Connotations behind the use of language: 01 (English)

 

One of my evening programme students was a part-time translator before taking up an electrical engineering course at my suggestion.  

    He was passionate about TCM (Traditional Chinese Medicine), but had trouble earning anything at all, never mind a stable income.  This was around 1995, when TCM over here was still a bit sluggish in taking off.  I said it’d be difficult for him to convince people that a Westerner like him could do acupuncture and all that, and that he should go and get qualified in something like engineering that would get him a job easily and earn him a stable income, and then he could go and practice TCM as a hobby.

    He duly went off to do a course in electrical engineering and started working on big projects (earning ￡250/day, round about 1997).  I then noticed that he’d punctuate his conversations with “Do you know what I mean?”, which would get shortened to “Know what I mean?” with such frequent usage, then even down to “Nar mean?”. 

    I found this incredibly irritating, not so much due to how often it was trotted out, more because of what it implies:  that the speaker is saying something the listener might have trouble understanding, so the speaker needs to check every other sentence.  

    I can understand it if the speaker was explaining something technical (e.g., electrical engineering, TCM, Chinese grammar), but not in a conversation about everyday life scenarios.  I got so irritated at some point I’d say, “Yes, Connor*, I know what you mean.”  (*not his real name)

    I put this down to builder-/construction-trade-speak, as he was working on engineering projects like the CTRL (Channel Tunnel Rail Link) and Heathrow T.5.  

    Nearly thirty years later, I find someone else, albeit not a native-speaker of English this time, using a similar expression: “Do you understand?”, often reduced to “You understand?” or “Understand?” as it’s used so much.  What does this person do for work?  Yup, he’s a builder.  

    So, it looks like it’s a common expression in the construction business — perhaps because they’re often having to explain construction-related technical terms/concepts to people, which is therefore understandable (haha, couldn’t resist the word play here…).  

    However, if I’m right about why they say it, then how is it we do not find doctors doing it to patients and their family when explaining the whys and hows of the illness(es)?  So, maybe, not just because it’s technical…

    Anyway, the effect it has on me is that it makes the listener feel stupid.  The speaker needs to constantly check that the listener does understand, which is a bit insulting, not just irritating from the repetition.

(London, 1995 / 2024)

The human side to the bureaucrat (London)

 

Most people’s experience when they have to deal with a bureaucrat is not always warm, just to use one description that comes to mind — there must be lots of others. 

 

    Having to have any contact with a bureaucrat usually conjures up the image of some onerous task that one would rather not undertake.  

    It doesn’t help when/if the bureaucrat is not always warm/kind/sympathetic, which is the case in my personal experience of encounters with quite a few bureaucrats in two of the three countries I’ve lived in.  

    In some countries/cultures, the bureaucrat is often officious, with a fairly puffed-up ego about his/her position (having the authority to make your life easier — or not…; I’m not even talking about soliciting a bribe, although that is behind the attitude of some of them in some countries/cultures).

    With this background in mind, it was with great trepidation that I went along after my first two years in London to one of the government offices to apply for a National Insurance number.  An appointment was made for an official to come to my flat and have a chat with me.  (Those were the days when they had the time to travel to you.)

    The interview day arrived.  I let the official in.  As we sat down, I started off by saying that I had a great fear of officialdom, that I didn’t like dealing with bureaucrats from my past experience.

    At the end of the interview, with the outcome to arrive in the post, I went with him to the main door of my basement flat, walking behind him.  

    He went straight for the door in front of him.  I said, “Oh, that’s the door to the cellar under the stairs.  The way out is here, on your left.”

    He turned round and said, “Given how you feel about officials and bureaucrats, you should’ve just let me walk in there, and locked the door behind me…”

(London, 1979)

Definition of bureaucrat given by the MBP dictionary:  

Quote 

an official in a government department, in particular one perceived as being concerned with procedural correctness at the expense of people's needs: 

the unemployed will be dealt with not by faceless bureaucrats but by individuals.

Unquote

Chinese sayings: 30 (入鄉隨俗 / 入乡随俗)

 

入鄉隨俗 / 入乡随俗

rù xiāng suí sú

“enter country follow custom”

Another saying whose literal breakdown makes it clear.  The English equivalent is “When in Rome, do as the Romans do”.

    This was thrown at me by my sister-in-law during one of my visits home to Singapore.  She got fed-up with my voicing my horror at how Singaporeans mangle English (called Singlish, which they’re proud of) and Mandarin (a lot of which is pretty much dialect structure, vocabulary and usage rendered in Mandarin sounds).

    I’d be interested in how many other cultures / language groups have a saying that conveys a similar meaning.

    The concept of 鄉 / 乡 xiāng is a bit less straightforward, though.  A glance through the list found online will give you a good idea:

1. township
2. village
3. countryside
4. country
5. rural area
6. native land
7. home village
8. home city

    The list above shows you how multifarious the Chinese cultural perspective is on the concept of 鄉 / 乡 xiāng, which has to be interpreted according to the context — a word I constantly repeat in my teaching.  

    In the saying covered here (入鄉隨俗 / 入乡随俗 / rù xiāng suí sú / “enter country follow custom”), home village / native land would not apply.  It’d be more like “country”, or even just “place”, i.e., the person going to “Rome” in the English equivalent (When in Rome…) could be from the same country (Italy in this case), just a different place (not Rome).  This supports my point in the blogs* about translating/interpreting problems.

*If you’re interested, go to:  

https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2024/05/problems-behind-translating-01.html

https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2024/05/problems-behind-translating-02-london.html

Oxymoronic comment (London)

 

A student-friend aged 80 asked in her text if I was at Swiss Cottage doing my Long G (Longevitology energy adjustment) volunteering.  I pointed out that the Swiss Cottage sessions are on Saturdays, and today’s Sunday.

    She texted back saying, “My poor old brain is slowing down fast!”

    Love the oxymoron.

(London, 2024)

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.

The nature vs nurture of food: 03 (臭豆腐 chòu dòufǔ / stinky doufu / beancurd / tofu)

 

I’d heard the name 臭豆腐 chòu dòufǔ / “smelly bean rot” in my younger days in Singapore but never came across it there pre-1974.  

    In December 1974, en route to Taipei to take up my new job with Conoco Taiwan, I’d stopped over in Hong Kong for one night, arriving on Saturday afternoon and leaving on Sunday afternoon, long enough for seeing Hong Kong for the first time.

    At one point during my walkabout in the back streets and alleyways (which I find more interesting than the big touristy streets in any country), I walked past a roadside stall, parked at the junction of a back street and an alleyway.  A bad smell was emanating from the stall.  Spotting a drain (for chucking slops and uneaten food into) next to the stall, I thought, “That’s a very stupid man, selling his food next to such a smelly drain.”

    The following day, I flew into Taipei.  My flatmate took me into the bustling cinema area of Taipei for a look around.  As we were walking to the bus stop for the journey home, I caught the same bad-drain smell in the air.  My flatmate suddenly said, “Oh, can you wait here for a moment.  I need to go and get something.”  

    She returned a few minutes later with a bag of takeaway food.  As she got closer, I realised that the bad-drain smell was coming out of her takeaway bag.

    It was 臭豆腐 chòu dòufǔ, a famous Chinese bean curd dish.  An apt name that, interestingly, doesn’t put off the Chinese at all.  (The Chinese have no qualms about giving to dishes names that would be nauseating to the Westerner — a blog in the making.)

    I’ve never plucked up the courage to try it, but those who have say that the smell is much worse than the flavour, and that one can actually get to like it.  Hmmm, I’m not convinced yet — need more time (and nerve) to get round to trying it…

(Hong Kong / Taipei, 1974)

The nature vs nurture of food: 02 (Durian)

 

Durian is another marmite-effect item.

(MBP dictionary)

Quote

a spiny oval tropical fruit containing a creamy pulp. Despite its fetid smell it is highly valued for its flavour.

Unquote

Note the use of “fetid” for describing its smell.  Obviously written up by a non durian fan (and most likely a Westerner), because it’s not fetid at all to lots of S.E.Asian people.  Mind you, “fetid” is not as disgusting as some of the other words I’ve heard that are used for describing the smell of durian.

    I grew up hearing a saying: 

榴槤出，沙籠脫 / 榴梿出，沙笼脱

liúlián chū, shālóng tuō

“durian emerge, sarong remove”

    This means that when the durians come out on the market, the smell is so irresistible that the native people will take off their sarongs and pawn them to get the money to buy one.

    An English friend called Guy, who’d worked for Reuters, loved durians.  He was once in Bangkok with another Westerner who wanted to sample Bangkok’s red light area.  Guy said to go and buy his durians first before the stalls packed up, as the red light district would be open all night, so his friend agreed to it.

    Shopping done, they walked down the red light street, with Guy dangling his durians.  The prostitutes all fled.  Guy’s friend was not half pleased with him for ruining his evening.