Whether or not the inconvenient fever rushing through my veins these past 17 hours of cramped air travel is swine flu or not matters little to me.  It probably doesn’t mean much to those in China that are likely to quarantine me for such symptoms either, but the inconvenient result would still be the same.  I’m told that classes — classes that I will be teaching — begin at Chongqing University in less than a week, and odds are starting to favor my first lesson plans being drafted up in a cold, sterile room in a hospital somewhere in China, sequestered off from the other 1.6 billion people I’ll now be sharing a country with.

Are there longer flights from any point A in the world to any other point B than the flight from New York to Hong Kong?

The airline’s friendly enough, and the back of each chair is loaded with its own entertainment system, helping to alleviate the relentless boredom of the situation, though there’s little to counter the discomfort of the seat’s rigid contours and the subsequent sores that worsen alarmingly across my lower back and nether regions.  The movie selections aren’t bad, and seem to cover all bases.  Ignoring the chick flicks, kiddie fare and hard dramas, I settle on Watchmen, The Hangover, some movie I’ve forgotten that was billed as a “Bro-mance” and a second viewing of Star Trek (this time without the Spanish subtitles).

I’m in a minority here on the plane — a feeling I expect to be getting used to quickly.  Chongqing, including its suburbs, currently counts over 30 million people as its citizens.  Foreigners make up less than .0001 percent of that, meaning that it’s likely to spend days around town without seeing another un-Chinese-looking face.  Unlike more international cities like Beijing, Shanghai and Hong Kong, widespread use of English hasn’t made its way out to Chongqing yet, creating a language barrier around me more daunting than the Great Wall.

Good Times.

Even with a blanket on, the deep fever chills rack through me, forcing a bad, full-body impersonation of a cheap, Mexican vibrator.  Gauging the current state of my illness by said chills, I surmise that my fever upon exiting the plane at Hong Kong international airport is hotter than it’s been at any point on this seemingly endless trip.  Either my body’s not aware of the consequences of its actions, or it’s really not into this China gig and using every trick up its anatomical sleeve to get my hot-blooded ass out of the country.

The illness has drained me.  Five o’clock shadow and constant shifting about on my seat seeking occasional respites from consciousness has left me dirty, debilitated and disheveled.  In short, upon passing through the health station in Hong Kong, I’m officially, by both local and international standards, a mess.

Ear, mouth, rectal and armpit (the latter being the official choice in Quito, Ecuador, at least as of my last arrival) thermometers have all been phased out now in favor of a less hands-on approach.  As passengers work their way through the flu  checkpoint, handing in the now-mandatory health forms that are doled out on every international flight (where have you been for the past week?  Do its citizens often consort with swine?  Would you describe your explosive diarrhea as “awkward” or “crippling”?), a device not unlike a Star Trek phaser (60′s version, not Next Generation or the new flick) is focused on each passing individual, immediately separating the healty from the… well, me.

“Eh-scuse me sir.  Come.”

In broken English, his tone and gestures more than his words inform me that something is terribly wrong.  He skirts around the language barrier entirely by simply handing me the thermometer, like damning evidence from a crime scene.

“39.2, eh?  Hmm.. Is that bad?   My Celsius/Fahrenheit conversion skills aren’t that great.  I mean, I can tell from a weather report if I need a sweater or shorts, and 39.2 is definitely shorts weather, but you know…” I trail off.

“Fever,” he says, confirming what I’ve known for some time.

“Fever?  Really??  Is it a bad one?  You know, I felt great on the plane.  This always happens when I get off planes.”

“You go Hong Kong?”

“Hmm?  Oh no, Chongqing!  I’m a teacher.  I start work this week.  Teaching Chinese people.  In Chongqing.  Where I’m going immediately.”

He thinks deeply before responding.  ”Have fever.  Drink lots water and don’t have fever in Chongqing.”  Going against all stories of the massive hype and swine-flu-related panic that surrounds China right now (and this *is* a country of people that practically wear those surgical health masks like a fashion statement), he seems to be letting me go.

“Ok, I will!”

Hong Kong has officially been a part of China for over ten years now, though remains its own small, self-contained world.  It has its own language (Cantonese — though the characters are the same as those from China’s primary, government-sanctioned language, Mandarin), its own food style (also Cantonese), its own currency and its own ways and means of governance toward its people.  What this means to me (though I don’t know it yet) is that I’ll be able to freely access websites in the airport like FaceBook, Picasa, YouTube and pretty much any website with “blog” in its name for the last time.  Well, for the last time without a bit of effort on my part getting around the system.  More on that later.

Six hours to spare originally meant time to explore Hong Kong.  All the overtime work my hypothalamus has put in has disallowed that, both in terms of airport security and in my severe lack of the physical energy it’d require to handle such an excursion.  Hong Kong International Airport is a tremendous travel complex, and while it’s not exactly thrifty to shop, eat or get massages there, I did my best to kill time by indulging in all three.

Three snack breaks, four botched napping attempts and countless trips to the bathroom later (airports are the worst place for a bladder to get all twitchy) and a bilingual boarding announcement comes out over the speakers.  Sadly, it’s in Chinese first, though I’m quick to figure out its meaning when I spot a massive surge of people shooting forward toward the gate, forming a shape that only vaguely resembles a line.

Dinner is served onboard — some sort of sweet and sour chicken — and isn’t bad, all things considered.  No movies are provided this time around, but that’s fairly standard on flights less than three hours.  I try my best to sleep one last time, though the jet lag would be inescapable even without combining its forces with that of my flu.  It’s been close to 24 hours of travel time so far, and even though I gathered the current time from a clock in Hong Kong, I’m not 100% certain of what day it is…

At the airport, my new employer greets me at the gate.  It’s a good thing, as I’ve got no phone or contact information for anyone here, and even in a city this large, English speakers are damned hard to come by.   Huang Yong greets me with a large smile.  His English isn’t terribly good, but as my Chinese is non-existent, he’s got a leg up on me.

It’s hot out, as I get my first taste of Chongqing’s infamous heat.  It’s known as one of China’s “three furnaces,” sharing the honor with Wuhan and Nanjing.  It’s also my first opportunity to experience the dense smog that perpetually engulfs the city.  During my year here, I’d come to love and hate so many aspects of the city, but high up on my list of “hate” is the regular lack of clouds, stars, sun and moon and “the color blue” from what would otherwise be a beautiful skyline.  Locals tell me Chongqing has “always been foggy,” claiming the gray haze isn’t in any way a by-product of heavy industry, but I’ve never seen any other fog like this.

Culture shock sets in as the relentless sprawl of buildings hum by us, covered in Chinese lettering, big and small.  Their daytime liveliness is only a fraction of what’s to come by night, as the Chinese clearly seem to revel in neon skylines that burst forth like frenetic city-sized video games.  Drivers are quick to use their horns, but less quick to stick to any lane as line markers are little more than suggestions here.  A billboard shows a toddler of about three urinating a rainbow into a western-style toilet with a proud grin on his face.  I supposed I’d be cheerful if I pissed rainbows, as well.  Toll booths and traffic lights are generally adhered to, excepting of course for motorcyclists, as they seem to make their own rules as needed.

After a quick driving tour through the campus (not a single non-Chinese face spotted in the throngs of people — I’m definitely in a small, small minority here), we arrive at what is to be my new home for the year.  It’s an older building, but it’s been recently remodeled.  Elements of its less-than-contemporary past come through in places, but it’s a fairly sweet deal for the price (free lodging and utilities with my job contract).  I think I’ll give the apartment an entry of its own, next.

After 25 hours in transit, it’s time to put my new Chinese bed to use and get some sleep.