Intangible Cultural Heritage

I limped up the alleyway stairs of a tattoo parlour in the Tianzifang neighbourhood of Shanghai. I was limping because I had recently got a tattoo on the sole of my left foot, a location which, while minimally painful during the process (thick skin), invariably heals poorly due to constant abuse. I was going up the alleyway stairs because this particular tattoo parlour was advertising painless tattoos. I thought, fake tattoos? Or something like henna? I was curious, thinking it might make an interesting article for a tattoo magazine.

It was a Sunday night and I was taking a gamble that they weren’t busy. I knocked on a locked door and a middle-aged local guy opened it. He didn’t look like your average tattoo artist – y’know the type; hipster, covered in random little tattoos, cooler than Frank Sinatra in Vegas – rather, he was humbly dressed in a plain black tee and only had a single, faded tat visible on his forearm.

“Hello, do you speak Chinese?”

“Uh, no.”

“Hm. Bad.”

It wasn’t off to a great start, but he waved me into his little shop. While he was decidedly idiosyncratic, the shop was reassuringly familiar: art and tat photos all over the walls, shelves of toys, equipment and electronic junk, wires hanging everywhere, art books, niche novels, and that not-unpleasant, vaguely-medicinal smell universal to all tattoo parlours.

“I’m curious about your painless tattoos.”

He gave me a funny look, and got out an iPad to begin translating for us.

<You are a tattoo artist?> he asked, pointing at my ink.

“No, I’m a writer, I was curious what the hell a painless tattoo is.”

<Ah, only a fan, I see.>

I nodded, shrugging.

“Are the painless tattoos permanent?”

<Yes, normal tattoo, but I apply a cream before that numbs the skin. Painless.>

“Oooohhhh I see. Is that common here?”

We continued like this for a while. He introduced himself as An Feng, 46 years old. I clarified that I’d be interested in writing an article on the tattoos if there was a story there, and he perked up (like any sane business owner) at the chance for free publicity. He told me he was going to America in a month to study, but also to try to open a tattoo parlour using his painless technique.

The phone rang and he excused himself to answer.

<You will stay? Someone comes up for a tattoo. You can see.>

There’s a bit of serendipity, I thought. The door cracked open and two young Chinese girls came in, smiling comfortably. An Feng gestured at me and, I gather, explained a little of what was going on.

“Oh you are a writer? I will help translate for you,” said Wanda after introducing herself.

“You should tell him you want a discount for your troubles.” We both laughed. An Feng wasn’t amused.

“You don’t mind if I watch or take some pictures?”

“No no, it is cool. I will be famous!”

An Feng went through the prep to get ready to ink Wanda. All three of them were smoking in the tiny little room. I resisted a head-shake; I’ve been told that the doctors in China smoke in the operating theatre. It’s different here yo.

Wanda and An Feng were discussing an image of various Thai-looking quotes.

“What are you getting?”

“I don’t know. I asked him for tattoos like Angelina Jolie, and he found these. He says they say Peace and Happiness and Love and stuff like that, but he doesn’t know which is which. I don’t care, so I just picked that one!”

I laughed and told her about my fucked-up Sanskrit tattoo. You can’t learn from your mistakes if you never make any…

An Feng went to work, smoking the whole time. Turned out Wanda didn’t want the anaesthetic cream, which would have added an additional 30 minutes to take effect.

“She is a tough man,” An Feng joked in English.

Fifteen minutes later, he was done. They haggled over the price, and I reminded her about the translation services. An Feng wagged a finger at me, half-serious. I asked what he had charged her, and she told me a number only marginally below what I had paid for my foot tattoo the previous week, which was reassuring. I had seen quotes online for foreigners starting at a minimum of about three-times what we had both paid for a basic tattoo. Make sure you haggle if you go for ink in Shanghai…

“He says he will take you for a massage now,” Wanda told me, gathering her stuff.

“Huh?”

“You will have a massage or an ear cleaning, and relax. Then you can discuss business and he will ask you questions about America.”

“Uh.”

She smiled and waved as she left.

“Ok we go,” said An Feng, a few minutes later.

I thought, briefly, about taking a pass – what the hell was I getting into? – but I’ve learned that you never say ‘no’ when you’re off the suburban path. We walked across the alley and went up another narrow set of stairs into a bustling little shop crammed with locals laying prone on low mats. An Feng chatted briefly with one of the medically-dressed shop-girls, and we waited ten minutes on some small plastic stools.

<Ear cleaning is very relaxing. You will enjoy it. We do not discuss business here – it is not appropriate.>

I nodded.

When it was my turn, I lay down on a slightly too-small mat as a petite woman opened her case of tools beside my head. What the hell was she going to do with that tuning fork?…

If you’ve never had your ears cleaned professionally, do yourself a favour and go get it done. It took about 30 minutes for both sides. It wasn’t the candle-wax thing that you’ve maybe heard of. My technician (I guess?) just poked and scraped and scrubbed with her various tools, and left a length of surgical steel in my ear while she rapped the tuning fork against her knee, then touched it delicately to the instrument sticking out of my head. It vibrated almost imperceptibly but felt ridiculously good. Toe-curling, eyelid-fluttering good. I laughed, elated. The technician smiled demurely.

The experience was more peaceful than the foot massages I had in Thailand, where the girls either yammered away between themselves noisily, or flirted awkwardly with me about my foot size. It wasn’t quiet in the ear shop, despite a sign demanding silence – Chinese people don’t seem to do quiet – but it still managed to be incredibly relaxing.

I knew better than to try to pay, so I let An Feng sort out the tab and just hoped I could give him some useful advice on America. We returned to his shop and chatted for another ten minutes about what sort of business he’d most easily get licensed for in the US – I warned him that a tattoo parlour was not high on that list. He said he could also open an ear cleaning business with his training and I told him something cultural like that would probably smooth out the process. On the other hand, I’m an unemployed Canadian, so what the hell do I know?

<I must go to bed as I have an early morning appointment. Will you return?>

I was supposed to leave for Japan in the morning, so I told him it was iffy. We exchanged emails and I told him to reach out with any questions, and I’d do the same if I could get an article written about his shop. He smiled politely and nodded.

<Wait, I have something for you> he typed, then went digging through his shelves of junk.

He pulled out an oddly-shaped piece of plastic and what looked like a butterfly knife. The plastic, he explained, was for holding between your knuckles when you punch someone, <in self defence,> and could be brought on a plane because it was plastic. The butterfly knife was really a butterfly comb. <For your long hair> he laughed while flicking it around in a mesmerizing blur.

It turned out An Feng was also a Wing Chun master. Cultural heritage indeed.

<Maybe I will teach martial arts in America. Do they know of Chinese martial arts there?>

I nodded. That might work.