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     Sunday, 21^st January 1996, found me on the ground once again at Kunming, conducting my fourth trip, and as I sat in the cockpit, sipping coffee that morning, I puzzled over two things outside my cockpit, as my Thai First Officer (Co-Pilot), Toa, set up the cockpit for our return flight to Vientiane.  We were parked in our usual spot on a ginormous, empty concrete apron, perhaps 100 meters from the terminal building.  This building had jetways, which were all currently empty as this airport was a Communist aviation ghost town, so why wouldn’t the Chinese allow us to use one of them?

     The other thing was the airport security guards, wearing khaki, dark green or blue uniforms, but without any weapons; similar to Cuban and Vietnamese airport security guards I had observed in the past.  Were all these Communist airports that secure?

    Despite not having weapons, the Chinese Security Guards were always alert.

     And as I puzzled over these earth-shaking matters, a Chinese gate agent stuck his head into the cockpit and stated, “Oh...Captain, you have a problem with immigration.  They want to see you.”

     Oh fuck, dear reader!  What now?

     Donning my airline coat and cap, for it was winter and a bit nippy up here at 6,000 feet, I followed the gate agent inside the terminal, thence into a small side office.  The room was Spartan, with a few beat up chairs and a solitary desk; having eight immigration officers in their twenties, lounging in a bored manner with apparently nothing to do.  And when I first laid eyes on them, something went “PING” in the back of my brain; definitely a discordant note - only I ignored it.

     All of the officers were male, except for a solitary female who offered me a chair at the desk.  

     This lady turned out to be the interpreter, and she remained standing beside me as I sat.  She was young, attractive, with glossy jet-black hair pulled back into a neat bun; her English was excellent.  On the other side of the desk sat an older man, with salt and pepper close-cropped hair, maybe in his late fifties, and was obviously the boss.  

     The “Boss.”

     The sole items on his desk were a stack of five passports belonging to myself and my crew.  He picked up the top passport, and began thumbing through it, as he gave instructions to my interpreter in Mandarin.

     After which my interpreter looked down at me and asked, “Why doesn’t your Thai Co-Pilot have a visa?”

     Okay, dear reader, let’s hit “pause,” as I fill you in on the big picture.  Upon entering any normal country in the world, apart from Red-fucking-China, no airline crew member is required to have a visa for that country.  As long as the aircrew’s name is on the General Declaration and he/she are in possession of a valid passport.  In Red China’s case however, only the Laotians and Thai International Airways aircrews have a special dispensation and are not required to have a visa.  All other aircrew must have a visa to operate their trip into Red China.  Yesterday Toa and I gave our passports to the Lao Aviation agent in charge of passports at Vientiane.  Who took them to the Chinese Embassy, which supposedly stamped them with a visa.  They stamped my passport alright; however, as Toa is Thai, evidently the Chinese Embassy was under the impression that Toa didn’t need one.  Therefore Toa’s passport wasn’t stamped, and I’m just finding out about this now.  According to this elderly immigration officer, the Chinese Embassy in Laos was wrong.  Toa is not flying for Thai International Airways; so he must have a visa.

The stupid Visas required by Red China for operating aircrew on each and every trip.           

     For the next ten minutes, I and this Chinese old timer circled each other as I explained to him, again and again, that this had been a Chinese Embassy screw up.  Around and around we went, with me making no headway whatsoever.  Eventually it dawned on me this old Chink was fishing for a bribe.  I had two, crisp U.S. one hundred dollar bills on my person; I’ll be damned if this Commie-bureaucratic-fuck was going to get his greedy, slimy hands on them.

     As I finally twigged to the game, I was getting steamed.  Realizing my anger would make matters worse; I sucked in a huge batch of air, leaned back, shutdown the show, and cooled off.

     As I’ve mentioned before, dear reader, my brain is wired oddly.  And at this moment, as I composed myself, I started remembering all those dozens and dozens of immigration officers I had dealt with while flying for SAUDIA and SIA.  Prompting once again for that discordant “PING” to resurface, causing me to actually scrutinize these Red Chinese Immigration Officer’s uniforms.  They wore green jackets, with brass buttons down the front, and green slacks, but no caps.  Okay, so what was “wrong” with them?  They were complete blanks!  None of them had name plates, rank badges, or airport security badges with their picture.  They were totally anonymous, which made me think of the Chinese I had flown with at SIA, who never accepted responsibility, and who would rather die than lose face.  Not once did this older Chinese Immigration Officer introduce himself...and give me his name and rank.  Holy shit-pickles!  This was my way out!

Red Chinese Immigration uniform. 

Note: no Name Plate, I.D. Badge with Photo, or Rank Badges. They were total blanks.          

     Upon acquiring this revelation, I reached over and pulled my blue U.S. Passport from the stack and placed it in front of this older officer.  Then I took my Lao Aviation business card, bearing my full name and rank, and placed that next to my passport.  After that I removed my airline I.D. badge, bearing my name rank and photo, and placed it also next to my passport.  

     At last I reached into my coat and produced a notepad, turning it to a blank page I laid it to rest in front of the older officer and placed a pen atop it.  By this time the older officer was scowling with a worried, confused look on his face.

     Now I looked up at my interpreter, and stated, “I w-want you to translate exactly what I say word for word.  D-Don’t flower it up.  Do you understand?”  Her beautiful, dark almond-shaped eyes got really big...at length she nodded in the affirmative.

     “Tell this g-gentleman that I have properly identified myself,” as I said this, I waved my hand over all my documents of identification.  Then I paused, allowing her to translate.

     “T-Therefore,” I continued, “I insist that he w-write down his name and rank on the notepad.”  I paused.

     Afterward I added, “Since he’s the c-cause of this problem, I need his name and rank to f-file a complaint with the Laotian Consulate here in K-Kunming, and the Chinese Embassy in Vientiane.”  I paused again, and let that sink into the older officer’s grey matter.

     After this pregnant pause, I remarked, “Because he’s not b-bothered to introduce himself properly, for all I know he might well be the janitor who c-cleans out the toilets.”

     This caused the interpreter to pause, as she rolled those delicious eyes, motivating me to snap, “TELL HIM!”  And so she did.

     The older officer went beat red at her words, I thought he was going to have a coronary.  Abruptly he stood, shoved all the passports and my personal documents at me, snarled at my interpreter, and then stormed out of the room.  He had lost face.

     Glancing up at my interpreter, who breathed a sigh of relief, she returned my gaze and said, “He will let it go this time.  Don’t let it happen again.” 

     After which, experiencing no further delays, Toa, my crew, my passengers and I, happily departed Kunming with my Yankee $200 intact. 

     Without those previous unpleasant experiences with the SIA Chinese Captains, dear reader, I wouldn’t have known how to handle this corrupt Red Chinese Immigration Officer.

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