Getting a visa in China isn't a walk in the proletariat park anymore. Time was, any joker who wanted to move to the Middle Kingdom could do so and hang his hat anywhere he pleased. Things changed in 2008, when a bunch of dickholes came to China to compete against each other in the Olympics. This is part II of Jocko Weyland's treatise on the unbelievably shitty process of getting a visa in China. If you weren't here yesterday, it's OK, here's part I.
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On the way to the airport, my friend Eric called. An American who's been in China for ten years, Eric obviously loves China but often has some choice critical words for his adopted country if the occasion arises. Telling Eric about the whole ordeal he replied, "Dude, you won't believe what happened, they fucking took my bike." "Your motorcycle?" I asked. "Yeah, they fucking confiscated it." Eric had one of these Nazi-style sidecar motorcycles that are quite popular with expatriates in Beijing--with obnoxious expatriates, for the most part, though I wouldn't count Eric as one of those. The sidecar bikes are really loud, and usually you see some French or German asshole driving one wearing a scarf and ostentatiously vintage goggles. Eric had been tooling along on his when the police stopped him. After an hour of arguing they flat out told him "Sorry, it's because of the Olympics," and took it away. He sounded a bit exasperated, and I was thinking that if "they" were taking people's motorcycles away things were really getting out of hand. Then, in the departure lounge right before I boarded, Nico--another friend with his own visa problems--called to dissuade me from going to Hong Kong. He gave me the number of an Australian guy he called "Joey Visa." "Don't go down there man, this guy can help you out." I phoned Joey, we traded visa and expulsion stories and then, in his thick accent, he offered a deal roughly equal to Mary's. I said thanks but no thanks, he said good luck, and three hours later I arrived in muggy, humid Shenzhen at 11 PM.
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Pushed along by the squirming masses in the chaos of the airport, I called the number for a "Mr. Kwok" Mary had given me and an excitable voice told me which bus to take. After being stuck in a traffic jam for an hour, I arrived to the Louhu bus station at midnight to find Kwok, a small, wiry, very energetic man of about forty. We shook hands, then walked past the respectable Shangri-La hotel, around the corner to the cavernous, dark, and wet lobby of a building that had a Stalin-era feel combined with the telltale quality of recent Chinese architecture that makes buildings constructed in 2000 look fifty years old. Pimps and other assorted grifters swarmed towards us at the entryway but Kwok deftly fended them off and we went to the hotel office, which for some reason was located on the 32nd floor. Retiring to my dimly lit room on the 26th floor, we got down to business: me filling out forms and Kwok writing down information from my passport and residency permit. The plan was to meet at 7 AM in the Shangri-la lobby, take the train to Hong Kong, and spend the night there. The next day we'd meet to exchange 2000 Yuan for a thirty-day F Visa. While we were doing this, Kwok regaled me with tales of getting robbed of 28,000 Yuan in Guangzhou and various recent murders in Hong Kong, including one involving a spurned lover who stabbed his girlfriend before cutting up her body and selling the pieces to a restaurant for their stew. Every few minutes, Kwok would say, as a refrain, "People in Hong Kong are crazy" and "They think about money too much in Hong Kong." I nodded assent. He asked, "Are people in the U.S. as crazy?" "Sometimes," I said. Interlaced with these stories and questions was the unprovoked oft-repeated statement, "China isn't political." Then he'd return to his Hong Kong obsession with "Hong Kong people will cheat you." All this didn't inspire much confidence considering what we were doing, but Kwok's manic energy was infectious and I wasn't overly concerned when he left at 2 AM--even though he took my passport with him.
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Feeling restless after Kwok left, I went down and bought a beer from the sleepy guy at a little store across the seedy alley from the hotel. As I made my way back, I was approached by four different young toughs repeating their mantra: "Massage? You want pretty girl?" There was something comical about it as I waved them off left and right, leaving them in my wake, like Moses parting the Red Sea. Just as I was escaping their clutches, a kid who looked to be about 12 jumped in as the elevator door was closing and rode up with me. "You want sex, pretty girl?" He was really young and pouted a bit when I declined. Ten minutes later, drinking my beer in the dim room looking out over the ceaseless night-lights of Shenzhen, someone knocked on the door. It was a short fellow in a pink oxford shirt I recognized from downstairs, accompanied by two rather plump, tarted up girls standing nervously behind him. To his pushy entreaties I replied, "No, that's OK, no thanks," wondering why I was being so polite. He looked crestfallen as I shut the door, but I guess his entrepreneurial spirit wasn't sufficiently diminished because a little while later he was back again, this time with two different girls. I had to laugh, and when I said "no" again he laughed too, as if we were both in on the joke. This kind of enthusiastic "hospitality" was legion in Shenzhen, that night, the next morning, and the next two nights I stayed there after coming back from Hong Kong. It was jarring because, in contrast, Beijing was so immaculately cleaned up and de-China-fied for the Olympics. Shenzhen is the real China: the biggest brothel in the world, a country where no-holds barred prostitution--and every other illegal activity known to man--goes on without anybody caring or noticing as long as the right palms are greased. In front of the hotel were all the beggars, cripples, con-men, and every kind of small time delinquent you can imagine, as well as the expected sleazy guys in their 20s, pre-teens, and women who looked like someone's nice old aunt all offering access to sex of all sorts and sizes for roughly 200 Yuan. Even the Pakistani guy at the shish-kebob place on the corner was trying to get in on the action. "You need anything? Sex? I help you?" Everything and everyone is for sale in China, and I have no doubt that if I had asked the kid on the elevator if his fifteen-year-old sister or mother were in the cards, or inquired into indecent relations with a Panda bear, he wouldn't have batted an eyelash.
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Back to the visa situation, which of course was not totally unrelated to the sordid goings-on at the hotel in Shenzhen. That is, it has everything to do with the Chinese government not-so-subtly encouraging black market, gray market, and whatever the hell other kind of market transactions at every turn; transforming their population into a rabid 1.5 billion army of gung-ho, take-no-prisoners capitalists whose unscrupulous rapaciousness would have made Henry Frick and J.P. Morgan blush. But I digress. In the morning gloom I dashed through the downpour, jumping pools of mucky water, to find Kwok at the Shangri-la. "Good morning Kwok!" I gushed, as if we were old pals, probably just happy he was actually there. He introduced me to the five other people on our little junket: a German guy who sold coffee machines and his Chinese girlfriend, and a tubby New Zealander accompanied by a silent, dour Chinese couple who ran the school where he taught English. Greeting each other, we embarked on one of those embarrassing and uncomfortable episodes in which you have to be polite and somewhat friendly with people you have nothing in common with and will hopefully never see again. Our motley crew made its way through customs without incident, and in Kowloon Kwok brought us to the infamous Mirador Mansions, a truly incredible 1960s high-rise with a maze of Indian shops and Nigerian trade "offices" on the bottom floors and hotels the size of apartments that rent cheap rooms the size of closets higher up. After being instructed to reconvene the next day we scattered, and 24 hours later met up in the lobby of the Holiday Inn. Making small talk and distractedly reading newspapers, we tried to look unconcerned--none too convincingly--wondering when and if Kwok would show. That went on for 45 minutes and still no Kwok. Eventually, to our collective relief, his aged father came in and we all went for separate interviews, handed over our money to the beaming elder Kwok, and got in return our hopefully legitimate and useable visas. Then, after hurried and slightly embarrassed goodbyes, we scattered again.
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Back in Beijing, in the courtyard of Chaoyang Hospital where we'd arranged to meet, I told Mary everything worked out and she again promised the Z visa "in two or three weeks." I gave her my passport. Subsequently, when people asked about my visa, I would answer that everything was "fine" and I'd be getting it "soon." Waking up every morning with the thought "I don't have a visa or a passport" wasn't the best way to start the day, but then I'd put it out of my mind, for a while. Then the thought would come back, along with the nagging worry that I'd get stopped by the police, or worse: have them show up at my apartment. What would I say? "Uhm, this lady Mary has my passport"? Then a week or so after getting back from Hong Kong, I got a text from Mary that read THERE IS A BIG PROBLEM WITH YOUR DIPLOMA. In lower case letters I wrote back "What's the big problem?" The big problem was that to get the Z visa, I needed to provide a college diploma. I'd already supplied Mary with a fake one my friend Kenny made, so this new wrinkle was unexpected. Kenny had no qualms about forging a diploma, or anything else for that matter, and was of the attitude that doing so was perfectly normal. "Nobody's going to check," he'd said, and then gave me a document that stated that I was a graduate of the San Diego State University, a school in a city where I'd attended a different university. But what's the big deal? Nobody was going to check. Well now Mary said "they" weren't going to accept that one because it was a "copy" and they needed my "real" diploma. In a country where false documents are as plentiful--or more so--than real ones, the irony of this was almost too much to bear. This development presented a catch-22, because my real diploma was in a box somewhere in storage 7,000 miles away and to get it from the United States to China in the two days Mary said we had was impossible, as was getting a copy (but it wouldn't be the real one, so it wouldn't have worked anyway) from my alma mater. And, even if that had been feasible, it would have been from the "wrong" university, being that it wouldn't match the one Mary had already put—or supposedly put—into the system.
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Well, what do we do? "MEET ME AT THE HOTEL BY CHAOYANG HOSPITAL." The hospital again. It seemed Mary was always sick or thought she was with a cold or something minor, and when she "wasn't feeling well" would immediately go to the hospital to get an I.V. drip. This time we met in the lobby of the hotel next door where she sat sniffling in the company of two slovenly middle-aged men, one who was wearing Capri pants. The proffered deal with the "diploma man" was that he'd make a "real" diploma for 2,000 Yuan that would take care of this particular complication. I laughed when told that, and then sighed. "But why Mary, why?" I asked. "Because the Labor Ministry wants it." It seemed like a bit of a shakedown but Mary protested that there was no choice and we had to act fast. After some haggling I bargained them down to 1,400 and received my new "diploma" in economics from the University of Pennsylvania, meaning I now had one actual degree and two fictional ones. "Might as well go for a P.H.D." I joked, more to myself than to Mary. She asked me what was so funny but I wasn't in the mood for explaining what "P.H.D." meant. Then Mary smiled, even more sweetly than usual, and announced we had to go to the police station the next day to get my residency permit.Foreigners living in China are required to get a permit establishing their residency within 24 hours of becoming a resident at their local police station. I had done that months before but now it was about to expire and if it wasn't renewed on time that meant--at least theoretically--a fine of 500 Yuan a day for every day after it ran out. The next morning, Mary and I met at the police station. As I stood next to her, she and the sullen young man behind the counter had a brief, sharp-tongued exchange. Looking annoyed, she said we had to go to the People's Security Bureau, so we jumped in a cab and, once inside that imposing edifice, stood in line for a while but never got to a window. Mary rolled her eyes and said we should leave. That whole episode was mystifying. Mary said we'd have to go back to the P.S.B. the next day, but at 9 the next morning I got a text: "DON'T GO TO PSB TODAY." I was flummoxed, slightly amused, and resigned, because by then the Kafkaesque nature of the whole ordeal had become commonplace. It was getting so mind-boggling. I'd given up trying to understand, settling into a morose acceptance of the P.S.B.'s and Mary's whims with only shadowy notions about what was actually going on, who was getting paid off (or not), and why my quest for a visa had turned into a farcical nightmare.
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A medical exam was also required for the elusive work visa, another absurd and probably superfluous hurdle that was emblematic of the process and completely logical under the circumstances. Finding the hospital, I first stood in line with an assorted batch of foreigners, then signed some papers before going to another room. There I stood in a new line before having my blood pressure checked, some blood taken, submitting to an EKG, and finally getting X-rayed. It seemed that the only thing they were really concerned with was whether you had AIDS or not, along with getting the 800 Yuan the tests cost. I guess I passed, because a couple of days later upon my return, I was given a piece of paper attesting to my physical well-being and fitness to reside in China. I was also given my EKG printout, a memento of sorts.The residency permit dilemma still hadn't been resolved, and an all-caps missive a few days later directed me to meet at the police station the next morning. Getting there on time, I took a seat in the red curved plastic chair and resentfully watched as a Dutch diplomat and his Chinese helper got a bunch of residency permits, wondering where Mary could be. Half an hour went by until I called her, only to discover she was outside waiting by the gate. It seemed a literal representation of how simple things grew unfathomably complex and uncertain—of how China operated—not to mention symptomatic of all the other just-missed or unknown possibilities right around the corner.
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That day after we found each other, I stood by her side like a bashful schoolboy as she once again got into it with the same sullen desk worker. The upshot of that heated exchange was that now, since my residency permit had run out, we had to go to the "Exits and Entry" bureau across town, meaning another cab ride. Kind of amazing how much time Mary and I spent in taxis together. We arrived, waited, and then presented ourselves to a handsome young police officer. After Mary did some talking, he asked me in decent English why I had let my residency permit expire. Good question. I couldn't really tell him that because I didn't have a valid visa I couldn't renew my permit, so I said I'd been in Shanghai on business and it had slipped my mind. That was a complete fabrication cooked up by Mary during the cab ride over. He looked at me solemnly and asked, "You know this is a serious problem, don't you?" "Yes," I replied, with downcast eyes. Following him into another room we watched as he typed up a transcript of the proceedings and handed it to me. Being as it was in Chinese, for all I knew the document could have been a confession to murder, but I signed it anyway while Mary giddily flirted with the officer. That seemed to do the trick, because he loosened up and, in a less stern tone, told me "not to let it happen again" and that I was "just going to get a warning this time." I nodded vigorously, repentant, and then we left, agreeing to meet him at the P.S.B. two hours later.
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On the way to the P.S.B. Mary gave me a business card with my name on it for the fictitious American company I supposedly worked for as a "representative": "Ise Will Wright Ltd." Where they got that from I'll never know. When we got there, the heel regrettably broke off Mary's shoe on the way up the stairs, so she had to hobble and lean on me for support while we waited. At the head of the line, the officer from "Exits and Entry's" stood behind a lady functionary who repeated what he'd said, that since it was the first infraction I was just going to get a warning but next time it would be "very serious." Then she handed me a piece of paper, and I went over to a counter with a rainbow coalition of foreigners filling out forms, stared at the ceiling, twiddled my pen, and composed a letter that went something like this: "Dear China, I am very and extremely sorry I didn't renew my residency permit in time. I know I am in the wrong and that this is a matter that I was remiss in not attending to when I should have. It was a mistake and I have learned my lesson. I promise to never let it happen again. Sincerely yours, ______." After handing it in we were released, and as Mary hopped about on her one good shoe she assured me it would be "about a week" until I got my visa. Then we said goodbye and went our separate ways into the hot late-June afternoon.As July hazily slid into August, you could feel the difference. Pre-Olympics mania and fanfare was at an all time high but the streets were eerily subdued. Quiet, too quiet. A state of affairs summed up well by the bartender at a local watering hole. Finding it totally empty one night I wise-cracked "Big night, huh?" Shaking his head woefully he replied, "We should have our own countdown (as opposed to the countdown to the beginning of the Olympics seen on electronic billboards all over the city) to the end of the Olympics. All our locals had to leave."
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After that, well, time dragged on, and whenever I'd ask Mary she'd say there was a "delay" but it would be "soon." Some bickering would follow that invariably ended with her protesting that this wasn't her fault, and I'd say "OK, I'm sorry, I believe you." Every morning I'd wake up a stateless person. There was no end in sight. Tales of furtive meetings between friends and their "agents" at McDonald's with money stuffed in envelopes slid across the table made the rounds, foreigners who actually lived in the city got scarcer and scarcer, and I took to jokingly referring to Mary as my new girlfriend. We were constantly in touch, talking on the phone or texting or emailing, but she wasn't my girlfriend and all the communication was only about one seemingly inexhaustible, mind-numbingly boring subject.Then after the much ballyhooed, weirdest, and most bombastic opening ceremonies ever, the Olympics finally got under way. But still no visa. And then, miracle of miracles, the fateful day came, and not surprisingly on the 25th of August, exactly a day after the Olympics ended. Mary called, sounding ebullient. "Your visa is ready!" "Really?" I didn't know if I should believe my ears. Could it be true? Then came the text: "CHAOYANG HOSPITAL EAST GATE." The damn hospital again. I counted out 9,000 Yuan (since I'd already paid 3,000 up front) and in a moment of inspiration decided that as a tax on all the hassle I would subtract 1,000 Yuan from the final payment.I rode over to the hospital to find Mary sniffling and feeling ill again. "So, you have it?" "Yes!" She seemed in good spirits despite being "sick." At dusk in the courtyard we stood away from the security cameras because Mary said, "You don't know who is watching." She handed over the passport, I looked at the new visa--though really I had no way of knowing if it was legitimate or not--and said "Wow, you got it." Then I dropped my bombshell. "So Mary, here's 8,000 Yuan. Because of how long it took, I think it's only fair."Well, Mary didn't think it was fair, not at all, and she got really, really upset. The timbre of her voice abruptly shifted from its usual friendly giggly lilt to a harsh bark. "You are making a big, big mistake. I thought you were my friend, but now you are making trouble. You watch: I can get your visa canceled tomorrow." "Great," I countered, "I'd be better off if I did get my visa canceled tomorrow considering all the trouble I've been through." She didn't seem to think that was very funny. "Look Mary, it's the principle of the thing. It was supposed to take three weeks but it took more than two months, and this only seems fair." "Fair?! This is not fair. You are going to get me in trouble. What about the people I owe money to? They will be mad. You can't do this to me, I thought you were my friend, I planned to take you out to a nice dinner but now I'm not going to. You think about what you're doing. My colleagues can be bad people, they can hurt you." I tried explaining the principle of principle but that didn't go anywhere and Mary repeated her threats, really outraged now. Or at least doing a good job of acting hurt and outraged by mixing heartfelt expressions of disappointment in me with unsubtle suggestions that I'd regret my attempt to underpay. "You know Mary, I know bad people too, and I'm not worried. Plus, what are they going to do, throw me out of the country? I'd be grateful." Though, to be honest, I was a bit scared of getting the visa canceled and the possibility of her possibly not-too-nice colleagues' strong-arm tactics did give me some pause. Then she almost started crying, repeating, "You don't understand China, you don't know what will happen to you," which I took to mean that she was really worried about what would happen to her.We were practically yelling, followed by hushed angry almost-whispers, escalating into shouting again. That went on for at least 20 minutes there in the courtyard as the dusk turned to night. Mary would indignantly shake her head and say, "If that's your decision then walk away." I would respond with "No let's talk about it," and she'd come back again with "If that's your decision then walk away." We went around and around like that until we were both spent. An exhausted pause descended, and then I took a deep breath, looked into her eyes, and caved. What did 1,000 Yuan matter after all? "OK, Mary, it's not a big deal, I'm sorry, I'll pay you the rest." "Really?" She looked suspicious, though I also detected a flicker of triumph ripple across her face. "Yes, Mary, don't worry about it." I went to an ATM machine inside the hospital while Mary stayed outside to avoid being caught on the security cameras, got out 1,000 Yuan, and handed it over. Smiling, sweeter than ever, she perked up. "I think you were making a joke." "Yes, Mary, it was a joke." After making up and saying goodbye I went across the street to drink a beer on a stoop to wind down after the emotional trauma of our big fight. Within minutes sentimentality got the best of me and I wrote Mary a text saying I was sorry for the whole thing, and appreciated all her help. "I DON'T BLAME U UR A GOOD GUY IT'S JUST BECAUSE SOME DIFFERENCE BETWEEN CHINA AND OTHER COUNTRY AND ALSO MY ENGLISH IS TOO BAD TO EXPRESS MYSELF" came back. I wrote her something conciliatory about her English being fine, and started to think maybe we would go out to dinner sometime.Well, I had my visa and passport and to say I was relieved would be a colossal understatement. Free, finally, sort of. It took a few days to sink in, and even as it did I continued to harbor a lot of resentment toward China, or more precisely the Chinese government, for making me go through all these ridiculous convolutions, for all the trips to the police station and the P.S.B., for all the stress and anxiety, and especially for the whole thing costing me almost $2000. But lo and behold it wasn't over. There was one more matter to attend to, some alleged "business tax" on the visa I never quite understood and frankly didn't want to understand. A few days after the drama at the hospital, Mary told me she would need my passport one more time for a couple of hours, but it wouldn't cost me anything. "MEET ME AT YASHOW."At 9 AM the next day I went to that venerable tourist trap market just as it was opening. The old men were sweeping up in front. Mary arrived, seemingly in a good mood and at her impish best, fanning herself and saying, "It's so hot." A while later a Jeep Cherokee drove up and we hopped into the backseat. The driver was pretty fat by Chinese standards, wore an earring, and looked like a "Black Society" thug. The younger guy in the passenger seat wore a suit. Off we went in a southwesterly direction for about 20 minutes until we pulled up to a nondescript building where the younger one took my passport and went in, reappearing a few minutes later. Then we were off again, the Black Society guy driving like a lunatic, until we pulled up to the gate of another nondescript building surrounded by a fence made out of shipping containers. The driver and the passenger left with my passport while Mary and I stayed in the car.We sat there for a while in silence but after a bit I couldn't hold back. "You know," I said, "I don't see why I have to be here, couldn't you have done this without me?" Mary flared up immediately. "You didn't have to! All we needed was your passport." "But you told me I had to come." "No I didn't, you could have just given me your passport!" We were bickering like an old couple again. All this driving around town for no reason due to our unending adventures in miscommunication and misunderstanding. "Jesus Christ, I can't believe this," I huffed, and then we both started laughing at the absurdity of it all before calming down and staring at the gate and the guard standing there at attention. I looked at the poor soul whose duty it is to stand in the hot sun all day and noticed his jury-rigged table wrapped in duct tape, prompting the offhanded remark "I like his table." Mary sighed, and then tartly said, "Foreigners always like strange things." I felt really stupid for saying that, for being another idiotic foreigner who likes tables held together by duct tape, and we fell into silence again. Lost in our private thoughts.The guys came out, mission accomplished, and we drove back to Yashow where they let me out and Mary said she'd call me to have dinner. She never did, there was no dinner, and I never heard from Mary again. But I did have my visa.JOCKO WEYLANDMEET ME AT YASHOW PART I
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