Swine on a plane

I suspected I was in a spot of bother just before the plane began its descent into Shanghai. The amount of bother is always relative to the size of the spot and I knew my spot was growing. You see, I had the good fortune of having a fever on a plane, which would not have been an issue a year ago and a huge one four months back. Now it hovers, paranoid, somewhere in between.

So as I tried not to let my teeth chatter I thought I should come clean on my medical form all arrivals had to fill out. I had originally left it blank hoping the bit of warmth radiating from my forehead might escape detection but the oven that replaced it probably wasn't.

I had it planned; I wasn't going to charge off and race my fellow passengers to Immigration. First of all, it's difficult to race Chinese travelers in the best of health and second, if they were going to bag and tag me I'd rather do that in private. No need to panic everyone else I thought.

I did my best to take my time without looking like I was taking my time. You know, for surveillance purposes, as the last thing I really wanted to be stopped for was being swine flu ridden terrorist. But I couldn't put off my march towards the sensors and as soon as that camera caught site of me alarms sounded. Yeah, real alarms, not like a beep of an alarm clock politely reminding you to get up, this was the sound burglars would hear as they realise the job was botched and they had to make a run for it. Obviously I was familiar with this given my vast robbery experience.

If the alarm wasn't enough to startle you into place, the two guys behind the desk leaping up and motioning you towards them might have been. They wanted to see the medical card that I would have filled in honestly, so that's what I gave them.

That was the beginning of a whole lot of “Follow me sir” as I journeyed from one area to the other, carefully guided by the Chinese Immigration Department. The gent who initially spoke to me might have been a doctor as he looked doctorish but he really just could have been a cop, or some dude who they bring out to grunt and furrow his eyebrows. I think 'furrow eyebrow guy' was what it said under his name but I could have been mistaken.

Then I was told to wait, so being a good potential swine flu carrier with both real and electronic eyes trained on me I complied. Besides, they had my passport. I was informed that I was to go to a nearby hospital to be checked for H1N1.

I was given a mask in order to make me as conspicuous as possible so the Air India crew could give me those sorts of looks. It seemed like a dare to me, an encouragement to run over and share the swiney love. But thinking running might be frowned on in the airport I resisted the urge.

From my vantage point just outside the Customs Office I could see into a room full of screens displaying all sorts of people arriving into Shanghai. They were being watched at every vantage point as their temperatures were being monitored. The alarm went off again, a child and his mother, and that got me wondering whether we were all going to be herded together for a hospital trek. I didn't relish that thought, as I had no wish to hang with swine flu infested people.

Because I believed I didn't have it.

The spot of bother didn't quite originate on the plane. I actually suspected there might be trouble the day before in Hong Kong when a fever formed over the course of the day. As not really knowing the symptoms, I was a little more paranoid then. Yes, more so. I didn't want to infect anyone, while painfully aware of the amazingly high density of that city's population.

As I only found myself getting worse, by that evening I thought a hospital visit was in order. It was a typically Hong Kong ordered procession of enter, sanitise hands and put on a mask. The doctor merely confirmed what I suspected – something throat related and not even a hoof in site. Basically, I was there for the meds and so appropriately armed, was out of there quick smart.

And there I thought that was that, with whatever I had beaten into submission via the wonders of modern medicine. Unfortunately, as I sat waiting at the whim of the Chinese Immigration Department I suspected whatever it was I had had a few more rounds to go before we were through with one another.

I was escorted out of the airport through the back. Past the staff only doors, cigarette butt infested corridor and down the elevator to the waiting ambulance. It appeared my chariot was waiting. I piled in and off we went to the hospital, blue lights flashing and all.

The hospital seemed to be the most isolated place you could imagine. Well, I suppose you would want to keep your infected as far away as possible. It didn't help that it looked deserted and on the approach of the ambulance large metal gates had to be opened. Nor did it help that a nurse had to unlock an over-sized bike chain draped around another gate. I supposed it was going to be difficult for me to make a run for it. Obviously the first thing that came out of my mouth was, "How long am I going to be here?"

There was a muffled response of where I was living and the word “tomorrow”.

So there I was in a stark white hospital room with a nurse that looked more like she was ready for radioactive fallout, covered head to toe. The only revealing sign of her humanity were her eyes. It would appear we weren't the only ones there in the vast haunted hospital you could shoot a Japanese horror film in, as there was a voice heard through the intercom on the wall.

So more testing, this time blood – three vials worth – and a couple of DNA swabs. That appeared to be it for haunted bio chemical ready nurse girl and as I was living in Shanghai I discovered was allowed to go home. The bit about “tomorrow” I had heard earlier was that that's when they would contact me if I had contracted H1N1. But if I did have it wouldn't that mean they would have to trace back every person I had contact with? Would they have to quarantine my apartment block? I wasn't entirely sure this was a plan they had thought completely through. Whatever. I had my opportunity to escape the lonely, scary hospital and I was going to take it.

I almost leapt into the waiting taxi and almost didn't care the driver didn't know where I lived and insisted on taking the long way there. Sure it took a good four hours to get home but I don't think I could remember the last time I was so happy to be in a place where I could be sick without triggering alarms.

And to this day, they still haven’t called.

Sounds kind of like my dating life.

Guess who’s coming to dinner?

This was a story that seemed more likely to have come out of a visit to Tokyo but that's the enduring beauty of living here. Shanghai likes to mix it up a little for its residence and give you a taste of life from many far-flung locales. It's good that way. So anything can and everything does happen: even dining with the yakuza.

I should have realised something was up when permission was asked from four men on whether or not my friends and I could sit at their table. Their table was surrounding a tepanyaki hotplate where a chef was making himself busy doing chef things. The men themselves looked like comic book characters: the boss, the silent guy, the joker, and the guy who most definitely knew how to use a gun.

They were in a jovial mood as at the end of their meal they were on the liquid last course. As three Australians in need of an all you can eat Japanese gorge-fest we obviously posed no threat, so they allowed us to sit and the bonding began.

It started with the tattoos. Those that may not be aware, the Virgin Mary sits on my shoulder and it can be best described as pretty. They acknowledged its prettiness and in response the boss lifted his shirt, revealing the five entwining snakes full-body number. It most definitely would not be described as pretty. Anyway, I was in. Yakuza member number five, token white guy, whatever you wish to call it.

This, as well as all other points of conversation, was met with a loud call for cheers and the downing of tiny sake cups.

I sat next to the guy who I decided was the bodyguard, or hitman, or chief hard-arse, as he cast a watchful eye over everything. So while watchful eye was watching, the boss kept engaging me in conversation. Actually, due to his inebriated state he really just engaged me in the same conversation at least eight times. I varied my answers to make it sound like were getting somewhere.

The joker was their local rep. Now whether he was in the same business I wasn't sure as he held himself a little differently for the rest, more gangly than gangster. Of course, my previous organised crime experience was pretty limited but he appeared to be the fourth member of the band. What was evident was the hierarchy of the group, there was silence from all as the boss spoke and all listened respectfully to whatever it was he had to say.

He also led the cheering and thankfully that wasn't too frequent as although they had a head start I was a useless drinker. I was weighing up the Yakuza etiquette faux pas of declining to down my sake versus vomiting the same sake on his shoes.

Maybe that's exactly what was on silent man's mind as he remained, well... silent, and the bodyguard may have allowed the corners of his mouth to raise a little. Or perhaps he had a twitch. He was sober by the way as what good was a drunk bodyguard to anyone?

At one point the boss informed the table that he was a bad man and displayed his three mutilated fingers that lacked their top halves. This was the price paid for transgressions in the organisation of men with tatts that are not considered pretty.

Now whether that meant he was out of the game or had made mistakes I didn't ask. I thought they were more second date questions after all.

And as quickly as I was in, living the gangsta life, it was over. It was time for them to leave and do whatever it was that yakuza members do after a meal, so they informed the restaurant owner that all our meals were on them. When I say 'on them' I mean on their ongoing tab that the owner wouldn't dream of making them pay.

I may as well stay on the vice theme and inform you that there is a sex shop at the end of my street. This realisation is relatively new to me so hence the rather random information – rather like a child who has just learnt a secret and needs to blurt out. Of course, it took a little while for me to discover this as: A, I'm slow and B, it looks like a chemist, complete with middle-aged women in lab coats so it can really be considered a camouflaged sex shop.

This knowledge did not come about because I have been inside looking for aspirin but because the place is bathed in bright lights and floor to ceiling windows. There are no secrets here, so the entire world can see you perusing the blow-up dolls. Interesting fact: There only appear to be blonde blow-up dolls, which strikes me as funny in China but then again I suppose that means the average Chinese man can indulge in two fantasies at once.

In the entire time I have been aware of this place I think there have only ever been three or four occasions where there have been customers. Naturally they are never who you hope they will be. Well, personally I have never hoped they would be old tradesmen gawking at the merchandise and giggling like school girls.

Oh and by the way, I don't live in the equivalent of vice central, just a lovely corner of the old French Concession which is filled with shoppers pretty much at all times. The Chinese are amazingly practical people so of course that would translate in how they treat sex – sterile and pharmaceutical without the hang-ups of religious guilt that's associated with it in the west.

I might bring that up the next time I find myself at dinner with my gangster peeps as I would rather like to hear their take on the subject. Who knows, they may even tell me they own the place and pick out a nice blonde doll for myself while they put it on their tab.