Oh, how I long for the days when China tried to pretend Sars did not exist. Life was so much easier when the virus was raging on the mainland but nobody wanted to talk about it. Catching a flight and checking into a hotel was as simple as showing up with enough money to get to where you wanted to go. Friends, those halcyon days of travel in China are over. It is a cruel irony, now Sars has all but vanished, that the nation's transportation system is mired in a sea of medics with thermometers. On a recent eight-day trip to the mainland, I had my temperature taken no less than 25 times. It took five checks just to get out of Hong Kong and on to a plane in Shenzhen. I filled out Sars declaration forms (I promise I still do not have Sars, I still don't know anybody who has Sars and so on) so many times I had the questions memorised. I was scanned, poked, prodded and eyed up by suspicious nurses at every turn. I was hit in the forehead with infra-red beams, explored from head to toe by thermal scanners and had my ears poked with electronic temperature-taking gizmos that I had never envisioned in my wildest science fiction fantasies. Screening takes place when you leave Hong Kong and when you enter the mainland. You are screened entering the airport. You are screened on the plane. You are screened when you get off the plane. You are screened going into your hotel. Flight attendants on one airline were so adept at taking temperatures they were able to stick probes in the ears of sleeping passengers without waking them. If these prevention measures really made anyone safer it would not seem like such an inconvenience. Like many rules in China, the letter of the temperature-taking law is unfailingly followed. The spirit of the law, however, seems to get lost somewhere along the line. The Sars declaration forms were dutifully collected, but never read. When I set off a thermal scanner, the medic on duty could not get her ear thermometer to work properly to do a second screening. After looking me up and down, she declared that the cup of coffee I was carrying was the culprit. The greatest indignity of all, however, came at the hands of the Sheraton Hotel in Chengdu. Upon arrival, guests need to pass two tests: your credit has to be good and your temperature has to be below 37 degrees. Much to my horror - and the horror of the desk staff - I rang in at a scorching 37.5. I tried explaining that I had just spent 45 minutes sweltering in the back seat of a taxi, so a little extra heat was to be expected. The desk clerk would not budge. I was not getting my room until I passed the test. She called her manager over. The manager took my temperature in the other ear. Somewhat better at 37.3, but not good enough. I was asked to wait in the lobby ('maybe you will cool down, sir') and watched jealously as a parade of 36.6's and 36.7's were taken to their five-star, luxury rooms. When a 36.9 squeezed through I was starting to get upset. They took my temperature again. I had heated up to 37.4. The manager came back a few minutes later and produced what she said would be a more accurate device: a rectal thermometer. Seeing the concern in my eyes, she reassured me that it had been cleaned since it was last used, and rubbed it on her sleeve as if to reinforce the point. My initial thought was to try another hotel. While considering the options, I absentmindedly put my hand on my belt and adjusted my pants. Suddenly concerned about the communication problem we may have been having, the manager said: 'Oh, no, it goes in your armpit.' After 10 minutes standing in the lobby of the finest hotel in town with a rectal thermometer protruding from my armpit, I was ready for another test. I scored 37.2 and was still over the limit. By this time the manager was gone and my room key was sitting on the counter. The clerk smiled, gave the thermometer a few shakes, handed over my key and said: 'Welcome to China. Enjoy your stay.' Doug Nairne is the Post's Deputy China Editor