Language and Burgers

“Why did the chicken cross the road?”

Francis pauses. A look of mild confusion on his face. Briefly, his eyes leave the road ahead as he glances over his right shoulder.

“Which road?”

Special K and I laugh.

“But…” Francis pleads “WHICH! Road?”

This was the third joke we had tried out on him. The first two were my Mexican standards with the punchlines; “tequila” and “and… hose B”. None were going down well.

“Which road?” as a punchline for the joke in question is good enough for me. 

We left it at that.

Why I chose to start telling rubbish jokes to Francis, I do not know but I was on the edge of hysteria. I had just arrived back in Dammam. I had been travelling for over nine hours in the previous twenty four, stayed overnight in a shabby Riyadh hotel where I found a previous guests half eaten dinner in the fridge all for a meeting that was postponed until the following Sunday. I was tired. I just wanted my bed.

Thanks but no thanks. Left by a previous guest in my Riyadh hotel.

Francis collected special K and me from the rail station. He was giving a lift to one of his friends. Both Francis and his friend are from Kerala in Southern India. Francis’ English is OK. Far from perfect but way, way better than my Malayalam. Neither were grasping our jokes. Language and culture.

Earlier in the day a contractor had made a complaint about me to my boss – Special K. The complaint was made in front of me and with apparent disregard for my feelings. The crux of the complaint was that I am weak. The allegation – made by an Ethiopian – was explored and I listened in with keen interest and amusement. The key point that he was making was that I talked too much. He gave a few examples. Most involved me explaining why payments for his services had not been paid. It turns out that I give too many reasons and explanations why cash has not been forthcoming:

“You haven’t submitted an invoice. Without an invoice, I can’t arrange payment”

“Your invoice was not correct. It included charges for staff we agreed hadn’t attended the job.”

“The authorised signatory isn't in until Tuesday. Once he signs off the payment you will receive the money.”

And so on…

Our contractor said that by offering explanations for not paying implied I had done something wrong. I am his boss… a simple “no” will suffice.

So, I tried it the following week. He immediately became upset and demanded to know "why?"

But it got me thinking about a piece I read in the Arab Gazette or one of the other English language rags that you stumble over out here. A columnist had noted that English speakers showed an inherent weakness; that our language demonstrates too much doubt and makes our opinions weak. The columnist went on to draw on some examples to demonstrate his reasoning. 

I've lost the newspaper… I’d love to quote exactly but cannot. But it went something along these lines:

The columnist argued that if he were to talk with two friends, one Arabic and one English about a burger restaurant he could not trust any review proffered by the English speaker as it would be too vague and imprecise.

The Arabic speaker may choose to say; “It was the best burger I have ever eaten. You must go.”

The English speaker is more likely to say, “It was a great burger. Perhaps, the best burger I’ve eaten. You might want to try it.”

The columnist argued that the English lacks conviction. The lack of conviction shows doubt and weakness. He suggested that it couldn’t be believed. The directness of the Arabic description demonstrates the passion for the burger…

So, I had a think about it. The only thing that occurred to me was that the columnist is an advertisers and marketeer’s wet dream. I reckon his home must be packed full of shit that he really doesn’t need or want.

Advertising. Milk & Laban.
BUY! BUY! BUY!

But – jokes aside – I think that I get where he was coming from. English is so different to Arabic. And I struggle with it. I find talking with non-English speaking Arabs difficult. I love English. I love it’s nuances and complexities. Why use one word when you can use ten? I waffle. I know that I do. Which is not good when you are talking to someone who has grabbed and can run with the basics but little else. To many, I am just confusing.

I was warned of this from day one. My predecessor noted that you have to learn Pidgin English quickly if you are to make your mark with the non-English speakers.

“You go here. Now.”

“No. Not Riyadh. Dammam. Now. You go.”

“I send you file”

“I get food. Now. You want food?”

“No money. Tomorrow money. Pay tomorrow.”

And it’s all so alien to me. On the phone, I catch myself stopping mid-sentence and trying to restart concentrating on the key words and speaking slowly, so very slowly. Nouns. Verbs. Easy on the adjectives. And sometimes it works. It’s clearly becoming a habit. Andy – a colleague – noted on the phone that I was doing it to him and that I could speak proper English if I wished… and he’s Scottish.

Arabic seems so direct and confrontational. I knew this before I came over here. I worked with a Somalian in my previous job. I would hear him talking with his friends and family. It all seemed so aggressive and “shouty”. Yet, it seemed to be interspersed with laughs. And I see it with Arabic. Everything seems so harsh. Whether on the phone or face to face, as a bystander, it always feels as if people are moments away from utterly losing the plot with one another before the smiles kick in and everyone appears to leave as brothers.

And it transfers to English sometimes. One of my staff has a habit of appearing to chew my face off every time he asks a question.

“What you want for lunch?” can sometimes feel as if I’m being called out for doing a turd on the office doorstep.

Before I set off from England, my father encouraged me to seek out a book from the 1950’s – “Arabian Sands” by Wilfred Thesiger. And I did. And it’s a really interesting account of the Arabian Peninsula and Ethiopia from around the 2^nd World War. A genuinely great book. Thesiger is a suitably pompous Englishman with a desire for adventure and a superiority – with small concession that he has to rely and learn from the locals - which only the British Class system can instil. But he noted that conversation was held at excessive volumes and that people appeared to shout at both him, across him and each other. He observed, based on feedback from the groups he travelled with, that it was a cultural adaption to ensure openness and lack of secrecy. If you speak loudly so that all can hear, it is clear and obvious what you are saying, you can have no secrets and no-one can be suspicious. It lives on. There are times – not always, obviously – where I can see the inherent behaviour. It’s in the psyche.

But I have tried to learn some Arabic. How I have tried. Ignoring the fact that it seems polite to do so, It would make it so much easier. But – just like my days learning French – I am struggling. In my heart, I so hoped that I could pick it up. After all it’s not a romantic language. I thought that maybe it’d fall in place. But, no way… It’s so alien… I’ve picked up a few key words but am so thankful for the decent quality of English that I encounter on a day to day basis.

But I will carry on trying. Trying to learn a few more words here and there and continuing to speak Pidgin when I need and stop drowning my audience in nouns, verbs and adverbs and all those words that make me happy.

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Oh. Before I sign off. I’ve got to tell you about a burger restaurant that I found on the Eastern Ring Road in Riyadh. The burger was perfectly cooked. Moist, full of flavour and not overburdened by sauces to distract you.

Seriously, it is the best burger that I have eaten this year. You must go and try the restaurant if you find yourself in Riyadh!

YOU SIMPLY MUST!

And – to my knowledge – I have never been responsible for doing a turd on any doorstep.