Papers please...

MY WIFE SUSPECTS I HAVE obsessive-compulsive disorder because of my travelling. Not the fact that I travel so much, but because of the routine I stick to.

She’s just jealous I’m so well organised. Everything is always neatly packed. I am always on time for check-in and always go to the same places and do the same things before a flight; depending on the airport, of course.

Actually, those words do make me seem slightly obsessive. Perhaps. Just a bit.

Where I do get obsessive and not a little paranoid is at airport security checkpoints, and especially identity checks. Each time I get to a passport desk I become convinced I will be pulled out of line and, at best, thrown into an interrogation room. I mean, what if they don’t recognise me from my passport photo? I’m not particularly pretty, but that photo is ugly as hell. What if they mistake me for someone with a dodgy record? I’ve been around; I know what can happen when technology goes bad.

My response is an innocent smile to cover the panic. But then I start to worry about looking too innocent and being picked up on suspicion of hiding something.

In China you are subject to an identity check before each flight. Even internal ones. There’s no way you get on a plane from Shanghai to Beijing without a full security check, which includes a passport check in the case of foreigners.

I travel between these cities every week, and I have my routine down pat. I know, for instance, the flight will always be delayed; the only question is how long.

What I did not know, and what none of my Chinese colleagues knew, was that the only valid form of identification is a passport. No exceptions.

As luck would have it, my new passport and the old one entirely filled with stamps (including my residence permit) were both at the Indian consulate for a visa application just as I needed to be in Beijing. Not a problem, I was told, my work permit would work just as well.

Paranoia assuaged, I pitched early for the flight as usual. Airline check-in staffers were happy with the work permit. I strolled to the usual coffee shop and had the usual strong cup and one cigarette. Ten minutes before departure, I sauntered to the security checkpoint. So far, so good.

The first time the security officer demanded my passport I tried to explain myself and show him my work permit. The second time I handed over my South African ID book. There was no third attempt. A senior officer appeared out of nowhere, pulled me out of the line and disappeared with all my documents.

There I stood, worst fears realised, being stared at by a crowd of fellow passengers who seemed to size me for the gallows. Once separated from the herd, one becomes aware that a crowd and a mob are much the same thing. Cell phones aren’t allowed in the security area, but I had to get in touch with friendlier people. As I was explaining the situation to my assistant, the senior security dude reappeared. I could see he was irritated I was on a phone, so I handed it over to him as meekly as possible. For the next five minutes, he and my assistant had a shouting match. Then he turned, handed me phone and papers and marched me out of the airport, without further word.

Flustered, I phoned my assistant again. “No passport, no entry,” she said. And no negotiation.

Suddenly I remembered my temporary passport at home. I got the assistant to call the travel agent to change the ticket and phoned the company driver to get him over to the house. I phoned my wife, who leapt from the bath to search for the damn thing. She hardly had time to put on clothes before the driver arrived.

After the flurry of excitement, I had a temporary passport and a new boarding pass. But I was paranoid about passing though security again, where the same surly officer was still on duty. How would I explain the miraculous appearance of a passport on such short notice? One that was supposed to be at an embassy?

I gave myself a stern talking-to and scurried through in a different queue, with no hint of an innocent smile. If the Chinese had been using behaviour profiling, I’d have had explaining to do. I made it to Beijing after the obligatory flight delay. I also made it to all hastily rescheduled meetings and ended the day at night. But, instead of falling into bed, I found myself in a hotel lobby trying to explain why I had neither visa nor residence permit in my passport.

Cue that innocent smile...