This is a new series called “The Elephant Travels” where I share stupid stories from my travel journals while living abroad. I edit out anything extremely graphic or illegal, but most of it’s intact. Just a word of caution: there’s a lot of swearing. Try not to take me too seriously. Oh, and why the “elephant” travels? Because it’s hard to travel with an elephant in the room.
[…] After my disaster with Grace, I spent the next few days devoid of feeling and emotions. I felt like a zombie. Sure, I knew the pain would pass, but during that next week, everything hurt. “Why does this keep happening?” I wondered. To make things worse, I was inching toward my last class at Chinese Cultural University, not because I wanted to stop, but because they ran out of space: every single class for the next level had a waitlist.
Fuck!
Also, they threatened to revoke my student visa: despite the fact that I had the highest grade in my class, truth be told, I was one of the worst students in the university — I didn’t pay attention, showed up 20 – 30 minutes late everyday, and stretched our 10-minute recess into 30 minutes.
Also — to add to my list of misdeeds at PCCU — unbeknownst to them, I tried to date a teacher and ultimately had an extremely short-lived fling with the school’s eye candy, an insanely voluptuous Vietnamese girl, who, within a fortnight, hated my guts and wanted me dead. Fortunately, JOY English decided to sponsor a work visa for me, so I didn’t need my school that badly.
Even though it wasn’t in finance, getting that work visa bought me time until I made future plans and let me stay in Taiwan beyond my expiring student visa.
On December 28th, I went to the Immigration Office to get my Alien Registration Card (ARC) before going to work. By 3pm, I met with an immigration officer and handed him my documents. It turned out, however, I made a massive mistake and, within 24 hours, I would learn one of the most powerful lessons of my life:
I came to Taiwan with student visa, which expired on December 27th. A few days before, however, I got a certification from the Taiwanese government that granted me a fifteen-day visa extension because I had an ARC on the way. So, brazenly walking into the Immigration Office that afternoon, I thought I was doing the right thing and acting in a prompt fashion to get my ARC.
But it wasn’t that simple. I didn’t know I needed to bring that certification to a police station to complete the 15-day visa extension. So, instead of getting my documents, the official told me that I lost my ARC, I overstayed my student visa, I now owed the government a $2000NT-per-day fine, and I needed to leave the country.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
Like any confused foreigner, I immediately called my coteachers and told them exactly what happened. “Wow,” they muttered, “okay, just come to work and we’ll sort everything out.” Oh shit! Work! Because of my visa disaster, I completely forgot about my classes and realized I was already late. I left the office, ran to the nearest subway station, and high-tailed it to Banquiao.
Walking into the office, all my teachers were shocked: “What happened?!” they asked. “How come they didn’t give you a visa?” I told them my situation and they called the head office to discuss with the boss and the head native teacher, Sean. After a few minutes, they called me to the phone receiver:
“Okay,” Sean said through the phone, “I talked with ________ and we agreed that best thing for you to do is leave for Hong Kong tonight—”
What?!
“—go to Hong Kong and get an emergency visa,” he continued. “Then come back—”
What?!
“—the reason why,” he calmly explained, “is that you already overstayed your visa. If you leave tonight, get a visa, and come back, you’ll show to the government that you’re taking this seriously and you won’t hurt your chances of coming back—”
What?!
“—also, you don’t want to keep getting fined for each additional day.”
Fuck! How is this happening?! Four hours ago, I was elated because I was going to get my work visa; now, I had to flee the nation under the cover of night like an Iranian Shah. As the staff dialed travel agencies for last-minute tickets, I limped to the nearest computer and inspected English-teaching forums to figure out exactly what I needed to do.
First, I had to go to the Taipei Economic and Cultural Office (TECO) in Hong Kong, located near Central Station in a building called the Lippo Centre. Because Taiwan was not officially recognized as a nation, many countries didn’t host Taiwanese embassies; instead, they had diplomatic “missions,” which offered similar services. Since the office opened at 8:30am, I had to be there when the doors opened to give TECO ample time for processing.
Second, at the office, I needed to apply for a resident visa and request a “same day” service, which cost a hefty fee. Third, after I got the goddamned visa, I had to return to Taiwan and restart the ARC process. Fuck! Meanwhile, the school’s staff found a ticket on a flight that departed from Taoyuan International Airport at 10pm that night and returned at the same time tomorrow.
The tickets cost about $8000 TWD (about US$270), which I paid for with my credit card. “Shit,” I uttered. “Well, I won’t have enough cash once I get there.” The school director was kind enough to give me a cash advance for 4,000 TWD to fund my emergency exile. When I started freaking out, my boss smiled and jokingly offered some words of encouragement in English:
“Don’t worry, they’ll give you a visa: you’re handsome.”
Before I left, I did one final thing like any other person from Generation Y (or “Generation Me”) would do: I updated my Facebook profile.
brb visa run. I’ll be in Hong Kong from midnight until about 9pm tomorrow. I’m both excited and frustrated. Also, I fought the law and, again, the law won.
I left the office after 6pm and headed straight to the airport. I didn’t even have time to go home; all I had on me was exactly what I left home with that morning: a button-up shirt, jeans, and a small sackpack with a camera, a water bottle, and a book. I was utterly unprepared for any trip, especially one during the winter to a rainy city. After a journey via the High-Speed Rail (HSR) and bus connector, I arrived at the Taoyuan International Airport irate and frustrated.
The worst moment, by far, occurred when I had a spat with some officials over their miscommunication between front and back offices: one official said I didn’t have to pay fine, but another guy disagreed. In my frustration, I used the word “fuck,” which he thought meant I was swearing at him. After hearing his minute-long tirade, I was glad he didn’t arrest me right on the spot. (Maybe it helped that he was behind a glass booth.) Ultimately, the Taiwanese government penalized me $2,000TWD (about US$67) for overstaying one day and gave me an ulcer for the hell of it.
“Eh!?” someone shouted when I reached the security checkpoint. “Yang Jie Aan!?” [My Chinese name.]
Shit. It was Ai Hua, my mother’s friend who worked in airport security at Taoyuan. What luck. With her catching me at the airport, any hope I had that my Mom would never find out disintegrated.
“Oh,” I replied quietly. “Uh… hi, Ai Hua.”
“What are you doing here?! Where are you going?!” she asked incredulously in Chinese. She eyed me up and down. “And how come you have no luggage?!”
“Uh, I’m… I’m going to Hong Kong.”
“You don’t even have a jacket!”
“Yeah. I know.”
“Ai ya! Do you need me to help you?” she offered.
“No, I’m okay. Thanks, though.”
“Okay. Well, let me know when you get back. Does you Mom know?”
“Uh, no.”
Sitting at the gate, I suddenly remembered I never arranged accommodations in Hong Kong. Perhaps it was my own haste — or stupidity — but when I was at my bushiban, I thought I could just sleep at the airport and venture to the city in the morning. When I arrived at Hong Kong International Airport a little after 12am, however, I realized there was no place to sleep aside from painfully uncomfortable chairs and an expensive, pay-per-hour spa.
“Well, I visited Hong Kong before,” I thought, “ and stayed near Tsim Sha Tsui (TST) in Kowloon. Maybe I’ll just go there, look for an hotel, and try my luck.” It was all I could do. A few minutes later, I rode the Airport Express train and luckily met an Asian-American businessman who, with his iPhone, searched for some hostels in Kowloon. He found a few located at a building called “Chungking Mansions”, just south of TST Station on Nathan Road. “Great,” I said, “the last time I was here, I stayed near there so I’m kind of familiar with that area.”
I got off at the empty, cavernous Austin Station around 1am and wandered towards the exit. I could barely grasp how the city looked as I walked through the vacant streets: somehow, in one of the densest cities in the world, I was alone. I could only hear the breeze and echoes of faraway cars as they bounced on the buildings above. I headed east along Jordan Street and noticed a few accommodations on the way. Because I need was a warm bed, I decided to check them out. At the first place I toured, they let me to stay for thirty minutes if I paid for a handjob; if I wanted to stay the entire night, I had to pay 8000HKD (about US$1000) for sex.
“Oh my God,” I uttered.
“Oh my God,” the hostess said, playfully mimicking me.
At the second location, several young, half-naked women lined the dark green, peeling hallways, there were many rooms with doors wide open and people going in and out, and the hostess acted very pushy. I didn’t know how to say “whorehouse” in Mandarin or Cantonese, but I exhibited all the symptoms. On my way out, I shared a very awkward elevator ride with an older gentleman and his two mistresses.
Several minutes later, my hunger brought me to a McDonald’s on Nathan Road for a Big Mac and French fries. Yet, at 1am, the Mickey D’s became the refuge for Hong Kong’s vagrants, ragamuffins, and criminals. I sat down at an empty table to eat my food when as suspiciously friendly Pakistani sat next to me.
“Hey man,” he said.
“Uh, hey,” I said while opening my ketchup packet.
We talked for a little, but he kept asking questions about my trip that I didn’t want to tell him, you know, in case he wanted to rob me.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“27,” I said, lying.
“Do you smoke?”
“Huh? Cigarettes?”
“Weed?”
“Uh… why?”
“Just curious.”
Turns out, he could provide whatever I wanted: weed, hash, heroin, ice, cocaine… I felt like I was at Whitney Houston’s house. Suddenly, his phone rang, interrupting his monologue, and he bolted out the McDonald’s while screaming angrily into his receiver. I sat there dazed for a few minutes, wondering what danger I just eluded and what would happen next.
I did, eventually, find the Chungking Mansions. I don’t know what “Chungking” means, but from the looks of the place, it meant, “Shithole.” Climbing up the steps, I peered through the entrance and saw that the lobby overflowed with international loiterers: groups and groups of Africans, Arabs, and Indians chatted amongst themselves and waited around for nothing. I was the only Asian-looking person there aside from the painfully old security guard and I rode the dilapidated elevators to the fourth floor to find only decrepit hallways, broken doors, and garbage everywhere.
Where there hell was I going to go now? I fled that hellhole, walked to a convenience store, and desperately devised my new plan: refueled by caffeinated beverages, I would walk to the Kowloon waterfront — encompassing the Star Ferry pier and the Avenue of Stars — to rest and watch the Sun rise over the Hong Kong skyline. “It’s only four hours,” I thought, “I can do that.”
For the first hour, I felt alive and privileged — on a serene night, I enjoyed an amazing viewpoint in solitude with a brilliant backdrop of careful angles and towers that spiraled into space. It was breathtaking. I thought about my life so far after college and all the steps that brought me here, and I couldn’t help but crack a smile. It’s funny how nothing I planned to happen happened. Everything seemingly progressed one big disaster after another, but here I was, sitting on this empty landmark, happier than I’ve ever been. Until I got sleepy, that is.
Since the area had nowhere to lay or rest, I tried in vain to nap against a wall that blocked the chilly winds, on a low staircase, under another staircase, and behind a few buildings. Finally, I found the secluded area where the homeless slept and slid to under a sloping column. As they snored on their cardboard mats and pillows and snuggled under their blankets, I noticed everyone was more comfortable than me. I lay there for a few minutes when, suddenly, the police came to wake everyone up. As they passed by, one officer looked at me completely flabbergasted as if to say, “What in the hell are you doing here?”
A while later, twilight started to scratch the sky above. I leaned along the water’s edge, savoring the changing of hues and patterns of the skyline. It was like the city opened its eyes and slowly turned its gears to power the day.
With that, I went into Hong Kong Island, walked into the Lippo Centre just before 8am, and lied on the bench. “Excuse me,” a woman said, “you can’t sleep here.” Fine. I went up to TECO office on the 8th floor (which was still closed), sat on a chair, and slept until the office opened a few minutes later. I wearily submitted my application and they told me to come back at 4:30pm to get my visa.
Now the real fun began.
I strolled to the nearby Bank of China Tower and found a public computer with free-internet access. Thank God! I logged into my Facebook account, noticed that Kris, an old friend from high school left his number under my status update, and found the contact information for Adco, my old buddy from USCD. I borrowed the front desk’s phone and called him.
“Hey man,” I said when someone picked up. “It’s Anthony from UCSD.”
“Dude!!” Adco yelled. It was refreshing to hear a familiar voice. “How are you man?!”
“I’m good, haha.”
“I saw your Facebook update. Where are you right now? Are you okay?”
“I’m at the Bank of China Tower. Yeah, I’m okay now. I took care of my visa stuff. Are you free today or something? Want to meet for lunch?”
“Absolutely! I’ll ask Jacob too; he works near me.”
“Awesome! Just a heads up, this isn’t my phone and I don’t have access to the Internet. Where and when should I meet you?”
“Okay, meet me at the lobby of HSBC Building at 12.”
“The funky looking one with the helipads on the top?”
“Yep. Want to get dim sum?”
Does a bear shit in the woods?
Enjoying dim sum with two wonderful friends I hadn’t seen since January made up for all the difficulties of the past nineteen hours — eating, laughing, sharing experiences from the past year, and reminiscing about old times helped me forget I had slept on the street and got fined by the Taiwanese government. In life, it’s easy to lose sight of the importance of great friendships; I’m always thankful for moments when we recapture it.
After we said our goodbye, I stumbled upon a hidden treasure, adjacent to the Central Business District, called “Hong Kong Park.” It was tranquil enclave of flowers, trees, birds, waterfalls, and gardens protected from the intensity of the steel jungle. I walked through the urban haven in awe — sitting on a bench and admiring the beauty around me, only two words captured the emotion I felt:
Pure bliss.
But how was it possible to be happy in that situation? I smelled like shit. I looked like shit. I slept on the street. I blew hundreds of dollars on flights, visas, penalties, and fees. I got solicited by a Pakistani drug dealer. How the hell could I be “happy?”
Because I didn’t have a care in the world. Everything was set for my arrival. My school was already taken care of until I got back and my friends were still in Taiwan; so was my apartment, so was my school, and so was my life in Taiwan. I had my return ticket ready to go and I took care of my visa earlier in the morning.
Sitting on that park bench looking like a homeless person, I realized I had no concerns about the future, no concerns about money, no worries, no stresses, no responsibilities, and no attachments: I was isolated from everything.
And that’s something they never teach you in college: when nothing drains your energy and occupies your mind, you’ll fully immerse yourself into the present moment and stumble into happiness. Thich Nhat Hanh, a Buddhist master, once said: “The miracle is not to walk on water. The miracle is to walk on the green earth, dwelling deeply in the present moment and feeling truly alive.”
It’s not achievement that creates happiness; it’s presence and constant awareness. But with the stressful life you adopt in college, it’s all about work; it’s all about production; it’s all about goals, pressures, and a longing for the future to just “get here already.” Worse, life becomes a constant flashback to that past: “Oh, why did I do this? I should’ve just done that instead.” What eventually gets destroy in the mental turmoil is your enjoyment and piece of mind — that’s how your happiness gets obstructed.
In college, you’re also taught to fear failure and abysmal poverty. Hell, those are two of the main reasons why we go to college in the first place: to succeed and find a job that pays well! But this chase and emotional drive for approval and wealth tire you and prioritize the wrong things. Just as bad, it creates tension and anxiety as you live with the fear of everything, one day, disappearing.
Then, wasn’t this precisely what we’ve been taught in schools across the world? And how can we avoid this catastrophic life of stress and pain? I have an answer — an answer I discovered in Hong Kong — but it’s a solution you might not like. Over 2000 years ago, Lucius Seneca, a great Roman senator and even greater Stoic philosopher, worded it perfectly:
…appoint certain days on which to give up everything and make yourself at home with next to nothing. Start cultivating a relationship with poverty. For no one is worthy of god unless he has paid no heed to riches. I am not, mind you against your possessing them, but I want to ensure that you possess them without tremors; and this you will only achieve in one way, by convincing yourself that you can live a happy life even without them, and by always regarding them as being on the point of vanishing.
This practicing of poverty will cure your material worries. “It is not the man who has too little,” Seneca taught, “but the man who craves more, that is poor.”
At 4pm, I went back to the TECO office, grabbed my brand-spanking-new resident visa, called Kris, and went to the International Financial Centre to meet with him. “Dude,” he said cracking up when I saw him, “you look like shit!”
I laughed. “I feel like shit,” I replied with a smile. With us jokingly shooting immature insults at each other, it was just like old times. We soon discussed how our lives changed after high school: at that time, he split time between running stores in Shanghai and Hong Kong and he just so happened to be in HK for a few more days.
“Dude, stay a few more days and we can celebrate New Years in Hong Kong,” he offered. It was tempting, but with my ticket in hand, I hugged him goodbye a few hours later and boarded the Airport Express to finally head back to Taipei. As I chatted with a cute Taiwanese woman on the train, I noticed a few things:
One, I stank. Two, I looked like an insomnia patient. Three, for some reason, she was still digging on me. And four — and most importantly — I had the time of my life. I reconnected with amazing, old friends, enjoyed eighteen sleepless hours in the greatest cities on Earth, and came back to Taiwan with amazing stories to tell. Opening the door to my homestay condo, I bumped into my homestay mother before I could squeeze into my room.
“You didn’t come home last night!” she exclaimed.
“Oh,” I said. “I just stayed a friend’s house.”
Then, I walked into my room and showered for 15 minutes. I earned it.
Enjoyed this article? Check out all the “Elephant Travels” articles!
The Taipei 101 Story
My First Week In Taiwan, A Romantic Disaster
Clubbing in Taipiei — How I Taught Taiwan The Dougie
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