Yesterday evening was grumpily spent sat in a small garden for three hours, with nothing to do but watch my parents talk in Chinese to some bloke and his wife. It wasn’t very fun.
I’ll point out now that I don’t know this man’s real name, but to mum and dad, he is affectionately known as “Gollywog”. This is apparently his nickname among all his Chinese friends, because rather unusually for a man of China, he is known for having curly hair.
Upon our arrival, Mr. G [as he will be referred to from this point onwards] invites us into the garden, and everyone takes a big plastic seat in the sun. Mrs. G gets stuck in straight away and asks me something in Cantonese. I make my lovable “I don’t know what you mean!” expression, shrugging my shoulders with an innocent grin, and glancing at mum for backup. Mum explains to Mr. and Mrs. G that I don’t speak Chinese – only English – and conversation between the grown-ups continues without me. I do my best to entertain myself and admire the surrounding scenery – a wooden fence, a few trees and a red hosepipe – without seeming rude.
It turns out that Mr. G doesn’t have curly hair at all anymore – he must have earnt his charming nickname when he was a little younger. The image I had in mind of a middle-aged Chinese man with a massive afro is shattered by grim, straight-haired and sensibly-trimmed reality.
I’m already bored. Listening to the conversation and trying to pick out familiar words, it occurs to me that I actually know how to say “I don’t understand Chinese” in Cantonese, but I didn’t. I missed my big chance to surprise and impress.
I start practicing it in my head, in case a second opportunity arises later.
Ngaw mm-sic teng jung-gwok wah.
Ngaw mm-sic teng jung-gwok wahhh…
Dad and Mr. G are waving their hands about, sketching out imaginary diagrams, and at this point I realise that this visit is going to be a lot longer than the “quick half hour” originally planned. I drift off for a moment, mentally preparing myself for the long haul. A long time passes.
I don’t know what it is about my dad, and all the Chinese people he seems to know, but they all have a habit of getting really, really loud once they start chatting. Even on the phone at home, dad can’t stop himself shouting down the speaker as if the house is under attack. I should explain to him sometime, that the whole point of the electronic phone is so that people far away from each other can talk quietly; almost as if they’re in the same room together. He seems to think it’s just a flashy cover for a tin can with string attached.
“You’re bored, aren’t you?”
I’m busy smirking at the image of dad shouting into a tin of beans with a soldier’s helmet on, but I snap out of it.
“We’re talking about lobsters and crabs”, mum informs me, leaning away from the conversation for a moment. “I mentioned how I ate some crab last month and it made me feel ill.”
Mrs. G starts talking to me in Chinese again. I’m on the ball this time and prepare to whip out some mm-sic teng, but mum jumps the gun and translates for me. She’s asking, “Would you like a cup of tea?”. I smile and shake my head, with a clear and polite “no thank you”. It’s almost 30 degrees out in the sun, and the sweat between my legs is already halving the lifetime of my trousers – how anyone would want a cup of hot tea right now is beyond me. I mention to mum that I could really do with something colder, and with her admirable command of alien languages, she makes it so. A can of Vimto helps pass the time.
It dawns on me that I missed yet another opportunity to surprise and impress, because I know full well how to say “no thank you” in Cantonese. I practice it in my head again, trying to refine my accent and make it sound natural.
Mo… mo mm-goi. Mo mm-goi.
Everything’s gone quiet for a moment, and I look up to see dad pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his chest pocket, with an uneasy look on his face. Mr. and Mrs. G are both watching, and as soon as the Benson and Hedges label reveals itself, they go straight back into shouting again.
“Gollywog’s having a go at dad for not being able to quit smoking”, mum laughs. Dad doesn’t seem to get the joke.
The evening is finally drawing to a close, and mum and dad begin to make their polite goodbyes. Do I know how to say goodbye in Cantonese? Of course I do. For some reason, Cantonese people seem to simply say “bye bye” as if speaking in English, so this is my chance to join in with everyone for the first time all day.
Of course, saying “bye!” and waving my hand didn’t surprise or impress anyone… but maybe next time.
