Wo Shi Laowai – Wo Pa Shui

Food for thought…
By ChouChou

There are two basic ways of ordering food in China. Try and guess which one I normally opt for.

Method One:
1. Enter restaurant. Listen to 16 waitresses shout “欢迎光临” down your ear.
2. Despite the fact that you have entered the restaurant by yourself, and there is nobody else near the establishment for another 15 miles, the waitress asks if you want a table for one.
3. Follow waitress to table. Wait five minutes while the waitress clears the mass of bones, spit, foetuses, lost scrolls, blood, and monkey claws from the table with an oily rag.
4. Place tissue paper on chair and sit down. Of the 27 waitresses who gather round your table, tell 26 of them to go away.
5. Within 0.00000000001 millisecond of sitting down, the waitress is hovering behind impatiently.
6. In impeccable Mandarin, ask for a menu. Repeat angrily when waitress giggles, looks away, and shouts to her colleagues that she doesn’t understand English.
7. Tell waitress you don’t want the most expensive items she is pointing to on the menu.
8. Tell the waitress to bring you a beer while waiting. When it arrives, send it back and ask for a cold one.
9. When the waitress asks if you would like to drink the beer opened or unopened, ask her to open it.
10. Choose meal.
11. Choose different meal when told they don’t have it.
12. Repeat stages 10 and 11 about three times.
13. Finally choose something they have and ask them not to put any egg in it.
14. Relax. All the time, a million Chinese peasants are staring at you, spitting, and muttering: “laowailaowailaowailaowailaowai”.
15. After 20 minutes ask what is happening with your meal.
16. After another 20 minutes receive meal, then send it back because it has egg in it.
17. Seven days after you entered the place, finally receive meal.
18. Pick out the stones and pubic hair.
19. Eat.
20. Halfway through your food, have your meal disturbed by the manager insisting on sitting down next to you and asking where you are from and if foreigners eat pork as well.
21. Ask to pay the bill, then tell them to check again after they give you the wrong bill.
22. Pay for meal. Waitress asks if you have the correct change which you do not. Wait another 15 minutes as she goes down the street to find change.
23. Leave when 16 waitresses shout “谢谢光临” at you. Waitress 17 will shout “Bye bye!” instead and everybody will find it hilarious.
24. Burn the place down. Then shit through the eye of a needle for two days afterwards.
25. Point 25? There is none.

OR

Method Two:
1. Walk into McDonalds/KFC.
2. Point at what you want.
3. Eat and get the hell out.

A Day in the Life of Dashan
By ChouChou

It is a crisp May morning and the bright Canadian sunlight streams in through Dashan’s bedroom window. As the Chairman Mao alarm clock strikes seven o’clock, the words to The East is Red blare out, and still retain the same impeccable tones that Dashan uttered on the day he recorded that song.

Dashan awakes and surveys his bedroom. Photographs of himself shaking hands with vice-presidents of various Chinese enterprises adorn the walls in between posters of the times he has dyed his hair blonde and played Matteo Ricci, Edgar Snow, Nazis in Tibet, and other great figures on CCTV. Without a moment’s hesitation, he leaps out of of bed and faces the mirror for his morning exercises.

“Ma, maaaa, maa, MA!” In pitch perfect Chinese, he repeats the four tones (the fifth neutral tone being beneath his contempt) again and again, safe in the knowledge that he hasn’t said a single one wrong. Then he takes one last look in the mirror, tells himself in Mandarin that he is the greatest, slips himself a wink, and heads off to the bathroom to brush his teeth with Darkie toothpaste.

Fifteen minutes later and Dashan, looking splendid in his authentic Republican-era gown, is in the dining room with a surly looking Dashan Junior. Breakfast conversations are always awkward affairs in the Rowswell household, and today is no exception. Dashan Junior tries his best to concentrate on his Captain Crunch cereal and ignore his father’s embarrasing attempts at small-talk.

“So…” begins Dashan, “You got English class at school today?”

Dashan Junior grunts in the affirmative.

“Well if you have, don’t forget your Dad’s trusty old Little Star Electronic Dictionary! Just the thing to push those grades up-up!” Dashan exclaims with a sunny grin.

Silently putting down his spoon, Dashan Junior gets up, makes his way across the table, and looks his dad firmly in the eye. Then, without a moment’s hesitation, he spits in his father’s eye and slaps him harshly across the face.

“I’ve told you a million times already – never talk to me ever again. Understand?” And with that, Dashan Junior grabs his bag and heads out the door.

Alone, a single droplet of his son’s green mucus dribbling down his still sore cheek, Dashan sighs and ponders what he will do with his life today. The piles of unsold Little Star electronic dictionaries stacked around the kitchen remind him that fame hasn’t brought total success to Toronto’s finest. Although he lives comfortably enough from the money earned from the few TV shows he occasionally travels to China for, the rest of his life is a dull and empty void. China proved impossible to live in after hitting the bigtime (he shudders while remembering a particular incident involving a Shenyang shopping centre, 50,000 socially inept university students, and the never-ending cry of “Can you use chopsticks yet?”), but Canada has not proven to be ideal either. So far, Mark’s fellow Canadians have been unappreciative of his efforts in learning standard Mandarin and representing the world’s largest Communist Party, and the empty months in between CCTV gigs have become drawn-out and mundane.

Yet Mark Rowswell never became the mighty Dashan with that kind of attitude. With a new determined strength of spirit, he stands up and heads out onto the sophisticated streets of Toronto in order to prove himself. Perhaps, he wonders, I might even be able to siphon some money off the Canadian government that was originally intended to be used in order to prevent Quebecois separatist movements. Again.

Dashan chooses not to head down to the Chinatown on Spadina Street. He realised long ago that the Happy Canada Lucky Dragon Restaurant was not interested in a white-skinned Chinese-speaking hospitality manager. While he ponders where to go, he stops at a cigarette kiosk and asks for a packet of Zhongnanhai.

“Never heard of them, we only sell Marlboros and Camels,” says the gruff guy behind the counter.

“Oh, yes, I forgot that they only sell them in China,” smiles Dashan. Then, rather desperately, he adds “That’s where I live you know! I’m a big star there!”

“That must be very nice for you,” sighs the cigarette seller.

“Anyway, must be going, zaijian! Ooops, I must have been in China for too long, I mean goodbye!” Dashan grins and skips away.

“Who was that?” asks another customer.

“It’s that fucking Mark Rowswell again,” spits the cigarette seller, “He’s been saying the same thing every day for the last three years.”

Pleased at his display at the cigarette kiosk, Dashan decides to follow his success at the food court in the basement of the Eaton Shopping Centre on Yonge Street. On his way, he spots a couple of Oriental appearance walking past, and nearly collapses in excitement when he sees the lady catching his eye and approaching him. Unfortunately, they only want to know the way to the CN Tower, and not ask for his autograph. Undeterred, Dashan heads on.

A fairly large crowd is gathered outside the Singapore Sam’s stall in the Eaton Centre Food Court. Using the skills he learned in Beijing, Dashan slips into the crowd and pushes his way to the way to the front. He spots a young teenager about to order beef noodles, and stops her before she can do so.

“Hey there!” shouts Dashan amiably to the bemused teenager, who looks like she is about to shout for the police. “I see you’re about to order the beef noodles! In China, they are known as niu rou mian, or rather: cow meat noodles. However, in China, the main meat is pork, although chick…”

“Please go away and don’t hurt me,” cries the girl, “You can take my money but just go!”

“…China has a history of 5000 years, and the language reflects that. Ru xiang sui su is a saying meaning when in Rome…”

“Please… please, leave me alone.”

“Hangzhou meanwhile is known for it’s beautiful West Lake, and Suzhou for it’s many…”

“THAT’S ENOUGH ROWSWELL! NOW GET OUT!”

The burly manager of Singapore Sam’s has finally spotted the disturbance Dashan has been causing, and emerges from behind the counter with a substantially large meat cleaver. As Dashan runs away, the manager picks up a pile of leaflets left behind, and throws them at Dashan’s head.

“AND TAKE YOUR ELECTRONIC DICTIONARY LEAFLETS WITH YOU!”

It has been an exhausting day. After the trials and tribulations of the cruel Canadian day, Dashan has returned to the comfort of his propaganda decorated bedroom, and weeps beneath his embroidered cushions of Tiananmen Square. Only here, beneath the cheap certificates proclaiming him to be one of the “Ten Most Friendliest Foreigners in Beijing Haidian District: 1991″, does he feel any of the respect so rightfully deserved to him. Don’t these people understand how well he speaks Mandarin? He didn’t run all the way to China and became a star so that he could be treated the same way as the bigger boys used to treat him at school! The fucking laowai bastards!

Dashan considers watching his favourite film Red Dawn again on DVD to cheer himself up, but is interrupted by the welcome sound of Mrs. Dashan returning home. At last: a friendly face. The Dashans darken the lights, slip off their clothes, and play a little romantic music. However, something is wrong…

Dashan whimpers disappointingly. “It’s no good honey, I just can’t…”

“What’s wrong cutie?” Asks Mrs Dashan in a sweet voice. “Do you need me to get out the hand pump and the CO2 cartridges again?”

Dashan shakes his head. “No. I need more than that. You know what I need.”

“NO! You promised me that last time would be the last time! It’s not normal Mark!”

“PLEASE baby, do it for me,” pleads Dashan.

With a sigh of defeat, Mrs Dashan grunts in agreement and reaches down to the special box kept beneath the Rowswell family bed. Five minutes later, Dashan – dressed in a monkey costume with a hole cut away around the ringpiece – is being fucked up the arse by Mrs Dashan with a seven inch strap-on dildo and a rubber mask of Hu Jintao. Nearby, Dashan’s personal recording of The East is Red blares out again from the Chairman Mao alarm clock.

Mark has never been so happy.

Eight Minutes
By ChouChou
(Or: China is a never-ending empty hole of nothingness and despairing misery.)

Kings and Emperors may build colossal monuments to themselves, and the poor may breed and spread their spawn in a vain hope to perpetuate their worthless genes, but ultimately all life derives from the sun. Glorious and magnificent, the sun treads the same slow path that it has carried out for millions of years, always burning bright and providing warmth and light for the billions of species that depend on it.

Yet, the only truth in this finite universe is entropy, and even the shining gods of the celestial heavens must one day burn out and extinguish. Ozymandias-like, all things must return to the vacuum from whence they came. When the great day finally comes, our Mother Sun will consume itself and leave nothing but a cold and empty void. Eight minutes of sunlight will be all the poor wretches of Earth have left once the sun disappears.

Eight minutes. The last dying rays of the sun will take eight minutes to race across the emptiness of space and reach our tiny insignificant home. Though the ignorant masses trapped within the confines of their own environment will not realise it, the sun that nourishes them will already be dead, and the warmth and comfort they enjoy for the moment will swiftly be replaced with an eternal and deathly darkness.

Eight minutes. Just as before, the gullible and the hopeful will pile away their savings into imaginary stock markets that cannot be seen or touched. The ancients prayed to the ephemeral gods of old, modern man prays to the equally ephemeral markets of now. They will cheat and lie and kill and steal, all for that extra ounce of gold that can be thrown into the stock market and hopefully multiplied into a fortune. They will dream of luxurious mansions and fast cars, each mansion and each car bigger and better than the one belonging to their neighbour whom they despise so very much. With each expected penny, the foolish and the boastful will thrust out their stomachs and proclaim their line successful for ten thousand generations. Yet, as they dance and sing amidst the bank queues and dream of perpetual profit, the darkness from the dead sun will be heading towards them with deadly certainty, destroying their naive delusions of grandeur forever. As the curtain falls, the poor will see their money become worthless first, but even the rich will find their fortunes useless when all surrounding life has died.

Eight minutes. The darkness will follow the light and will inevitably and eternally fall upon the Earth like a crushing blow. Unaware, and so blind to what is about to happen, the people below will boast and lie as they have always done before. In newspapers, journalists will talk of millennia old civilisation as if it was a never-ending concept that will expand beyond the stars. Using words which have been used countless times during the unoriginal history of man, they will hold up the supposed virtues of their hollow culture, oblivious to the fact that a few thousand years is nothing compared to the grandeur of infinity. On the Internet, the lonely and inexperienced will write out fantasies describing why certain groups of people are better than other groups of people, even though all of them are doomed to oblivion once the light ends. And in society, the greatest stage to which all humanity looks upon, great sporting events and performances will be held in futile defiance of fact. “Look at us!” The people will cry. “Look how wonderful we are! Look how strong and rich we have become!” Though the words will sound strong and confidant, they will be exposed as mere lies once the eight minutes have passed.

After eight minutes everything will come crashing down; finally and forever. But we will be blind to the fate approaching us, because we cannot see beyond the light we are already bathed in. As the eight minute deadline approaches, our brother planets of Mercury and Venus – symbols of Love and Communication – will have already been plunged into darkness and consumed by the void, even though some would argue that these two virtues ceased to exist a long time ago in certain areas of our own planet. And when the darkness falls, which it inevitably will, there will still be those who still seek to deny it. People will stand up and proclaim the blackness to be nothing but a temporary condition, or even a conspiracy created by bad elements in society or people from faraway countries. Some may even erect lights and lanterns in an effort to dispel the cold and dark from their homes, but eventually these too will fail as everything on the planet dies.

In some cultures, tomorrow literally means “a brighter day”. We assume that the light and warmth we enjoy now will always be delivered from that great fiery globe in the sky, that we as a race and the things we have created can only continue to grow in the endless brightness that we see all around. But one day, one inevitable and terrible day, the sun will stop shining, and we will only have eight minutes before everything we have created falls apart. The dark day is coming, and our bubbles will not protect us.

Ni hao, this is a Chinese rip-off.
By ChouChou

The following is a true story.

Friend Coffee Shop Manager lounges in his deep leather chair. Before him lie the disparate elements of his new promising Starbucks-style coffee shop: Atmospheric Just Like Seattle Coffee Shop Number 47. It is his job to combine them into a seamless whole. Stirring the crackling logs afire in the grate, he bends to his task.

The musical consultant, he notes, has excelled himself. Reflecting the quintessential Jazz/Blues style of the 1950’s so typical of this type of establishment, the soundtrack blends big band overtures with sultry Billie Holliday lyrics. Background samples intersperse each track, such as Sarah Vaughn jiving with the compere, or a nostalgic announcer introducing Frank Sinatra to complete the aural picture. Friend Coffee Shop Manager stirs his Kenyan coffee beans with a silver spoon and, smiling whimsically at the connection, turns his attention to the coffee mugs and assorted cutlery recently received from the utensils distributer. Quickly taking on an expert’s eye, he examines the samples. It is, of course, superlative. The classy pastel tones of the chosen coffee mugs contrast excitedly with the bright clutter of the quasi-beat generation style of the menu which recalls the work of Jack Kerouac. Skillful finishes to the chalk blackboard breathe life into an otherwise tired cliche; Friend Coffee Shop Manager is particularly impressed with the way a few simple touches imply both sophistication and a timeless elegance to the black and chalky background.

A muffled laugh distracts Friend Coffee Shop Manager’s attention. He glances through the Victorian service hatch of his open kitchen to see that some of the trial customers are enjoying themselves throughly with the selection of art and music books he has displayed for their perusal. With a hearty guffaw, he lies back in his comfortable Ikea chair with a sheaf of notes recounting present customer feedback. It is indeed an involving read, and the ashes are heavy in the traditional log fire before he lays the binder aside.

Finally, Friend Coffee Shop Manager scans through his coffee menu. He is rightly pleased with himself; it is a vibrant yet inclusive selection of world coffees. He congratulates himself on his foresight to include a variety of exotic teas for Asian customers, so making the sociable integration of customers from differing backgrounds a simple affair. Fascinatingly, despite knowing the shop intimately, Friend Coffee Shop Manager’s brief examination to confirm all is in order stretches into a thorough audit, and quiet has fallen upon the attractive front garden before he has completed his investigations.

Only one thing remains. An additional complement of light refreshments to brighten the already excellent drinks menu. Some snacks, perhaps, that foreign customers yearn for during their travels abroad? Friend Coffee Shop Manager nods slowly. But what kind of refreshments would be appropriate? He paces around his desk. He stops before a specific bookcase; his hand idly selects a certain book. It is a bound volume of the history of sandwiches, with many chapters highlighting the grandeur that a good beef steak is held in regard in many western cultures. Friend Coffee Shop Manager rifles through the pages, unconsciously absorbing the woodcut illustrations of classic American cuisine; a brief history of the Earl of Sandwich; the likes and dislikes of 20th century Europeans; and the rise of the fast food enterprises. Friend Coffee Shop Manager closes the book, noting the illustration of a sirloin steak dripping in gravy caught on the front cover. A lightbulb snaps on in his mind. A furious bout of redesigning the food menu ensues, and everything is finally complete. Now, as the customer browses through the menu of Atmospheric Just Like Seattle Coffee Shop Number 47, if one is hungry they may choose a nice beef steak sandwich covered in either raspberry or strawberry jam. Also, if they fancy a drink, they may order it alongside two bottles of Chivas for only 888 yuan.

Sod.