El Finale begins as expected, but early

March 1, 2009: I left today on my 16-day, 6-province rampage that is supposed to provide enough China to get me through the next 3 years or so.

I haven't left though. I'm sitting in this cavernous airport and will be until tomorrow morning, asking myself what the fuck happened today.

It was always a sure thing that shit would go horribly wrong. It just happened earlier than i expected. I left an envelope containing almost all the money i have in the world, and 3 plane tickets, in the stairwell of a taxi. I was on the subway to the airport when i realised. I got off at the next stop and caught a train going back the other way, repeating to myself under my breath, "I'm not going anywhere." In a state of shock, i very slowly retraced my steps to the place where the taxi dropped me off. And there it wasn't.

Is it possible that there are positive signs to be read in being utterly gobsmacked by one's own stupidity? Well, i guess if i was still this stupid but didn't know it, that might be worse... no, actually that would be better.

No, no positives.

So, almost penniless, i got into another taxi (a strange thing to do for someone just made penniless - i was in shock), and directed the driver to take me home, thinking how pleased boxy would be that i'd come home so soon...absurd, i phoned her a little while later and she wasn't pleased at all.

Very slowly and deliberately, i told the driver my situation. I would like to find one particular Shanghai taxi driver, but i had no receipt, no driver number, no driver name or company name. I had the turquoise colour of the taxi and the fact the driver had a strange croaky voice.

But turquoise turned out to be representative of one company only. I called their complaints line and they took down the pick-up and drop-off points and times, and my phone number. I don't know if they just sent a text message to all drivers or if they analysed the various slivers of information super-quickly, but just as i arrived back at the gates of our apartment complex my phone rang, and a voice croaked on the other end: "Where are you? I'm bringing your thing over. I was worried a passenger was going to take it."

I plyed him with several 100 yuan notes for his trouble, and he raced me out to the maglev station.

The maglev did the 30km to the airport in 7 minutes, but it still wasn't fast enough. I got there 18 minutes before the flight departed and the airline company wouldn't check me in. Now China's overpopulated, mostly state-owned, domestic airline industry is brilliant in the way it allows you to miss a plane and simply transfer to another flight or even another company if necessary. But my 73%-off internet value ticket screwed me - only customers who pay at least 40% of the original price have the transfer thing available. I bought a new ticket for 1000 yuan, twice what i paid for the original ticket that went to waste.

But my luck was about to change. I'd brought one of Ima's joints with me, in anticipation of having a relaxed smoke-up before the flight. As such it was a very good thing i missed the flight because i doubt i would have remembered what was in my pocket and would have been risking arrest. Instead, having just missed the last flight of the day, i went outside and got nicely, unhurriedly toasted. Pudong Airport's massive terminals are very simple: two long parallel rectangles with an undercover drop-off area in the middle. Where i came out i found i was about 9/10 of the way along this drop-off area, so i walked to where the sidewalk ended. Having only one joint and no-one to share with, but carrying a butane lighter, i was in the unusual position of hoping for wind to blow the joint out after i lit it - so that it wouldn't go to waste. Sure enough, as i moved out from the shelter of the drop-off area, a wall of fresh sea-wind blasted me, and the view opened out to planes docking and taking off. With no-one within 200 metres, it made a pretty special place for an mp3-enhanced tokeup and the air guitar was freely abused. The closest vehicle was a cop car with flashing lights. That didn't actually mean anything (cop lights are always flashing in China) but it made me start thinking of the potentially farcical and tragic fate of a stoner who did the same at Pudong airport...


He first comes to the authorities' attention when he walks away from the departures hall entrance pushing a trolley out into the strong, cold wind. Others are smoking outside but they huddle near the door, shielded from the wind by the terminal building.

He pushes the trolley as far as he can - to where he can't be seen on the terminal's cameras, and the security monitoring room requests assistance from on-site police in monitoring him while he is off-camera. The first thing they see after they park at the terminal entrance 200 metres away is him rustling around in his bag and pulling out his black stoner beanie - a balaclava from a distance where the lack of eyeholes can't be made out. He puts it on his head, folding back the face-covering part.

He stands with the airport spread out before him, surveying the scene.

He has headphones on. The airport security police have been trained to be especially suspicious of suspicious-looking persons listening to music, as the headphones may in fact be a communications earpiece. Then he pulls from his pocket a small electronic gadget with a wire coming from it.

His mp3 player is not an iPod and it takes him nearly 3 minutes to to scroll through all the albums to choose what he wants to listen to. He finally puts the device back in his pocket, then proceeds to pace back and forth, his lips clearly moving now and again.

"Can't be programming a control device. He would just set it up before he came to avoid taking it out of his pockets," says a young, low-ranking uniformed cop in the car 200 metres away,

In the same car a sergeant whose eyesight is failing him, asks the young officer next to him: "What race is he?"

"Not clear. But he's foreign for sure," replies the officer reassuringly.

"Foreigner!? What do you mean foreigner, you pailful of contaminated river mud! What's that supposed to mean? You little post-80 son-of-a-donkey, do you realise your foreigner-worship could one day cost thousands of lives? We will be MORE vigilant if someone looks foreign, do you hear me? To be suspicious of foreigners is the reason we're here!"

The young officer doesn't argue.

The stoner continues pacing and talking, pacing and talking. The climax of his stoner-rock song arrives, and starts stomping around manically, almost-rhythmically, with one one arm outstretched.

"Uh, looks like a ritual. Maybe..." the young officer trails off.

"You useless turtle, it is that minority's dance, what was it - the Salazu? Yes, the Salazu's dance. Hunting ceremony. Didn't you watch the New Year Gala? Just keep watching. It's definitely the Salazu....... Maybe the Mowuhazu. They have people with hair as yellow as any foreigner's. They've made a fool of you. He's not foreign. He's Mowuhazu. I'm calling this in."

The ritual ends when the mp3 track does, and the now thoroughly-stoned stoner takes off his jacket and moves back towards the terminal, carefully tucking the wires of his headphones inside his shirt.

"404." says the sergeant "I repeat, 404. Enact procedure 36a and train cameras. Resolutely maintain vigilance and do not approach."

Inside the cavernous terminal the CCTV zooms in on the stoner's eyes. They are darting around nervously as he pushes his trolley aimlessly around, scanning for a bank of seats all to himself to sleep the night on. He scans all round the terminal - past the departure gate and security check, all the way to the other end, but there are none.

"What's the status of the 404?"

"Walking chaotically. His intentions are not clear," reports the CCTV monitoring station.

The stoner turns around and walks back the way he came. He nears the security zone for the second time.

"This is Main Departures Gate. We've just had a male walk past looking aimless, and now he's coming past us again. This constitutes a 691, no?"

"Incompetent shit collector, consult reference materials! This male is already being monitored as a 404!"

With nowhere else to go to avoid human contact, especially eye contact, the stoner once again heads outside, to the same spot, the end of the drop-off area. He rummages in his bag for another jacket, this time his windproof one.

"He's rummaging," says the sergeant, squinting. "Closely monitor the rummage."

"It's another jacket. He's walked out in a blue jumper, back in in a yellow shirt, and now he's wearing a gray jacket. He may be trying to affect our monitoring process..." says the young officer.

"Elevate to code orange. Dispatch threat team to vantage."

"Look boss, he's switching to a baseball hat. He is attempting to divert our attentions."

The stoner pulls out the small wired device from his pocket, looks at it, replaces it and moves back towards the terminal. His lips move quickly as he quietly raps along now to his favourite stoner hip-hop music.

"Look, his lips are moving. All units stand by. Target is approaching the building and he is in communication, repeat, he is in communication....dispatching approach. Maintain position, suspected control device is located in his left pocket."

"This is Approach. His eyes are moving rapidly, he looks afraid. Repeat - he looks afraid. He has seen me, and he looks afraid. Hey! - what are you doing here?"

Through his headphones the stoner hears a voice shout something and looks up to see a bulky man with a serious expression heading towards him. The stoner turns, startled, and immediately reaches into his pocket to pause his loud music.

"Vantage Group clear!"

Pop pop pop!

Cue the cartoon super-stoner alternative ending, or else, the stoner slumps.

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"Try paranoia - it's fun"