Innocence Abroad

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.

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.

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