TheBanyanTree: Fear in a Foreign Land

[Pat M]

* *
I never get caught up on my story writing as there are always new
experiences.  This is another account, like my narrative about Zhang Kang,
where I've leaped ahead to the present because the event was so
compelling.

December 18th

It had been a pretty good day, and I stress 'had been'. I'd worked on the
computer preparing lessons most of the morning and then had walked to the
college for lunch at 1:00. The shortest route took me through some back
roads and on the way, I'd passed the usual sights: decrepit brick buildings,
outdoor cookeries with patrons hunched over bowls of noodles, the fruit
market where bundles of vermicelli (a type of fine noodle) were stacked on
tarps like bales of hay. (I must get a photo). I'd passed folks riding
rusted bicycles with straw baskets of fruit, vegetables or flats of eggs
straddling their back tires and had lifted my eyes to the top of the huge
smoke stack at the coal-burning plant that heated the city's water and
warmed the homes of those who could afford it. The old man who baked and
sold sweet potatoes in a metal drum was in his usual location near the
elementary school.

When I arrived at the college, Amy was out. Mrs. Zhang and I ate lunch
together near the coal heater in Amy's room and waited for her to return. I
had a shopping list and Mrs. Zhang was going to help me find some things I
wanted but hadn't been able to find, like ground black pepper, cinnamon, and
salt and pepper shakers.

As I waited for Amy, I tried to decide whether or not to buy an electric
blanket. Although I ran the air conditioner/heater in my bedroom at night
and had ample blankets, the marble floor in my apartment was as cold as a
sheet of ice, and the cold seemed to come up through my mattress. I've never
had problems with arthritis but had been waking every morning with a deep,
dull pain in both of my hips. (I'm getting an inkling of the pain my sister
has had leading up to her three hip replacements.) If I bought an electric
blanket, I decided, safety was top priority. I wanted one made by a
reputable company and even then I was nervous; I don't trust the safety or
workmanship of anything made here.

Around two, Amy breezed in and greeted us. She said, "We can go shopping now
but first we must go to the police station. The police want to ask you some
questions. The three of us will go together."

"Talk to the police! Why?" My heart leaped; had I unknowingly done or
said something wrong?

"I don't know. Alice phoned me last night and she phoned again this morning
saying you had to go talk to the police."

"I'm not very happy about this."

"Neither am I," said Amy. "Maybe you want to phone Alice to find out what
this is about."

She dialed her cell and handed it to me.

I'd had a bit of a scare a few days earlier. Amy had been completing
government forms for days and delivering them to the Public Security Bureau
(police) who were checking that the college (newly licensed) was doing
everything legally. One afternoon, she'd told me the police had called to
say I was working illegally and that I needed to get a different visa. As
soon as I'd heard the word 'illegally' I got scared; I'm super honest and I
certainly didn't want to be in trouble with the police in China. I called
Frank and Owen, the CEO of Buckland, for help. In the end, the police said
they'd made a mistake. (I must be honest; I've been told there is
considerable corruption here, and I couldn't help wondering if someone had
paid to make the problem go away.)

"Hi Alice, it's Pat. Why do I have to go to the police station?"

"It is nothing. Don't worry about it. The police just want to ask you a few
questions. Maybe they will ask about your visa or other things. You know."

"No, I don't know."

"If they ask you if you receive a salary, you must tell them no."

"Lie to the police! You're asking me to lie to the police?"

"Yes."

"I'm not lying to the police!" I exclaimed. Disbelief and fear sounded in my
voice. Now, I was really rattled. I imagined being told to leave the country
immediately. I wracked my brain to figure out what I could have done or said
that had caused the authorities to investigate me, but I couldn't guess
what.

I phoned Frank.

"Don't worry," he said. "The police like foreigners. They just want to know
that you're safe. Maybe they want you to change your visa to a work visa.
Take your return air ticket to Canada with you to show them, and it will be
okay. I think the college forgot to register you when you renewed your
visa."

"What did Frank say?" Amy asked. "Do we have to go?"

"Yes," I said, "and I'm pissed off. That's a swear word, by the way."
(They've never heard me swear.)

Amy, Mrs. Zhang and I walked from the college to my apartment where I picked
up my passport and my air ticket. They waited for me in the courtyard and
when I came out, they were talking to the woman responsible for guarding the
shed where tenants left their motorcycles and bicycles. It seemed the
previous English teacher had left an old bicycle there, and there was rent
owing. Amy and Mrs. Zhang seemed to have forgotten that we were on our way
to the police station, and were attempting to ride the bicycle. I wanted to
scream.

"Let's go!" I said gruffly. "We're taking a taxi and the college is paying."

The police station was the same one we'd visited when I'd first arrived in
Lintong, and I knew my way around. We climbed the stairs to the second floor
and walked to the end of a long corridor. Amy knocked on a door and an older
uniformed police man opened it.

There were two desks with computers in the room. The other officer was
seated in front of his computer. He glanced our way and then resumed his
work. The senior officer indicated we should sit down on the sofa next to
his desk. He made us cups of green tea and placed them on the coffee table
in front of us.

I was apprehensive and just wanted to get on with it. Amy and Mrs. Zhang
sipped tea as Amy and the police officer conversed in Chinese. I sat
quietly, hands folded in my lap. Mrs. Zhang kept saying, "Drink some tea,"
and I kept repeating, "No thanks." Perhaps it is 'good manners' to drink tea
when a police officer offers it to you, but I was in a foul mood and wasn't
going to drink it. Finally Mrs. Zhang lifted my paper cup and handed it to
me. I gave her a dirty look and promptly set it back down on the coffee
table.

The policeman asked to see my passport. He slowly flipped through all of the
pages and studied them for several minutes. Then, he did it again.

"He is Joey's father, you know, one of your students," Amy said.

I nodded and smiled. "Oh."

The officer spoke to Amy and asked her a few quick questions. She produced a
paper written in Chinese and showed it to him. They chatted. Then, Amy said,
"He just told me the college is responsible for your safety and if something
happens to you, it will cause a big problem for the school."

They chatted some more.

"He wants to ask you some questions now," she said.

"Okay,"

The policeman and I made eye contact. He was a large, heavyset man, perhaps
in his fifties.  He directed his questions to me in Chinese, and I turned to
Amy to translate them. The interview went something like this:

"Welcome to China. Are you comfortable here?"

"Yes."

"How about the food, are you used to it?"

"Um, yes, but I prefer western food."

Amy and the police officer chatted in Chinese again.

Amy said, "He says not to worry. The police in China are friendly. He just
wants to talk with you. He said his daughter speaks highly of you and says
you are a very good teacher."

I looked at the man and said, "Xie xie (Thank you.)"

"You have a big holiday coming up next week in your country. How do you
usually spend it?"

"With my family."

"How will you spend it this year?"

"No Christmas."

"Is it hard to teach Chinese students?"

"A little."

"Before you came to China, how long did you teach?"

"About 4 months. I recently took a teaching course."

"What kind of work did you do before that?"

"I worked in the accounting field."

"How long have you taught in China?"

"Since September."

"Are you working here without pay?

"No. I am paid." (I wasn't going to lie for anyone.)"

"Does your government pay you to do nothing?" (Huh?)

"No, I must work to be paid." (I'd told some people here about the welfare
system in Canada and wondered if that was a problem. I also wondered if he
was actually asking me if I was receiving money such as welfare or
unemployment payments in Canada while working in China.)

"We just want to communicate with you," he said again, gesturing with his
hands. He was trying to set me at ease.

Amy said, "He just said he'd like you to teach him English."

He got up and poured boiling water from a large thermos into Amy's and Mrs.
Zhang's cups.

When he sat down, he began to write notes. He asked me what province I was
from and had me write it down. Amy made some phone calls to find out how to
translate 'British Columbia' into Chinese characters (which surprised me).

He flipped through a thick file on his desk and I saw that much of the
information in it was about me! I saw my TESOL diploma, my medical form,
letters of reference and more.

Amy, Mrs. Zhang and I waited quietly on the sofa. I felt more relaxed and
began to drink my cup of tea.

Fifteen minutes later, the police officer sat back in his seat and turned to
me. Amy translated.

"Last time you got a business visa. That is okay and we will renew it for
you many times. I want you to teach my daughter."

He handed Amy several pages of handwritten Chinese and asked her to sign it.
She glanced at it and signed it without reading it thoroughly.

"You must sign it, too," she said.

I looked at her quizzically. "I'm trusting you," I said, and completely out
of character for me, I signed it without knowing what it said.

The police officer gave Amy a little tin of moist red dye. She had to dip
her finger in it and put her fingerprint next to her signature and two other
places on the last page. The pages, I saw, were a summary of the officer's
questions and my responses. Everything on them was in Chinese except for my
name.

We said a cordial goodbye and left.

      Outside the compound gates, I took a deep breath and sighed. "That was
very stressful."

      I felt exhausted and exceedingly cranky. My face, I'm sure, reflected
how unhappy I felt—I've never been able to hide my feelings.

We went shopping but there was no fun in it for me. I splurged and bought an
electric blanket made by a well-known company. Even so, I hoped I wouldn't
end up electrocuted.

The police interview had drained me; I said goodbye to Amy and Mrs. Zhang
and took a taxi home. Tears stung my eyes as I climbed six flights of stairs
to my apartment. It crossed my mind that the police might have visited my
apartment while I was being interviewed but decided I was letting my
imagination run away from me.

I needed to talk to someone, but had no one to call. (Later, I chatted to an
online friend for about half an hour and that helped a little.)

My stomach was still in a knot when I went to bed, and I couldn't sleep. At
least the warmth from my new electric blanket was comforting.



Next day…



       I sent a text message to Amy to say I wouldn't be going to the
college for lunch and would let her know about supper before 3. Amy phoned
back and said, "Mrs. Zhang wants to know what you want for supper."

       "I've got stomach problems again," I said. "I don't know what I can
eat."

       "What about porridge?"

       "Okay, how about rice porridge with peanuts?"

       "I'll tell her."

       "I'm still very upset about yesterday," I said.

       "Why?" she said.
       "In Canada, I worked with contracts and I would never sign anything
without knowing what it said. Yesterday, I signed a paper without
understanding a word of it. We were really stupid, you know. You didn't read
it through and you signed it. It could have said anything, and it's a legal
document. In future, if this ever happens again, don't sign any papers until
you have read them."

       "I think it was just about your answers to the questions," she said.

       "Maybe so, but we should have read it," I said. "I'd like a copy of
it. Can you get one?"

       "You want me to phone that man and ask?"

       "Yes."

       I waited several minutes but she didn't call me back, so I called
her.

       "Well?"

       "The man says it isn't possible to give you a copy. It isn't for the
public record."

       "No, but the person interviewed should have a copy. I'm very angry."

       "Do you want me to call Alice and see if she'll call the man?"

       "Yes."

       Another ten minutes passed and there was no call from Amy.

       Again, I called her.

       "Alice says she can't get a copy (I doubt she tried). I called Frank
and he suggested you phone Buckland in Yangshuo to resolve this," Amy said.

       "I'm very angry," I said again. "I won't be coming for supper."

       (The previous evening I'd seen the CEO of Buckland online and had
instant messaged him about what had happened. He'd apologized but seemed
only to care about the results of the interview, which were that I'd left
the police station on good terms with the police.)

       No one seemed to appreciate how frightening the experience had been
for me.


Postscript:  Apparently the police interview occurred because Alice (the
college's principal) did not tell the police my visa had been renewed.
Apparently she is good friends with the police chief, and he'd told her not
to worry about it, that I didn't need to report to the police station with
my new visa, but the message hadn't filtered down to his staff. For whatever
reason, having a police interview in a foreign country where you don't
understand the language is a horrible, frightening experience. This story is
the first I've censored (left out details) since my arrival in China.


Pat
-- 
China photos can be viewed at

http://picasaweb.google.com/Ms.Pat.Martin/China

http://picasaweb.google.com/Ms.Pat.Martin/China2

http://picasaweb.google.com/Ms.Pat.Martin/China3CanYouHelp