I’m physically comfortable in my wide seat on China Air’s beautiful, huge C1200. There are 3 entrance/exit doors for the 400 passengers and crew, all in use simultaneously. The speed of getting on and off is remarkable. We enter by row, overhead space assigned. Lovely olive skinned stewardesses wear silk kimonos. Their long black hair is worn Geisha style. I feel China already in my bones. I lean back in my seat and remove the folder of emergency instructions in English. There are 6 other languages listed. The distance between Beijing and Canton is fairly short, about 250 air miles, 1000 by yak cart.
Departure time is 8 a.m. We are on the runway at 7:50. At 8:01 the jets roar, the wheels turn. In less than five minutes we are airborne. Everything changes. I start to choke, to cough, can’t catch my breath. My heart races in fear. The plane is on fire! The stewardesses sit still in their assigned places. Smoke curls up to the air ducts. Is everyone crazy, stupid? We are going to all die when this C1200 explodes.
I undo my seat belt and head towards the closest exit door that happens to be in the tail of the plane. A small Chinese lady, dressed in clothes that may come from Nordstroms, pulls on my shirt and motions for me to sit down. I cough in her face. The smoke thickens. A stewardess, her name tag tells me she is Conachi, takes my hand and guides me thru the smoke back to my seat. She checks my seat belt and takes a long walk forward, returns shortly with a glass of cold persimmon tea. Conachi has a beautiful smile and calming attitude. ‘Are you ill, Sir? Do you need a doctor? We have two aboard in attendance. May I get you something else?’ Too many questions, I merely nod ‘no’ to all of them.
I take a moment and look into her ebony eyes. There is no fear. Trying to contain my coughing spell, I show her, I tell her about the gray smoke everywhere. My effort to reach her, explain this isn’t supposed to happen unless there is fire, makes her tinkly laugh a delight.. Another beautiful stewardess approaches me, offers me a pack of Chinwa cigarettes and a lovely enameled box of matches. My mind and smoke clear. I am stranded on the plane among 400 passengers, 350 must be men chain smokers, 49 women smoke. I alone do not.
Conchi asks me to follow her. I am hoping she has a parachute and safe way for me to get off this smoke den. We walk past at least 7 occupied lavatories to reach the Captain’s realm. She knocks on the door. A flash goes off in my face. The captain compares my photo to me and approves. He wears dark glasses, so dark I am not sure he has eyes. Does he also have a lung protector? His co-pilot pilots while the Captain and I chat. Somehow he manages to almost calm me. Conchi takes me back to my seat.
I am totally amazed. The air is smokeless. Fans have sucked out all of the pollution, the cancer makers. Conchi explains, ‘We allow our passengers to smoke for fifteen minutes and then it is banned for the rest of the trip. They are happy and we are in control. Not one passenger has been lost yet. You were about to be our first. May I bring you some Saki, Sir?’
I thank her and ask her to bring me another glass of that delicious Chinese persimmon tea.
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