Swine flu and Chinese generosity

My oral Mandarin is at the lower intermediate level. In my school office which I share with eight Chinese ladies, mostly English teachers, I often hear them talking about me, the only foreigner (not untypical) at their school. This is even though I introduced myself in Chinese when I first started at this school on Yuyao Road, Shanghai, in March this year, making my stint in China now four years. In Chinese, foreigner is lawai, and here are examples of what I overhear, translated from the Mandarin:

“Oh, the lawai has arrived.”

“Is the lawai eating lunch today?”

“Oh, the lawai is not eating lunch.”

“The lawai looks very hot today. Maybe he should have his own air-conditioned classroom.”

“Isn’t the lawai cold? He is only wearing shorts and a T-shirt.” I surprised them all on that last one and replied in Chinese: “That’s because I come from South Africa and we love wearing shorts. It’s our culture”. Collective gasp of surprise that I can understand them a bit (I thought we had already covered that I could) and the room goes quiet. Heck, I was just trying to make conversation.

A few days of intriguing silence, then: “Why did nobody tell the lawai the class times have changed? The lawai was upset.”

“Look, the lawai is eating with chopsticks!” “Maybe someone should give the lawai a spoon, he does not use chopsticks very…”. “I like eating with chopsticks,” I rejoin with a grin in the canteen. Stunned silence, perhaps a few laughs and giggles. The Chinese can come across as very childlike to Westerners.

They just never get it. It is just wired into many mainland Chinese that lawai cannot understand Chinese. I sometimes get breakfast from one of the carts that adorn the streets like this one. Or visit this web album. He understands my street order in Chinese. I specify which spices I want (the fiery Sichuan sauce, chives) and how many eggs. “Howda,” he will say, grinning and nodding in understanding. But then he will ask my Chinese friend instead, “which country does the lawai come from?” He is somehow unable to put two and two together and realise that if I can order my meal in Chinese, surely I can understand a simple question.

When I tell some Chinese friends I know of Chinese in South Africa who cannot speak a word of Mandarin, they are incredulous. The idea seems to be that Mandarin is coded into your brain before birth.

I really wish, when the ladies speak about me in the office, that they would call me by my name, or my Chinese nickname, Da Shu, big tree. The third-person reference is somehow demeaning. I do not exist as a person. One day I am probably going to sweetly ask them in Chinese to refer to me, even though most of them never talk to me, by my name, politely suggesting that my name is not lawai. I do have a name, actually. The Chinese English teachers, except for one, Emma, never really speak to me, especially the young ones. This is because they know their English is nowhere near fluency and they are extremely shy and do not wish to lose face.

Some will still say, “Nice to meet you,” after they have known me at the school for months, and I resist the urge to correct and say, “The first time it is ‘Nice to meet you’. Thereafter…”. Losing face is a very important facet of Chinese culture. In the mornings I have tried chirping brightly, “Good morning! How are you?” and the addressed sweetie will murmur a quick reply and rapidly walk off or give me a look of doe-like fright (head shoots up with ears pricked from the lake — is that a bear I hear?), mutter hello, then plunge her face back at her computer screen in her cubicle.

Oh, this situation has its benefits! No office politics. I am not expected to go to any meetings. Think about that, you okes who are in corporate or medium-sized businesses. Absolutely NO office politics, gossip, cronyism, bitching … nada, zip, niks. Life is a breeze.

And when it comes to gifts, the Chinese are so generous. Mooncakes will be on my desk on the mid-Autumn moon festival. From time to time sweets and chockies are anonymously put on my desk. Emma gave me a packet of goodies the other day, saying, “This is a present from the school. All the teachers got this”. Inside the bag was a quality hand towel, a large box of vitamin C tablets, a large bottle of liquid soap for the basin and a bottle of Amway shower lotion. Here they are in this picture, alongside my current Chinese textbook, which Emma has generously said she will help me with for free.

Emma said, “It is to encourage us all to watch our hygiene because of the swine flu and to take precautions”. Very sweet, I thought.

I thanked her profusely and asked her to thank the headmaster, an amiable, bespectacled, lanky chap who barely nods at me if I walk past and greet him in surprise. Yet another Chinese who does not quite know what to do with me.

The gift of hygiene products and vitamin C has motivated me to wash my hands and face more regularly, before and after meals, between classes. It is almost an emblem of my life in China. I am not known as Rod; I am a trophy of sorts, “our lawai”, still rare in even cosmopolitan Shanghai, where I often get surprise gifts.