Lost in Translation

"By the North American free and novel wind, ACA is coming to China."

So proclaims the appliance guide to the small, Appliance Company of America coffee maker I recently purchased at the Carrefour (the French equivalent to Walmart) located near my apartment.

I'm not sure why ACA didn't have their Chinese department translate the American product guide, but they had the Chinese write a new one, and write it they did. At first I figured the writer believed that a little political flattery would earn him a promotion, or perhaps he's just a big fan of capitalism. The other day, however, my boss explained to me that there is a deeper cultural reason for this type of writing. In a civilization which has so long prized 'wen' - that is: literature, cultural sophistication, or more basically pattern, the patterning of material - it is an enormous embarassment to be seen as a poor writer.

"They don't want to write like a farmer," was how my boss put it.

And thus, whether in letters, ads or appliance guides, the Chinese want to show some literary flair. No matter if it's not their first language - they'd like to put a little oomph in their English as well. The result is some of the most florid, bombastic, over-eager or just plain nonsensical English you've ever heard. Reading the signs of Chengdu is about as amusing a pastime as one could hope for.


"Natural pie," asserts my bag of cashews. "How delicious. Make you taste back."

There was the example of the corner police station at a temple I was visiting. "Welcome Wenshu Fun Police - Police are Off Ice."

And of course the above pictured 'Wicket' office.

More common than the completely nonsensical signs, however, are the aforementioned high-falutin ones - something like a drunken Thomas Hardy writing ad copy.

"Follow the trend," instructs a package of sweet potato flavored granola bars. "The quintessence of the five cereals is rich in the meal fibre, urge to digest, help and arrange the poison, making people relaxed all over, vigor doubles all over."

"It would be impossible for me not to want you as a friend," says my whole bean coffee package. Like a good, classical Chinese poem, the coffee package draws one in by refusing to identify its speaker. If, on the one hand, I am being prompted to praise the coffee as an irresistible friend, then it is just a cheap ploy, a bully play for my affection. But if the coffee really feels so strongly about me, I must say I am quite flattered.


"Children are forbidden to enter a mansion," says a sign at the entrance to my gym, complete with a prohibitory halved circle with the line going right through the clasped hands of a mother and daughter. The sign at the other end of the counter urges clients to register their concerns by "leaving a massage to the clerk." Yet a third advises, "If you have health problems, before joining the workout class please consult a coctor."

These are but a few examples of the many English neologisms, malapropisms and just plain absurd usages which I get to enjoy every day. Sure enough though, what goes around comes around, and I have not been free of linguistic mishaps myself.

A few days after my arrival, I took a cab to meet my roommate, Tom, for dinner. The cabbie understood my intended destination right away, and, pleased about that, I proceeded to engage him in a light conversation. We talked about the weather, about the traffic, about where I'm from and why I'm in Chengdu. By the time I got out at the restaurant, I was flush with linguistic confidence from what had been my most successful exchange yet in Chinese.

As at most of the restaurants we've been to in chronically over-staffed Chengdu, Tom and I were surrounded by several waiters as we sat down. They hovered over us as we perused the menu. "Jiachang doufu," - homestyle tofu - said I, and again I was happy to be understood right away. But the waiters, instead of rushing away to register the order, began pointing excitedly at an item at the top of the menu. It had a spot of its own and appeared to be some sort of restaurant special. Tom and I debated what it could be. The waiters kept describing it, but neither of us could make it out. I figured it was probably some kind of special liquor or something and, thinking 'how bad could it be?', I ordered one. Not two minutes later a steaming bowl of something was headed our way. The smiling waiter set it down on the table, and Tom, having been in China before, filled me in on the grayish-pink mass that loomed ominously in the middle of the bowl.

"Pig's foot soup."

Fresh off eight years of vegetarianism and a stint in Israel, I didn't quite have it in me.

"Bu yao," I said. "Don't want it. Sorry sorry."

(I have since been informed by a pair of very pretty and dainty Chinese women, however, that there is simply nothing better for the skin than the occasional pig's foot.)

The waiters looked a little deflated, but they took the soup away and soon brought us our meals. After a minute my confidence returned, and I decided to try my Chinese once more. I waved over the waiter to ask for some soy sauce for my rice.

"Black water," I said. "Salty black water."

He looked confused.

I mimicked pouring it over my rice.

"From Japan. Salty black water from Japan."

After a minute or so of this, the waiter seemed to get an idea. He said something which I did not understand, and I nodded. It wasn't clear to me if I had been understood, but I remained hopeful. Tom and I sat and chatted for a minute, and then the waiter reemerged from the kitchen with a small bowl and set it down on the table.

It was pig's foot soup broth.

"Thanks," I said. "Thanks. Great."