Mistaken identity

An imagined conversation

(Imagined conversation between Pak Kuen and a Guangzhou Customs Officer — Apologies for this blatant fake news)

In an austerely furnished and brightly lit interview room in Guangzhou’s Baiyun International Airport. A slightly nervous tall Malaysian sits on a hard metal chair at one side of a wooden desk facing a very grim-looking officer from the Guangzhou Customs Service.

“Do you know why you are here?” asks the Customs officer.

“No” replies the Malaysian rather nervously.

“What, you don’t know why you are in Guangzhou?”

“Yes, lah, I came for my cousin’s son’s daughter’s son’s wedding.”

“Huh?”

“It’s a long story — my cousin he has a son, his son has a ….”

“Stop!” says the Customs Officer raising his voice and hand. “You are going to give me a headache — do you know why we stopped you?”

“No, why?” asks the Malaysian pleadingly.

The Customs Officer presses a yellow button on the desk and a skinny obsequious official enters the room dragging an over-sized, overstuffed suitcase.

“Do you recognize this suitcase?” demands the officer.

“It looks like my suitcase.”

“It is your suitcase,” says the Customs Officer triumphantly. “What’s in it?”

“Just the usual stuff.”

“Let’s have a look at your ‘usual stuff’ shall we?”

The Customs Officer unlocks the suitcase and flips open the lid. “Well, well, well, what have we here?” he smirks.

The Malaysian gets more nervous, swallows hard and flips back the lock of hair that has slipped over his eyes with a rapid backward movement of his right hand.

The Customs Officer starts removing items from the suitcase, examines them, describes them and arranges them on a long table running along the length of the room.

“One Wilson Pro Staff 97 Countervail tennis racquet; one Head Graphene 360 Speed Pro tennis racquet; one Babolat Pure Aero tennis racquet; three sealed cans of Penn ATP tennis balls — why do you travel with so many tennis racquets and balls?”

“I play a lot of tennis. I was hoping to play a few games with my cousin’s son’s daughter’s…”

“Stop, stop, stop,” screams the Customs Officer, “enough with the family history…” He takes a deep breath, slowly calms down and resumes his inventory of the contents of the suitcase.

“3 pairs Federer Uniglo tennis shirts; 3 pairs Nadal Nike tennis shorts; 2 pairs Djokovic Adidas tennis shoes; two pairs Nike Unisex Dri-FIT Triple Fly Socks; 2 stretch sweat wristbands; 2 stretch sweat headbands; one pair of blue jeans; one crumpled white shirt; and 3 pairs of used Hing’s white briefs,” enumerates the officer in a bland monotone. “That’s all the clothes you brought with you?” asks the Customs Officer incredulously.

“I hate to pack and I love tennis…” replies the Malaysian defiantly, while shrugging his shoulders and flipping his recalcitrant lock of hair from his eyes yet again.

“One toiletries bag…” the officer continues and then stops abruptly. He dips his hand in the bag and pulls out two books from the bag’s side compartment. He quickly flips through the first book, then thrusts it in the face of the Malaysian. “Please read the title of the book.”

“Er…how to serve like Djokovic, return like Federer, and time-waste like Nadal?”

“Where can I get a copy of this book?”

“You can keep this copy, if you like…” says the Malaysian ingratiatingly.

“Are you trying to bribe me with this book?” asks the Officer menacingly.

“No, lah, I only…”

“OK, in that case I will just confiscate it” states the Customs Officer. He looks quizzically through the second book and frowns as he tries to decipher its title. “This other book is in a language I don’t recognize. What is the book’s title? It has lots of pictures of food in it.”

“Er, um…Panduan untuk makan makan di Guangzhou,” says the Malaysian rather anxiously.

“Translate please…” says the officer sternly.

“Er…um… Guide to makan makan in Guangzhou?” answers the Malaysian feebly and almost in a whisper. He nervously flips back the lock of hair that has once again slipped over his eyes, and wipes the beads of sweat off his brow with the back of his hand.

“What did you say? Speak more loudly, I can’t hear you!” the officer commands.

The Malaysian is getting more distraught by the minute. He mouths some words but his throat and lips are as dry as Sandakan dust in the dry season and he only manages an unintelligible croak.

“Well?” demands the officer.

“Okay, lah — it’s A guide to makan makan in Guangzhou,” he finally hurriedly answers in a defeated, hushed tone.

“Makan? Did you just say makan?” shouts the officer, standing abruptly and sending his chair crashing to the floor. He raises his fist and slams it down hard against the red button on the desk.

The door to the interview room bursts open and three heavily armed People’s Liberation Army soldiers in combat camouflage rush in with raised QBZ-03 assault rifles.

“冻结” they scream in unison at the Malaysian.

“What, what, what did they say?” asks the Malaysian pleadingly as he ducked for cover under the desk.

“Fleece!” echo the soldiers in one voice.

“Take him away,” says the Customs Officer gleefully.

The Malaysian screams and thrashes wildly as he is roughly frog-walked out of the room. “No, no, no. Pleeeeaase. Where are you taking me?”

Eventually, his screaming diminishes in the background and silence returns to the interview room.

The Customs Officer can barely contain his delight as he picks up the telephone and announces in a gloating tone to the person at the other end of the line:

“Boss, I think this time we have the Makan King himself. He’s come back to the scene of his dastardly crime!”