Dodging Deputies in Dali

My alarm went off at 3:00 AM. I reached out my hand to snooze, but my friend sighed, so I turned it off, gave her a kiss, and got out of bed. My flight to Dali was scheduled for 6:00 AM, and because it was too early to take the metro to the airport, my friend suggested I sleep at her house the night before because the airport was only 20 minutes away from her place.

I took a quick shower, put on the same clothes from last night, and went downstairs. My friend had scheduled a Didi (Chinese Uber) for me, so when I came out, the driver was waiting. “Nǐ yào qù nǎlǐ?” (where are you heading to?) he asked, and took my luggage. “Ó, dào Dàlǐ shì” (oh, to Dali,) I said, and got into the backseat. “Wánměi de mùdì de” (perfect destination,) he put on his seatbelt, turned on the music, and drove. I slept through the whole ride, when we arrived at the airport, one of my colleagues spotted me, and came over to help with my luggage. “Are you excited?” she asked. “I’m sleepy,” I laughed.

Our team had planned an experiential learning trip for children in Dali, a stunning city in the Yunnan province of China sandwiched between mountains and Erhai Lake. The plan was to set up the farmhouse we had rented as the curriculum center, a few days before everyone arrived. So when we landed in Dali, we drove straight to that location.

The caretakers of the farmhouse gave us a quick tour of the property, showed us the hiking trails that led to the mountains, and then served us a humongous brunch made up of all the local delicacies. “Do you feel like taking a nap?” our curriculum director asked everyone. “Not sure about y’all,” I said, “but I only slept three hours last night,” I picked up my backpack, and went to my room.

When I woke up, there was a message on my phone from the caretakers of the farmhouse. I pulled up the Baidu translation app, and it read: “The deputy police head was looking for you, come now, and bring your passport.” WTF! I jumped out of bed, grabbed my documents, and rushed downstairs to the reception area.

I have traveled extensively across China, so I knew about the regulations that foreigners must register with local police within 24 hours, but it’s always the hotels that take care of it, so I assumed that the farmhouse staff would’ve dealt with it, but they didn’t. “What’s your Chinese name?” the receptionist asked. “I don’t have one, I’m a foreigner,” I said. “You need one,” she said, “otherwise we can’t register you with the local police.”

I don’t want to create another fake name, I thought. All my life, I’ve struggled with my identity, and have created multiple personas. But not anymore, I thought, enough is enough. “So, Chinese name, what?” she raised her eyebrows. “Make something up, I don’t really care,” I said, “I need to get ready.”

We had planned to attend the Fire Festival that night, it’s the best known summer festival in Dali. So I left my passport with the farmhouse staff, and headed to the old town with my colleagues. When we reached the South gate, we lined up behind a huge crowd, and bought some spicy roasted scorpions from the street vendor. I thought we would be waiting a long time, but the lines moved really fast, and even before I could finish my first skewer of scorpions, I was asked to show my code for the negative COVID test results. I pulled out my phone, and slid it across the scanner. All of a sudden, the metallic barrier came down and set in place. I turned to look at my colleague, they all shrugged their shoulders.

“Yí dào yībiān” (move to the side,) the security guard said.

“Wèishéme?” (why?) I said.

He came around the barrier, grabbed me by my biceps, and shoved me to the floor. My scorpion skewers fell into the mud. “What the fuck!” I shouted.

The walkie talkies went on full swing, but I couldn’t understand a single word, and my colleagues were no where near me. Then I heard the siren. It has to be about the police registration, I thought, and struggled to breath. One of the cops pulled me up, and asked for my passport. I told him it was at the farmhouse, but he didn’t believe me. I wanted to show him a scan of the passport on my phone, but he shook his head.

“What the hell is going on?” I screamed at him, but he didn’t respond, pulled two black plastic straps from the back of his belt holder, and handcuffed me.

“I’m a Canadian citizen!” I shouted, “you can’t do this shit to me.”

Right at that moment, we heard a bang of firecrackers, and then I saw everyone looking up at the sky, admiring the fireworks, everyone including the cops. I’m not sure what came over me, but I quickly scanned my surroundings, and ran. I didn’t know where I was going, but I kept running. I heard someone call out my name, but I didn’t turn to look, I just kept running.

When I reached the end of the street, I stopped to catch my breath, and looked around, but no one was following me. I twisted my wrists to break the straps, but the more I tried, the worst the pain got. The streets were getting dark, but the fireworks kept it visible for me to move around. When I turned the next corner, I couldn’t believe my luck. There were three cops waiting for me.

“I didn’t even do anything,” I said.

The scariest looking police officer walked up to me, pulled something out of his belt holder, and cut my straps off.

“Why did you run?” one of my colleagues showed up, “they just got suspicious,” she said.

Turned out that the fake Chinese name the farmhouse staff used for the police registration system for me was same as one of the most wanted foreign criminals in China. Go figure.

“Duìbùqǐ. Wǒmen néng wéi nín zuò shénme?” (sorry, what can we do for you?) the scariest police officer said.

“Get me my fucking scorpions,” I nursed my aching wrists, and walked away.