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.

He didn’t care. “Okay, okay, drink tea,” he repeated. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. I got to loaf in a sofa and watch satellite TV with the chief of police. Things turned around, for a moment. “WWF number one!” he cheered. A 300-pound American in tights orchestrated another body slam and strutted like a steroid-injected chicken around on the TV screen. A few other officers straggled in and assumed positions around the room. Just when I thought it was me and the boys catching some harmless programming, the chief picked up the remote and changed channels.

Now the screen showed a lady giving fellatio to a man. “Japan girl very beautiful,” he said as the others nodded in agreement. They lit up cigarettes. I started to worry again. Perhaps they were deprogramming me in a grand Clockwork Orange scheme, coercing me into sober Saturdays by taking me on an emotional roller coaster of Asian TV’s worst.

I tried to think of why I was being accused of motorcycle theft. I bought it from a guy named Dave before he returned to L.A. He said his Taiwanese girlfriend gave it to him.

I didn’t know Dave too well but I do remember asking him what would motivate an ex-marine to move to Asia.

“I’m here for the chicks, man,” was his response. “I love Asian women, that’s why I teach at the all-girls school.”

Everyone in town knew he was a pervert, but he wouldn’t rip me off. Would he?

“Okay, now you talk telephone,” the officer said. I explained my side of the story. They explained their side: The motorcycle was stolen four months ago. The same time I bought it. I knew I had been ripped off, yet I couldn’t prove my innocence—I didn’t even know the girlfriend’s name.

“Have you phoned the girl? The one who owns the scooter?” I asked.

“Maybe she’s not home. Maybe tomorrow we’ll have her talk to a county judge that speaks English.” He hung up. Maybe?
   
Click. The flash burned my pupils. I turned my head as instructed for my mug shot and stared at the walls. They pressed my thumb onto the red inkpad, and onto my file. Finger by finger the pit in my stomach ached until I was forced to sign my name to something I couldn’t even read.

Idiot, you probably confessed to stealing a motorbike as a spy from Mainland China. “You stay here. Sleep tonight.”

I winced at the thought of what my cell would look like, who my inmates would be, and the possibility that those childhood tales of the various methods of Chinese torture weren’t mere myths. Next to a kidnapping, I was experiencing every traveler’s worst nightmare: going to jail for something he or she didn’t do. My armpits let out two streams of sweat that trickled down my sides.

All the books I read about these situations seemed to say that a smile could soften these situations, and following with a joke may even bridge the cultural gap.

“Oh no, but my contact lenses.” I exaggerated morning-after blindness as a result of sleeping with contacts in. They’d have to drive me home if they didn’t want it on their conscience. Their howls of laughter echoed off the smooth concrete walls - walls that seemed to close in on me. I laughed as well, though inside, at my pathetic attempt. I was allowed to watch another hour of TV - more wrestling—before my bedtime. It felt like two minutes later when the chief escorted me to the cockroach-infested waiting room. Suddenly, the doors flew open and a young couple rushed over to the receptionist. A crowd circled around me to discover the verdict. I didn’t recognize her. It wasn’t the same girl I’d met, but I gave it a shot: “Do you know Dave?”

“Yes, I know Dave. He’s an asshole!” she bawled. “Listen, if you know him then please tell them. Please tell them I didn’t steal the scooter and that Dave sold it to me. I didn’t know it belonged to someone else.”

“It was mine. Do you know I lent it to him when he was my boyfriend, and then one day he was gone? He just left for America. He didn’t even tell me.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t even know him. I just bought the scooter. You’re right, he’s an asshole. I’m really sorry, but I’d just like to go home now. They’ve taken my fingerprints and my photos and I feel like I’m never going to leave here.”

I thought about what I’d said. Was here really that bad? Getting locked up in a foreign country and never being heard from again is a natural fear. In this instance, they hadn’t hurt me, and seemed to have taken some kind of liking to me. It felt a little like hanging out with a bunch of tea-swilling frat boys, and sure, maybe I was hazed a little and made to feel like the outsider, but they were only doing their jobs, just like cops in any country.

Fifteen minutes later, I was a free passenger in a white Toyota listening to Dave’s old girlfriend’s diatribe on his evil doings. She drove me home out of pity, but in the end, I think I felt worse for her. She was just another bead in a string of girls Dave kept. I finally stepped out and closed the car door just as the sun rose, vowing never to run another red.


Tags: Best American Travel Writing, Prison, Asia, Taiwan

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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