Waiting for Hong Kong
By: Sitara Chandur Samtani
I could hear the wheels of my bag being dragged across the rough concrete floor of Shenzhen. Four by four, pulled through each bump towards Lo Wu. Moving with the hundreds of people and leaving behind a state of grace, I slithered my way through the crowd. The soles of my feet were aching with blistering sensation. I reached into the depths of my black backpack- an excuse for a break. My hands, shuffling through headphones, pens and mints were in search for the paper-back travel document. The pause I took didn’t last longer than 20 seconds; shoulders met, hit and collided into each other forcing me to march forward with my bright blue briefcase in hand. The people whispered loudly, mimicking the buzzes of bees that I desperately wanted to swat away. A single step forward and all of a sudden I was ascending and the level of noise was descending.
Reaching up to the first floor the crowd ran towards the five neon-lit booths; one for visitors and two each for Hong Kong residents and Hong Kong permanent residents. A seemingly never ending queue holds fifteen similarly impatient people in front of me. Three immigration guards’ dart their hawk eyes towards me as I whip out my phone from my right pocket and pull it in front of my face; their no pictures policy occurs to be a strict rule here at the Shenzhen-Hong Kong Border. Although capturing images of Hong Kong immigration desks wasn’t my intention, I put my phone back and let my surroundings entertain me instead. The mid-40 year old man holding a European passport indulged in an intensely deep and quiet conversation with the woman on his right side. I assumed their topic of conversation may have been personal problems due to the angry wrinkles embedded on both their faces as they exchanged thoughts; but from unintentional eavesdropping, I picked up that they were arguing due to their inability to see eye to eye on where their next dining venture would take place- Mong Kok or Sha Tin? I shifted back to my own thoughts.
The line moved as slow as a snail and the air-conditioning in the middle of the winter didn’t help tame my unwillingness to endure the inactive movement. It froze a tired mold on my face that started to melt as an immigration officer approached me. I handed her my passport as demanded and she grabbed the bound pages from my hand. Her unasked questions were answered after taking a look at my Hong Kong student visa that permitted me an education at City University of Hong Kong. She flicked her short brown hair off her face and fabricated a smile for me, simultaneously handing back my written identity and mimicked the interrogation to the remaining two foreign looking individuals in the same line. The rigorous air was present as I handed my passport and Hong Kong Identity Card to the capped man behind the booth; a glass barrier dividing the two of us. But a chop, and the tense atmosphere evades.
Yet again, I dragged my bags. But this time the floor was smooth; this time I was in Hong Kong.
