A row of waving cats greets me as I walk in the door. The shop shelves are lined with ornaments that might be for sale. But I can’t really tell. It’s clean if a little shabby in the reception of the Traditional Chinese Medicine (TCM) clinic, with an exercise bike by the window onto a main city street. Outside there’s a long row of bus stops, yet it’s surprisingly calm inside.
Today I’m on a mission: to find authentic Chinese acupuncturists who can help with my foot pain and other assorted afflictions. I tried a clinic to the north of the city last week. Nice lady, bad part of town. I’ve thought about returning to the guy I visited 7 years ago. But I decide I still can’t stand the smell of perfumes from the hairdresser in the same block — smells that always knocked me sideways before.
A humourless Western guy awaits me at the desk of this new clinic, but doesn’t seem much interested. He asks me to wait whilst he finishes what he’s doing on the computer. There’s a sofa with a white sheet over it in the corner. I wonder whether to sit there or not. So I do. He calls upstairs on the phone and gabbles convincing Chinese that has me momentarily impressed. Then the doctor comes down.
She’s a diminutive older woman in jeans, Nikes and a white coat. She stands and stares as if she’s not quite sure what I’m there for. I explain that I’ve come for a free consultation and she leads me through to a curtained-off treatment area behind the counter. No warm welcome, no smiles. It seems enthusiasm may be strictly on ration here. It’s light and airy and I could imagine being treated in this space. I’m just wondering about the staff…
I explain the symptoms I’ve come for help with — foot pain, fatigue, allergies, gut problems… The doctor seems to be not entirely with it. She speaks in broken English and only picks up a few words of what I say. It’s not just a language problem though. She has a deadened look in her eyes and I wonder if she’s drugged. Or just depressed. Whatever the cause, she’s definitely not full of shen, the Chinese term for spirit which shows by the liveliness of our eyes.
She latches on to the last symptom I mention.
‘P-M-T?’, she shouts out to the guy on the front desk.
‘Pre-Menstrual-Tension,’ he replies, to clarify.
She’s none the wiser. Odd considering that’s one of the main complaints seen in TCM clinics.
‘Like a translation my love?’, he calls back.
The love bit really makes me cringe. He’s just not a love-y kind of guy. She trots round to the front so he can tap it in his translation app, then returns with a knowing look. I’m asked a string of questions about how my PMT presents. She tells me herbs will be just the thing and that no, my allergies won’t be a problem, so long as they’re not the kind that cause diarrhoea or runny nose. I’ll feel much better in a month. And that seems to be it. I explain how I really came seeking acupuncture treatment, but she tells me this isn’t so good for long-term conditions and herbs will work out cheaper in the end. Hmmmm, that’s not what other people are telling me.
Increasingly demoralised, I ask her to do me a pulse analysis, keen to salvage anything I can from my visit. She holds my pulse in one spot.
‘Yes, your yivver’s OK, heart OK.’
I’m awaiting the next instalment but… there’s not one. A real Chinese doctor or trained acupuncturist will feel both wrists in several places, getting a picture of the energy in each meridian. I’m beginning to wonder if this lady has any training at all. She’s concerned about the yellow colour round my mouth and eyes, that might suggest a liver problem. Though she tells me my liver is actually fine. Then she looks at the colour of my palms and feet, puzzled as to what might be making them so orange. I tell her I eat a lot of carrots, which swiftly marks the end of that conversation. In the meantime, I’m doing my own analysis, discreetly checking out the doc’s own hands. Her nails are pale and ridged, not like the glowingly pink and shiny nails — nails like none I’d ever seen before — of my old Chinese doctor. There’s nothing inspiring confidence as yet.
‘Are you a student? Are you working?’, she asks, segueing into some friendly chatter. I tell her I’ve not been able to work due to my fatigue. She obviously missed the fatigue bit the first time.
‘Where are you from… local? London?’, she enquires, familiar with the commonest options in these parts.
If I want to seem streetwise, I’ll say I’m from London. But if I want to emphasize the strawberry picking aspect of my childhood, I’ll say I’m from Kent. Truly though, I’m from the edge of both. Today I’m from London. Talking about my past and my family, there’s a brief moment of connection. The doc lights up, for the first time, with a spark of engagement. Whatever the situation, however weird the encounter, the basics of human experience — it seems — can always be shared.
As we return to the front of the shop, she’s still trying to sell me her herb mix. Mr. Deadpan tells me it’s very effective and he’s used this generic blend himself. Not presumably though, for his PMT. I tell them I’ll think about it. They smile broadly as I exit empty-handed, the happiest they’ve been so far despite my blatant lack of enthusiasm. It seems they’re only too relieved to get back to their ‘real work’.
Walking home my brain is abuzz. Nothing about this place adds up. The doc didn’t appear to be a long-stay resident, but it seems unlikely for an older woman to come to the UK if she’s been successfully working as a doctor in China all that time. Why bother? No other customers came in the short time I was there — not exactly a fantastic business proposition in such a high-rent location. The website picturing the woman who started the clinic, a third-generation doctor so we’re told, looked fully respectable. The clinic though, features no sign of anyone’s medical credentials. Nor a list of doctors on the wall. And how could they afford to employ a guy on reception who’s ostensibly contributing nothing to the outfit’s revenue potential?
I’m getting the feeling that TCM may not be the main point of this place after all.
Donning my research hat, I discover that many Chinese medicine clinics have been shut down; some for drugs involvement, others for running brothels above. No-one seems to have any suspicions about this particular venture though. Or at least if they do, they’re not shouting about it. Perhaps I missed some crucial clues in the leaflet… I thought it was just a cheesy Chinese use of English. Maybe there was something more encoded in their blurb.
If this place is any indication, expatriate Chinese medicine may have earned its reputation for being doubtful, dangerous or even deadly. Had I brewed up her herbs on such lackadaisical advice, I could easily have succumbed to a bad reaction with allergies as extreme as mine. If high-street clinics have their critics, it’s not hard to see why. No forensic help required today, thanks.
Having exhausted all the authentically Chinese options in town — as well as myself in the process — I’m forced to look at the idea of Chinese medicine as practiced by Westerners. I seriously doubted that a form of healthcare as complex, nuanced and elegantly in tune with nature as this could ever be mastered by a non-native. Wouldn’t you need to grow up with its theories and train for years as a doctor to really have it sussed?
Gradually though, the idea grew on me. I had to admit that no British person without a super-serious interest in the subject would take on the job. There’s plenty of easier therapies out there you could practice. So surely I could have confidence in the skill of a thoroughly trained Westerner? I don’t have to wait long for an answer. The next month I’m off to see a classically-trained Brit, a woman I’ve chosen because she shares my first and second name — which means we must have something in common. We do — and it’s wonderful. Nor do I need to negotiate aerotoxic hairdressers, seedy neighbourhoods or potential criminals. Bonus. Remind me please in future not to let me trip over my own prejudices. Give me a genuine non-native article over an authentic fake any day!