Innocence Abroad

Travel Stories: When the Taiwanese police hauled him in, Drew Forsyth experienced one of a traveler's worst nightmares: He went to jail for a crime he didn't commit.

07.13.02 | 11:00 PM ET

I looked both ways and sped through the red light, leaving my companions far behind. Not that it was a big deal or anything. Traffic lights are optional for the most part in Taiwan, and the helmet law for motorcyclists came into place only a year ago. But that night, my friends would never catch up to me. A half-minute later I heard hollering from the car next to me. I looked over and my heart exploded. A patrol cruiser filled with policemen paced me. An overweight officer hung out the open window and waved his pistol at me from the back seat.

Thoughts of evasion ran through my head: Lose them, alleyway, side street, intersection, train crossing, idiot, there’s nothing here, it’s a freaking highway man, what do they want, I didn’t do anything wrong, he has a gun. Time’s up.

I raised my hand to indicate I was pulling over. It didn’t matter to them. The space between the curb and my wheels shriveled as they inched towards me. I knew I’d bail if I got any closer so I turned sharply into the curb and wrenched on the brakes. I skidded to a stop on the grass spitting up a cloud of debris in my wake. Shaking, I searched for my friends as witnesses to this police brutality. Their frantic shrieking at marketplace volumes drowned any possibility of understanding what they wanted from me. The fat one slammed the butt of his pistol on my helmet in an attempt to garner a response. Flecks of soil from the cyclone of dust around us had settled into his hair, which the chase had tousled in a mini-afro. When I removed my helmet and blond hair dropped down to my shoulders, they let out a chorus of dissatisfied grumbling. It was as if God had pressed pause on life’s remote control, and we stood frozen staring at each other, anticipating each other’s moves like chess grand masters. The friction of crickets’ legs punctured the silence.

“Sorry, sorry. I don’t know why you stop me,” I ventured.

I decided not to let on that I knew some Mandarin, since none of them spoke English. When I first arrived on the island to start my career as an English teacher, I locked myself in my room for two months with as many Mandarin language books I could get my hands on. The mantra I repeated to myself was the same one I repeated to my frustrated students: If culture is a door you wish to open, then language is your key.

I knew that one day my studying would pay off. I could already engage in daily chit chat with the local shop owners, but I was still an ocean away from understanding phrases like, “You are under arrest.” Moreover, this wasn’t the time to gamble on a misunderstanding. Hopefully, they’d realize I wasn’t worth the bureaucratic hassles of pulling in an interpreter, and they’d just wave me on—or maybe not. The tall one grabbed my arms and held them behind my back while the driver plucked my wallet from my pocket. They radioed in the I.D. number on my resident permit and motioned for me to get in the car. “What about my bike?” I protested, pointing back to the For Your Nice Scene decal that emblazoned the scooter. With a logo like that, they’d be certain to know I was an innocent hipster, guilty of merely scoping out the pubs on a Saturday night. One of them picked it up and tried to kick start it.

I intervened: “No, no, like this.” “Okay! Very good!” he said in English. The other officers laughed at his linguistic expertise. Well, at least they’re laughing now, I thought, as they stuffed me into the back seat. The air hissed out of the seats like a dying balloon when the fat one, wheezing and sweating, squeezed in next to me and pulled out a pair of handcuffs.

“Nooo, you made a mistake,” I objected. “I’m good. I’m good person.” “Very good!” one of them said. And they laughed again. The big pig grunted and slapped the cuffs on.

They’ll know something happened to me. They’ll know when I don’t show up at the pub tonight. They’ll know when they call me tomorrow morning. That’s what friends are for, right? They may even call the embassy if they saw these cops run me off the road, but there isn’t even an embassy, it’s Taiwan, and how the hell will they know where I am?

When we arrived at the station they unlocked my cuffs and took me inside where I met another officer who spoke limited English.

“You motorcycle steal,” he stated flatly.

“Me? No. No steal. I no steal. I buy. Give money.”

I animated my story like I was teaching an English class, and quickly attracted a crowd of amused officers.

“You sit, wait. Phone English police,” the man said.

I was shown to a room where their chief loafed in a leather couch.

“Please you, drink tea,” he said with a friendly smile.

“I am good, I nooo steal. Not me,” I pleaded.

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Drew Forsyth is a Toronto-based writer who recently returned from a four-year stint in Taiwan as an English teacher, photographer, musician, and radio DJ. "Innocence Abroad" was selected as a notable story in the "Best American Travel Writing 2003" anthology.

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