So I'm working part time as a "consultant" at the restaurant/English library, the Bookworm, that is a favorite hang out for foreigners here. I guess the title is consultant, really I'm just making sure the chefs don't mess anything up on the new menu. Turkey is not generally roasted in paprika and oil. I'm not sure I would put pork meatballs in the cream of mushroom soup (not bad though!).
This means I spend a lot of time telling chefs what to do. Oh no. Nevermind the language barrier, sometimes these guys just don't want to listen. So I take whatever ally I can get. If that ally is the ayi, or lady who cleans up after everybody, I'll chat her up a little if it means she will nod respectfully in a meeting later.
Ayi has a son. Her son, like every other Chinese person from 12-18, studies English. She asked me last Saturday morning if I could teach him English. No. I cannot. If he comes to the restaurant, can you talk with him a while? Well, I'll be off this afternoon and I'd love to meet him, sure.
So 11:30 rolls around there's a chipper young student, book in hand, standing in the middle of the kitchen. After an unceremonious shooing, I establish that I can chat with him later. Disaster stirkes, hours later, when I start with, "what's your name?" and he responds by blushing. "Do you like basketball?" he remains mute.
I tell ayi I'm too busy today, maybe he can email me. Chinese students who can't talk often write quite well. We'll start there. I don't know what part of that she misunderstood, but the poor boy ended up waiting until 5 when I finally finished up. Unable to converse, I gave him an English name (Joseph) as some sort of consolation prize and told him I was done for the day.
I went to join my coworkers in an after-work Sapporo. Two hours later, when I went up to the kitchen to get some fries, who do I mean but a forlorn Joseph, reading his book at his mother's insitence. Apparently he was instructed not to leave until I did. Tough love I suppose.
I just received a nice email, with the subject, "Dear Mrs. Allison." Close, buddy. Enclosed is a kind and loving account of his desire to learn English, I guess, cause he wrote the thing in Chinese. So I'm off to the auto-translator and probably a nice conversation about colors and numbers this weekend.
Next time you're up in arms about your 8-hour day, just be happy you didn't spend it sitting on a bag of rice waiting for a beard-faced laowai to call you Joseph.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Every Year Has Fish part two
A few days ago someone mentioned to me that there is no word in Chinese for "propaganda." Some have compared Chinese to Orwell's Newspeak in its simplicity. Add to that the government rewrote the language in the 50's and a phrase like, "there is no word for propagnda" is downright terrifying.
But much rumination has led me to believe this is the sort of fear that comes from lack of education. Since Chinese is a language that adds words together for more meaning, as opposed to English, which makes whole new words for things, it probably sounds like "government-administered information." Maybe. More likely, a person describing propaganda would not use a word, but rather describe the situation with one of our colorful metaphors. I expect "the weathly minister promises much fish," or, "Beijing offers words but not food," would encapsulate the feeling of propaganda far more effectively than trying to translate the word directly.
This is the gap we must bridge.
For more information on this phenomenon, please refer to Star Trek, the Next Generation, Season 4, Episode 2: "Darmok."
But much rumination has led me to believe this is the sort of fear that comes from lack of education. Since Chinese is a language that adds words together for more meaning, as opposed to English, which makes whole new words for things, it probably sounds like "government-administered information." Maybe. More likely, a person describing propaganda would not use a word, but rather describe the situation with one of our colorful metaphors. I expect "the weathly minister promises much fish," or, "Beijing offers words but not food," would encapsulate the feeling of propaganda far more effectively than trying to translate the word directly.
This is the gap we must bridge.
For more information on this phenomenon, please refer to Star Trek, the Next Generation, Season 4, Episode 2: "Darmok."
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Every Year Has Fish
As reassuring as the idea that we will never run out of fish may be, this phrase has been dogging me for weeks. It was on an advertisement for cooking oil and I can't for the life of me connect the annual possession of marine life to pressed canola. Now, I've often peppered my emails with my favorite chinglish phrases, but this one is different. This one was in Chinese.
The trouble with reading Chinese is you don't know what you're going to read until you've read it. Oh, I remember with what joy I slowly sounded out the words on the sign near my apartment. What secrets would it reveal? What product or service had I been missing out on all these years? "Permit parking, 7-9:00," it read. "Additional parking on Nanyaun Street." Oh. Actually that sign was pretty disappointing.
It turns out most things written in Chinese are the same as things written in English. "Two Birds appliance factory: the best in Jiangsu," said a billboard. "Safety first" was all I gleaned from the sign on the construction site.
Of course Every Year Has Fish makes perfect sense to the other billion people here. But this is a language that is steeped in metaphor and imagery. Although my sampling of Chinese food has widened to dishes like sour cabbage fish and Wuxi-style ribs, I'm still trumped by dishes like "Cross the Bridge Rice Noodles" and "Monk Jumps over the Wall." What do you do when, after 15 minutes of poring over a menu, you come up with "the Old Scholar Reads Quickly?" The same thing I did when I couldn't read a lick of Chinese: just eat the thing.
The trouble with reading Chinese is you don't know what you're going to read until you've read it. Oh, I remember with what joy I slowly sounded out the words on the sign near my apartment. What secrets would it reveal? What product or service had I been missing out on all these years? "Permit parking, 7-9:00," it read. "Additional parking on Nanyaun Street." Oh. Actually that sign was pretty disappointing.
It turns out most things written in Chinese are the same as things written in English. "Two Birds appliance factory: the best in Jiangsu," said a billboard. "Safety first" was all I gleaned from the sign on the construction site.
Of course Every Year Has Fish makes perfect sense to the other billion people here. But this is a language that is steeped in metaphor and imagery. Although my sampling of Chinese food has widened to dishes like sour cabbage fish and Wuxi-style ribs, I'm still trumped by dishes like "Cross the Bridge Rice Noodles" and "Monk Jumps over the Wall." What do you do when, after 15 minutes of poring over a menu, you come up with "the Old Scholar Reads Quickly?" The same thing I did when I couldn't read a lick of Chinese: just eat the thing.
A panda walks into a restaurant
Eats
One of the reasons we travel is to have a unique experience, or see something out of the ordinary. It seemed, at first, as though the town of Anji in Zhejiang had not provided anything new to anyone since the KFC was built 8 years ago. Unlike msot of the toursit destinations I've seen, I was shocked to find no 800-year old temples, tea houses hanging over canals, or huge statues of Mao Zidong pointing us to the shopping district. Indeed, it was a town that seemed to have given up. After a day of meandering through the wide, empty streets, we became concerned we might never see anything of value. But, when I asked the taxi driver if there were any good restaurants in town, I received a response that was entirely novel: "no."
Shoots
So why? Why go to Anji? In fact, the real attractions lie to the South, in the still-rugged hills and still-standing forests. The "big bamboo sea" is the largest reserve of bamboo on Earth. And the big bamboo sea lived up to its name! Just off the paved road that led to the filming site of "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon," lay a pristine creek-side trail that led into the heart of the tall, green nothingness. A few meters later, we were surrounded by bamboo. More importantly, for the first time in months, we were not surrounded by people. The desertion of Anji proved to be a hidden wonder: the rocky path that wound along the series of waterfalls at Nine Dragons Gorge had but a few English students who wanted to make friends with me. At the top of the mountain, the service at Nine Dragons tea house was impeccable: we were the only customers.
Leaves
Having seen the wonders to the South, sailed the bamboo sea, and stood on the dam of which the locals were unusally proud, there was but one task left: buy something kitschy. I had hoped to find some creative bamboo products, perhaps a wooden Olympic mascot or a calendar bound with leaves. But the Anjian's lack of entusiasm for their own town extended deep into the forest: there were none to be found. Instead, we discovered a final hidden jewel: everything for 2 RMB stores! It turned out the people of Anji were full of the up-and-coming enthusiasm I've come to expect from the Chinese- it was just directed towards bargain-basement crap in bins on the floor. Our bags laden with rubber balls, screwdrivers and sticker books, we boarded the bus back to Suzhou and the ever-quickening pace of modern China.
One of the reasons we travel is to have a unique experience, or see something out of the ordinary. It seemed, at first, as though the town of Anji in Zhejiang had not provided anything new to anyone since the KFC was built 8 years ago. Unlike msot of the toursit destinations I've seen, I was shocked to find no 800-year old temples, tea houses hanging over canals, or huge statues of Mao Zidong pointing us to the shopping district. Indeed, it was a town that seemed to have given up. After a day of meandering through the wide, empty streets, we became concerned we might never see anything of value. But, when I asked the taxi driver if there were any good restaurants in town, I received a response that was entirely novel: "no."
Shoots
So why? Why go to Anji? In fact, the real attractions lie to the South, in the still-rugged hills and still-standing forests. The "big bamboo sea" is the largest reserve of bamboo on Earth. And the big bamboo sea lived up to its name! Just off the paved road that led to the filming site of "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon," lay a pristine creek-side trail that led into the heart of the tall, green nothingness. A few meters later, we were surrounded by bamboo. More importantly, for the first time in months, we were not surrounded by people. The desertion of Anji proved to be a hidden wonder: the rocky path that wound along the series of waterfalls at Nine Dragons Gorge had but a few English students who wanted to make friends with me. At the top of the mountain, the service at Nine Dragons tea house was impeccable: we were the only customers.
Leaves
Having seen the wonders to the South, sailed the bamboo sea, and stood on the dam of which the locals were unusally proud, there was but one task left: buy something kitschy. I had hoped to find some creative bamboo products, perhaps a wooden Olympic mascot or a calendar bound with leaves. But the Anjian's lack of entusiasm for their own town extended deep into the forest: there were none to be found. Instead, we discovered a final hidden jewel: everything for 2 RMB stores! It turned out the people of Anji were full of the up-and-coming enthusiasm I've come to expect from the Chinese- it was just directed towards bargain-basement crap in bins on the floor. Our bags laden with rubber balls, screwdrivers and sticker books, we boarded the bus back to Suzhou and the ever-quickening pace of modern China.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
