Chinese checkers

It had been a long flight from Mumbai to Hong Kong and we were tired, nauseous and fed up. The small but exclusive hotel in the middle of the elite shopping district was nice enough, but its environs were dubious, with sex shops in a nearby alley and touts peddling everything from children to strangely configured gadgets to local currency. But it was like that almost everywhere in the city, I found, and had learned not to look too hard within an hour of being there. Our explorations were limited, since we were battling the local airlines for a mysteriously cancelled flight into China on that most crowded of holidays – the Moon festival. Eventually, we had perforce to take a bus for much of the journey, which in itself was fairly exciting – or would have been if I was a less intense shade of green around the gills.

Travel arrangements sorted out, we went in search of food. The local foodshops are the best for authentic cuisine, we were advised; and that is just what we wanted. At a small eatery close by, we found huge bowls of steaming, fresh and delicious soup. Slurping into a delectable melange of broth, noodles, veggies, chicken, prawns, ginger and cilantro, we felt almost instantly soothed after the frazzle of the morning. Behind us, in a shallow plastic tub, live crabs clacked and quarrelled all through our quick meal. The waitress, as bewildered by our English as we were by her Cantonese, beamed fondly at us and urged various delicacies upon our hapless stomachs. If we knew what they were, we may have eaten more.

Early the next morning we were ushered on to the ferry that would take us from Hong Kong to Shenzen, across an expanse of water that roiled and rocked the boat until all of us were a delicate pea green and the American gentleman in front of me got an attack of hiccups that punctuated his diving into a little plastic bag at intervals. Once on dry land, we stood in the chill breeze for a while to clear our collective and individual heads and breathe in air that was untainted by diesel exhaust while standing on firm ground that did not sway precariously underfoot. Our next form of transport loomed over us and I quailed. “I will not,” I stated. “NOT!” I was shoved mercilessly onto a large and very air-conditioned tourist bus – the very genre makes me bilious – and pushed into a window seat and told to breathe deep. Calm, said my mother, my father and anyone else who could speak in a language that I even vaguely understood.

For a while, I lived. So much so that I even started believing that I would survive the entire journey, making it to Canton alive. We stopped en route to see some sights (a kindergarten with its nicely programmed babies helped allay any nausea for a while) and were soon treated to a vast and wonderful lunch. Feeling completely normal and looking healthily brown all around, I partook with some heartiness. Peking duck went down a treat, the crisp-skinned slivers of well done meat, crunchy green onion, tangy plum sauce and soft pancakes endlessly addictive. Clear broth helped settle everything and I went back to the bus in a deliciously sated stupor, ready for even the drive further north.

But I was happy too soon. A few hours later, I was decanted at the huge Canadian-run hotel in Canton a wonderfully deep viridian, my knees wobbling and my head whirling like the dervishes I never wanted to meet, not with my vertigo. Staggering up to my room, followed closely by concerned but amused parents, I collapsed on the bed and slept. This kind of introduction to China was not what I had hoped for or wanted. It was, for me, hardly auspicious a beginning. But, oh boy! It certainly did get better!