Hong Kong International

By 7:00 Thursday morning I was standing in the immigration line at the Hong Kong International Airport. I was worried because I flew in on a one-way ticket without having my work visa fully processed. The flight clerk who checked me in back home was sure to warn me; "Hong Kong reserves the right to refuse entry to anyone without a return ticket or a visa." I was fairly confident I could use my words to wiggle into the country on a tourist visa, but I wasn't totally confidnet. (A tourist visa lasts 90 days, a work visa lasts for 12 months).

"I'm hoping to do some tourism and visit some friends in the New Territories."
"I'm going to see a few sights and spend some money in your beautiful country, sir."

I practiced answers in my head, sure they would ask, "What is the purpose of your visit to Hong Kong Mr. Poole?" I wanted to answer honestly but ambiguously, not telling them too much, but just enough to get in. And I had to do it without sounding like I was hiding something. (Flying El Al out of Israel changes the way you think of flying).

The line I was standing in looked like a spade coop, a fresh mix of fleshy tones. Pakistani families, Indians, Korean workers, Chinese businessmen, British, Australian students, Americans, all waiting to enter Hong Kong. A flat screen hung in a place where the line could watch. It was a feature about the airport, a man-made island on the coast of Lantou. When you run out of land in Hong Kong you just build on the sea.

"I'm coming to visit some friends at a local school."
"I don't have a return ticket because I'm not sure which way I'm leaving."

With only a few people in front of me I began to case the immigration officers. I hoped I might be called to one of the kinder looking ones, but they were all doing a good job at looking, well, like immigration officers.

"Next."

With only one family in head of me, things slowed down because, a Pakistani family got held up at one of the stations. I was thinking, "they must be traveling on a one-way ticket."

"Next."

I walk up to the station and slide my passport under the window. Fifteen seconds later ... she begins stamping my passport. "Welcome," she said, and that was it.

I'm in.