“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 2nd 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.
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.
.jpg)
