The Hotel on the Roof of the World Read Free Page B

frightening skies with CAAC so often that I could be a leading member of their frequent flier programme. If they had one. But on that first day I had little idea of what to expect.

    â€˜Connections’, whispered Mr Li, were the key to getting through the crowd at the check-in counter. The Chinese refer to this as guanxi and it is impossible to arrange anything in China without it. I watched Li dart in and out of the human mass and sweet talk the uniformed CAAC guardian into giving out a boarding pass. He added my suitcase to the Samsonites of a Japanese group so that I had no overweight baggage to pay for.
    I was surprised when Li refused money for the help which he had given me. ‘Please ask about my papers,’ he called out as he dived back into the crowd. I wanted to thank him but he had been engulfed by the mob and had disappeared from sight.
    After the crush of the check-in and the departure of the helpful Mr Li, my spirits were lifted by seeing a sign over one of the empty desks which read: ‘CHINA SOUTHWEST AIRLINES, NON-NORMAL FLIGHT SERVICE.’
    With this intriguing thought in mind I set off to the security check.
    As I approached the walk-through metal detector, it suddenly dawned on me that I had forgotten to take my large penknife out of my pocket. It was too late to go back and find my check-in luggage so with a sinking feeling of resignation I emptied the metal objects out of my pockets into the basket at the security counter. The girl in charge was practising her English. ‘Money,’ she said as she passed my coins over to the other side, ‘Walkman. Knife.’
    With a pleasant smile she passed everything across the counter.

    There were no announcements in English in the departure hall and it is not uncommon for tourists to sit there happily up to several hours after their planes have departed. I had been warned of this strategy, so closely shadowed a Chinaman with the same coloured boarding pass as I had been given, and hoped that this was the Lhasa flight. I couldn’t lose him as he was carrying a large bag of garlic shoots which he was taking as hand luggage on to the plane.
    After a lengthy delay in the dense smoke of the waiting room an incomprehensible announcement in Chinese blared out over the loud speaker. They do not have volume controls on their audio equipment, only distortion control, and this one was on maximum distort. Fortunately, my friend with the garlic shoots and about 150 other people seemed to understand it, as they immediately leapt to their feet and started to crush six abreast down the narrow stairway and into the waiting buses on the runway.
    The plane was an even greater shock than the airport: an aged Boeing 707 which looked older than I was. The first thing one notices upon entering the aircraft is an overpowering smell of rotting cabbage and a group of slovenly looking youths dressed in dishevelled uniforms. These are the crew, who have a small tea-drinking area which one must walk through to reach the passenger seats.
    When you have recovered from the waft of moulding vegetables, you pass through the ‘first class’ area to the economy seats. In front of you are the 150 people who had run to get the best places. Although seats are numbered it is not taken very seriously and there are often several boarding passes issued with the same seat number. Most of the rush concerns grabbing the overhead lockers.
    There seems to be no official policy on the amount of hand luggage which may be taken aboard a CAAC plane. Thus, the only limiting factor is a physical one: how much can one person carry? Small Chinese ladies defy credibility by heaving huge suitcases up and down the aisle. Families of smiling Tibetans struggle relentlessly up the steps with over-stuffed sacks on their hunched backs. Nothing can dampen their spirits as they push their way along the aisle, ready for the next game: squashing the bags into the overhead lockers. You have to