ROA 1 - Lost in Translation

Mr. Fucking Randy was born in North America and will forever be a North American.

"Jeah! 'Merica!" jeered Burgundy, Trump flag waving and all.

But, unbeknownst to many of you, Mr. Fucking Randy does know some Mandarin slang; he knows all the dirty words, slut-tastic curses and then some. Therefore, while in the Orient, Mr. Fucking Randy conversed in the mother tongue of the East, and did so quite eloquently. Now, that's not to say that there weren't a few hurdles (not to mention chuckles), but for the most part, things went pretty smoothly.

Speaking several languages is an asset, no doubt, and it is a common theme among us in the Randy Leagues. Why, Safari himself is able to speak multiple languages (English and Arabic), and we have a bilingual Tree Bone (English and French). And Dick Burns is fully fluent in English AND Kitten.

"What the fuck is Kitten?" asked Sitch.

Meow.

Kitten is the secret universal language that all women speak, Sitch. Only the most promiscuous men in the world can converse in Kitten. Knowing how to speak Kitten means knowing how to speak to women. Suffice to say, you cannot speak it.

"BITCH!" cried Sitch. (Rhyme!)

Anyway, I mentioned that there were a few language hurdles during my travels, so I'll share one particular event which was somewhat embarrassing and humorous. Upon my arrival in the Orient, I realized I had not brought a big enough backpack for day trips on foot; therefore, I went out shopping one fine morning to find a backpack that would satisfy my needs. I was giddy with the opportunity to test out my Mandarin.

While maneuvering around mopeds, winding sidewalks and spit-tacular citizens (seriously, spitting in public is out of control), I found my way to a department store that sells an assortment of travel packs. I looked around, casually eyeing a few. A saleswoman looked at me.

"These (the backpacks) are great; which one do you want?" she asked.

"Oh, I'm not sure. I'm browsing."

"This one is 1,000 RMB (~$200 CDN). Take it!" she said.

"Oh no. No no no, I need to look around for a bit."

"This one is great too! And this one, and this one, and --"

Yikes, I thought. That's the pace in the Orient. No one carters to window shoppers. There are too many things to buy, too many people to serve. Everyone seems to run on octane. If you're NOT quick, you're odd. Shopping has never been a favourite past time of mine, but it is even less pleasant in the Orient due to the high pace and in-your-face salespeople. And, given the language barrier, I would be considered 'slow' by most salespeople, therefore their patience with me would be marginal.

I moved on to another booth that had another saleswoman. I picked up a sturdy backpack that looked nice.

"That one is on sale today," she said.

"I like it," I replied.

We conversed a little more - with relative ease - and finally I made her an offer to purchase the bag. She smiled and scurried away to write up an invoice. Then, she came back and handed me the invoice and said something I could not understand.

"... What?" I asked.

She spoke again, but I couldn't understand. She pointed to the invoice and a string of numbers she had handwritten down on the top left corner. I stared at it.

Looked something like this...

"Um... OK, what is the number for?"

She said some more, and I was only able to pick out snippets of it. She said something in the vicinity of 'department store' and 'backpack' and 'membership'. I couldn't get much else out of it since her vocabulary was advanced and her pace was quick.

"Um... Miss, sorry, but I can't understand what you're saying. My Mandarin isn't the greatest," I said. Then, an idea struck me. "Oh, I know! Listen, Miss, I'm married," I continued, pointing to the ring on my finger. "My uh.. damn how do I say it.. my... uh... My wife! My wife! Right. My wife speaks and reads Mandarin. So how about you.. uh... shit... how about you... write down what the alphabet... no not alphabet... how about you write down what the numbers on the invoice mean in Mandarin characters, and I can show my wife later. She'll be able to tell me what it is for!"

I felt so proud. I was lost in translation, but figured out a solution. Then, the saleswoman looked at me.

"Oh!" she yelled, laughing. "Sir, this is the number you give to the cashier! It's not my phone number!"

Apparently, through my broken Mandarin and pointing at my ring, somehow this saleswoman thought I was trying to tell her that I was married, and wasn't interested in getting her phone number. Realizing this gaff, I also started chuckling and told her that was not my intent. I tried to explain it more, but then stopped as it was gradually getting more confusing.

I left with a new bag and a new perspective on my abilities to speak Mandarin.

"You idiot, she wasn't trying to give you her number," said Dick Burns. "She was trying to give you her number to give to me."

Wise words, Dick.

Bye bye! C U next time!