The transformation of China into a modern, industrialized nation largely boils down to imitating the West. Such copy-catting makes it easy for foreign minds to fall prey to cultural relativism. And medical relativism, which is also a shame. For there exists a wealth of Chinese medical knowledge which can benefit any body, foreign or Chinese, and prevent its needing the scalpel or horse pill.

Acupuncture and TCM are relatively well known overseas. Ba Guan, much less so. To appreciate it, one must abandon the misconception of an efficient circulatory system. Unlike cars or houses, our bodies are composed of spongy meat, riddled with countless nooks and crannies. So unlike brake lines or plumbing, our veins and capillaries leave much of the body’s fluids uncirculated, in tiny stagnant pools. Sedentary computer-bound lifestyles aggravate the situation. Sleeplessness, sluggishness, and a host of other common complaints that eventually grow acute and demand western doctors’ attentions are the result.

The invisible knife, which starts stabbing under the right shoulder after half an hour hunched over a computer, led me to Ba Guan. Massage only delayed the attacks for a few hours, and I fear acupuncture. Not for the needles, mind you, but because of the western ‘expert’ who had left my right arm feeling as though it had been amputated and reattached by an amateur Dr. Frankenstein.

I learned of Ba Guan inside a Chinese pharmacy, seeking pills to fight my assailant with. The doctor was in, right upstairs in fact, and there was no waiting. Before I’d time to give in to medically relativist misgivings, I found myself stripped to the waist on a massage table, fitting head to hole.

Doctor Guo pressed and prodded, discovering without my help that not only my right scapular area, but also my waist were in need of a leeching. You see, the skin is the body’s largest organ (your author’s excepted). Heated glass cups applied to key points on my back would suck the blood and lymph out of those hard to reach crannies, sending it back into general circulation. Furthermore, the toxins and other impurities accumulated in such stagnant fluid would be drawn to the skin’s surface, where they could be naturally eliminated.

Face down on the massage table, I wasn’t privy to the sight of Dr. Guo’s ministrations. I heard the clicking of his lighter as he heated the cups from the inside. At first, he’d press them down firmly and just as quickly take them off, creating a brief tingle and a loud pop. A little oil slathered on, and the doctor pressed the cup until he had suction. Then he began rubbing it vigorously up and down my spine. The friction quickly grew unpleasant, but far from intolerable. Just when I was beginning to grit my teeth he laid off with a pop.

I was now prepped for the shank of the operation. A dozen or so heated glass cups applied from shoulder to waist. There was no sensation of burning, or even excess heat, but the skin drawn up into the cup quickly went from hickey pressure to firm pinch. A little uncomfortable, to be sure, but the localized pinching pain subsided into a generalized tingling numbness, assuaged by the image of all the foul byproducts of hard living being leeched to the surface and cleansed.

The whole procedure took twenty or thirty minutes from unbuttoning to rebuttoning my shirt. I felt a long-lost looseness in my neck and shoulders, and a sense of general relaxation, which inclined me to believe the doctor’s promise that I would sleep like a dead man that night. The 30 kuai bill was a pleasant surprise. The welter of ugly purple circles adorning my back was a nasty surprise; those with cleaner constitutions only bear bright red marks – the purple was poison. Anyway, I wouldn’t be at the beach anytime soon, but I would be back at the computer, the invisible knife decidedly absent.

Ernie - Chinaexpat.com

 

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