The police stood in the well-lit lobby, hovering over the front desk and the guard (not sure if that's the most accurate term as he doesn't tend to guard anything) sitting there. It looked a formal visit as there was no tea and biscuits being shared between them. And besides, how could you not add a solemn air to the occasion when garbed head to toe in black and shiny silver details – just ask Karl Lagerfeld.
As they weren't there for a 8pm tea break it was safe to assume they were most likely performing the new favourite past time of the authorities: random illegal foreigner searches. The fact they were from the Immigration Department kind of gave it away.
Now as it so happened that my friend and I were foreigners and were at that moment setting foot into that same lobby, their collective spider sense kicked in and they all looked at us.
Three pairs of police-trained eyeballs stared my way as if I had just let loose with an unamusing tale of political incorrect content. Or perhaps that's how I always feel when people in Immigration Department uniforms stare at me.
They sauntered into action. Policeman #1, who I shall call Chatty, launched into a well-rehearsed opener, "Hello, do you live here? Do you have identification on you?" The other two, a woman I like to call Chick and an older, serious gent called Churlish stood as back up in case I planned to tackle Chatty in response.
Out came a large smile in an effort to appear as cool and friendly as possible (although I don't know how much that would have helped as with the revelation of so much teeth they may have thought I intended to start biting). It was all I could do to refrain from throwing my arms in the air and run screaming into the night.
We told them that we did indeed live there and although neither had passports on us they were welcome to come up and to the apartment while we retrieved them. Being the agreeable kind they accepted the invitation, so we all piled into the lift.
Along for the ride was an unsuspecting Frenchman who was instantly quizzed by Chatty and his rehearsed opener. No, he didn't live there and was simply visiting his friend. When prompted further he told them the floor but didn't quite recall the actual apartment number. Now, I'm not trained in the mystic art of policing but it sounded to me like he was talking rubbish. Perhaps Chatty also suspected as much as he informed Frenchguy that they would visit his friend after finishing with us.
He said it with a smile but to me it sounded like a threat.
Thankfully there were two of us, as one could entertain the coppers at the door while the other retrieves the relevant paperwork. I was a little rusty with police-at-your-door-while-you-have-to-look-for-your-papers etiquette. Do you shut the door on them as they are strangers or do you leave it open while you exit to another room to retrieve your things? They're police right? They wouldn't steal your stuff would they?
And just how do you respond when they comment that your home is large and must be worth a bit?
Anyway, dilemma (and difficult conversations) avoided as they scanned our visas. Chick made a note in her book, her book of 'foreigners who have been naughty and nice'. These probably contained the apartments in the building and who was who within them.
Her note was probably a tick of approval as we were a-okay. Everybody happy, the police were sent on their way – probably to deal with Frenchguy and his 'friend'.
I knew this day would come (although I didn't suspect it to be evening, more like a early Saturday morning raid). There had been much talk in ex-pat circles of police doing checks on illegal visitors throughout the country. The days of getting whatever visa (or not) and doing whatever we wanted seemed to be coming to a close.
Rumour and innuendo is how it all gets around here. Things are exaggerated for maximum impact, effect and 'ahhh's'. Everybody knows of somebody but nobody actually knows first hand. People were being denied for no longer being qualified for the job they had been holding for the past three years, and others were sent home because they ran a red light on their scooter. Apparently bars were also suffering as alcoholic westerners were no longer keeping them afloat. The world was coming to an end.
For a government big on order, the number of unknown illegal residents is a concern – especially when the world is watching. There is something between an expectation and a demand that the Olympic Games go on without a hiccup so everyone in, or coming into the country must be accounted for.
The timing of the Government crackdown may have just coincided with the Olympics or may be a reaction to the events in Tibet. Perhaps it is an effort to clean house before all the guests arrive, or it was something on the cards for a long time. Either way, ex-pats hiss the name "Olympics" whenever anything goes amiss. You stub a toe, get served a bad meal, a car cuts in front of you – it's all the fault of the Olympics.
It's becoming increasingly difficult to obtain visas and the process is no longer something you can do via a local visa company. You have to rock up and wait in person now (and more often as even the duration of visas have been shortened).
The visa we have all previously relied on as the one of choice was the Business Visa. Easy to obtain, valid for six months and ambiguous enough in definition to cover most ambiguous circumstances. It was perfect. Now, unless you're on a conference, business exchange or some such nonsense it's no longer for you.
It's also not something you can cleverly avoid as all visas end in August and need to be re-applied. Some will find it tough, for others it will be the end of their China adventure, but as I am gainfully employed I can obtain a Working Visa and avoid the fuss. What it really means is that a company is vouching for me, kind of like a member of the mafia giving the okay to one of their own with the words, "He's a friend of ours."
The latest is that to get your grubby hands on the he's a friend of ours Visa one needs to return to their home country. I don't know if this is for anything other than because we say so reasons but such a process requires a long flight and not so long queue.
This little bit of information was brought to my attention by a stony faced Immigration Department official. It only took one look at my Business Visa for him to cheerily (well, as cheerful as someone lacking emotions gets) inform me that I had "No chance" of remaining in the country.
You see, months after my Immigration spot check, my I was not in any position to make it into Chick's good books. I was part of the August exodus where all I could do was obediently go home, which I obediently did. And then obediently returned, with brand spanking new stamps, in time for a new working week no less.
So now fully armed with Government approved paperwork I'll be ready if I find Chatty, Chick and Churlish once again on my doorstep one fine evening.
