THE FAX FROM CHINA
- Jun 1
- 5 min read
The Final Obstacle
After many discussions, particularly with my mom, I shared a feeling that had been building inside me for years: a sense of entrapment.
Throughout school, I was constantly told that the next stage would be better. In Year 7 and Year 8, I was told that moving into upper school would change everything. Then, in Year 9, when I still wasn’t enjoying school, I was told that GCSEs would be different. Later, in Years 10 and 11, I was assured that A-levels would finally be the answer. Yet even then, I could already see the next step waiting beyond that—a four-year university degree.
To me, it felt like an endless conveyor belt.
The problem was that I already knew what I wanted.
I had a dream.
I had a clear vision of the life I wanted to live.
Every year spent following a path that wasn’t mine felt like another year moving away from that vision. The social structure I was living within felt less like a system of opportunity and more like a cage holding me back from realising my potential.
Eventually, my mom agreed. If this was truly what I wanted, we would find a way.
Because I was still under eighteen, travelling to China was far more complicated than I had expected. As a minor, obtaining a visa required additional paperwork, and at the time the Chinese authorities would only grant me a maximum three-month stay. That wasn’t a concern. I understood that once I was in China there would be opportunities to extend my visa if necessary.
The real challenge was getting the visa in the first place.
To apply, I needed proof of flights and an official invitation letter from the place I would be visiting.
Since I was training with what I believed to be a genuine Shaolin monk in London, it seemed natural to seek his guidance. After all, he came from China and was connected to the Shaolin Temple itself.
At the time, I referred to him as Shifu—a Chinese word meaning master.
Our relationship was unusual. It revolved almost entirely around training and my admiration for him. In my eyes, everything he did was impressive. Yet as the years passed and I got closer to him, cracks began to appear in the image I had created.
I saw him smoke.
I saw him drink.
I saw flashes of anger.
I watched him eat meat.
Slowly, questions about his authenticity began to surface.
Still, whenever China was mentioned, he always reassured me.
“China easy,” he would say. “Anything, no problem.”
As departure day approached, the flights had already been booked. My bags were practically packed. Yet the visa application remained incomplete because we were still waiting for the invitation letter that Shifu had promised to arrange.
Days became weeks.
Weeks became months.
The closer we got to the flight, the more distant he became.
With less than a week remaining before departure, panic started to set in. We called him repeatedly, explaining the urgency of the situation. But now he seemed to hide behind his limited English.
“Shifu, I need letter. One week, go China.”
“My English no good,” he would reply. “No understand.”
Desperate, we even drove to his house. Yet face-to-face, the result was the same. Whether he couldn’t help or simply didn’t want to help, I never truly discovered. What I did know was that the letter wasn’t coming.
That afternoon, as we drove home, my mom looked across at me with sadness in her voice.
“Oh babe,” she said, “it looks like we’re going to have to postpone your trip.”
For most people, that would have been the end of the story.
For me, it was the defining moment.
I looked at her and replied:
“Give me tonight. I’ll sort it out.”
She nodded.
“Okay.”
As soon as we arrived home, I grabbed my bicycle and my Chinese phrasebook and headed straight for the local Chinese restaurant on Wormley High Street High Street.
The restaurant wasn’t open yet. A sign on the door said they would begin serving at 5 p.m. I wasn’t prepared to wait. Crouching beside the letterbox near the bottom of the door, I began shouting through it.
“Ni hao! Ni hao! You ren ma?”
Hello! Is anybody there?
I banged on the door.
I shouted through the letterbox.
Five minutes passed.
Then suddenly, a young Chinese man appeared.
He looked as though I had just woken him from an afternoon nap.
I explained my situation as best I could. In broken English, I told him that I was due to fly to China within days but still didn’t have the invitation letter required for my visa. I handed him my passport details, personal information, and the contact details of the Shaolin training centre I hoped to attend.
He listened carefully.
“It’s late in China now,” he explained, “but later tonight I’ll do my best.”
I thanked him.
“Xie xie.”
Then I climbed back on my bike and rode home.
That evening, beginning around 10 p.m., I started calling the restaurant for updates.
Each time someone answered, they would politely ask:
“Can we take your order please?”
“No, no,” I would reply. “I’m the young boy who came in earlier. Did you call China?”
Click.
The phone would disconnect.
I called again.
And again.
And again.
By midnight, nobody was answering at all.
Lying in bed, I stared at the ceiling.
What if this was it?
What if I never made it to China?
What if the dream ended here?
Before leaving the restaurant, I had given the young man one final piece of information: the fax number for Hertford Regional College across the road from our house.
At the time, hardly anyone had internet access, especially in rural China. The invitation letter would need to be sent by fax.
We didn’t own a fax machine.
But my stepfather worked at the college as a student support worker and knew the security staff well from his previous role as a maintenance man.
If a fax arrived, that was where it would be.
My mind running in circles eventually tiredness got the better of me and I fell alseep.
The next morning, at around six o’clock, I woke my stepfather and asked him to come with me to the college.
Together we crossed the road and found Mohammed, one of the security guards.
After hearing the story, he kindly unlocked reception and allowed us inside.
I sprinted through the building towards the office.
There, sitting in the fax machine tray, were six sheets of paper.
Three copies in English.
Three copies in Chinese.
The invitation letter had arrived.
I couldn’t believe it.
My face lit up as I grabbed the pages and ran home.
We immediately headed to the Chinese Visa Application Centre and paid for the same-day service, which cost nearly twice as much as the standard application.
Then we waited.
Hours later, my passport was returned.
Inside was a three-month Chinese visa.
At last, it was official.
The dream was alive.
My bags were already packed.
The following day I would board a plane to China.
It wasn’t the first time I had flown without my family.
But it was the first time I would travel to Asia.
The first time I would set foot in the country that had occupied my imagination for years.
As I sat there holding my passport, one thought echoed through my mind:
The first step towards becoming a Shaolin warrior had finally begun.
The journey of a thousand miles was no longer a saying.
It was now my reality.
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