A Tale of Three Taxis

#1 – The hotel in Hong Kong was not very far from our office; it was a little further from our office to the client office. We had agreed to meet our local colleagues at the client office, and, while it was walkable, taking a taxi seemed easier and less likely that we would get lost and arrive late. The bellman hailed a taxi; the two guys from Singapore got in; we gave the taxi driver the building name and off we went.

Hong Kong is different from Singapore. The streets are as at least as crowded, but the taxis are much more aggressive. Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride came to mind. The drivers speak English – some – but maybe not as fluently or as comfortably as in Sing. A good rule is: get in, sit down, hold tight, and close your eyes. Flag down, HK$20 on the meter, and off we went. We were at the client office building within five minutes, maybe less. The driver was not particularly happy with such a short ride. The meter still read only $20 (under US$3). My colleague tried to pay, using a $100 bill. The driver was not happy. And expressed it. We found a $20 for him. Then we discovered that the sidewalk side door would not open. After a few tries, it still wouldn’t open, and the driver wanted us out of his cab. He expressed his displeasure loudly. Sitting on the street side, I opened my door a little to check for traffic. Very, very busy road. The driver expressed his unhappiness. I tried to close the door again. He expressed even louder unhappiness. It took us a while, but we finally escaped, and the driver roared off.

#2 – After lunch in the hotel complex, we had an afternoon client meeting in the same building. We took the same strategy of taxi to the meeting. Different cab, same wild ride, same short fare. My colleague (the other guy from Singapore) is a native Singaporean of Indian descent. That is to say, he’s obviously not a Westerner. This time it was my turn to pay the fare. The meter read $20, I did the quick mental calculation, hoping that I had the right conversion rate, to US$3, and gave the driver $30. Big percent tip, not so big in actual dollars. It only seemed fair for such a short trip. Handing him the money, I said “xie xie,” Mandarin for “thank you.” I wanted him to know that I knew the fare amount and did not expect any change in return. He said, “thank you” (English for “xie xie”), we got out of the cab, he drove off, and we went to our meeting. On the way upstairs, my colleage told me that I had fulfilled the standard Westerner role of spoiling the market by overtipping. Good to do what is expected of you.

#3 – When it was time to go home, we took a taxi from the hotel to Central, where we could catch the express train to the airport. The ride was a little longer than our morning rides, but the meter only got to $23. I think my colleague was still feeling the reverberation from our first ride of the day, so I had the responsibility of paying. We decided that we’d include all our pocket change as the tip, so we wouldn’t have to worry about the airport metal detectors. When we got to Central, I had a $20 bill and a handful of change amounting to about $8 or so. I gave it all to the driver who did a double take and wanted to make sure that I understood that the fare was (much) less. Knowing my role as a Westerner, I wanted to play it well. Spoil the market. With the appropriate body language – lots of smiles, head nodding, hand waving – I indicated that it was all for him and wished him “prosperous New Year” in somewhat fractured Mandarin. That broke the ice. He corrected both pronunciation and language. Cantonese is the usual Chinese in Hong Kong, so we spent a couple of minutes getting me straightened out on the Cantonese version. When I had it more or less straight – that is, pretty good for a Westerner, from his point of view – we both had a good laugh.

Gong xi fa cai to one and all!

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South African Safari

Sub-Saharan Africa!   

Michael and I were on our way, and just the name filled our imaginations with images of . . . steamy jungles teeming with hooting monkeys?  Vast deserts with shimmering mirages always just out of reach?  Muddy water holes surrounded by scattered remains of . . . jungle quicksand?  Tarzan and the apes?

Obviously, we had seen movies, but we didn’t really know what South Africa was all about.  Since Michael was on a business trip to “golden” Johannesburg, we expected the sleek office buildings and luxury hotels, which we saw in the leafy northern suburbs.   What we didn’t expect was that virtually ALL homes in both Johannesburg and nearby Pretoria would be surrounded by solid six-foot walls topped with barbs and electrified fences.  When we visited Soweto (part of “greater Jo’burg” and only safe to visit on a guided tour) and witnessed the flood of migration and unemployment and abject poverty that continues to weight down the people, the country . . . the continent, it all became clear.  Saying that this is still a place of socio-economic extremes is an understatement.

Despite these factors, once outside metro Jo’burg, we discovered that South Africa looks a lot like . . . well, California!  It has similar terrain, vegetation, and weather, rich with mineral deposits, wide open spaces, orchards and livestock, rolling hills and rocky mountainsides, water reservoirs surrounded by new red tile-roofed stucco homes . . .

But it also has bush country with game reserves and safaris!  Michael and I traveled into bush country on a “Walk with the Lions.” Then while he worked during the week (one works, one plays – an equitable arrangement), I also “Walked with Elephants.”  These were both at private game reserves several hours outside the city and dedicated to the conservation of lions and other exotic species, as well as protection from poachers.

We invite you to safari through our eyes!

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December 2011 – Some Stats

Friday, December 2, 2011:  Mike’s been in Singapore two months.  And it’s almost five weeks for me.

Already Mike’s been to Tokyo twice, and he just returned from Melbourne, Australia last night.  At 2 am (tonight) we both jump on Singapore Air for Johannesburg, South Africa.  This is another business trip, and lucky for me, this trailing spouse gets to trail along.   Ten hours flying, six time zones.  We’ll have one day to explore Johannesburg together before Mike goes to work on Monday, and we return next Saturday.  The following week, Mike heads to Hong Kong.

As Mike keeps saying, “Life has entered the crazy zone.”  The travel is a little more intense than we had planned, but it may let up some after next summer.  Mike’s loving all this, and I’m growing to like much of it.

Time in Asia:  Two months down, 22 months to go.

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Some Stats

Friday, December 2, 2011:  Mike’s been in Singapore two months.  And it’s almost five weeks for me.

Already Mike’s been to Tokyo twice, and he just returned from Melbourne, Australia last night.  At 2 am (tonight) we both jump on Singapore Air for Johannesburg, South Africa.  This is another business trip, and lucky for me, this trailing spouse gets to trail along.  Ten hours flying direct, six time zones.  We’ll have one day to explore Johannesburg together before Mike goes to work on Monday, and we return next Saturday.  The following week, Mike heads to Hong Kong.

As Mike keeps saying, “Life has entered the crazy zone.”  The travel is a little more intense than we had planned, but it may let up some after next summer.  Mike’s loving all this, and I’m growing to like much of it.

Two months down, and just 22 months of Asian adventure to go!

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Conversation

In her comment a few days ago, Nancy described conversations in Singapore.  They are nominally English, so I like to say that we don’t have a language barrier.  We have an accent barrier.  As she noted, I often have to ask someone to repeat what they just said, and sometimes I just don’t get it on the second or third time through so I guess at what an appropriate answer would be.  This may lead to interesting dishes at the hawker stalls.  On the other hand, when I believe that I’ve puzzled out the meaning of some statement, I nod my head very enthusiastically.  I do this with the intent of conveying to the speaker that, all of his or her expectations to the contrary, I really do understand.  “Yes, I really want hot sauce on that dish.”  “Yes, I really do want chopsticks.”  “Yes, I really want the fish and chicken combo,” and so on.  I choose not to think about what alternate interpretations of my enthusiasm might be (though they all include the phrase “crazy foreigner”).

In Japan, it’s an entirely different situation.  The language is distinctly Asian. English is not the lingua franca. Even the kids that “speak” it often don’t speak much – a few phrases and the odd word or two with a thick accent.  Curiously, though it would be a very wild guess (and wrong to boot) that I speak fluent (or any) Japanese, many people don’t hesitatie to speak to me, so I’ve adopted a new conversation mode.  I hear something in Japanese. I make eye contact to indicate that I’ve heard.  I decide what might be an appropriate thing to have been said, and I make the appropriate response in English.  I’ll admit that these conversations don’t go on for very long – just two or three sentences.  But they seem to work, and they’re quite an interesting form of language immersion.

For example, many of the office buildings have uniformed guards at the main doors or in the lobby or at the entry to the elevators.  As far as I can figure out, the guards are stationed to keep out unauthorized visitors.  Their uniforms are sharp, their gloves are white, their visage is stern, and they’re somewhat intimidating.  And, of course, they don’t speak any English, so getting into the building requires a bit of creativity.  It shouldn’t do any good for me to show my company badge, because while it has my picture and my name, there is neither company name nor logo (it’s as bad as the NSA, where the back of the badge said, “property of the US Government. If found, return to post office box …” Not only was the agency not named, neither was the Department of Defense.  And I always wondered whether it was the badge or me that was our government’s property).  In such a case, it comes to bluff and bravado.  Show the badge like it means something, say “Visa, floor 24”, look like you belong, and hope for the best.  Three times out of five, I was waved straight through with a nod.  The fourth time, I saw an ambiguous hand signal, and the guard said something to me.  One reasonable  interpretation was, “Very good, sir.  In you go.” So I said, “Thank you,” and walked in. There could have been other interpretations and “thank you” might not have been so appropriate, but this time it worked out fine.  Another time, the guard stopped me and wanted to question me more closely.  “Where are you going? What floor?” Who knows what he really said, but that might have been it. “Twenty-fourth floor.  Visa.” “All right, thank you.” “Thank you.  Good morning.”

In the restaurant, some parts of the conversation are impossibly challenging, but this part goes just fine: “Good evening.  What would you like to order tonight?” Incomprehensible, but it must be something like that. (It’s always possible that he really said, “Could I take your coat and hang it just over here for you?” or, “we’re all out of the duck this evening, but the chef has found some very nice venison if you’d like to try it.”)  “This, please,” pointing to a line on the menu, “and this to drink” pointing again. “All right, the duck,” pointing back to the same line to confirm, “and one,” counting with one finger, “glass of wine.  Very good.” “Thank you.”

Often, on leaving the restaurant, several of the wait staff will make eye contact, bow, and say, “Thank you for dining with us.” Whatever they really say, the intention must be something like that.  “Good bye.  Thank you.  I enjoyed it.” with a bow in return seems to be the appropriate thing to reply. At least they’ve acknowledged me and I’ve acknowledged them and it all seems to work out just fine.

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More Pictures – Japan

Nancy said that we need more pictures, so I’m trying to oblige … though I’m a little dubious that this is what she had in mind:

Of course, toilets, even in foreign lands, are not normally included in my list of country highlights, or in my mental inventory of Interesting Things to Photograph.  But this you have to see.  In Japan, a toilet comes with a set of interactive controls.  In addition to which, the seat is warm – a delight even if it’s not a cold morning.  Finally and to top it all, the water is nicely warmed.  How do I know? It’s all in the controls, which, I hope, are self-explanatory:

Imagine – there are people who grow up for whom this is completely normal.  And what they must tell their friends after they return from a trip to the US!  “Such a backward culture, with their primitive toilets! and they drive on the wrong side of the road.”

Using it for the first time, this thing is a little intimidating.  What happens if I press this button?  There are two ways to find out, but I chose not to ask, favoring the experimental method instead.  Surprise, surprise.

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Dinner in Tokyo

Tokyo is definitely not Singapore.  The signs are not in English, nor is English is the lingua franca.  It just feels more challenging. Whereas in Singapore, I feel like I’m a foreigner, here I know that I’m an outsider.  If I get lost, I’m sure that I can somehow find someone who will be able and willing to point me in the direction of the hotel, though I’m not completely confident that I can tell them where I want to go.  For example, at the airport, we had to tell the taxi driver where to take us.  “Marunouche Hotel”, we said.  First, he corrected my pronounciation, and then he asked if we had an address.  The sinking feeling began – was he truly correcting my pronounciation, or was he really saying something similar but completely different?  The good news was that I had a printed copy of my itinerary which listed the hotel; the bad news was that it was in English and it was far from clear that this driver would understand it. He also asked for a telephone number.  At least, that’s what I think he asked for.  Good news! It was also on the itinerary.  Bad news – after we finally agreed on which line was the hotel numer, it didn’t seem to register with him and he did not call. He took awhile to sound out the address and then set off with great confidence.  Or at least it seemed like confidence, based on his speed.  We could, of course, have been going anywhere and I would not have known the difference. Eventually, we came to the train station that is close to the hotel and Peter, my colleague, began to point out where to go.  The driver called the hotel  (I guess) to ask for specific directions and we were soon there with no apparent backtracking (though we could have driven in many circles and I would not have known the difference!)

 

As I write, I just got back from dinner, which was a trip of a different kind.  Being on my own, I asked one of the young ladies at the hotel guest reception for a recommendation.  A restaurant with plain food, not too expensive, that would accept credit cards. “Japanese food or Western?” she asked.  Of course, I said, “Japanese.” She thought for a few minutes, then went to get a flyer to look at the restaurant listings.  She found one that  looked good, but after she called, she reported, with great disappointment, that they do not take cards.  She studied a bit more, then gave up and pointed me to a building with restaurant row.  “Lots of ethnic places here,” she said, but she did not know whether they would take a credit card.  I said that when I found a place, I could ask about credit cards and she seemed quite relieved.

All I had to do was navigate the underground maze  that leads from the hotel to several different trains as well as a few different buildings in this part of the city (well, I just don’t know what part it is, so don’t ask.  All I know is that it’s close to our office and you can catch a train to the airport).  Maybe it’s not quite a maze after all, but a little scary just the same.  Getting there would be one thing – maybe manageable.  Getting back after dinner, after a glass or two of wine, after an hour to forget the landmarks and directions, might be a whole different game.

The desk clerk told me to take the elevator to B1 [sidebar: as in Singapore, a building may have several basement levels, called B1, B2, B3 as you descend from the street level.  Initially, it’s confusing, but when understood, it makes good sense], turn left, then take the second right.  With no particular landmarks, the first left could be almost anything, and the second right even more so.  Then, it’s not quite straight on to morning, but sort of follow the crooks in your nose until you reach the Shin-Marunouchi building.  Then, somehow, find the way from B1 up to the fifth floor.  I’m not quite sure how, but I made it.  That’s a restaurant floor – all Japanese restaurants, and the menus at the door are,of course, all in Japanese.  Makes it hard to choose wisely.  I found one that seemed to be French-yakitori fusion.  (Note: for lunch, we had hamburgers from the Hawaiian grill. Even in the realm of food, the world is getting flatter – except for the hawker stalls all over Sing!) The wine was French, and pretty good.  Yakitori is somewhat like satay – little spears of things cooked over a charcoal hibachi grill.  not knowing exactly what I would get (or even approximately), I ordered steamed cabbage followed by the yakitori dinner consisting of five sticks.  Five sticks of exactly what was not specified.  And, by the way, it’s not exactly straightforward ordering when the waiter speaks only the barest English, and my Japanese is even slimmer. When I took a table, he explained, in few words and many gestures, that service would be slow (actually, “long”)  because there were a lot of people in the restaurant.  I sat at a very small table (the entire restaurant was tiny, and all of the tables were, politely described, very intimate). Mine was at a window overlooking the kitchen.  All evening, the yakitori chef lovingly inspected and turned his yakitori sticks over the charcoal grill.  I had never seen so many sticks of meat, mushrooms, onions, turnips, and more mean so carefully and  tenderly arranged, inspected, and turned.  Each thing on the grill was lifted and checked about every 30 seconds.  Maybe replaced, maybe turned, depending on whether it had reached the degree of doneness or carmelization that was optimal.

When my dinner began to arrive, the first course was a small dish of shredded carrots.  The waiter automatically put down chopsticks,  had a second thought and asked whether I wanted knife and fork. Not for me! When in Japan, eat like the Japanese! Ahhh … be careful of the slogans you choose!

Some time later the cabbage came out – I don’t know what they call it; we call it Napa cabbage, and it was more braised than steamed, but good. Time passed, the wine was good, and eventually the first stick arrived –  liver, medium rare.  Might have been chicken liver.  Or something else.  Again time passed, and the next dish was a half quail.  Later followed by … well, this one was a true mystery.  When the waiter brought it out, he showed me that it came from the lower back.  It seemed to be mostly, or maybe all, fat.  I could not say what animal.  Maybe fowl, but I’ve never seen that much fat on a bird.  Oh well, good none the less, but I won’t need to order it again.  Later, the next dish as something from the onion family that was larger than a spring onion but smaller than a leek.  Five grilled pieces of the stalk.  When the waiter came by after I’d eaten four of them, he was a little distressd and said, in another sign-language “conversation”, that I was supposed to peel back the tough outer skin and eat only the soft inner part.  And the remaining piece was, indeed, much better that way.  Later again, the last dish was a small meat patty, grilled to perfection, accompanied by a raw egg yolk.  Another “conversation”, and I understood that I was supposed to stir the egg yolk and pour it over the patty.  I don’t known what kind of ground meat went into the patty, but with the yolk and dark sauce slightly reminiscent of teriyaki sauce, it was good.  And the second glass of wine was delightful as well.

By the end of the evening, the waiter and I had a good conversation mode – his end was Japanese and mine was English and, though limited, our communication was perfect.

All done and paid, I presented my compliments to the chef, whom I had watched all evening.  Through the window, I mimed that my stomach was smiling, and then gave him a Thai-style thank you.  Whether he was genuinely pleased, or laughing at the ridiculous gaijin, I’ll never know, but I choose to believe the first.

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Homecoming

After a business meeting which was an intense cultural experience in itself [sidebar: we met with a client company at the client’s offices, where the elevators were the biggest I’ve ever seen.  After the key ritual of exchanging business cards (at our office, before the meeting, I was asked at least twice whether I had cards), we sat down and their big boss made a short speech.  In Japanese.  The translator, provided by them, gave me the gist of it.  It was only then that I realized that, in addition to not really knowing what the meeting agenda was, I was the big boss on our side – hey, I’m just the out of town consultant – and I was expected to make a short speech for our side.  Seriously extemporaneous.  Then, their big boss made some comments and asked some questions on behalf of his team, and I answered, wondering how much they were understanding, since the translator did not translate.  Shortly thereafter, big boss left and the meeting got down to brass tacks, where they expressed their questions and concerns.  And that was when the meeting shifted to mostly Japanese. Lots of follow-up needed in the next couple of weeks.  I think the job may just have gone from 25mph to somewhere around 100.) – after the meeting ended, we just had time to get back to our office, buy my train ticket to the airport, and get a quick lunch, before I ran for the train to begin the trip home.

It is a profoundly strange feeling to get to the airport for the flight home and ignore the announcements for Los Angeles and San Francisco and Dallas.  Going home now means coming back to Singapore.  It’s going to take awhile to get used to that.

On the elevator in the morning, an Australian asked how long I was staying. “Leaving today.  And you?” “Going home today as well.”  “Where’s home?” “Adelaide. You?” It took me half a beat to figure out that the right answer was “Singapore”.  And it struck me as strange that he didn’t think that was a strange answer; par for the course out here.

Finally, it is strange to get the Sing immigration and ignore the lines of people presenting their passports and immigration form.  I now go to an automated checkpoint, put my passport in the scanner, put my thumb on the reader, and the gate pops open.

Home isn’t what it used to be.

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Japanese Lesson

Jake: How do you say “thank you” in Japanese?

Makoto: Well, it’s difficult.  I’m not very polite.  If you want to be polite, you say, “arigato”

Jake: Hari …

Miho: A-ri-ga-to

Jake: Arigato, arigato

Mike: Makoto-san, how would you say “thank you”?

Makoto: I’m from an island in western Japan, and we are not very polite.  I would say, “oki”.

Mike: What would people think of me if I said “oki”?

Makoto: They would think you are from western Japan!

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Current Currency

My wallet is starting to look a little strange.  When I open it, I see Singapore dollars; I see Japanese yen; but George and Abe and Andrew are not there smiling back at me (I seldom see US Grant or Ben, anyway).  It’s slightly unsettling to realize that I don’t need them any more, that they’re not useful now or for the foreseeable future.  Traveling normally means having a wallet full of unfamiliar currency and trying to work out a plan for minimizing the number and size of foreign bills that travel home.  In this life, that’s not an concern. Breakfast needs yen. Saturday’s dinner will need Sing.  There’ll be another breakfast to buy yen before too many more months.

On the other hand, the current conversion rate and strength of the US dollar against the Sing dollar is something that seems relevant and worth checking. regularly  Like the value of the Dow Jones, it’s not going to  affect day-to-day behavior, but it does seem like something that I should stay loosely connected with.  Sooner or later, we’ll have to repatriate some money (at least, I hope we’ll have some to repatriate!) and we’ll have to figure out the most advantageous – or least painful – way of doing that.

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