When in China, Speak Chinese
Pointing at a menu may not be a good way of ordering food in Chinese restaurants So there I sat, looking at this rice, with a brownish-red liquid splashed over it in the name of a sauce, and worst of all, the spongy chunks do not look or taste like any meat I have ever tasted. I jumped up with rage to complain to the fuwuyuan (waitress) that this was definitely not what I ordered. Well, the jumping up part I did, the complaint part, however, never happened. I stood at the counter mouth agape, like a fish that had just been pulled out of a perfectly wonderful lake. All languages that I have ever spoken in my life flashed through my head like neon signs, but no Chinese phrases came to me that day.
You see, from my first day in Beijing, I was lucky to have a roommate who had previously lived in Tianjin for three years while working on his Master’s degree. We actually flew in from Accra together. So I was lucky as my friend Mike was with me every day, or I rather followed him around every hour. Do not blame me on that score. I knew no word of Chinese, and everything sounded like well…Chinese. But a few days after arriving in Beijing, he had to travel to Tianjin. I surmised rather arrogantly that I could maneuver the language wave of Beijing for one day at least. After all, I was not planning on moving too far from the university campus in his absence. The plan was simple, grab lunch and get back into my room…grab dinner and get back into my room. And hopefully Mike would be back by the next morning, and my rough time will be over. Oh, how I overestimated my capabilities.
At lunch time, I walked with the confidence of a man who has just bought a new Armani suit and has a bank account full of cash into one of the restaurants on campus, ready to order and enjoy some good food. That is when my troubles started. How to tell the very nice fuwuyuan the name of the meal I wanted? Oh, and what is the Chinese name for a menu again? Like many brave sojourners before me, I resorted to a time-honored communication weapon: pointing and making gestures. Eventually, she figured out what I wanted, rice and some pretty nice sauce with chunks of meat (at least so I thought). I retired to a seat with a bottle of coke I had ordered (yes I pointed that out, too), waiting for my bowl of rice and wonderful sauce.
After salivating for 15 minutes, the food came, and my nightmare escalated. No, this was certainly not what I ordered. Spongy meat and soupy sauce with rice? Definitely not what I picked. Now, how do I say that in Chinese? Flashes of all the Ghanaian languages I could speak came and went in nanoseconds: Akan, Ga, Ewe, and my own hometown Guan. I even had flashes of my long forgotten French lessons from the junior high school. None of these were going to be helpful in this situation. After standing there for what felt like hours with an open mouth, I had to accept that Chinese language had just whipped my backside.
Turning around like a man who just lost his fortune on a stupid bet, I walked out of that restaurant with my tail between my legs. Luckily, there is always a McDonald’s when you need one. I walked as slowly as I could to the McDonald’s and got myself a chicken burger and some fries. In case you are wondering whether I did not need to speak Chinese for this meal, because as you all know, there is always that excited McDonald’s team member in China who can speak English. In any case, a burger is always a burger.
I learned the tough way that my technical skills teacher from the junior high school was right: always use the right tool for the right job, or in my case, the right language for the right country.
The writer is a Ghanaian student studying in Beijing
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