Friday: Round One

One of the delightful Oriental cultural experiences available to those working here is -- you guessed it -- the visa application process. My colleagues and I were informed a while back that we would all have our files submitted for the "Foreign Expert" qualification. Now, this is actually very helpful; it means that we won't have to have our visas renewed every ninety days, and it just looks good sitting there in your drawer, you know what I mean? Of course, we had a few papers to submit: a current resume, photocopies of all of our academic and professional qualifications, passports, eight 3x5cm photos, and a health certification. And we had to submit them by the next day. C'est la vie, as the French say. At least, they do when they're in China.

The problem, of course, is the health certification, which none of us had. So the school cancelled all of our classes this past Friday and herded us onto a bus at (or shortly after) 7:00 AM. We were going to get physicals!

The bus drive lasted for approximately 7,000 years -- years which seemed longer because the bus was made for much shorter people than I am and because we had been instructed not to eat before we went. Some of us were a bit hungry. Matt told us that he was dying (this statement was shouted down by the nurses, who set about explaining to him the vast reserves of energy that his body possesses. Such killjoys, nurses). It probably also didn't help that the driver (not our usual guy) appeared to have a rather dim acquaintance with the area. At one point we drove half a block down a one-way street (the wrong way, of course). This wouldn't have been so bad, except that it was under construction. And that there was no place to turn around. And the bus doesn't really reverse so well. At one point, we were moving construction barriers around so that the bus could drive on top of the roadwork-in-progress in order to escape.

We arrived at the Foreign Clinic at 9:30ish, and were (in the greatest medical tradition) given forms to fill out. We did so. And waited. After another hour or so, during which Matt claimed that he could feel his stomach chewing its way out of his body, we were whisked into another room and given numbers.

They took us, one at a time, into the Back Hallway and gave us our Approved Medical Attire, which consisted of a one-size-fits-all bathrobe and little purple footies to place over your shoes. The problem, of course, was that one size does not fit all. At least, it does not fit me. I was deeply grateful that I was allowed to retain my pants (as, no doubt, was everyone else). I was then seated in the hallway, clutching my form, with my bathrobe ties creaking ominously. It was Foreign Expert Medical Exam Time!

My blood was taken by a hematological choreographer who alternated between stabbing, drawing, telling people to "press hardly!" on their wounds, and hurrying them out of the room, all the while maintaining a pleasant expression. I was given a chest X-ray by a couple of technicians who were (rather ominously) laughing as they dismissed me. My blood pressure was taken, although the cuff didn't fit (they solved this problem by jamming up as high as it would go on my elbow). I was given a vision test. I received an ultrasound (!) during which it was confirmed that I do, in fact, have a liver. A serious-looking doctor listened to my breathing. And finally, I was given an EKG (a rather off-putting experience, if you've never had one; I kept expecting the doctor to unveil a huge switch connecting the clamps all over my body to a lighting rod, or to say something like "I've just sucked one year of your life away. I might one day go as high as five . . ."). The whole time, the various clinic personnel were marking off boxes on my form as though I was part of some kind of medical scavenger hunt ("Person with a liver: check!").

To tell you the truth, though, I wasn't really bothered by anything except for the last blank on my form. I was greatly relieved when they told me that I could get dressed and I gave the form back with that blank unfilled. I just don't know that a gynecology exam would agree with me.

Dave