Cinese di merda

Cinese di merda!

 

This was hurled at me like a badly thrown javelin. It fell wide from the mark but the intention stung nonetheless.

 

The Puma-hoodie, Nike Air sporting Italian youth more or less just called me a shitty Chinese. My friend, who was sitting next to me as we waited for our bus, stared at me open-mouthed. Probably out of embarrassment, since she was Italian. Strange, how we feel responsible for the actions of our compatriots like they’re an embarrassing significant other meeting our parents for the first time.

 

My first urge was to shout back. Not abuse though. You see, having been abroad for a while, clarifying the difference between ‘Hong Kong’ and ‘China’ has become an instinctive reaction. Ah, you see, I’m Chinese but there’s a difference. The convoluted explanation of colonial history inevitably peters out into a shrug in the face of the I-don’t-see-why-this-matters expression of the person I’m addressing.

 

It’s not the first time I’ve been on the receiving end of racist treatment. Spend enough time in places where you’re obviously a foreigner and some idiot is bound to do something to you. The sniggering Albanian youths throwing tissue pellets at me for the best part of a two-hour long bus ride. The waiter who serves every single table except for mine. While these may be annoying, they don’t really hurt. In the first case I was too pre-occupied with doing a deal with the devil at every mountainous turn to be bothered with the pellets anyway. The point is, these incidents didn’t hurt personally because they weren’t accusing me of being anything.

 

But Cinese di merda. That’s different. To make matters worse he might actually have a point, and an accusation that you know is true is always worse than one that’s false. For a moment I was 14 again, my face stinging as my mom told me that the baggy T-shirt with a dinosaur on the front was, contrary to what I thought, anything but cool.

 

First off, I got offended for the wrong reasons. I was more bothered about the fact that he called me ‘Chinese’ than anything else. And yet, I am. National identity for me is a bit like the fact that I have Justin Bieber on my iPod. It’s something I don’t feel anything in particular about until someone shoves it in my face, in which case I feel obliged to defend it. It came with the charts. It’s good for SOME situations! The anthem-touting adverts want me to be proud, a feeling I just can’t feel about any national identity.

 

Another thing is that, all things considered. I am quite shit at being Chinese. Or any nationality, for that matter. For various reasons, (probably because God was having an off day when he made me) I feel most at home when I’m not at home. If being a good Chinese means being able to recite classical poetry and tell the order of the 12 year Chinese Zodiac, I’m pretty much out. While we’re at it, why would anyone think a poem about being stranded from home is a good first poem to learn? Maybe the gushing homesick nostalgia of those succinct lines instilled in us from an early age an underlying propensity towards all things distant and tragic. Who knows? Also, why isn’t the panda part of the zodiac? Someone should start an online campaign for that.

 

But I digress. I guess I just enjoy pretending to be in a group that I don’t belong to. Sometimes it’s subconscious. Since English isn’t my native language, I don’t have a ‘default’ accent to fall back on, and it changes according to the people around me, or the TV shows I procrastinate with. A couple of days with a friend from Texas is enough for a few ‘y’all’s to slip into my vocabulary; a binge-session of Doctor Who leaves me with a slight Scottish drawl, kudos to David Tennant. Sometimes this gets me into awkward situations, as people think I’m making fun of them when my accent morphs into a bastard child hybrid of their own one and quasi-American. The Mumbai bakery shop owner’s burning stare as I said ‘OK’ in what must have come across as a mocking Indian accent accompanied with the sideways head-bobbing ‘nod’ I picked up after two weeks, is still vivid.

 

But really, am I that different from the rest of you? Don’t we all want to experience being someone we’re not? I don’t know about you, but half of the time I lie, I do it for no apparent reason other than creating an alternative image of myself. The thrill of convincing a taxi driver in Beijing that I was from his city and grew up in an orphanage tells me more about myself than I would like to know.

 

And indeed, isn’t it the same with the host of ‘national’ symbols around us? Minute differences in pronunciations or a few extra letters in the alphabet gets magnified out of proportion; miniscule differences in foods warrant a different name and nationality. It seems that we are intent on creating small differences so that we can celebrate them under the slogan of tolerance, while deriving security from knowing what’s ours and what belongs to the omnipresent them. Nationalities aren’t there for us to be proud of. They’re there so we know when we’re experiencing something new.

 

My friend opened her mouth to shout back, but I mumbled something like whatever. She looked at me, exasperated, as the offending youth ran away with his amici. Our bus came, surprisingly on time. She waved it down, her Thai, Hindi and Chinese wrist charms rattling audibly. We boarded the bus, which happened to sport an advert for cheap vacations with pictures of grinning tourists and locals.

 

We passed the group of teenagers as we drove away, and I smiled as his electric blue Puma hoodie faded into the distance. I guess at the end of the day, I am a Cinese di merda. But so are the rest of you.

Flied Lice

As a Chinese, travelling in foreign countries can be quite harrowing. Not that there are lots of racist people running around—it’s just that Chinese tourists, or more accurately, Chinese-looking tourists (sorry to the Japanese and the Koreans) have built up a stereotype for themselves which can sometimes be quite unflattering. The standard ‘Chinese kung-fu posture’ for photo-taking— one leg in front of the other, both knees slightly bent and just enough tension in both leg and facial muscles to suggest that one is trying to move something heavy and smelly. The ubiquitous checkered shirt tucked into trousers two sizes too large, or, God forbid, in hot countries, the diabolic combination of socks and sandals.

As if this wasn’t enough, we have the added bonus of having immigrated to pretty much everywhere. Once in the middle of Transylvania I was able to go into a Chinese restaurant to ask for soy sauce. The more countries I go to, the more often I’m struck by the question ‘How on earth did these people get the idea to come here and open Chinese restaurants in the first place?’ When, and what, compels one to turn to one’s dual hair bun sporting wife tending to your only child (because you foreigners all think we have one child) and say ‘You know what is good idea? We go to Sarajevo and make meal I always complain about’

As such, I always make it a point to go visit the local Chinese take-out place and strike up a friendly conversation. There is a certain technique to this, as I’ve learnt from experience– most people would start reaching for the phone if you go from ‘how much is the chicken fried rice’ to ‘why did your family come to this country?’

Being a romantic who sees a tear-worthy story behind the empty wine bottle on the side of the road, I’m usually disappointed. Family business, tough financial times, and sometimes just plain old common sense were the main reasons. No war refugees, no tragic family goodbyes, no Wanderlust induced migration. The tragic romance so needed by the avant-garde generation can only be found, ironically,  in the mainstream sensationalist criteria by which ‘events’ are created. Like the  guy who is tricked by his friends into thinking the friendly brunette sitting in the next table is ‘easy’, he is rewarded with emptiness and a stinging slap when he investigates further.

I was trying to find such a restaurant in my first night in Prague around New Years’ time when I was approached by a South Asian gentleman. I was walking down the street trying to look for the tell-tale sign of badly translated Chinese (‘Greatness Faith’ and ‘Wang Kee’ comes to mind). He was middle aged, with slightly greying hair and spoke English with a South Asian smoothness in the vowels and a mesh-up of ‘b’s and ‘p’s.

‘Hello, do you live around here?’ He said with a serene smile.

‘So we can be mistaken for locals everywhere now’ I don’t know what came over me, but I said with a broad smile, ‘Yes actually!’

‘I was wondering if you knew of any good Chinese restaurants around here’

‘As it happens I know of one just down this street! I’m going there right now, do you want to come?’

‘Great!’

Shit what did I just do.

As we walked down the street I was desperately hoping for the stereotypes to be true, (Please let there be a Chinese restaurant on every street) while trying to keep up a normal conversation with the gentleman, whom I will call James.

‘So what brings you here to Prague?’

‘Oh just a family vacation. Have you lived here your whole life?’

‘My family moved here when I was a kid. We’re originally from Beijing. We’re refugees.’ Just dig the hole, Raymond. Dig the hole.

‘Oh I’ve been to Beijing! Great city! Stayed there for three months for work!’

Well then you’ve been there longer than me. ‘Ah three months is not enough for Beijing! And where do you live?’

‘In Switzerland’.

As a student of international politics Switzerland was a by-word for important international organizations. My ears perked up.

‘And… what exactly do you do?’

‘I work in Geneva. I’m an administrator for the UN.’

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK WHY DID I LIE WHY DID I LIE

 

‘Ahhhh…’

‘Is something wrong?’

I’m leading a potential contact for my dream summer job on a wild goose chase for a Chinese restaurant right now and he thinks I’m an immigrant.

 

‘No!’

As luck would have it a Chinese restaurant, let’s call it Ling Kee, did appear on the horizon. Well that was lucky. Now ask him more about his job.

 

‘Ah! Was this the one you were talking about!’

‘Yes, I know the owners well.’ WHY RAYMOND WHY

 

‘Splendid!’

‘So… what exactly do you do in the UN?’

‘Oh just administration things. I used to be more involved in the field. Was involved in Kosovo and Sierra Leone.’

Oh god oh god oh god WHY DID I LIE

 

‘Oh wow that’s interesting! What did you think of Milosevic dying during the trial?’

He looked slightly taken aback. ‘Are you a student here?’

‘Yes I study in Prague’ mmmmfffffff

 

‘Let me guess, do you study politics, or something related to it?’

‘Yes I study international relations actually.’ First truth of the day. See if you can keep this up.

At this point we arrived at the restaurant.

James went up to the waiter, a young Chinese woman who was slightly surprised at our late intrusion, and said ‘Do you have any stir-fried beef?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Do you have any stir-fried beef? With onions, preferably?’

It was probably his accent because the woman looked at me and said in Chinese, ‘Is he speaking English?’

Sensing an opportunity, I stepped in and translated his request into Chinese. She nodded and shouted the order to a man working in the kitchen, probably her husband. I then ordered a chicken fried rice for myself. For some reason the woman called out my order in English, and it came out as ‘FLIED LICE!’

James laughed. Catching my glance he said ‘Oh it’s just the way she said it. It’s useful when you speak the language though isn’t it?’

You have an accent too you know. ‘Yes it does’ I said with a forced smile.

‘Take out or here?’

‘Here’ I said, hoping James would follow suit.

‘Take out please’

Damn. You’re losing him. Ask him more about his work. Ask him for his contact details, ANYTHING ‘So you like Chinese food?’

Fuck.

 

‘Yes! I must say it’s much more agreeable to my palate than most European cuisine. Food back in Sri Lanka is much stronger in flavor and I find Chinese food quite vibrant.’

Why are you two talking about food he works for the UN get his contact!!

 

‘That is true! I think both food cultures present and treat spices and marinades with equal attention compared to European cuisines. When you get a roast chicken the chicken takes centre stage, but in a chicken stir-fry, everybody gets their moment in the spotlight, so to speak. I guess in a way it’s more egalitarian.’

You’re an idiot.

 

‘I never looked at it that way! That’s an interesting take on food!’

I heard the sounds of pans from the kitchen. Oh no that’s his order. Drastic measures Raymond.

 

‘You know, I’ve always wanted to work for the UN’

Slightly bemused, he replied ‘Well yes it’s a very rewarding career.’

‘I was just wondering… how do you start a career there?’

He laughed. ‘I started working there before you were born! You should try applying for their summer internship, that’s how everybody gets started. Once you’re in you can make connections. Connections are important. You need to know the right people.’

Well that’s a bit ironic. ‘I’m a pretty capable student, don’t you think…’

‘Here you are sir’

Damn.

 

‘Well it’s been a great meeting you!’ He took my hand and shook it briefly. As he left, the Chinese woman set my plate of flied lice down. The misty steam carried the familiar scent of home with it and momentarily I could ignore the self-reprimanding chant of ‘you idiot’ inside my head.

‘He was a strange fellow wasn’t he? Couldn’t understand his accent.’ The woman said in Chinese.

‘Yes…’ I said as I started eating— it was the real thing, the chicken was tender and properly marinated. The flavours weren’t watered down for the European palate and packed the full punch.

‘This is very good! It’s like I’m back at home!’

The woman smiled ‘We try to remain faithful to our own tastes. Whether the foreigners like it or not. So what brings you here to Prague?’

‘Just travelling. I study in Scotland and we’re on break. What about you?’

‘Oh, how I wish I could travel! It just seemed like a good idea to come abroad, didn’t really matter where, I guess. It’s quite nice, it’s just my husband and I and he works the kitchens while I take care of things out here. Poor thing it’s been a long day for him and the late-night takeout orders are flooding in. We actually have two children but they’re not here at the…’

The man called for her from the kitchen, and she left apologetically.

Sitting alone in the small restaurant with its fluorescent pale-blue light, I took in the plate of flied lice in front of me. I thought of James and the charade I fabricated for no reason. His laugh at the woman’s accent, and his seemingly friendly goodbye. I thought of my desperation, and a surge of guilt hit me. Flushed with a romantic urge for the genuine, I stood up and called out ‘Do you need some help in the kitchen?’