UPDATE: I have reposted this on Tianya to give it some air time among Chinese readers. By now the post has stabilized at around 3000 reads and 50 comments, I don’t think it will go much further. It was a nice experiment in Chinese BBS propagation, I will analyze the results soon.

.

译不达意

帮助迷失于中文中的老外找回爱之路

卖抠是我的好朋友。我们在美国老家是小学同班。虽然好几年没见面，但是我们的关系还是很密切。所以上个星期收到他的求救信让我很惊讶。他居然在中国！ 还说他一个人无友可靠！

我马上回邮请他来上海我家住几天，看看能不能帮助他。

他写的让我太诧异了。更奇怪的是，居然我发现他会中文。我迫不及待的要他说这是怎么一回事。他说一年前，在我们美国的老家，因为那个金融风暴他的公司倒闭了。他失业了不知道该怎么办，有一天在路上看到了一个广告说“学会中文掌握未来！”就决定了报名上中文课。谁想到卖抠爱上了他的老师曹晓琳，一个来自江西的留学生。不到三个月他们就谈了恋爱。

当然，有了中国的女朋友，卖抠的水平也进步很快。卖抠彻底爱上了曹晓琳，下定决心在她学年结束回国的时候一起去中国留学。为了尽快过语言关他每天从日出学到日落，做练习，甚至阅读中文的经典文学作品。到年末，他的中文已经好得不得了。只不过是，由于他大都分是从书里面学的，还缺了一点口头语能力。他讲得很书面，发音也不分声调，听起来怪怪的。

卖抠到我家的时候很难过，到中国以来他没办法联系晓琳。他还说不会再信任中国人，没想到这里的人会这样去欺负老外。我感到很奇怪，在中国住了好几年没碰到过什么问题，肯定因为文化差距有了个误会！ 我逼迫他立刻说出来到底发生了什么事，还要他仔细的描述所有的细节，看有没有什么地方他误会了晓琳。他告诉我下面这个故事：

*  *  *

卖抠是三天以前到达中国的。原来的计划是他到南昌机场时，晓琳来接他，带他去父母家介绍介绍。谁能想到偏偏那天下班之际，晓琳的老板找她加班到很晚。卖抠在飞机上没收到她的信息，到南昌他很难为情地发现不是晓琳而是他素不相识的曹爸爸来接机。

到了曹家，等待晓琳回家的只有他们仨：爸爸妈妈和卖抠。卖抠听不太明白他们的江西的口音，不了解晓琳在哪里，感到很寂寞。但是他怕第一次上门留下不好的印象，只好微笑地听着而不开口。不过一会儿，晓琳的妈妈端上了晚饭。

“卖抠，你先吃一点我们特色豆腐,” 曹妈妈说, “你们美国是不是没有豆腐吃的？”

“是的，基本上我们更喜欢芝士。”

“啊，真的吗？” 曹妈妈奇怪地说。

曹爸爸打破了一时的沉默：“卖抠，你们这几天在江西有什么计划，想去什么地方玩？”

“随便吧，我们美国最喜欢搭便车去自由自在地享受。”

“天哪!” 妈妈说, “你们真喜欢那个！”

“对，只要有司机接受，我们就很高兴随着他去”

曹妈妈的脸变得煞白，难过的说：“那么，我们晓琳也要参加那种活动吗？”

“对啊，她最喜欢，在美国的时候习惯了！”

曹爸爸打断问卖抠：“那到底你们要去什么地方？”

“我们去看什么地方要留学？”

“怎么留学？“

“对啊，我很想去上海她那边，她更喜欢北大，我们大家要解决留学的问题。”

“卖抠！你的父母叫什么名字！？”曹爸爸严厉地大声说。

“Tamara, Ben Seller, 晓琳没有告诉你们吗？”

曹妈妈吓了一跳道：“她说过，说过，只不过是我们忘记了，你先别急了。”

“你父母到底给你什么样的教育呢！” 曹爸说。

“这个。。。 基本上都是新教的教育”

“天哪！”

“对啊，老子也想跟晓琳一起了解一下。曹太太放心，虽然晓琳说没经验，但只要细读细读道德经都可以掌握了！”

突然曹妈妈站起来哭着离开房间，卖抠没有太理解她是怎么一回事。

“真是！” 爸爸喊起来， “你真不要脸！看你把我女儿弄成这样！我告诉你，我们这家可能是落后，不了解西方流行的习惯。但至少我们有道德！我的女儿万万不会接受这种对待！！”

“曹先生，我们大家可不是很好吗？”

“这里是个文明的家庭！你给我滚出去，否则我叫警察。你个流氓，你有严重的心理毛病，先回国看病，别赖着我们女儿！！！”

“可是。。我。。曹先生，晓琳到底在哪里啊！”

突然曹爸爸站起来，把可怜的卖抠推出去，没有再回答他的问题，而用力甩上了门。卖抠只好打车回南昌市中心试试联系晓琳，但是打电话打了半天都打不通。他最后想起来，他美国的老哥们儿在上海，就给我写了个邮件。以后的故事你们就知道了。

真奇怪！谁能帮助我把这件事情搞明白？

研究研究但还是没希望

听完卖抠的故事，我觉得晓琳的父母肯定对他的计划感到不高兴。我跟卖抠解释不要随便说话，中国的家庭比较保守，肯定不喜欢他这么“自在自由的”旅行的计划。卖抠还不懂为什么晓琳不接他电话，我说她是为了孝顺，父母说不要接她就不接。我说先要去了解她的父母有什么问题。

即然卖抠没有办法和他们沟通，再说他最怕再回去南昌面对曹爸爸，毕竟我只好提出我直接联系晓琳，和他见面了解一下到底发生了什么事。

她电话里面听起来很愤怒，一听到我是卖抠的朋友就要赌气挂断了。我马上说卖抠是多么好的个小伙子，他多么绝望，整天哭泣想着她。她终于松口同意解释一下，到底那个不幸的晚饭中发生了什么。她告诉我从妈妈听来的故事，弄我目瞪口呆。真是一个莫名其妙的对话，满口脏话的，甚至我不敢在这里写下来！

我回家花了很多心思分析她所说的故事，但不管怎么样还是没法搞明白。晓琳讲得这么厉害，不会是个简单的误会！除非曹家人都疯了我想不出来一个符合逻辑的解释。我开始嫌疑卖抠没有告诉我所有的细节。。。我家里面的气氛变得很闷。

过几天，卖抠最后放弃了，说反正他和晓琳的思想差距太大了。他已经买好了回美国的飞机票。最后一天他都没有情绪说话，我为了让他高兴给他说一下“Chinglish”的笑话，这是，中国人讲英文的搞笑的小故事。。。突然那个时刻我来了灵感，想起来了答案。我马上拿一张纸再记下来他描述的那个对话记录。

最后时刻找到了答案 !

我居然了解到的是这个：卖抠和曹父母之间的问题原来不是文化差距，而是语言不通！卖抠在江西的时候无知无觉得讲了很奇怪的个语言，只有我们老外能听懂的：老外话，Laowainese。我把卖抠说的话都翻译成中文再写下来了。结果让我很惊讶！怪不得小林的爸爸发火！！

要是读者会“老外话”的话，你肯定早就搞明白了。为了帮助那些没学过“老外话”的中国朋友，下面考配过来了我的翻译。你可以把鼠标箭头放在划线的词语上，看看“老外话”的翻译。

这就是曹家人那天在吃晚饭当中听到的不可思议的谈话：

“卖抠，你先吃一点我们特色豆腐,” 曹妈妈说, “你们美国是不是没有豆腐吃的？”

“是的，基本上我们更喜欢吃屎。”

“啊，真的吗？” 曹妈妈奇怪地说。

曹爸爸打破了一时的沉默：“卖抠，你这几天在江西有什么计划，想去什么地方玩？”

“随便吧，我们美国最喜欢大便吃去自由自在地享受。”

“天哪!” 妈妈说, “你们真喜欢那个！”

“对，只要有司机解手，我们就很高兴随着他去”

曹妈妈的脸变得煞白，难过地说：“那么，我们晓琳也会参加那种活动吗？”

“对啊，她最喜欢，在美国的时候习惯了！”

曹爸爸打断问卖抠：“那到底你们要去什么地方？”

“我们去看哪里要流血”

“怎么流血？“

“对啊，我很想去伤害她那边，她也喜欢被打，我们打架要解决流血的问题。”

“卖抠！你的父母叫什么名字！？”曹爸爸严厉地说。

“他妈的笨死了！晓琳没有告诉你们吗？”

曹妈妈吓了一跳道：“她说过！说过！不过是我们忘记了，你先别急了。”

“你父母到底给你什么样的教育呢！” 曹爸说。

“这个。。。 基本上都是性交的教育”

“天哪！”

“对啊，老子也想跟晓琳一起了解一下。操太太放心，虽然晓琳说她没经验，但只要吸毒吸毒道德经都可以掌握了！”

突然曹妈妈站起来哭着离开房间，卖抠没有太了解她是怎么一回事。

“真是！” 爸爸喊起来， “你真不要脸！看你把我女儿弄成这样！我告诉你，我们这家可能是落后，不了解西方流行的习惯。但至少我们有道德！我的女儿万万不会接受这种对待！！”

“操先生，我们打架可不是很好吗？”

“这里是个文明的家庭！你给我滚出去，否则我叫警察。你个流氓，你有严重的心理毛病，先回国看病，别赖着我们女儿！！！”

“可是。。我。。曹先生，晓琳到底在哪里啊！”

*  *  *

这就是我的老兄卖抠的故事。还好他那天没坐飞机，决定待在中国坚持找回他的心上人。他很辛苦，只有过几个月才找到了办法跟晓琳沟通，最后他们再合起来了。

那你们学中文的老外想一下，看中文里面的声调和发音是多么重要，以后好好学习。请大家不要再犯我的朋友卖抠的错误。

.

1. that is, you will be lost in the translation of Lost in Translation

Take Spain, for example. The Chinese community there is largely new, not fluent in languages, and originated from one single point in China: the tiny county of Qingtian, upriver from Wenzhou. When it comes to languages, the Spanish are not much better than them, and the whole situation is full of opportunities for the literate laowai. While a simple “nihao” is usually enough to be the hero of the day, some preparation yields better results. Just wander into a Chinese shop casually dropping a Qingtianese greeting, and comment on the remarkable history of the old stone-carving county, home of the Chinese-Spanish. This makes you popular. And you can drink tea and practice your Chinese conversation for hours on end.

What follows is a true story that happened in my last day of holidays. It includes a Chinese family with extraordinary sleeping abilities, and a team of adventurous Spanish ducks. I hope you enjoy it:

It was the first morning flight from Bilbao to Paris, where I was scheduled to connect with the Air France to Shanghai. As I entered the cabin of the A319, I marked immediately a Chinese family sitting in one of the front rows: a middle-aged mother with her son.

She was wearing a shapeless purple jacket in the style of the hundred names, and her teenage son covered his head in a Korean hip-hop hoody. They stood out in the business atmosphere of the early flight. But what made me notice them—and I couldn’t help a smile—is that they were already fast asleep before I even got to my seat. As far as I could see, they didn’t switch their positions for the duration of a rather eventful flight.

From the start, the journey proved trying for my nerves. As we were taking off, there was a loud bang coming from the back of the plane, followed by a vibration that grew stronger as we flew. For a while nothing else happened, but then, as we were approaching France, the plane suddenly leant to one side, and the Pyrenees mountains turned 180 degrees around us, until we were headed back West from where we came.

The noise grew worse, and the passengers with notions of geography were increasingly anxious. The town of San Sebastian appeared below us for the second time, only this time the ground seemed much closer. All the service call beeps went off one after the other. I looked around to the other passengers and they were all looking around. Nobody spoke.

Finally, the cabin crew appeared on the aisle, delivering row by row the official version of the facts: during take off a flying object had collided with the blades of engine 2, producing the bang and subsequent vibrations that we were experiencing. It was a common occurrence, and there was no danger. As part of the normal safety procedure, the captain had decided to return to the home airport for maintenance.

“It was probably a bird,” said the stewardess when she got to our row.

“A bird?” laughed the steward, “that was a team of big fat ducks!”

I figured he must have been instructed to keep a light mood. I tried hard to laugh, picturing circles of ducklings turning in the turbofan as we struggled to get past the sharp Basque valleys.

***

After an endless flight we were safety landed back onto Bilbao airport. As we were waiting to disembark, the pilot confirmed that the airplane was done for the day. We had to pick up our luggage first and then go to the Air France office on the second floor to request a new ticket. As usual, my suitcase was one of the last to appear on the rolling band, and by the time I got to the office there was already a long queue, about the length of a duck-stricken A319, and every bit as noisy.

The crowd was growing unruly. Some French passengers harangued the masses with true revolutionary spirit, launching slogans against all winged creatures, including ducks, airbuses, and Air France pilots. Since I was last, there was not much point in queuing, so I just stood on one side in a way to signify my disapproval. Then I noticed the focus was gradually shifting, as the keen Robespierres directed their anger to some unidentified target at the front of the queue. I walked over to have a closer look.

It was the Chinese family.

Clearly, they hadn’t understood the instructions to pick up the luggage, and they had come straight to the airline office before anyone else. They were first, and they showed no intention of giving up their position.  On the contrary, they were holding it admirably. The mother covered the rearguard with her fierce eye, while the son held fast to the desk. They were obviously well trained in conflictive queues, and they seemed unimpressed by the mob.

Linguistically, the situation was not ideal. The mother was screaming in Qingtianese, the son translated into Chinglese and an Air France employee replied in elaborate Spanglish, while the French head of office stared in disbelief. I was alone, and my faithful friend the Electronic Dictionary & Thesaurus was out of reach in the bottom of my bag. But the time was to act, and I did not falter in the hour of peril.

I cut right to the front and put in a “Qué pasa? 什么事?”. All four faces turned to me at once. The queue became suddenly quiet.

“They want to go to China!” cried the employee in Spanish.

“We want to go to China!” cried the son in Chinese.

The positions of the parties seemed to me very much unanimous, and ripe for an easy consensus. But further enquiry proved that it was not exactly so. I managed to reconstruct the following facts:

The family had slept through the flight, right until we landed back in Bilbao. Then they had not understood the strongly accented message of the pilot and they had dashed out of the plane straight to the connections desk, where they had been redirected to the airline office. And they acted so urgently because they only had one hour to catch the connecting flight. All they asked is to board their plane immediately, and they were pretty suspicious of this whole attitude of the staff in Paris.

Because they actually thought they were in Paris.

The problem was not an easy one to explain. Not only the mother’s mandarin was as bad as mine, but also she was determined, and she had a deep rooted common sense. They had just flown into Paris and therefore this was Paris, she would take no nonsense from a laowai. I used all my persuasion. I noted how the souvenir shops were selling bullfighters, and not tour eiffels. Finally the young son understood, and he helped me convince her. The fact was settled: We were in Spain, and there were no direct flights to Shanghai from this airport.

The rest was fairly easy to manage, and after a few minutes the three of us left the office with a new ticket. Once their infinite gratitude had been sufficiently expressed, I couldn’t help asking the son:

“But, how could you not realize that this is the same airport as before?”

“Well,” he smiled shyly, “Mum was just telling me that she finds all airports in Europe look strikingly similar!”

And his mother, who was tough but good-humoured, found it rather funny, and we all joined in a face-saving laughter. Then I knew I was engaged as official interpreter of the sleeping family.

***

In the end, my work as a translator served my interests well. We got our new tickets before anyone else, the last three places left to connect with the evening Paris-Shanghai. The revolutionaries were so stunned by the performance that they forgot to guillotine us, and the Air France employee gave us some free lunch vouchers for the VIP lounge. To make our wait more pleasant, she said, the company was offering one of their specialty dishes in the “Restaurant des Mondes”.

It was still far from the Spanish lunch time, so we had to wait while they opened the kitchen for us. The prospect of a free lunch worked well to improve the mood of my Chinese friends, and we had a lively chat in the VIP sofas. I took the chance to impress them with my baidupedic knowledge of their hometown. After that they opened up to me, and the last lines of suspicion finally vanished from the woman’s brow.

I listened distractedly as the son informed me of the state of the rap scene in Zhejiang. A terrible state that was, apparently, and I waited for a chance to switch topics. It was his mother that I found most intriguing. All the while she was sitting very still, as if lost in her own thoughts. She had an outside appearance that in China would be classified as “peasant”, but her proud, resolute eyes didn’t quite fit in the picture. What was she doing flying around with her single son? I finally asked him.

As it turned out, she was a renowned chef back home. Qingtian is the origin of thousands of Chinese restaurants across Europe, and their extended family had made a fortune with a popular chain of Chinese food. She had come as an expert to establish new recipes in the family restaurants in Spain, all the while teaching her son the secrets of the Chinese cuisine. They had toured the country for three months, making the company’s food “more delicious, more authentically Chinese”.

“Her most famous recipe is Beijing Duck,” said the kid, licking his lips, “You have never tried anything like that!”

“I would love to have a chance to try it,” I answered, suddenly hungry for duck.

Then the mother, who hadn’t said a word all this time, looked at me with a strange smile. I felt there was an invitation coming. Instead, she opened her eyes wide and nervously shook her son’s shoulder.

“Heavens!” she cried, “we still haven’t picked up our luggage!”

***

When I took them down to luggage collection, their belongings were still lonely turning around on the band, a number of shapeless pieces covered in woven tarpaulin. As we loaded them one by one onto a trolley, the son suddenly found something was wrong. It was the last packet, a cardboard box with some strange little holes pierced on the top. He held the box on his knees and showed me one of the corners where it had been torn open. The box was empty.

The woman was very upset. She started moving her arms up and down and speaking in her sing-song dialect at an alarming speed. I couldn’t understand a word of what she was saying, but the replies of her son were more composed, and I could more or less make out the gist of it:

“I told you we couldn’t take them on a plane, mum!”, he was saying.

“But how can we pass the long winter without them?”, she replied.

Suddenly I had a very dark premonition. While they were busy arguing, I walked over to the broken box and examined it carefully. As I held it up in front of me, a small, delicate object floated down from the broken corner. It was a feather.

I dropped the box as if it burned my hands, and I kicked it behind the rolling band were it wouldn’t be seen. I was in panic now, and I joined the arguing party with my own version of alarmed mandarin:

“We have to het out of here, NOW!”, I said.

“What? But the box?,” said the mother.

“Forget it!” I pushed the trolley towards the door, “we will see to that later!”

“What? But we have to file a complaint. They might have found …”

“No!”

I tried to control my nerves, as I envisioned charges for terrorism, and the dire diplomatic consequences of China’s national dish being presented as evidence of the crime. I tried to relax telling myself that at least there hadn’t been any human casualties.

“Please help us,” she said.

“We can’t do this now! Spain is a bureaucratic country, these things take a long time…” I muttered. “And anyway I’m sure your little friends are going to be fine!”

She gave me another inquisitive glance, like the first time I suggested she was not in Paris. She was clearly reconsidering about my sanity.

“Well, excuse me,” she said, “but they are important to me, and if you don’t want to help me I will have to file the complaint myself”

Just at that moment the airport PA system cracked with a life-saving announcement. All the passengers of the cancelled flight were asked to go back immediately to the second floor, were new information was awaiting us from the captain.

“Quick, this must be our lunch, let’s go before we miss it!” I translated, and this argument finally seemed convincing enough for the stubborn lady.

***

On the second floor, the slick French captain was putting in practice the company’s open information policy. The maintenance staff had just confirmed—he said—that  it was indeed the impact of external objects on the engine that had caused the vibration. The strange bodies had been already extracted and brought in from the hangar for analysis. The decision to return to the airport had proven a good choice, as it was the chief engineer’s opinion that we would have never made it to Paris.

A drop of cold sweat fell down my right temple as I considered the chances of those little animals finding their way into the turbine. Even if they managed to tear open the box and then break free from under the piles of luggage, even if they could unlatch the hold door with their little beaks, still,  how could they fly over to the engine? It seemed impossible. I remembered the laws of fluid dynamics, and how turbulent airflows exhibit nonlinear, chaotic behaviours. For the first time in my life I felt I understood the real meaning of the Chaos Theory.

In the meantime, the mother had sent her boy to inquire about lost objects, and he was explaining their problem to the captain in such a perfectly unintelligible English that the brave man could only smile politely. They looked around at a loss, only to see that their laowai friend was nowhere to be found. I had just in time slipped into the gentlemen’s restroom.

At this point, the airport loudspeakers buzzed again:

Passengers of the AF2435 to Paris, please proceed into our VIP lounge. As a special attention, we are offering you the chef’s specialty in our exclusive “Restaurant des Mondes”

***

I joined the family again as they walked down the corridor to the VIP Lounge. It seemed that the luxury meal kindly offered by Air France had conquered the heart of the frightful woman. Her expression showed no more pain for the loss of her beasts, and I hoped she had decided to give up the search. Presently, she was impressed by the quality of the service, and her mood was chatty.

“They know how to treat a client, in France,” she said conversationally, “back in China it’s not even comparable.”

“Oh, sure, great service here,”

“Even if they don’t have any proper backup plans,” she noted, “they are just great at doing nice surprises.”

“Oh, yeah, you can count on the French for surprises”

“It is all in the attitude, isn’t it?”, she said, and her only child nodded in agreement.

As we approached the “Restaurant des Mondes”, the atmosphere was so relaxed that I thought we had passed the worst. I just had to get them on our plane right after lunch, and there would be no more nonsense of lost object complaints. Then I saw the stewardess at the restaurant door, smiling. She held a large sign written in all the major languages of the World, including mandarin. It read:

TODAYS SPECIAL DISH:

“Thin-sliced duck Beijing style”

In case there were any doubts, underneath the text there was a colourful picture of a team of ducks thinly sliced as if by fast rotating blades, swimming in the dark sauce of the traditional Beijing recipe.

I tried with my body to hide the sign from their view, but I was too late. There was not much point anyway, the pictures were all over the place, and the food was coming out any minute. As we sat down, I peeped at her out of the corner of my eye. Her expression was enigmatic, the initial apprehension had turned into something more lofty. Was it triumph? I trembled.

The dishes were served and, unexpectedly, nothing happened. I glanced at my two friends. The were obviously enjoying their meal, emitting now and then favorable grunts and other judgements with the assurance of the true connoisseur. Then, halfway through their ducks, they looked at each other with an understanding smile and, following some mysterious signal, the lady suddenly stood up, knocking her chair behind her, and crying out loudly:

“I want to speak to the person who cooked this!”

There was a spark in her eye as she glared at the kitchen door on the other side of the dining room. I could not think of anything to say this time, so I just sat still, helpless as the slings and arrows flew swiftly towards their target.

Seeing that no help was forthcoming from my side, the mother ignored me and took direct action. She strode across the room and, without further preambles, she thrust open the kitchen door, roaring in Qingtianese. In a minute, the cook came out sporting a high chef hat and howling even louder than her. To my surprise, he was also employing some variety of Zhejiang dialect.

Then something strange happened. The moment he saw the chef, the son stood up and ran across the dining room charging like a fighting bull, and when the three of them were at a close distance, they came together in a long, warm hug.

I stood rather awkwardly next to them, wondering what was next. The chatter of the adults had risen to undecipherable speeds under the flow of emotions. I looked at the teenager for an explanation, but he was too absorbed speaking to the cook. Finally, I managed to catch some fraction of the conversation:

“Uncle Li, we knew it had to be you, nobody else in the World can cook Beijing Duck like mother! What are you doing here?”

“You know, I got a catering contract with Air France, didn’t I tell you?”

“Uncle, you really need to help us, mother is really worried! This laowai is with us, but his Chinese is so-so, and he just doesn’t get it!”

“Say, my boy, what is the problem?”

“It is the new down-filled coats that mum bought to take home for the winter. She was so upset when we found out that they’ve been stolen from our luggage…”