Fish

Every now and then, a travel story comes around that is:

a) someone elses

b) so much funnier than yours that you wish it was yours,

c) you just have to tell it.

A Few years back our Beloved Company upgraded the Hong Kong Fire and Ambulance Mobile Data system. We sent out our resident radio expert, Simon, a PhD with wicked sense of humour delivered in broad Lancastrian. Amongst the good doctor's myriad useful talents he could do Morse code in Russian, a skill learned during a research career that took him from Sierra Leone to the Russian Arctic. (I'll leave it a an exercise to the reader to work our where he developed his bilingual telegraphic skills, and why this is relevant to the story.) He was accompanied by a fellow North Westerner, a soccer - mad Cumbrian with a penchant for finding amiusement in all things foreign. Apart from collecting the most naff national dolls from every country he visited, foreign languages were a constant source of amusement. I well remember him being in in hysterics in Holland after seeing a series of signs saying "Shlicten zu Lichten". Chris found this funny despite the fact that it means "dip your headlights" (Almost as funny as the Tourist in Spain who after following the signs for 4 hours stopped and asked a policeman when they would be getting to "Cedo El Paso".)

Anyway, returning swiftly from Andalucia to Hong Kong, our intrepid brace of Engineers (What is the collective noun for engineers?) decided to spend a day on the Chinese Mainland. Relaxing from the stress of the colony, and taking in some real Chinese culture. They duly took the ferry, Chris's amusement somewhat blunted by his absolute inability to decipher a single road or shop sign. (For the non - English reader, Cumbrian dialect is rooted Old Norse not Old Mandarin, but for most of the rest of us English it might as well be, but that's another story)

After a few hours of walking round being the only Westerners in town, they decided that it might be a good idea to find lunch. Being good Northern lads, brought up in multicultural Manchester and Wigtown respectively they considered the options for a while, and "decided on a Chinese",

Well, the first problem was to find a restaurant. Unlike Hong Kong, the mainlanders did not like to encourage Westerners by putting "Restaurant" (in English) on the sign outside. After walking in to two private houses and a bank, they noticed two girls standing giggling outside another building, decorated only with indecipherable Chinese characters. They beckoned the boys over, and, still giggling, led them in to a restaurant. Now clearly the girls were having a slow day, and thought that two Western travelers would be good sport. They were led to a table, sat down and handed each a sheet of laminated paper, covered on both sides with a solid block of Chinese Characters. After some thought they decided that this, admittedly ornate, but completely indecipherable sheet must be the menu.

Now in most foreign countries anyone with even a smattering of another language can decipher enough to point vaguely at a menu and not get served donkey's testicles. Even in Finland, it's possible to separate the courses and not accidentally order two portions of "VAT is charged at 18%" and a side dish of "Service is included". Not in mainland China. Its a solid block of Chinese text, no numbers, no separation of the courses.

Donkey's testicles were beginning to look a distinct possibility.

By this time, the two girls we rolling about on the floor with amusement, the grinning now overtaken by laughter, loud enough to bring out the Head Chef, who, after appearing to argue with the girls, also began to laugh loudly.

Well by this time, Northern Man and hunger were taking over. The boys weren't going to be giggled at by two girls, or a chef, Head or otherwise, nor were they going to suffer an ignominious and hungry exit. Suddenly Simon's PhD kicked in, and he walked over to one of the tanks around the walls and pointed animatedly to a fish. Quickly the message was put over, "we'd like fish" and they returned to their table with anticipation.

Well they were pretty pleased with themselves, they'd made contact with another culture, and were going to get a fish supper as well

They continued to chat until an old lady sidled up to Chris with a plastic supermarket carrier bag, and held it out. Chris, lost in animated conversation and thinking it was some type of Chinese lucky dip plunged his hand in to the bag, only to make contact with a cold, wet slimy object that moved when he touched it.

"There's a fucking fish in here!"

He cried (in old Norse) pulling his hand out so rapidly he nearly knocked the old lady off her feet. At this point the old lady looked mortally offended, and thinking the fish she'd brought for them to approve was not good enough, scuttled back to the kitchen, only to return two minutes later with another plastic bag. At this point Simon slid under the table and joined the girls in uncontrollable laughter.

Chris this time smiled gracefully, nodded his head and the old lady smiled, bowed and headed to the kitchen again. They did eat that evening, and I'm sure the two girls tell the story just as often as Simon and Chris.