My Time as a Human

When I first came to China I didn’t plan to become invisible. I didn’t use any of the invisibility skills I learned in woodland survival training. I just walked out into the street, with my foreign clothes, white skin and braid trailing from the top of my head and moved around as inconspicuously as a great ape sucking a pacifier in the middle of a kindergarten class.

Every head turned and every neck craned to look at me. Children stood frozen in amazement. Despite this they did not speak to me. They let me pass. The language was a distant wash of sound that surrounded me, trigging no response in me. The environment was so strange, so different, that the feeling filled me that I was moving through a universe not my own, a ghost, an observer. Nothing interacted with me then. It was as though I could move my hand through objects. Other than the silent looks I passed untouched through crowds.

Invisibility changed my habits. I’ve never spent much time on my hair or how I look generally, but suddenly I was aware of the little I once did care when those instincts vanished completely. When you are moving invisibly among people, what is hair? What is a stain on a shirt? Choosing a shirt at all is meaningless.

After my years of overwhelmingly overactive social life back in Austin, I felt a huge relief. I didn’t feel any tension that I might have to interact with anyone. I didn’t feel any obligation to chitchat or say nice things, as no one would understand me or… as a ghost… even hear me. I could leave my room and wander, still maintaining that same feeling of being alone, feeling fearless, feeling calm.

Eventually, other students began to arrive. I met some of them in the hallways and they spoke little bits of English. It jarred me. Things shifted. I became aware that people outside, people out there, might emerge from the foggy world and recognize me, know me as me, and that I would need to respond to them and interact. The world was suddenly paying attention to me again. I paused before putting on a shirt. I braced myself before leaving my room.

In Taipei, Taiwan I noticed something else. I arrived, knowing no one, and yet this experience was not repeated. The wealth of the place meant that people looked more like me. Many subtle familiar cues told me that I was near my known social group. Ironically the more people ignored me, the more this added to the familiarity and suddenly, at some deep instinctual level, their many small imagined judgements mattered. Did I look cool enough? Was I standing in an awkward way? Shouldn’t I know how to buy this ticket by now?

When I returned from my travels my favorite moment was seeing the smiles and feeling the embraces of my friends. I love knowing people here in Fuzhou. But I do sometimes miss the odd, safe, calm feeling of invisibility and I wonder, now that I’m learning to speak, if I’ll be able to find it again when I begin to travel west.

Without Andy Crouch of Austin, Texas who teaches at the Hideout Theater and Cafe it could never have happened. Of course, without an unwitting foil it might not have happened either. The foil was one of those people who you have over to a dinner party, like this one in China, who remains silent until, with a wild verbal leap, they inject what they hope will be the hilarious moment that kills but instead becomes an act of suicide.

We were talking about tea. My tea master friend Hyun Ji Kim was excitedly telling us all about the major types of tea by color. There was green tea, black tea, white tea, and blue tea. The formerly silent foil saw his moment. “What about Purple tea,” he quickly interrupted. The room went dead. The attention of the room, formerly focused on her, turned to him, waiting for an explanation. “Um, you know, Purple tea,” he said, as though we’d understand the beauty of the joke if we just thought about it another moment. “What would purple tea be,” asked one of the guests.

This was his chance. He had just been handed a lifeline, a way to pull himself up off the ground as all of us watched. We waited. “Um. I don’t know,” he said. The room remained dead. I let it sit that way. I paused for one… two… three…

I leaned back in my chair slowly, and put one hand behind my head. “In ancient China, long before any of you were born, there was a tiny village on the side of a tree covered mountain,” I began. There was a visible release of tension, a great relief swept the room as attention turned to me. The moment of awkward paralysis was over. Thank Kataka someone was steering the ship again. That someone was me. That someone, unbeknownst to them, had not the slightest clue, not an inkling, of where the ship was going.

Back in Austin I studied a bit of improv theater. Through months of practice and training, Andy managed to trick our little crew into a complete fearlessness of the untold tale, and in fact had tricked our very bodies into leaning forward into the unknown. I began to crave opportunities to put my brain in situations where instant by instant not a single thing was known about the next, each time taking another little step forward, trusting more words, ideas and actions to appear by magic. “Yes and then what,” was no longer a terrifying demand, it was a question with an exciting answer that we couldn’t wait to hear ourselves, and that we ourselves would deliver.

“In that village was an old man who owned a tea shop. It was the second most popular tea shop in the village, a village that only had two tea shops.”

Each word that entered my head came out through my mouth. I was just a culvert through which the water flowed. I could shape it by raising and lowering my voice, shifting the speed of it to pause at certain moments, but the most important job was to stay out of the way and, unquestioningly, let it flow.

It turns out that the tea shop owner had a naughty niece who used to throw the fruit she ate all over the house and all over the yard, making a terrible mess. Eventually, the seeds would sprout and weeds would grow up everywhere and they would have to pull them down. I’m sure you can see where this is going by now. At the time I started to see it, but was careful to let it emerge. I continued letting everything flow without too much thought, just tapping it lightly around the edges, but I could also feel the thrill of knowing it was going to turn out. Incredibly, by throwing the sails up and rushing wildly to sea I had once again managed to spot land.

By the end the old man, exhausted and frustrated by the failure of his tea shop, drops down beside one of the trees that had grown and with a huge sigh, closes his eyes (I closed my eyes) and lets his head fall back against the tree. (I made a “thunk” of his head hitting the tree.) At this point, of course, a bit of fruit is shaken from the tree and falls down into his cup, but he doesn’t know this. It is only after he complains some more about his troubled tea shop that he eventually takes another sip… and is stunned to discover a completely new taste.

I managed to wrap it all up happily with the niece and the old man and the shop and there were grins all around the table. “Where did you first hear that story,” someone asked. “Just now,” I said. “I mean, where did it come from originally?” Everyone was absolutely convinced that I had just retold a classic tale from ancient China and, who knows, perhaps I had. Thanks Andy.

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“Get off at the Shipai stop and follow the old people,” my host told me with a grin. I quickly noted this in my calendar reminder, the one about my hospital visit for my knees, and promptly forgot where I’d placed this sage advice. That was a week ago. Today I spent an hour working out all of the details with my host when, just as we’d finished, my phone reminded me of how simple it could be.

The promised stream of octogenarians lead me directly from the MRT to the bus stop and the hospital. I trundled along with the heard, my precious MRI printouts rolled up in my tiny backpack. Those giant printouts had traveled all over Taiwan with me, over seas, through endless rain, to monasteries and back waiting for this day. At last I would have an answer for all of the people who had been asking constantly about the problem over the last few months. Surgery? Amputation? A hot bath? I had no idea, but the thought of not having to answer these questions or tell the story again was so uplifting I felt almost cured.

Going to a hospital in Taiwan isn’t like going to a hospital in the US. I kept waiting for the part where I was going to have to fight bored, angry or vicious people who were trying to screw me or, exhausted, just get me out of the way. I waited for a form to be wrong. I waited to find out I was in the wrong place on the opposite side of the hospital. I waited for someone to tell me what was full/closed/broken/on vacation so that I would have to come back another day in a month. And I kept waiting.

What I didn’t do was, in fact, wait. At no point did I sit still for more than five minutes. I quickly moved through the process and there were incredibly friendly, relaxed people helping me out at every turn. People laughed and worked out my paperwork despite the wrong language and the fact that I didn’t have a country insurance card. They worked with me to solve little problems. We moved quickly to reasonable solutions. Stamps thumped and papers folded. Someone had already arrived to personally escort me to the room in the next building.

I was certain that I must have been mistaken for a visiting German relative of the hospital overlord or, at the very least, I was getting the nose discount. I asked several people I met outside the hospital later and all of them told me the same story: nope. That’s how it works here. And I saw this happen with some of the old people I’d followed to the hospital. They were treated with respect and smiles and, while I still don’t have enough of the language down to be sure, I didn’t see any lengthy painful discussions about insurance or the like. Mostly people flashed cards, exchanged smiles and were shown where to go.

The other thing that happened over and over was the response to my doctor’s name. I got it when calling other doctors from China. I got it on the phone to the hospital. Once I reached the hospital itself in the midst of some confusion I waved a notebook with the Chinese characters for his name and people’s faces changed into an, “ah yes of course” look and they would tell me, “很有名”. He is very famous.

As always the moment itself, after all these months, went very quickly. I had prepared a list of questions and hopped in with my moleskin crushed in my fist, ready for action. First a doctor in training looked over my MRI, checked my knee, and asked me a few questions I’d gone through many times over the past few months. A few minutes later the actual Orthopedics doc arrived and tested him. I started telling my story and already he said, “ah” and looked to his apprentice to see if he’d gotten it yet. He looked over the MRI. He then twisted, yanked, and poked my knee in all directions, finally poking me in a way no one else yet had to hit the sweet spot. “Ow!” Zap! That was it.

I’m happy with the result, despite the downside. I’ll continue to be in pain for quite a while, but there is no need for surgery. Just resting and healing. Yet another lesson in patience, as I’ve already tried that for nearly four months, but he told me it could easily be six. In the end, I think the peace of mind and all of the additional advice about various forms of exercise and care, all from the famous english-speaking hospital director of orthopedics, were well worth the $13 it cost me.

Bonus Round

I was prescribed a much simpler knee brace and as I wandered the streets checking the traditional characters written on a scrap of paper against one sign after another, a random kid in a bright red baseball hat grabbed me and lead me to the place. Inside two women worked through my Chinese to find just what I needed. Thanks Taiwan. Don’t worry mom, they’ve got me covered.

No Way

Ha ha ha! In the “no way” department I found this great write up of a similar amazing medical experience by an American in Taiwan. Check out her last line.

It doesn’t take much to kick off a bold and stupid new travel scheme. My injured knees cried just thinking about carrying a giant hostel geek bag with me or a mountain of sorority girl luggage. I started mixing and matching the ideas I’ve accumulated about ultralight wilderness survival and arrived at a dangerous scheme. One set of clothes. One set of backup clothes. Everything for the next two months had to fit into a small school bag.

Now it should be noted that I am not the first. It was the legendary Steve March who first attempted this scheme. He stunned us by arriving in Germany with a single tiny book bag slung over one shoulder. At one point while we were ranting about some philosophy or other he interjected with, “here, I’ve got it right here” and somehow managed to get his hand down into the bag and extract the very book we were discussing. He fit books into that crushed, squeezed, compressed airless space! The tardis-like capacity of that bag was going to be difficult to beat. It should also be noted that his part in that particular trip only lasted two weeks. I could do better.

The worst part of the project, as always, is my need for heavy equipment. As I may have to do work on the road I need my MacBook Pro. Compared with so many other options, like netbooks, this thing is like carrying a fat, screaming, hungry child down every street. Alas, I need his power to run the apps I use to build and test software and the keyboard to allow my hands to survive constant blogging.

Fortunately, modern technologies lend a hand at every turn. I used zip lock bags to compartmentalize everything because I can squeeze them down to remove excess air and still clearly see what’s inside each. Alpine cord aka parachute cord is incredibly strong, waterproof and light. With knot skills (yes, I’m pitching this again. learn them!) this stuff can be better than duct tape and it’s incredibly important for the wash scheme. Maglight now makes a tiny AAA battery sized light. An umbrella is an incredible new discovery of mine. Quick drying fake Nike shirts are available for about $3 on the student street if you get them quickly before the venders flee. Nice quick drying pants, on the other hand, cost almost as much as my flight.

I was really daunted by the clothes. I needed ultra light, fast drying gear. The fake Nikes and travel underwear were already in hand but the pants and socks were an issue. I stopped by one of the large new malls, Wanda Plaza, in Fuzhou and was stunned to find all kinds of high end American brands. There was even a J. Crew with quick drying pants… for insane prices. I couldn’t believe it and was convinced they were more expensive than in America! That means that they were expecting enough Chinese people to have reached a level of wealth that, given the exchange rate, they could pay more than 6.5 times as much for a pair of pants! Literally almost the cost of my monthly rent! Then I made another discovery.

I went home and started looking for clothes prices online. It turned out that… good equipment like camping/travel pants really were that expensive. How could I be so far off? Then I got it. I hadn’t ever paid the actual cost of clothes. Everything I wear is second hand or bought by sleeping overnight with a line of grizzly rock climbers on the lawn behind a loading doc at REI. If you sleep over and wake up early enough in line the next morning, you can rush under the slowly opening garage door and find pants for $5.40. You have to be willing to replace a button and stitch up a hole but hey, I’ve got a twenty five cent sewing needle. The fact that those very pants, on the other side of the wall, cost $100 eluded me.

So I caved in on the pants. It was heartbreaking. I found a North Face store (Yes! This blew my mind too! There is a North Face store in Fuzhou?!) and spent hours picking exactly the right pair.

The socks were trickier. I realized that what I needed were tiny, super thin socks that would dry instantly and weigh nothing. Joan Blainey sent me a really nice pair a while back so I knew what was possible but not how to find them. At last I went out and bought the cheapest dress socks I could find, knowing they’d be all polyester and no cotton to slow drying. At the last minute I did one better and found tiny dress socks made out of, if I was willing to believe my translation of the label, bamboo fibers. I love the fact that they’re bamboo so much that I’ve tricked myself into loving the socks. They also weigh as much as a nose hair and cost about two dollars, one for each sock.

And yes, at the last minute I really did cut the cord off of my battery charger and patch it back together with duct tape to save weight.

The Scheme

The scheme works like this: each night I throw that day’s clothes into the sink with a little soap. I wash them and throw them onto an impromptu clothes line using my alpine cord. The next morning they’re dry and I roll them into the bottom of the backpack.

The umbrella does a lot of things, I’ve learned in China, and is worth its own post. But for now I’ll just say this: cool when it’s raining, instant, light, portable shade when it’s not.

How It’s Working

So far it’s been amazing. I love knowing that I have absolutely everything with me. I can wander off, get on a bus and disappear at any time. I can sleep in a park. I can jump on a plane. Meanwhile, moving around the airport is a breeze. I don’t even have to know where the luggage (stress on lug) is. Outside of my big nose, I don’t even look like a traveler as I cruise the subway.

The washing process takes only minutes. These types of clothes are really easy to wash and squeeze out quickly. With a few rope tricks the line is quick and easy. (Easy loop on one end, taut line hitch on the other.) I run the cord through the clothes and throw a loop over the highest end so that they don’t slide down the line.

At the hostel, I can put everything I own in the tiny locker at night. No sweat. I have one more trick, where I carry a large, very light nylon laundry bag so that I can dump out my stuff at night into the bag and quickly sort for what I need without dealing with the tight squeeze in the backpack itself. The bag doubles as a place to unload what I don’t want to carry during the day and I just toss it into the hostel locker as I head out the door.

Lastly… the pants. Oh the pants. They work. I’m a believer. In theory I was a believer before, as my old second pair, with its newly replaced button and stitched bottoms, have always been great. But these new pants feel great, are sturdy and light and yesterday when it was raining… I walked around for about an hour before I thought, hey, how is this umbrella keeping my legs dry in this torrential downpour? I looked down to find beaded water disappearing down the front of the pants. I was perfectly dry inside. Better yet, within minutes of walking into a building… the pants were dry outside too. Sold.