CHINA VISA

I went to apply for my Chinese visa. The process involved me filling in an online form and then heading to the embassy with a range of necessary supporting documents for an interview. Upon pending approval, I would then have to return with an allocated amount of money, a passport photo and my passport, which I would then have to return to pick up the following week. As part of the supporting documents, all Chinese visas required a planned itinerary to be supplied. It was a well known fact that you couldn’t state that you had any intentions of travelling anywhere near the Tibetan regions without having your visa application denied, so I had to do some research and create a fake itinerary outlining my travel plans. I felt a trifle insane, planning a route I had no intention of following and then booking into hotels along the way that I wouldn’t be staying at, printing the confirmations and then cancelling them straightaway so as not to be charged any money. I spent a total of three days on the internet, looking into places I didn’t want to go just so I could tell officials that that’s where I would go, even though once I got my stinking visa and got to China, I wouldn’t go anywhere near there any of them. I came up with an itinerary of several places and reasons why I wanted to visit them. Apparently, I wanted to go to Leshan to see the giant stone Buddha, Emei for the Taoist mountains and Wolong to see the giant panda breeding program. Like hell I did. I couldn’t give two fucks about the giant panda breeding program or the giant stone Buddha, and the Taoist mountains? Well maybe kind of… But let’s just say I wasn’t a massive fan of walking uphill and then back down again. What was the point of that? What was wrong with a good old flat surface for hundreds of miles in either direction? I stared at my six week itinerary and the three places so far that I had down to visit. It didn’t seem enough. Maybe I could just spread them out. Say that I would be spending two weeks at each place. But then what would the officials think of that? What the hell was I going to do for two weeks at the giant panda breeding program? On paper it looked suspicious, like I was some kind of highly selective pervert, an esoteric fetishist into exotic beastiality involving endangered animals, off to go to the Leshan Panda Breeding Institute everyday for two weeks to watch pandas fuck in panda prison while drooling, shaking the bar’s of their cell and trying to film everything on a concealed gopro hidden in my bucket of fried chicken to later sell on the deep web. The more research I did, the clearer it became that there wasn’t really much else to see around the area, so I had no choice but to just started putting in any old thing. Apparently I wanted to go to Dujianyan to see the irrigation system and Zipingpu to see the big dam. Like hell I did. I couldn’t give three shits and half a wank about the irrigation system or the big dam. I wanted to go see an irrigation system and a big dam even less than I wished to watch a pair of Pandas awkwardly fuck, which was now manifesting as a mild interest after the little research I’d done had piqued my curiosity. Apparently Panda bear’s had such a low sex drive, they had to show them panda pornography to get them into the mood.
I don’t even need to film anything, I just need to steal the footage. I thought, deep web dollar signs flashing in my pupils. I arrived at the embassy, wearing a collared shirt, nice trousers, polished shoes and a tie. I always try dress up when dealing with official organizations out of paranoia that if I went in my usual attire — which was usually a stained shirt with torn sleeves, torn shorts with nothing to hold it up except a piece of cloth rope or a torn tie, no socks, shoes made out of a thin layer of dirt that had accumulated en route and the words ‘fuck me’ written in bellybutton lint and fridge magnets superglued onto my back — that I would be denied whatever official documents I was seeking on the grounds of them assuming based on my appearance, that I was some kind of mentally ill homeless person who had confused their office for the local Christian shelter. I also used voluminous amounts of gel in my neatly tied back hair, combed my tangled beard to a sharp point and affected an upper-class English accent. This was all part of an elaborate game I enjoyed playing every time I visited formal institutions where I pretended to be someone else who happened to have the same name but was nearly the exact opposite of me. The English accent was however purely functional, as from much personal experience, I noted that when I used it, I received consistently better treatment, I guess as some kind of unconscious, automatic response to the colonialism that still persisted deep in these inferior culture’s psyche.
I also decided to wear a cravat and a velvet cape and to carry a solid oak cane, to lend an air of authority, respect and mystery to my personage. I walked into the visa office, took my number and sat down to wait. Six hours passed and my number was finally called. I went to the window.
‘Good day most respected official, I hope you are keeping well on this quite simply put, marvelous day… I have come to these whereabouts in order to enquire about the possibility of attaining said relevant documents to assist my travails to that most mysterious land you belong to, the Far East… Would you perhaps, undoubtedly be of any assistance to my cause perchance?’ I asked the representative while stroking my beard, leaning on my cane and throwing a section of my velvet cape that had wandered across my front over my back once more, in an elegant flourish of an arm movement.
The Chinese visa official behind the window eyed me suspiciously and saying nothing, simply gestured for my supporting documents with an almost imperceptible headnod and a short stiff movement of it’s left arm. I couldn’t tell if the representative was a man or a woman or gender neutral or gender fuck queer androgynous homo anti hetero fuck or whatever they called it these days, as they had a small-featured, square face, a short haircut and were wearing a well ironed, androgynous gender fuck queer androgynous fuck Chinese army uniform. To be quite honest, I couldn’t even tell if they were human.
They carefully examined the copies of my bank statement to see if they were fake or genuine articles, and then slowly and carefully perused item by item, my planned itinerary, repeatedly looking up at me with their eyes narrowed, slowly moving from side to side as if scanning my facial expression for any cracks.
‘Perchance, is there any problem perchance?’ I asked it. As I watched it watch me with my hawk-like vision, I noticed that there seemed to be a very slight but incredibly straight, hairline crack running underneath the side of it’s jawline. I looked into it’s blank eyes, pretending to casually wipe non-existent sweat from my brow to take away the glare of the overhead fluorescent lights. As I gazed deeper into it’s pupils, I saw not regular, human ocular organs, but instead, a pair of tiny cameras focusing and refocusing on me. I quickly defocused my stare so it wouldn’t see that I had seen what it truly was.
Aha. You’re a robot. No wonder you are immune to this deceptive yet alluring glamour of mine. I thought, tracing the outline of where it’s face plate connected to it’s head, which was now clearly obvious to me. It seemed to be a very clunky model.
Well, as they say, never trust anything made in China.
‘Dujianyan. Why?’ It inquired in a flat, staccato, lightly accented voice.
‘Oh, I wish to see the irrigation ducts. I am in so much awe of the Chinesean methods of medieval water based architecture. Ah the marvel of human innovation! Such a proud and forth right culture you Chineseans are — to me, this irrigation system seems to symbolize the whole of Chinesean civilisation, ugly yet completely functional, bereft of any needless frills and uhh uncompromisingly square-like…’
Nice improvisation Dick. I thought, patting myself on the caped back. The robot nodded.
‘Wolong. Why?’ it rattled.
‘Well, quite simply put, as the current state of biodiversity is in a marked decline, I am not entirely too sure when I will have another chance to peruse such an amazingly unique and highly specialized organism such as the giant panda or Ailuropoda melanoleuca sub species qin-qin-qinlin-gensis for the layman. The panda too seems to be a symbol of modern China: A large, furry, attractive creature, with a low sex drive and diminutive sex organs yet still manages to breed, that has very specific tastes, subsisting on what a lot of other cultures might feel is disgusting and inedible.’
That oughta fool these stupid Chinese facists. I thought, a very subtle, secretive grin pulling the edges of my mouth upwards 2 millimetres, but no more. The robot nodded.
‘Leshan. Why?’
‘As you probably know, Leshan is famous for it’s giant statue of the lord Buddha — not that I am religious or even Buddhist in anyway — it’s all a bit of superstitious hogwash to me really, as my personal hero and possibly illegitimate father, Chairman Mao once stated while he mass-murdered a lot of innocent people in a fairly successful attempt to modernize China: ‘Religion is poison.’ However, I do admire large religious objects from a purely secular, aesthetic point of view, and the giant Buddha statue definitely qualifies as one. To me it symbolizes both China in that it is erm very large, but cold, dead and hard, as well as religion, in that it is incredibly heavy — weighing the practitioner down and preventing him from advancing towards a joyously repressive yet triumphantly ultra-conservative future…’
He shoots! He scores! I thought, forming the end of my beard into a rakish curlicue. The robot nodded.
How many more fucking questions is it going to ask me? God, I just want to see a bit of Tibet. I’m not going there to cause a fucking uprising. I thought. The robot shuffled through my papers and began to peruse my form. It stopped at a section that I hadn’t filled in in the hope that it was optional.
‘Occupation.’ It said to me.
‘Ah… Erm… Haha, well, I truly believe in this enlightened day and age, it is completely mistaken to classify people according to their source of income, I mean perhaps, are we not all multi-faceted reservoirs of infinite potential that refuse to be tied down to any self-limiting definitions, such as one’s occupation?’
Phew. That was a close one. I thought. The robot stared at me unsympathetically.
‘Occupation.’ It asked me again in the the exact same intonation as before. ‘Well what is truly an occupation? Is it not more than simply a way to finance your other pursuits, your other extracurricular activites that truly form a more accurate representation of who you are as a completely unique, never-to-be-repeated-again being existing in this world?’
‘Occupation.’
‘Well if I had to define myself perhaps, ‘Teacher of Life’ would suffice? Although even if I did have students, I could not demand any financial renumeration for my position. Money would simply sully the respect I have for my position. No, all I ask for are patient and willing disciples who do whatever I tell…’
‘Occupation.’ The robot interrupted. I thought hard. This was one area that I simply hadn’t prepared for. I had spent all my time focusing on the supporting documents that I hadn’t bothered to address one of the most fundamental criteria, so bleeding obvious that I had missed it completely. I pondered my options. I couldn’t tell it that I was a comedian, not only because I’d quit several months prior but also because from previous experiences, telling official institutions that I was a comedian was tantamount to informing them that I was an alcoholic drifter with no fixed abode or source of steady income aside from what I had stolen from the local church collection plate. Telling them what I had really been doing for the money that had formed the bulk of financing this trip- a lot of dumpster diving and dealing small but frequent amounts of marijuana- was completely out of the question, as was telling them that I was unemployed, an answer that would simply not be acceptable to the hardworking, industrious, slacker-hating Chinese mindset. So what was I then? I was a nothing, a no one, a jobless parasite, a fat leech sucking on the impotent scrotum of society, just another shadow creeping along a wall in the night, off to commit another sordid sex crime against itself in the dark, somewhere where there would no witnesses other than it’s own crippled conscience that lay tied up and comatose from regular self-flagellating beatings in the basement of it’s overdrawn karmic bank account. But no, i could not tell them this. I had to tell them something in some way more substantial than the sad reality of what I was at the present time. Something at least to the Chinesean robot staring at me impassively, awaiting a solid answer of some kind.
‘Uhhh… I’m a writer!’ I blurted, knowing straightaway that I had given the wrong answer. I heard a quiet wwhhrrrr followed by a click as the robot’s ocular cameras narrowed and took a picture of my guilty face. Shit. Shit. Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit. I thought. It was ridiculous. I wasn’t even a writer. I mean I wrote things: shopping lists, reminders, text messages, romantic emails to real live Russian women from the internet I’d never met who told me they were in love with me, who didn’t? But aside from an article submitted to an obscure online journal several years ago for some quick money to spend on neurotransmitter precursors bought over the internet, I hadn’t even had anything published, namely because I had nothing written to publish in the first place. All I wanted to do was to find my roots and go back to where my grandmothers were from and now I was caught up, tripped up in this huge, ungainly web of lies that I’d constructed for a purely apolitical, innocent motive.
‘Writer.’ The robot repeated.
‘Uhhh… Yeah… Copywriter! Trainee copywriter! I’m training to be an assistant assistant trainee copywriter who writes strictly apolitical content for advertising, for like furniture and other such capitalist… I mean socialist! Committed, purely socialist type furniture! Strong communist chairs and uhh communal divans that the whole factory can share equally amongst themselves, red, red, red as the blood of the founding martyrs and the evil intellectuals! And uhhh purely functional, anti-decadent, anti-bourgeois poofs with pictures of Stalin sewed onto them that even the poorest worker brother can afford — not that putting your feet on a picture of Stalin should be seen as a sign of disrespect — no quite the opposite, it’s a sign that Stalin, through his hard work and glorious vision, paved the way for the comfort you can now rest your weary worker feet upon after a long day at the weapons plant! Long live Stalin! Long live Chairman Mao! LONG LIVE MY ILLEGITAMATE FATHER LEADER HERO OF THE NATION!’ I yelled, clicking my feet together and saluting the robot. Unfortunately in my haste, I ended up giving the Nazi salute instead of the more traditional variety and silently chastised myself for my error.
One small crack in the armour can reveal the whole façade you idiot. I thought. The robot picked up the phone on her desk, pressed a button and a rapid stream of algorithmic noise, designed to sound like Mandarin, streamed out of her mouth into the receiver. She put the phone down and looked at me. ‘Please wait.’ She said. This did not bode well. I began to sweat, which only made the copious amounts of gel in my hair begin to drip into my eyes, which in turn made me self-consciously wipe my stinging eyes every ten seconds. ‘Ow… My eyes… They burn! … Um from the truths I tell!’ I felt a tap on my right shoulder and leapt to attention. Turning around, I was now staring at a second robot, much bigger than the one behind the desk that I now doubted had a lower half of a body, probably fused directly into the chair it would never leave from. It silently gestured at me to follow it through a handleless door the same colour as the wall it was set into so as to be almost completely unnoticeable that stood to the right of the embassy office. I looked back at everyone else waiting in the rows of seats to be called.
‘Please remember my face in case my family never sees me again!’ I said to a random Chinese guy in the front row closest to me, shaking his arms desperately in fear. But he just stared at me like I was some kind of Asian man with a bizzarely gelled hairstyle and beard, wearing a cape, cravat, nervously twirling a cane and inexplicably speaking to him in an upper class English accent. I went into the room. There was nothing in the room except for a single, flickering lightbulb hanging over a rickety chair directly beneath it. The second communist robot gestured for me to sit down. ‘Blimey! What is this all about sir?’ I asked it. The robot repeated the same gesture for me to sit down. I had no choice, so I sat down. Unfortunately, due to the poor construction and my obesity, the chair immediately collapsed under my weight.
‘Oh… Pardon me, terribly sorry! Must have been that anti-bourgeois antipasto focaccia I had for my second brunch today.’ I apologized, getting up the floor in a dignified manner. It said something into it’s wrist mounted communication device. A few seconds later a second, near invisible door opened up on the other side of the room revealing another chair. The robot took the broken pieces of the first chair over to the door and placed them on the ground, taking the second chair and placing it under the lightbulb next to where I was standing, gestured for me to sit down.
‘Don’t mind if I do.’ I said, sitting down.
Unfortunately, due to the poor construction and my obesity, the chair immediately collapsed under my weight.
‘What? Again? This is… I will have to have a word with my imaginary personal trainer about this.’ I muttered incensed. The robot said something again into it’s wrist mounted communication device and a few seconds later the second door opened to reveal a third chair. Emotionlessly, the robot picked up the broken pieces of the second chair over to the door and placed them on the ground, taking the third chair and placing it under the lightbulb next to where I was standing, and gestured for me to sit down.
‘Don’t mind if I do.’ I said, sitting down. Unfortunately, due to the poor construction and my obesity, the chair immediately collapsed under my weight.
‘What? Again? This is an outrage! Where was this chair made? China? I could seriously injure myself here and the government would be totally liable! Why I could sue you and win the right to not be locked up in a Chinese prison somewhere for the rest of my life, never to be heard again!’ I cried petulantly. The robot said something again into it’s wrist mounted communication device and a few seconds later the second door opened to reveal a fourth chair. Emotionlessly, the robot picked up the broken pieces of the third chair over to the door and placed them on the ground, taking the fourth chair and placing it under the lightbulb next to where I was standing, and gestured for me to sit down.
‘Don’t mind if I do.’ I said, sitting down.
Unfortunately, due to the poor construction and my obesity, the chair immediately collapsed under my weight.
‘Now come on man, this really is not on! What is the purpose of this running gag? To symbolize how the fragile chair-like individual will be crushed beneath the obese, lumbering weight of the fascist Chinese state? Or is this a counter advertising campaign created by IKEA, because let me tell you, I have written several fictional advertisements for them in my completely non-fictitious fake job alibi that I created off the top of my head several minutes ago when put on the spot, and I know how those closet Nazis think!’ The robot said something again into it’s wrist mounted communication device and a few seconds later the second door opened to reveal a fifth chair. Emotionlessly, the robot picked up the broken pieces of the fourth chair over to the door and placed them on the ground, taking the fifth chair and placing it under the lightbulb next to where I was standing, and gestured for me to sit down. ‘Don’t mind if I do.’ I said, sitting down.
Unfortunately, due to the poor construction and my obesity, the chair immediately collapsed under my weight. This time I lay on the floor and refused to get up.
What are they playing at here? I wondered as I lay there on the floor, the robot leaning over me, the lightbulb above it surrounding it’s square head with a square halo of light.
They must be trying to psychologically break me down, trying to destroy my self-esteem through a series of chair breaking pratfalls to make me feel like I’m a disgustingly overweight fatty. I thought to myself.
Well, well it’s working! I thought, tears streaming from my eyes, as the taunts from my childhood bullies surfaced from traumatic memories buried long ago.
Stop eating so much! Please! We beg you! Your mother and I cannot pay for all the food you consume on our meager minimum wage triple job incomes! You have already made one of your other siblings starve to death! I heard the long repressed, ghostly voices of my vicious childhood bullies echo through my head. The tears continued to flow.
Get a hold of yourself Dick! Don’t let them beat you this early in the game. Do it for your ancestors. I heard the voice of reason kick in. It was right. I choked back the tears.
‘Oh I’m so sorry there, the uhhh bright light from the bulb was making my eyes water… And what sounded like the boyish sobbing from a full grown man was actually due to the last awkward fall making me hyperventilate while I let my chi naturally re-align itself with my respiratory system.’
Dick’s back and full of shit yet again, foul commie robot.
‘Whatever questions you want to ask me, you can ask me while I sit here on the floor.’ I said. The robot nodded and then produced a small, black cloth sack and before I had a chance to resist, put it over my head, pulled it down tightly and grabbed my hands, subduing them with a expertly applied twist tie.
‘You can’t do this to me! I’m a Westerner!’ I heard the second door open and a pair of footsteps enter. I heard the shuffling of papers.
‘I know I look like one of you — except more better looking — but that doesn’t mean you can treat me like one!’ I yapped. There was a pause and then a stiff, perhaps male, perhaps female, perhaps gender fuck queer neutral, perhaps robotic, perhaps non-robotic voice said:
‘Purposes what are for visiting glorious China nation worker state.’ I struggled to unravel it’s confused syntax.
‘Pardon me?’
‘PURPOSES WHAT ARE FOR VISITING GLORIOUS CHINA NATION WORKER STATE!!’ I heard it shout, as I felt the impact of a blow strike me across the hooded face so hard that I was driven into the floor. I coughed, struggling to get back on my knees, my twist tied wrists defeating every attempt.
‘Please! I will tell you everything! Anything you want to know about the corrupt West! As my brave illegitimate father nation leader hero Champion Mao once said, ‘JUDEN RAUS! HEIL HITLER! HEIL HITLER!’ I yelled, my upper class English accent completely forgotten. I felt a pair of hands grip my head, pull me up off the floor and place me in an armlock. I then felt a flurry of palms slap me rapidly across my face, and while the material from the hood substantially reduced the physical impact of the blows, the indignity of it all was what truly stung.
‘Yes tell us your secrets all you will you spy western imperialist! What from China secret you take will and why purposes? Work for who do you?’
‘Work for? I don’t work for anyone!’
‘You rogue agent? You self free lance no loyalty dangerous individual paradigm?’
‘No, no! I don’t work… I — I — I don’t have a job! I’m self-unemployed!’
‘You have job none?’ The voice said, perplexed.
‘No! I’m a sponge! I’m a leech sucking on the scrotum of hardworking society! I am an embarrassment to my hardworking, illegitimate father hero Chessmaster Mao!’ I heard some short coded dialogue as my interrogator communicated something into a device of some kind.
‘How is possible no work, no job!’ It barked.
‘Uhhh It’s easy… you just kind of stop working and don’t look for another job.’ I said. I heard more coded murmuring.
‘But… Must work you! Job must you have! Work until death, must you! That’s must you do!’
‘Look, I know I look a lot like Mao’s illegitimate son, I mean everyone knows he was a total slut, riddled with all sorts of venereal disease, but I don’t have any Chinese values in me. I was born in the west so the only values I know are uhh…’ I stood up and started stomping my foot in a staccato rhythm,
‘YOU GOTTA FIGHT! FOR YOU RIGHT! TO PAAAAAAAAARRRRTTTYY!’ I yelled, pumping my fist as I sang the lyrics to the Beastie Boys. I heard confused mutterings from my interrogator.
‘Bad embarrassment you are to Fine race the Chinese! Bad embarrassment you are to fine race the Asiatic man!’
‘I know, I know, it’s a burden I carry, something you learn to live with, one day at a time.’
‘Imperialist accent French colonial why must speak you in?’ It said.
‘Oh, I just really wanted the visa. So I was trying to impress you through I guess subterfuge…’ Much like your average inscrutable Chinaman. I noted. More murmuring, this time with a tone of slight confusion.
‘China! Why!’ It barked.
‘My grandfathers, my grandmothers are from there. I-I-I want to go back… To find my roots! Dying my leaves and shoots were! brown and wilting, whole life hydroponically dried up water exposed roots air polluted rolling infinite tumbleweed am I!’
More confused murmuring.
‘No, yes writer am you!’ it barked.
‘Well yes I can write and I do write things, such as purely apolitical, functional text messages urging for unity amongst the workers, the murder of intellectuals and a demand for the destruction of class divisions. That and occasional recipes I see on the internet, but that’s it I swear! It’s not my fault, I really wanted to know how to make Shakshuka!’ I heard more murmuring followed by the second door opening, a ruffling of paper, followed by the door closing again. Suddenly I felt the hood torn off my sweaty head and I was under the lightbulb once more, with a piece of paper shoved directly beneath my face and a pen jabbed into my hand. I looked around. My interrogator had left the room and now only the original robot remained.
‘Sign!’ it commanded.
‘Just let me read it first please… I don’t want to get all this unnecessary spam in my emails thank you very much…’
‘SIGN!’ it commanded, bitch slapping me across the cheek.
Weeping, I read the shaking document feverishly.
‘I, ugly western fake Asian lazy fat man, embarrassment to proud leader glorious Chinese and overall hardworking Asian race, make solemn promise to engage not in any media activity in China while waste life pointless made chronic unemployment by aimless travelling homeless fat man like with purpose no apparent. If ugly western fake Asian lazy fat man, embarrassment to proud leader glorious Chinese and overall hardworking Asian race violates agreement said, Glorious Asian China nation reserves right to death torture murder labour camp ugly western fake Asian lazy fat man, embarrassment to proud leader glorious Chinese and overall hardworking Asian race, until no more embarrassment to none to death body to not be found forever forgotten in history no one will care remember about forever nobody man fat.’
‘I don’t know about this. I mean, am I really that fat man?’
‘SIGN OR NO CHINA!’ The robot barked, somewhat robotically, I noted. I thought about it. I mean I had no intention of engaging in any media activity anyway, aside from emails to my parents that I was still alive, but still I didn’t like the clause involving, ‘Glorious asian China nation reserves right to death torture murder labour camp ugly western fake asian lazy fat man,’ , mostly because I had made a concerted effort to lose weight by eating less as I didn’t have enough money while travelling to afford to eat as much as I would of liked to. I sighed. I had to go to China. To put to rest my roots hydroponic transplanted trailing were that now the in dust must. It grabbed my hand, unfolded my clenched fingers, shoved a pen in my palm and pulled it down to the ground until my fist touched the paper. I signed the piece of paper and was roughly pushed out of the interrogation room, back into the lobby of the embassy. I stood there bewildered, staring at everyone in the waiting room. They hadn’t noticed a thing.
Suddenly I realized my dapper cane had been left behind in the room.
‘HEY GIVE ME BACK MY DAPPER CANE PLEASE SIR! YOU CAN’T DO THIS! I’M A MEMBER OF THE BRITISH COLONIAL GENOCIDE ARISTOCRACY INVASION THIEF UPPER CLASS EXPLOITATION!’ I yelled, banging on the door. But the door did not open. Grumbling, I brushed off the dust from my cape, doffed my cravat to retain some of my remaining dignity, and left the building.