Isolated mountain village (China)

In 1978 when I first went to SOAS (School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London), I came across a mainland Chinese publication called China Pictorial (中国画报 Zhōngguó Huàbào), a magazine that has more pictures than words (photojournalism as we’d call it).

    In one of the issues, there was a piece by a Chinese journalist who went to a mountain village.

    It had one road in and out, therefore little contact with the outside world.  Surrounded on all three sides by mountains.

    Main diet was millet, vegetables, and the occasional meat. 

    The journalist went there because a high percentage of the population there were over 65.  Of those over 65, there were quite a few over 80.  Of the over 80s, there were some over 100.

    The journalist interviewed two members of the older ones.

    One was a woman aged 103 or something who stayed at home to look after the youngest generation while the three generations in between (children, grandchildren, great grandchildren) went out to work in the fields.  She also cooked lunch for them (maybe even dinner, as they would be tired after working out in the fields all day).

    The other person interviewed was an old man aged 105 or something.  He was photographed out in his field, leaning against his hoe, with a Chinese pipe (long and thin, very small bowl), filled with homegrown tobacco.  

    The journalist asked him, “How long have you been a smoker?”

    The old man said, “85 years.”

    So, it was not the smoking but the lack of stress, the journalist said.  And the healthy diet.

(China, 1978)

Losing track of time: 02 (London)

I was given a small Mac in the summer of 1987(?) to work on at home when I was tasked with compiling a list of the traditional character equivalents for the simplified character database that we had on our Unix system in my office at SOAS (School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London), where I was working on two Chinese computer research projects:  Speech Recognition and Speech Synthesis, and CALL / Computer Aided Language Learning).

    My desk was in a corner of the living room at a north-facing window.

    I had surrounded myself with five different dictionaries to cross reference.

    I’d get home from SOAS around 10pm.  (I always left at SOAS closing time, 9pm, one of the last to leave the building.)

    I’d walk straight into my living room and switch on the Mac first, as it took time (this was 1987) to boot up, then go and remove my shoes.  That was how keen I was to get going.

    During one long stretch, I’d only get up out of my chair in the corner of the living room to go to the kitchen for coffee or to the loo, then back again.

    At one point, I looked up out of the window.  The sky was a shade that I couldn’t tell was dawn (4am in summer before it got light) or dusk (9:30pm before it got dark), that was how sucked in I was by the database conversion work.

    I had no idea at all which day it was, and how long I’d been working at it.

    In the end, I found out that I’d been sitting there, working at it for 19 hours non-stop.

    So, I can understand how these artistic people could be so lost in their own creative world all the time.

(London, 1987)

A bit of Catch 22: 02 (Google translate)

 

Some of my students have gone to google translate for decoding Chinese text, or for translating English text (in their own heads, say) into Chinese (for them to send out as messages, e.g.).  That’s how I come to learn of the mistakes in the translations. 

    Question is:  how are the students supposed to know that there are mistakes and where (/ which ones) they are? 

    The fact that they’d gone to google translate in the first place must mean that they didn’t know what the source text (e.g., Chinese text) is saying, or that they didn’t know how to render the English message in their heads into Chinese for sending out.  

    However, they will have to be good enough in both languages to detect the level of accuracy in the resultant translation.  And if they’re good enough in both languages, why then go to google translate? 

    This is, of course, a simplistic perspective just for the purpose of the focus of this blog (which is on the Catch 22 element of the exercise).  I have used it myself to test it out, or to help me out when I’m stuck for the right word / translation for something I’m working on, especially as a translator.

    I’m not discrediting google translate at all here, just toying with the Catch 22 element in this exercise.  It is a very useful tool a lot of the time, but the user needs to be of a certain level of proficiency in both source and target languages to know if the google translate version is right / good enough.  The user will at least need a high’ish level of proficiency for this, which would therefore exclude anyone of intermediate level and below, perhaps.  

    Still better than nothing?  Or is it potentially serious to end up with bad or, worse, wrong translations?  I have in mind translations that could give offence or result in disasters.

    One example of the potentially disastrous outcome of a wrong translation:

    A German friend on the Japanese degree course at SOAS (School of Oriental and African Studies) in the 80s was asked to take over a summer job at a car factory in Luton, translating manuals, published in Japanese, containing technical terms used in the automobile industry.

    Being meticulous and sharp-minded, also well read and knowledgeable on a wide range of subjects, he spotted the English translation of a chemical that goes into car engines, which he felt was not right, so he went to the original Japanese text.  

    Sure enough, he found that the person who’d done that translation had picked the first of two similar-looking items on the list in the dictionary, without checking out the significance in the difference.  The Japanese language has long and short vowels.  That first translator had not only picked the wrong one but, worse, one that would blow the engine up.

Pinning down the relevant Chinese character: 02 (Taiwan; mainland China)

 

When I was doing my first degree at SOAS (School of Oriental and African Studies) in the late 70s, a Canadian chap there, John, told me the story below about him trying to pin down the relevant Chinese character for a particular sound.

    In those days (the 70s), John couldn’t go to China (maybe because it was still the Cultural Revolution, or Canada didn’t have diplomatic relations with mainland China).  John, therefore, went to Taiwan.

    Here’s my summary of the situation there at the time, from my own experience of working there 1975–6 for Conoco Taiwan.

    Taiwan was where Chiang Kai-shek had fled to when he lost to Mao Zedong, making it his base.  He was, of course, determined to get the mainland back.  Mao Zedong was never referred to by his name, only as 毛匪 / Máo fěi / Bandit Máo.  Ditto all the others on the other side of the Taiwan Strait, so Zhou Enlai was called 周匪 Zhōu fěi / Bandit Zhou, etc.  The oft-repeated slogans talked about “rescuing” their compatriots from the hands of the 共匪 gòng fěi / communist bandits.

    It was in this kind of linguistic environment that John the Canadian learned his Chinese in Taiwan — in the classroom, and outside by (among other means) watching as many TV programmes as he could for total immersion.

    John was later able to go to Beijing for further studies.  He mixed with people of his own age (late teens or early 20s).  

    One day, as his Chinese friends were talking, John heard a sound he couldn’t quite peg to a character, so he tried to get clarification by asking, in Chinese, “你们刚才说的 fei 是不是共匪的匪? / Is the fei [sound] that you have just said the same fěi [bandit] as in gòng fěi [communist bandit]?”

    The whole group went quiet and looked at him.

    John suddenly realised where he was, “Sorry, sorry, wrong country, wrong country!”

    They all burst into laughter, and said, “It’s all right.  We know that’s what they call us over on the other side.”

(Taiwan / mainland China, 1970s)

The brain works in wondrous ways: 11 (Recognition in a split second)

 

Old friend Simon from SOAS (School of Oriental and African Studies) days chanced upon a copy of the coffee table book I’d worked on in the early 80s.  It was to go with The Heart of the Dragon, a 12-part Channel Four TV documentary series on China, launched in January 1984.  (Yes, 40 years ago already!!)

    I then stumbled across the series on YouTube, uploaded only a year ago by one of the three editors, Laurence Williamson.  (Thank you, Laurence!)

    The opening episode, Remembering, is a summary of the history of China pre- and post-1949.

    In the pre-1949 section, old documentary news footage of the civil war in China in the 30s and 40s was used as a backdrop to the narration.  

    Among the scenes of people fleeing, shots of wartime equipment (military trucks, e.g.) and soldiers (including non-Chinese ones), especially in Shanghai (I think), also flashed across the screen, but only for a few seconds before the narration moved on to another historical slot.

    After that episode was aired on Channel Four in late January 1984, we got a letter in the post from an old woman (white, British) who said she recognised her husband in one of those quick flash-by archive footage shots, asking if she could have a copy of that shot of him for keepsake.  

    I went through the footage and found the segment she was referring to.  It was a split second shot, and only featured him from the side, yet that lady recognised him immediately — and some 50 years back as well when he was a young man.  

    The brain is an amazing organ, indeed.

(London, 1984)

Chinese sayings: 29 (林棲谷隱 / 林栖谷隐)

 

林棲谷隱 / 林栖谷隐

lín qī gǔ yǐn

“forest perch valley hide”

The literal breakdown of this saying makes it pretty clear:  perching in the forest and hiding in the valley.  It refers to the act of hiding away from the rest of the world, or to a hermit/recluse.

    Playing the Chinese crossword puzzle game on my phone, I notice how many Chinese proverbs there are for referring to becoming/being a hermit.  (Historically in China, a lot of them are Buddhist and Daoist practitioners.)

    In the context of the modern world, it is a very attractive option:  just leave all this horribleness behind and take off into the woods or the caves, surrounding oneself with / losing oneself in some kind of wilderness.  

    My second reaction, though, is:  how is one going to survive?

    The definition of “hermit/recluse” is one who lives in seclusion/solitude.  The Chinese equivalents 隱居 yǐn jū / “hide dwell” (to hide oneself away and live) and 隱士 yǐn shì / “hide person” (person who hides away [from the rest of society]) are only about living alone, not actually totally cut off, so it is possible to become a recluse, as one would still have the support structure up to a point.

    By “support structure”, I mean the system that provides the daily necessities.  

    I can imagine growing one’s own food, even to the point of self-sufficiency — certainly in a location with more clement weather conditions (e.g., the tropics where fruit and veg thrive throughout the year, with no growing seasons and cut-off periods of dormancy). 

 

    What, though, does one do about things one cannot produce independently without a lot of trouble and entailing a lot of tools, e.g., clothes and shoes (bound to get worn out at some point and need to be replaced)?

    A chap a year below me at SOAS (School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London) for my first degree course, a London-born Pole, told me when he was working on his PhD (on some aspect in classical Chinese grammar) that once he’d completed his PhD, he’d go somewhere and lead a self-sufficient life, growing his own food, with as little to do with the outside world as possible.  

    He was aware that he’d need to rely on the outside world for things he cannot produce himself, so he started doing a woodwork course, to make/repair cabinets and furniture, in order to earn money to buy things like cooking oil (bad example, as one might actually be able to dispense with it in one’s diet, but you know what I mean).  

    We lost contact after that, so I don’t know if he did actually manage to achieve his dream.  

    And if he had indeed become a recluse, he wouldn't be reading this blog so that he can get in touch and update me.

Chinese sayings: 26 (愛之深責之切 / 爱之深责之切)

 

愛之深責之切 / 爱之深责之切

ài zhī shēn zé zhī qiè

The deeper one loves, the more cuttingly one reproaches

Old friend Chris and I were reminiscing about our SOAS (School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London) days.

    One teacher who liked him (fortunately for him, as she had a reputation for targeting one student in every grade) would say the way he wrote the Japanese letter ほ made it look like a bean sprout.  

    My reply:

Quote

Ah, that might have been one of those cases of 愛之深責之切 (the deeper one loves, the more cuttingly one reproaches [or mocks/laughs]).  You can tell from the fact that it's a set phrase that it's common practice.

    My St Joseph's Convent Primary 6 form mistress was a Mrs Enid Byrnes, a Scottish lady who was very fond of me (she signed my autograph book with "To my darling [+ my name]"), but always singled me out precisely because of this.

E.g.,

1. She'd hide my school bag (put it outside the window — we were on the ground floor), and watch in glee as I searched everywhere.
2. She'd drop a small piece of chalk down my back, and watch in glee as I tried to fish it out.  Our school uniform was a white short-sleeved shirt under a dark blue pinafore, belted at the waist, so the small piece of chalk would be wedged in there, trapped by the belt.  She'd then say sternly, "Stop fidgeting!”
3. She'd say maybe I could marry Mario, her son, then during school release time, she'd suddenly look out of the classroom window and say, "Ah, I see Mario walking home from school!" and call out, in a lilting "yoo hoo" voice, "Ohhh Maaa-riooo!" and watch me blush.

Unquote

(London, 1980; Singapore, 1966)

Problems behind translating: 02 (London)

 

I worked on a BBC documentary series (1984? 5?) called The Bamboo Screen, about the kind of material Chinese audiences got on their TV.  The director chose Beijing, Shanghai and Guangzhou (/Canton) TV station programmes, selecting from the whole range of news, entertainment (soap drama, e.g.), documentaries, etc., and also interviewed TV directors/producers plus experts over here.

    She came back with Chinese TV footage.  The clip featuring a Chinese new year variety show programme saw the audience falling about laughing almost every other line at what a comic duo (very common formula in Chinese entertainment) was saying on stage.  The BBC director was interested to include that clip in The Bamboo Screen, and got me to watch it with her and explain why they were laughing so much.

    Chinese comic duo sketches typically feature a thin man [the intelligent one] and a fat man [the slow witted one], with the thin one constantly doing word plays at the expense of the fat one, which the latter has difficulty following.  This is the case in this clip, and this is why the audience was laughing every other line.

    This was how the comic dialogue started: 

Thin man:  Here we are, about to welcome in the Year of the Tiger.  You were born a tiger, no?  (The Chinese use animal imagery a lot when insulting people, like in Engl but a lot more.)

Fat man:  Oh yes.  (Audience laughs.) (Fat man does a double take, as it begins to dawn on him that the thin man is saying he's a tiger, not a human, and he's just agreed.)

Thin man:  Oh, I meant you were born in the year of the tiger.

Thin man:  Your wife was also born in the year of the tiger, no?

Fat man:  Yes.

Thin man:  Then she's a tiger girl.  (Audience laughs, as fat man agrees.)  

Background:  There's a famous story in Chinese literature, 駱駝祥子 / luòtuò xiángzi / “camel auspicious man” /  Rickshaw Boy, published 1937, by Lao She*, featuring a young man kidnapped by some barbarian tribe, escaping later with their camels which he sold, and then worked as a rickshaw puller.   The daughter of the rickshaw-hire boss was a shrew, called Tiger Girl, so it's not a compliment at all -- a woman is not supposed to be tigerish anyway even if not for the story behind the name; any man with a Tiger Girl would be henpecked.  (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rickshaw_Boy)

    So, only a few lines into the comic sketch, and the translation for the subtitles was already going to take paragraphs and paragraphs to decode the original.  The director gave up.  

    The English equivalent I can think of would be calling someone Shylock without having to explain it, but would need some background filled in for an audience that hasn't read Shakespeare or doesn't know the story at least.

* Lao She 老舍 taught Mandarin Chinese 1924–1929 at the then-SOS (School of Oriental Studies, now SOAS / School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London).  Some of his stories were set in his time in London.

(London, 1985?)