My current Chinese visa requires that I leave the country every 60 days.  No one cares how long I’m out of the country, as long as I leave.  Holders of this type of visa who live in central parts of the country have to make regular trips to Hong Kong.  Living as I do in the most southern reaches of Yunnan, I’m a quick three hour drive from a very open border crossing into Laos.  So, once every two months, I hop in the truck with a fully charged iPod and head down the highway to spend an hour or two eating lunch across the border.

This past spring, a teammate and I were questioned by Chinese immigration officials, both entering and leaving the country, setting our nerves on edge for future visa runs.  On my most recent trip to Laos, I was particularly anxious to avoid a certain official who, in the midst of asking, “Are you working in China?” and “How long do you plan to stay in the country?”—kept sneaking in, “Can I call you in town?  What is your phone number?”  Nowhere on the entry form does it ask for a contact number, and the last thing I need is a border agent calling me at all hours of the night to go karaoke on his weekend off.  I persisted in not telling him by smiling and shaking my head each time he asked, hoping he would assume that meant I didn’t have a phone, praying my phone didn’t ring in my purse while I was standing there.

But I didn’t encounter that official this time around.  Or anyone else who asked me anything.  No buses of tourists from Thailand were crossing at the same time, nor Chinese merchants who run stalls in Lao markets.  The immigration buildings on both sides of the border were oddly silent, and the officials were agreeably sleepy.  Not a single question asked coming or going.  Relief.

Another difference between this trip and earlier ones is the precautions both countries are now taking against swine flu.  A Lao official took my temperature before allowing me to apply to enter his country.  I passed.  Re-entering China, I had to fill out a form declaring myself symptom-free.  The official at that counter became impatient with how long I was taking to check “yes” or “no”—even though I was the only person in the building who wasn’t an employee of the immigration department, and I’m not sure what his rush was to get me through the non-existent line.  While I was trying to figure out if the question was “Do you have these flu symptoms?” (no) or “Are you free of these symptoms?” (yes), he took the pen out of my hand and checked “no” on my behalf.  I’m glad he thought I looked healthy.

The bowl of pho for lunch on the Lao side of the border made the six hours of driving all the more enjoyable.  I go to the same stand every time—where the owners speak to me in Lao, not Chinese.  We can communicate enough for me to order lunch (with beef, not pork) and for them to tell me the price.  I savored my noodles and soup to the background noise of a Thai soap opera on the TV, lingering in this place more foreign to me than China has become.  Afterwards, I walked the 2km back through no-man’s-land to the Chinese side of the border, back to the country that has been my temporary home for the past several years.  Knowing I only have 60 days before needing to leave again increases the sense of temporariness.