What it feels like to be massaged with knives in Taipei

The idea of being massaged with knives sounds similar to torture, but those who practise the art believe in its ability to expel negative energies and cure ailments. In Taiwan, undergoing a cleaver-based wellness treatment is becoming increasingly popular. Jamie Fullerton travelled all the way to Taipei to discover this cutting-edge treatment.

Hsiao Mei-Fang, the woman in charge of the Ancient Art of Knife Massage Education Centre in Taipei, orders me to open my right hand, place it in front of her colleague Netty's stomach and say what I feel. I should be able to sense Netty's qi, her life force; Hsiao says the level should be very high given the situation we are in.

We are immersed in the peace of the garden of a villa in Zhuzihu, a mountainous area in Yangmingshan National Park famous for its meadows covered with Nile lilies and located 15km north of Taipei, the capital of Taiwan. Behind us are two huge boulders that I am assured are meteorites, and thus should be pulsating with qi energy. One is wrapped in something that looks like cellophane, Hsiao explains to me that it 'helps to retain energy'.

Netty has been shaking two wooden chopsticks (these are also supposed to be saturated with qi) for the past 10 minutes while she performs the moves of some exercises on a purple mat lying on top of gravel. I admit that I feel no change in life force by concentrating on my hand. I only feel vaguely anxious about what is about to happen.

"I know why you feel nothing," Hsiao's voice proclaims over the clatter of Netty's chopsticks. "Your body is too tired. Your qi door is not open."

Knives out

Hsiao has agreed to give me a demonstration of the ancient art of knife massage, a tradition that the expert would like to revive in Tawain. Wearing a lab coat and matching sterile gloves, she explains that the practice probably originated in China a good 2500 years ago.

It was originally performed by monks, who believed that by touching the skin, the unsharpened metal blades would drive negative energies out of people's bodies. During the Chinese Tang dynasty (618-907 A.D.), the tradition was exported to Japan, but according to Hsiao it did not reach Taiwan until 1949, but only after the end of the Chinese Civil War.

For decades, it was a niche treatment in Taipei, practised mainly in private homes rather than in spas and clinics as it is today. Fifteen years ago, Hsiao was working as a holistic therapist and teacher, and one of her students introduced her to dao liao, immediately making her passionate about the practice.

Hsiao tells me that after trying them, she felt a pleasant sensation of warmth and suddenly began to sleep well. He also claims that after the knife massages he stopped seeing the 'strange ghosts' that had made appearances during his life. "Some people will think it's crazy but for me it was a cure," he says.

Now Hsiao's team offers dao liao treatments in 36 centres around Taiwan, either as part of a holistic path or as individual massages. They regularly bring steel massage knives to the villa to place them next to the meteorites and let them 'recharge' with qi energy. Hsiao says that, unlike with normal massages, during a session with the knives he is able to clearly see the client's life force.

As a cynic of all things supernatural, I admit to being sceptical. "Have you seen the movie Doctor Strange?" Hsiao asks me, referring to the Marvel film released in 2016 that stars Benedict Cumberbatch as a sorcerer and tells of otherworldly dimensions. "You ask me how I see qi, how I read it... it's like the movie." Understood.

Undergo the treatment

In the garden of the villa, Hsiao tries to replenish his qi levels by doing a handstand and then nimbly opening his legs; he explains that it is one of the quickest ways to replenish qi. He invites me to hold my hand open in front of his body, but once again I declare that I feel nothing mystical. Not at all discouraged, he leads me upstairs to undergo a knife massage.

The ritual begins, I am made to sit on the edge of the massage table, and one of Hsiao's students starts hitting me with two knives on my back and shoulders. The strokes are pleasantly precise and, replacing finger pressure, the use of the knives gives the treatment a more constant rhythm than a massage performed with the hands. The knives are not sharp at all; if I didn't know better, I would say I was being hit with wooden chopsticks instead of slaughterhouse tools.

Hsia invites another student to massage the one who is treating me with knives. Then he takes his paraphernalia and starts massaging the student in turn, creating a chain that is very reminiscent of an infinitely more relaxed version of the human centipede. Finally, they make me lie down and Hsiao gently taps the knives against my face and my arms covered with a towel.

Fifteen minutes later I sit down and feel regenerated, alert and happy, but far from seeing even a shadow of qi. It's a shame, it seems like a useful skill.

'It's like having X-ray vision when I perform a massage,' says Netty. She smiles. "Do you know that many women learn this to find out if their husbands have sex with other women? They read their qi." In my head I wonder how wise it would be to allow such big guns to be used by someone who suspects they are being cheated on.

That evening, back in town, I receive photos from Netty showing me before and after the massage. In the former I look rather dull; in the latter I admit I look much more present and awake. Netty writes:'The photo on the right looks much younger than the one on the left. We have cured your wrinkles."