Someone small and lively is vacuuming the hall carpet outside my room in a bright green skirt suit and high heels.
“Nihau!” sparkles generously from her smile.
“Nihau!” I delightedly respond.
I know only two Chinese expressions - hello and thank you – but
amongst such openhearted people, all sorts of friends can be made with
just those two.
Conversely, the simplest transaction can turn into a game of charades.
I recall trying to order bottled water in a restaurant and ending up
firstly with a tube of dried Parmesan cheese, and on the second attempt
with a teapot of hot water poured ceremoniously into a wine glass. For
me to be in a country where it is virtually impossible to communicate
in English helps counter my linguistic complacency, and provides me
with a chance to develop more lateral thinking. There are very few English characters written anywhere, and only a
small percentage of them form words that make any sense. I find the
creative translations and misspellings endearing because they are so
confidently presented.
It pays to be careful not only
when choosing what to eat, but also
where to tread when walking alongside a street. Any crooked paving slab
can serve as a miniature fish market or some other terrestrial stall. A
missed footing may cost you a week’s supply of raw bean curd, or a kilo
of monkey nuts. Mostly the wares are recognisable as food, but are
often either dried or fried beyond more specific recognition, or would
not be recognisable to my western eye even in their natural form.
Everywhere the smell of burning garlic, deep-frying, and pungent herbs.
Everywhere the tiny figures of mobile greengrocers bent under the
weight of thick bamboo canes - a brimming basket balanced at either
end. A breath-taking spectacle is the fruit vendor’s cart: abundance as
I have never seen it. Every colour and shape seems represented in its
most perfect God-ordained form, in a bountiful, mouth-watering cascade.
Sumangali Morhall
December 2004
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