The Chinese Blonde

My trained eyes discovered during many visits that all Chinese woman have brown or black hair, unless human intervention turns it green, blue or any other possible colour.  Thus any visitor to China might frown at the title of this essay, but wrongly so.

There is the old conventional wisdom that blondes are a little sparse in the intellectual department.  Being married to one of the natural kind, I know this tightrope is suddenly strung over very dangerous territory, but brave as I am, I will soldier on.

There is an old joke that places a blonde; very beautifully I must add, in the first class seat of a plane.  The problem is that her ticket was booked in coach.  The very junior flight attended then come up to the gorgeous blonde and indicates that her seat is in the back of the plane.  The blond refuses to move, and then the problem gets escalated to the next level.  The senior flight attendant then tries with her best persuasive ability to move the blonde to the back of the plane, with no success.  As soon as the captain hears of the growing disaster, he declares to the senior flight attendant, "I speak blonde and the matter shall be resolved swiftly".  The man of action then walks up to the blonde and whispers something in her ear.  Without hesitation she gets up and moves to her allocated seat in the back of the plane.  All witnesses astonished then confront the captain as to the powerful message he delivered.  The captain then stated, "I only told her that this section of the plane does not go to her destination, only the back section does”.  Everyone now break into a bout of laughter because no intellectual person could belief such an explanation.  I was part of those in the laughing crowd until today, when I realised this had to be a Chinese blonde, and I shared a flight with her.

In a previous essay I was en route to Jinan.  I was allocated a ticket after a fiasco where my flight was cancelled.  The forgiving character that I am, I shall not describe this in detail except to note that upon arrival in the lounge, I realized my flight number did not appear on the electronic departure schedule.  As I then had the recent experience of how unemotionally a flight could be cancelled, I was, to say the least, stressed out of my scull.

I went to the front desk no less than 12 times in as many minutes, and was assured my flight did not arrive.  My Chinese is limited and so is their English in Dalian, but I could figure out that one flight published on the display board had as destination Dalian.  I thought this was very strange on the departure schedule in Dalian.  However, I did prior to this event notice that Chinese are not always doing things the way we Westerners find efficient or logical.

Exactly 15 minutes after the scheduled boarding time on my ghost flight's boarding card, a rather nervous looking front desk attendant came searching for me in the lounge.  This made me feel important, but her distressed manner caught my attention.  She announced in broken English, "Gate 16!".

I did note before that I grew a particular mental ability, and thus realized that I have to go there.  I glanced at the departure board one last time and saw nothing.  My flight is still not there.  I do not know what finally drove me to action.  Was it pure faith in wanting to leave Dalian, or a general mannerism of listening to people in uniform that drove me?  I went to departure gate 16.

Upon arrival I saw people going through the gate, but this was not my flight number.  My ticket was on flight ZH9472 to Jinan, and this flight was ZH9430 to Fujang.  "Wait a minute", I thought and rushed to the desk.  I produced my ticket and pointed to the flight number discrepancy.  I demanded answers with a rather stressed gesture of hands and animated pointing.  I could have been Italian right then.  The flight attendant took my ticket and scanned it.  Within split seconds a green light illuminated on the scanner and with her confident smile she requested me to board the plane.

I was dumb struck by these evens and several minutes later realized I was in seat 3F on the wrong plane to the wrong destination after following due procedure.  I did what people in uniforms told me to do.  I felt like a man in desperate need of a mother.

Seconds later I felt the plane leave the safety of the runway with my only consolation that I escaped from Dalian.  Earlier that day I thought this would not be possible, and I would grow old in this unforgiving city.  But, where would this flight take me?  What about the people waiting to collect me in Jinan?  The flight was short, 52 stressful minutes.  Then touch down.  I was glad, but where?

The revelation came unceremoniously in an almost digitized effort of English, after a much elaborated Chinese version, "Plane now in Jinan, this passenger to get off now, passenger to Fujang must remain in seat for flight leave in 15 minutes".

As I saw people in isle seats, and in the front of the plane get up and collect their things.  I turned around and my mind turned to the blonde Chinese woman, seated in the back, on her way to Fujang.  Is this the milk plane?

Wednesday 22 May, 2013

Why Book a Ticket?

In Western society we have a custom of buying tickets for flights.  So that is exactly what I did for a flight from Dalian to Jinan on China Air, leaving at 14:05.  Being well prepared, I had a printout of the e-ticket to show to airport personnel.  Thus very confident in my following established protocol, I arrived at the airport with a full hour and 45 minutes prior to departure.  I strolled over to the ticket counter, and handed in the e-ticket and passport for identification.

Did I get a boarding pass in line with normal procedure?  No.  The assistant instead developed a dead look in her eyes, similar to that observed in a freshly boiled lobster, and after realizing my incapability to read minds, she announced in a colourful English tone “flight cancelled”.

“This is wonderful” I thought, so I waited for further instructions.  Nothing was forthcoming and instead, she requested me to step aside and assisted the rest of the queue.  Strangely their flights were not cancelled.  I thought nothing of her unkindness and jumped right back in front of her, and then she became determined to explain that I had a ticket on a ghost plane.  She made some calls and I was handed the phone headset.  The voice announced in clear English and determined clarity that my flight is cancelled.  I expressed gratitude at the trouble of explaining the message.  Then I asked, “So what now?”.  This caught the voice completely off guard - clearly no-one before this moment ever requested an action plan if a flight is cancelled.

Could this be?  Is that why the city is expanding?  It is filling up with unsuspecting travellers whose flights are cancelled!  That must be it.

After some time lapsed in deadly science, I was instructed to hand the phone back to the original operator and further instructions were to follow.  I did this, and I could swear this woman is speaking to her mother.  They must have spoken about the family, past visits, future ones to follow and sick aunt Fu, all in good Chinese that I could not follow.  Eventually the phone was rested down.  The woman stood up calmly, handed me my things and pointed to a counter some 12 meters away, and then said something in Chinese.  Sharp fellow that I am, and fast acquiring mind reading capability, I knew I had to go there.

The telephone voice grew a face upon arrival, and this woman was too young to be the other one's mother.  I was wrong.  So what did they discuss across this vast gap for so long?

My new acquaintance ushered me to another lady seated behind a computer who, I presumed, would issue me a new ticket.  She demanded my passport, and in no time she proudly announced the problem - the flight is cancelled.  I explained in my calmest tone that I have already discovered that, and I did not even use a computer.  My explanation then went on that I have a family, they are in South Africa, and in order to get there, my boss wanted me to first visit some friends in Jinan.  For that reason, I needed another ticket, to go to Jinan.  Her eyes lost their permanent squinting gaze and opened up to mimic a full moon in stereo as she registered my wish.  She started hacking away at the computer keyboards and called for the attention of a nearby computer geek.

Half an hour later my translator friend returned.  She enquired about progress from the typing babbling duo and then cleared her throat for the revelation.  She did her best to explain they cannot change my ticket because I did not buy it in China.  I had to call South Africa to change it.  It was right then that I lost control of myself.  It was 1pm in China, but back in South Africa everyone was brushing teeth and having breakfast.  Then I had to buy a new ticket, she announced.  I though not.  I did not cancel the flight.  The money I paid for the ticket would be unused as the flight was not going anywhere and they had that money, didn't they?  Even my translator understood that this was logical, but this was China, and I did not buy the ticket here, and I cleaned up behind me in the train, so I was wrong.

By now the computer geek was looking nervously at the screen and used up all of his airtime calling all his hacker friends to break the deadlock with no marked success.

Then the great escape - they would give me a certificate to state the flight was cancelled.  I would then buy a new ticket, and go on to Jinan.  I would be able to use this certificate for one year booking a new flight.  As I was not consumed in the next half hour discussion that followed about how brilliantly they averted crisis, I had time to think.  I then came up with a brand new plan.  They were to write the certificate, and they would go to the ticket office and get the new ticket, give it to me, and I would disappear from their counter with it, en route to Jinan.  All agreed this were more brilliant than anything else ever thought of at this counter - real Western logic.

Another half hour discussion celebrated this genius.  Then they wheeled in a fresh translator, a man, and he had a tie.  Then it was declared that my plan was making a lot of sense, even to the new team member, but they could not do it.  Why, will never be known, whey were sworn to secrecy.  Another revelation was that I could not buy a new ticket, also not explained.  I was stunned to my core about this.  Would I also have to move into the city like all the others with cancelled flights?  Silence…

A new plan was then concocted in record time.  They would take me to the VIP waiting area.  I struggled to understand how this would sort the ticket deadlock, but not being the type to refuse kindness in face of difficulty, I went.  Then I waited, being comforted by the random echo of airport announcements.  I even got a paper cup of water.  Geek-man had now been promoted to savoir in singularity - only he could now fix this mess.  My hopes were high in light of my enhanced status.  For a full 15 minutes my anticipation of having this mess sorted grew, and finally I was called over for the revelation.  I bought a new ticket.

VIP status however does not wear off.  Like being deified, there is no turning back.  I was not allowed to touch my newly acquired ticket; it would be carried for me.  I was escorted to the VIP security station, unpack my things like we all do these days and got a proper rub down for the security woman.  See, in China this boy search girl, and girl search boy in security is not yet polarized.

To my surprise my escort followed me through the security gate and made sure her new deity will have no trouble being safely deposited in the VIP lounge, waiting for the opportune scheduled moment to escape Dalian sewer living.  It struck me then, it was again one hour and 45 minutes prior to the flight departure, exactly the same as when this fiasco started.  What would happen if this flight was cancelled?

Let me add.  I was destined to fly on flight ZH9472, and this was no-where to be found on the departure board.

Wednesday 22 May, 2013

Who wants to be a foreigner?

Travelling through China allows asking the most straightforward questions to impossible situations.  Today has been no exception.  It was a lovely day, meeting business colleges and old friends.  With the day drawing to a close, I am motivated by the fact that I still need to go from Yingkou station to Dalian station, a mere 1 hour high speed train trip in relative luxury before I can rest.  Dinner was however a final hurdle to clear before I would be released.

Dinner was good with traditional Chinese food on the menu tonight.  Entering the dining room, a pile of minuscule prawns were waiting on a plate.  It was a blob of perfect rosy-pink placed in the centre of the table.  I was allocated a spot to sit and started manoeuvring the little creatures into my mouth.  The next plate to arrive had the driest beef imaginable - little rectangular cubes deep fried to death, and stacked into two towers.  As a South African I'd be ashamed to say it was good, as we like it so raw that the pulse should be steady and strong.  But it was good.  It was so good that it made no work of washing down the allocated beers in a continuous pattern of synchronised drinking from a small glass as the Chinese like to do.

Soon after that, white rubbery things arrived.  I offered to declare this as shelled mussels, but my hosts insisted it is seafood.  This was good and slippery, which allowed some break from sloshing beer down my throat.  The cousin of this seafood was next soldiered into the dining room.  I instantly recognised it, despite the efforts of the cook, hacking it to pieces in a low quality disguise.  It was an octopus, drowning in green stick like things, which I decided had to be asparagus stems after a quick taste - being corrected once before, I kept this as my own little secret.  This I also liked as all this seafood were just perfectly cooked using minimal spice and a hint of garlic.  Topping the meal was a big dish of Chinese cabbage stems.  I suppose the soft parts are fed to old people with no teeth, and thus being part of the younger generation, we had to make do with the chewy bits.

Talk around the table was sparse.  I always find it difficult to have lengthy debates with people that do not understand English too well, and notice the translator loosing speed as I gather momentum in whatever dogma I choose to spread to my unfortunate audience.  So I stuck with safe topics like, our beloved president Zuma's intellectual ability, and the Chinese culture is changing so fast that these sorry sods around the table have not a snowball's hope in hell to cope past the next five years.  Then I noticed that somehow I've been cheated.  There were six large beers finished, and I had three on my lonesome.  If we were only two at a romantic dinner it would have been fair, but I happened to be one of four.  I also noticed that the lady translator had one glass poured at the start of dinner which made the two Chinese men, girls, to say the least.

Just then, right before I could get up to be driven to the train station, another dish arrived.  Despite the anticipation of a daring plate of otter knob-ends, boiled pig snouts, or something alike, it was dumplings.  So we ate that, and finally it was announced that enough time lapsed and I would be released for the train journey.

I was fortunate as the one glass strong translator would do the driving and the other two stumbling men were left to their own devices.  Earlier in the day I did remark to this woman that I also have an Audi A4, but mine does not go as slow as hers.  I am sure this stuck and must have been the most inspiring motivation ever announced to her ears.  She drove so slow, hopefully under the influence, swirling and sticking like a trained PAC-man to the dotted line, that instinct kicked in and I went on the lookout for cops.  Then she slowed down and the thought of missing my train entered my head.  I had only 45 minutes before the thundering devil would disappear into the dark.  Right then I stopped worrying about the cops and feared continental drift will surely now cause us never to reach the train station.  It would just float away.

We must have been dining closer to the station than I though as we reached it after only 27 minutes, and I noticed the car gained a full 11 kilometres of highway travel in that time.  The agony was over, and another Audi dishonoured with an exhibition of slow driving.

I reached the station in time to present my ticked to the officer at the turnstile, who instantly realized that a foreigner will not be able to insert his ticket correctly into the illuminated slot for it.  I thanked him for his clear-mindedness and set off to where the train would be stopping.

The seasoned traveller that I am, I made my way to the marked medallion where the door for carriage no 1 is destined to appear, and this without any further assistance despite the efforts of another uniformed railway employee.  I did not even put a foot across the white line which you are not supposed to cross, a real model citizen, I thought.

When I reached my seat, A11, I realized that I did not leave China.  The seat was clearly marked with the remains of peanuts, raisins and an empty water bottle.  Despite the efforts of the Chinese government and mothers all over the world to promote cleanliness, the previous occupant of this seat left the remains of his free snacks and ran for the door, to disappear into the night.  I fear to speculate about the nature of the crisis he had to attend to.  I now face a huge dilemma at the end of the journey.  Do I leave the remains of my free snack to announce my embrace of the Chinese culture, or do I take it with me, impress my mother and remain a foreigner?

Tuesday 21 May, 2013