the flight back to London...
...only to have it grounded for an hour and a half. So I folded my dehydrated, queasy and sleep-deprived self into a cramped, uncomfortable economy-class seat and counted down the minutes - all 87 of them - until the plane took off and I was on my way back - at long last - to London town.
No comments:
Post a Comment