Welcome to Beijing

Welcome to Beijing!

 

I flew to Beijing last Saturday morning. Against my better judgement, as I had so much booty to take back for friends and relatives, I checked some luggage on the flight. Checking luggage is something I don't, as a rule, do because it is such a hassle. This was no exception. We landed at around 11:50am and made our way to the baggage carousel. I was chatting with a fellow traveller from San Francisco who was in China on business. After about an hour his bag made it out and he said his goodbyes. Some time later my flight scrolled off the list and into oblivion. People from other flights arrived at the carousel and started collecting their bags. I went over to the domestic luggage enquiries counter where a number of staff were milling about avoiding eye contact with the many people trying to make enquiries. After several attempts I finally engaged a lady (I use this term under advice) who tapped on a computer and then pointed at the carousel again, simply saying "more coming".

 

Morosely I watched as more passengers came to besiege the carousel. After perhaps another hour and a half my small case made it up the travelator.

 

Then I went to meet the tour guide who was to take me to my hotel. I was assured by the travel agent in Sydney that this would be easy and they would have my name on a placard. There were indeed many placards, with many names. But sadly, none were mine. Finding a relatively quiet spot (underline relatively) and fending off curious children I called the travel agent contact number in Beijing to explain that I had not been able to find my contact at the airport. She asked my name, which provided another 15 minutes of fun. She asked my booking number, then asked me to wait. What else would I do but wait? She then asked at what hotel I was staying. It was at this point that it began to dawn that all was not as it should be. The very helpful lady apologised, but was not able to find my file. She helpfully suggested that I might like to catch a taxi to my hotel. And even more helpfully suggested that I only get into one that has a sign reading "taxi" and that has a meter at the front. I was to call her again when I arrived at the hotel.

 

To put this in perspective, when I arrive at Shanghai six weeks ago, getting a taxi was a dream. You exit unencumbered from the terminal to the taxi rank where a gentleman asks you your destination, hails the cab, tells the driver where to drive, and puts you inside. Wonderful!

 

By contrast, as soon as you move away from the customs area at Beijing airport you are surrounded by dubious gentlemen (and women) offering you special taxi services to the city for the very special rate of ... think up a large number. And they will not go away short of threatening immediate amputation of their more precious appendages. The only safety is to be found in the heaving mass of humanity crowded into the taxi rank. To be sure, Beijing is under construction ahead of the Olympics, and Beijing airport is no different. If the officials and locals are to be believed then all of these construction projects will be magically completed on our about the same date in December this year.

 

But I digress. After spending some further quality time getting to know my fellow travellers in a more intimate way, I finally made it to the front of the queue. As at Shanghai there was a person in a uniform standing to assist. Unlike in Shanghai, this guy was clueless. A vehicle pulled up that could, when viewed from a certain angle, be considered a taxi. Memories of reading about the "Celebration Liberation Machine" filled my mind. It is funny how small essays come back to you at these times.

 

In any case, the individual in the grey, ill-fitting uniform gestured at the piece of metal in front of me as something appeared from the drivers compartment to assist with my meagre posessions. I showed him the hotel details. He looked blankly. I showed him a picture of the hotel. He looked blankly. I said the magic word "Novotel". He looked blankly.

 

Turning to the grey man again, who was now busying himself picking his nose, I sought assistance. He also stared blankly at the paper I held out to him, but in a moment of inspiration called to one of his fellow grey men who came over. He looked at the paper and then told the driver the address in perfect Chinese. The driver looked blankly. As the three of them stood in deep conversation, scratching various parts of their anatomy, I considered other options. Throwing my things into the cab and waving my mobile phone at the driver I cried: "zuo ba" which means either let's go or let's get a beer, I'm not sure which. In either case it had the desired effect on the hulking individual as he re-entered his drivers seat and I phoned the helpful lady at the travel agency again.

 

Explaining to her that I was now in some mode of transport, I gave the phone to the driver so that she could direct him. A flicker of recognition crossed his eyebrow (just the one) and we were off!

 

The helpful lady had checked with the hotel that they had my reservation. I, myself, certainly had reservations. The enjoyment of the hotel will be revealed in the next installment.