The Insulin Express

by Oren Liebermann

  Shanghai is famous for dumplings, especially soup dumplings—a delicious little morsel of pork or shrimp inside a steamed dough wrapper that also encapsulates a few flavorful drops of soup. We visit the renowned soup dumpling restaurant, Din Tai Fung, which we fittingly find on the second floor of a shopping mall.

  This seems to fit right in with what I know about Shanghai so far.

  Oh, and Shanghai’s most famous soup dumpling restaurant is a chain from Taiwan. That gives you an idea of the extent to which this city has sacrificed every shred of its five thousand years of culture and history, replacing it instead with glitzy skyscrapers and high-end stores. The city lacks its own character. It is completely devoid of its own feeling. There’s even a place here called Shanghai Times Square, which shows you how much this city wants to shed its own identity and subsume the personalities and identities of every other city. As if to exaggerate the point, near Shanghai Times Square is Hong Kong Plaza.

  In the evening, we meet friends in Shanghai. Marc and Camille are both teachers at an international school in the city. As with most of the people we meet on the road, our first encounters were through social media. They want to go to Kenya as they embark on their own round-the-world trip, and we had just been there.

  “You got lucky,” Marc tells us.

  “Why is that?”

  “The pollution isn’t bad today. Normally it’s awful. You can’t see more than twenty meters. When it’s over two hundred, we wear masks.”

  I’m not quite sure what unit of measurement he’s referring to when he says two hundred, but the tone of voice makes it clear that two hundred is such an astronomically high number that we should live in constant fear of it. Terrorist attacks, plane crashes, and the number two hundred. If you have a healthy fear of those three things, you’ll lead a safe life.

  Marc and Camille take us out to a Sichuan restaurant, and they both impress us with their knowledge of the Chinese language, which clearly exceeds my “tow po.”

  “Don’t be too amazed,” Marc tells me. “All I really said was this and that while pointing at the menu. That’s it. It’s enough to order food.”

  We order too many drinks at dinner, then we grab a bottle of wine and head back to our hostel for a few more drinks.

  We wake up early the next morning to catch the bullet train to Beijing. Another unremarkable ride, except for the elderly man seven feet to my right who coughs up phlegm every three minutes. I’m no expert, but I would say he probably smokes too much.

  Chapter 19

  May 15, 2014

  40°26’25.7”N 116°31’29.4”E

  Great Wall of China

  The only problem with the piece of Sichuan rabbit leg I’m eating is that it is not, in fact, a Sichuan rabbit leg. It is indeed Sichuan cuisine, based on the burning sensation in my mouth and the name of the restaurant, cleverly called “Sichuan.” And it is rabbit, judging by the consistency of the meat. But it is not the leg of the rabbit, per se.

  A few days ago, we came to this same restaurant with our friends who speak Mandarin. One of the delicious dishes they ordered on our behalf was Sichuan rabbit leg. It came out on a long, rectangular white plate with five or six rabbit legs lined up in an orderly row, smothered in a spicy brown sauce. The food was so good that we decided to return, and I tried to order the exact same dish because it was so damn tasty.

  I get the rabbit part right. But as I flip my piece of rabbit over in my hand, I realize that my rabbit leg has teeth. Either I have been served a mutant rabbit that had teeth on its leg or I have mistakenly ordered rabbit head. That would explain why my dish looks entirely different than the serving of rabbit leg from before. This time, two pieces of rabbit “leg” are served on a circular white dish, and they are symmetrical. My rabbit has had its head cut straight down the middle, with each half of the head facing up, so as to appear more aesthetically pleasing. A closer examination of my rabbit head reveals eye sockets and what I’m pretty sure is the brain. Determined to stick to my rule of eating anything the locals eat, I finish my rabbit head and move on to the dish of spicy cucumbers, which is equally delightful and slightly more palatable.

  Sadly (at least if you’re picturing Bugs Bunny here, it’s probably sad), rabbit head is not the most bizarre food I eat while in China. Take your pick: duck tongue, chicken feet, squid jerky, and a few others I choose not to remember. These foods are as alien to us as General Tso’s chicken is to Chinese people. Frankly, I consider this their loss, since General Tso’s chicken is delicious. It just has nothing to do with authentic Chinese food.

  However, we didn’t come to China to eat. We certainly didn’t come here not to eat, regardless of how many strange and un-Western food–like substances they put in front of us, but food was not our primary goal here. I will shamelessly admit that in China, we came to be tourists. And that means going to the Great Wall.

  We wanted to do the Great Wall differently. Most tourists who sign up for a trip to the Great Wall inevitably find their way to one of two different places: Mutianyu or Badaling. These two sections are fully restored, and they are crammed with tourists and vendors selling to those tourists. There is little that is historic or original about what you see. But because these two places are relatively easy to get to from Beijing, they end up being the most common trips to the Wall. We were looking for something a little more authentic. And by “authentic,” I mean “illegal.” To be fair, I didn’t mean to mean illegal. It just kinda turned out that way.

  We signed up for a three-day, two-night hike along the Great Wall. It promised one night on the Wall and one night in a village near the Wall.

  The trip carries added significance for me. There are no hospitals near the Wall, so this hike will be my first chance to push myself since my diagnosis with no nearby options in case of an emergency. This is by no means a strenuous hike—at least it’s not supposed to be—but it marks our first bit of serious athletic activity since we started traveling again.

  Our tour company tells us to find a guy named Tony at a certain place at a certain time. Just be there; he will find us. Befitting this set of instructions, we meet Tony near the Pearl Market, one of Beijing’s biggest counterfeit goods supercenters. He is not a counterfeit goods expert—at least I don’t think he is. But he is an experienced tour guide in his early thirties.

  Tony is not his real name. Tony is his American name, because my American mouth can’t properly pronounce his real name. He has a thick crop of black hair—standard, it seems, for every male in China—and speaks excellent, if slightly accented, English. Tony leads us to a convenience store to grab some snacks, then on to a series of buses and cab rides that take up most of the morning. He keeps pointing at a printed piece of paper he’s holding.

  “This is what the instructions say to do.”

  It is comforting that he has instructions; it is equally discomforting that this seems to be the first time he’s looking at them.

  A few hours later, we pull into a small village that seems a world away from the metropolis of the city, and, after a quick briefing, we head for the Wall.

  This is where the “illegal” part of this excursion comes in. It is, without question, against the law to hike on parts of the Wall that are not properly restored, maintained, and sanctioned by the Chinese government. It is also, without question, a very popular undertaking for visitors not content with a simple day trip.

  As we approach the spot where Tony intends for us to climb up onto the Wall, a group of locals blocks our path. They demand payment for us to pass. A toll of sorts or, more accurately, a bribe. I have to admire their entrepreneurial spirit and their understanding of the finer points of economics. They have found something in low supply, i.e., entrances to the Great Wall, and decided to charge money for it. Tony is not as amused. He argues with them in Mandarin for a few minutes, but even I realize how fruitless this entire exercise is. We can’t report them for illegally charging us for what we illegally want to do. For either one of u
s to call the police on the other means we will all be thrown out together, and that seems counterproductive for everyone.

  We walk for a few more minutes near the Wall before finding a much less hospitable spot to climb up. We’re on a part of the Wall known as Jiankou, a secluded, crumbling section that has not been restored, and this becomes apparent as we begin hiking.

  There is no smooth, polished walkway down the center of the Wall, and there are certainly no handrails or handicap-accessible ramps. The Wall is falling apart here in very obvious and dangerous ways. This place would’ve been condemned in the States. Here you just get a warning to be careful. You’re on your own. Good luck. Break a leg, but only figuratively.

  The disrepair makes the Wall that much more haunting and beautiful. At times, we are not hiking along the Wall—we are climbing. Hand-over-hand scaling. The kind that has very bad results if you fall backwards or misplace a foot, hoping that the next stone is at least as secure as the last one. Cassie, who has some issues with heights, has to pause more than once to collect herself. I see the hiking as a big “fuck you” to diabetes, and I try to move a little faster with a bit more confidence. I will live my life by my own rules and no one else’s. I scale back a bit on my long-term insulin to make sure my blood sugar doesn’t drop too fast on the hike.

  The last time we hiked like this was in the Himalayas, where I probably came closer to dying than ever before. Now I am the master of my disease, not the other way around. It feels good to be healthy, happy, and traveling. I delight in every step and every breath. This is what life is about. Drawing the most out of every moment. Too often, that is an aspiration. Today, it is an accomplishment.

  Our host shows up at 6:45 p.m., sweating and exhausted from the hour hike to this point, weighed down by two tents, three sleeping bags, and dinner. Before starting our hike, we had arranged to meet him at an ancient guard tower that predates America by a few centuries. He makes us coffee first—a jolt of warmth as the sun sets and the temperature drops. Then tea. And finally, he puts out a dinner of rice, cabbage, tomato and noodles, beer, and Pringles. The food—quite delicious, especially given how far we are from the nearest kitchen stove—is almost entirely irrelevant. We are eating dinner on top of a tower on the Great Wall of China. He could’ve served us dog’s testicles, and it would’ve been fantastic.

  Our host, whose name we never learn, looks to be in his late fifties, with the same crop of short black hair and the weathered lines of someone who has lived in the country their entire life. And yet his smile comes easily. If he has lived a hard life, he will not let it show. He doesn’t speak a word of English, and yet we find ourselves laughing and chatting as we eat. He responds to our “Cheers!” with his “Gan bay!” and we sip our beer as dusk nears. After dinner, he packs up his belongings and heads back down to his village. We will see him again at breakfast.

  If the Wall is majestic during the day, it is mysterious at night. We set up camp inside the same guard tower. Small villages surround the base of the mountain we’re on. In the distance, the lights of Beijing reflect off of the clouds. The Wall snakes away from us in both directions—we are at the top of a mountain, so either way is down. Only the wind interrupts the complete silence, adding a chill to an otherwise beautiful evening.

  On a section of Wall we had hiked hours earlier, we can see the lights from another group bedding down for the night. Out here—out on the Great Wall of China—it’s impossible to be anything but happy and at peace. I am in the middle of the world’s most populous country, and there isn’t a soul around to bother me.

  Me, my notebook, and my camera.

  In this moment, everything else is superfluous. We travel for moments like this. We live for moments like this. Not a care in the world. I shiver against the evening cold, but I don’t fret about my lack of a jacket, mostly because I have no choice, having left mine in Beijing. Up here, everything feels like it’s far off in the distance. Even Cassie, sleeping a few feet away, feels a world apart. Noises from the villages below are faint echoes, drifting lazily up the mountain to my cozy spot on the Wall. Lights from the towns and cities are nothing more than remote pinpricks of color. I stare into the distance, trying to see as far as I can. Somewhere out there, thousands of miles away, is my home. My family and friends. The life I once knew. We are now just about halfway around the world. Up until this point, to keep going east was to go farther away from where we had come from, and now it is to draw closer. From this point on, every step forward is a step closer to where we started. In a sense, we are at the beginning of our journey home. And yet this feels like where we belong. Maybe not an abandoned guard tower on the Great Wall of China. But this perpetual motion across the earth.

  If the night lacks anything, it is a bottle of scotch, and I make a note to include that on my next visit.

  It was impossible to think a moment like this was even somewhat plausible when we had started planning our trip. We knew we would see the Great Wall; we just had no idea we would see it like this. Yet here we are, enjoying the quiet solitude of camping, but doing it on one of the Seven Wonders of the World.

  No one ever thinks “I’ll grab some shut-eye on the Pyramids” or “Let me take a nap in the Colosseum.” Those thoughts are absolutely ridiculous and would get you arrested posthaste. But here in China? Totally doable, especially when you have about five thousand miles to pick your spot. I wouldn’t say it’s exactly encouraged. After all, this is supposed to be a closed part of the Wall, and there are clearly signs prohibiting a camping excursion, but these are at most mere suggestions, which can be liberally ignored, much like traffic laws in Saigon, so long as you respect the Wall and don’t break anything that’s not your own leg.

  This made it absolutely worth everything we went through to get my visa to enter China.

  We had been warned that it was not a simple process, so we at least wanted that process to occur in the United States in English so that we might have a fighting chance if we had to enter negotiations. Applying for our Chinese visas in Vietnam seemed rather unwise.

  Our first trip to the consulate in New York City lasted all of about three minutes. Cassie had prepared all of our paperwork, checked and double-checked that we had passport photos, itineraries, names and addresses of hotels, and just about every piece of personal info apart from our social security numbers.

  The young woman at Window Seven looked at Cassie’s application, asked a couple of questions, then accepted the packet with a polite “Thank you.”

  My turn. Everything was going swimmingly until the woman at Window Seven saw the “J” word on my application. Journalist. That led to an instant rejection and an afternoon of frustration. Cassie’s application was retro-rejected.

  I had to get a letter from my boss saying the trip was for personal reasons. It was fruitless to explain that I was leaving my job in a couple weeks and would be unemployed, so of course the trip was for personal reasons. I didn’t think I’d have any luck pointing out that I cover shootings in North Philly, not international news. I did what in hindsight was the smart thing to do at that point and kept my mouth shut. For this, I applaud myself and my frail sense of patience, for it is at times like this that I tend to become a bit of a misanthrope.

  My boss wrote me the letter, confirming that my trip to China was not a professional trip, and I made my second trip to the consulate. This time, they accepted both of our applications and told us to return in a week.

  We were optimistic when we went back for our third trip. We had everything lined up and our paperwork was accurately filled out. Turns out only half of us should’ve been optimistic. Cassie’s Chinese visa was approved without a problem. She paid her $140 and got her passport back. I immediately knew something was wrong when I saw my entire application folded not-at-all neatly into my passport. On it, someone had written, “Come back one or two months before entry.”

  “Why was I rejected?” I asked in a tone of voice meant to hide my growing disdain for the
bureaucracy that was driving me nuts.

  “Because you are a journalist. Come back a month before your trip to China and apply again,” said the supervisor behind Window One, who was quickly becoming the target of all of my negative thoughts.

  Before I could fire off a not-so-pleasant response, Cassie chimed in, “We’ll be in Cambodia or Laos a month before China, and we want to get our Chinese visa here in the US.”

  “But you are a journalist. You can’t get a visa right now.”

  I pointed him to the letter from my boss that we had submitted, making it clear that I was leaving my job and that the trip was not professional in any way. Two things became immediately obvious. First, he hadn’t read the letter. Nor had anyone else. Second, he realized I was not, in fact, a threat and that I should probably be allowed into China.

  He smiled. “Come back after you leave your job and write ‘Unemployed.’ Then it will be okay.”

  Nothing about that makes sense. The Chinese would prefer unemployed vagrants to employed journalists? Apparently, yes. And wouldn’t the first question from the woman behind Window Seven or her equivalent be, “What was your last job? Oh, journalist? Well, you need a letter that says …”

  Since I had nothing to lose, we gave it a shot. Four days after I left my job (and two days after we shoved all of our earthly belongings into storage), I went back to New York City alone (trip number four). While I was on my way into the city, Cassie checked online to make sure the Consulate was open. Much to my chagrin, it was open. Much to my horror, they had suddenly redone all of their application forms and stated in no uncertain terms that the old forms would no longer be accepted. Cassie filled out the entire new application for me while I was driving, sent it to me, and I took it in.

  Four days later, I went back to the consulate for my fifth trip. Against all odds, they approved my application, and a fairly large, very conspicuous Chinese visa occupied the first page in my passport. As one of my friends put it: Bear Jew: 1, China: 0. I pointed out that it’s more accurate to say: Bear Jew: 1 China: 4. It’s the 1 that counts.