Talking funny

In Taiwan, if you don't have a whiney North American accent, you're considered some sort of freak. 

If you're a teacher, your employment prospects are immediately stunted. Parents demand teachers who are unable to spell colour properly. Students stare blankly as they struggle to comprehend you when you say “banana”. School bosses warn you that you're lucky to have a job at all - what with that spazzy accent. You know, that British accent. That one accent we all have across the whole of the British Isles...

My Taiwanese girlfriend's polished Californian brogue is something to be proud of. I can't wait for the day when I'm good enough at another language to have a discernible accent. But, unfortunately she also takes great pleasure in teasing me about my speech patterns and vocabulary. And one night, when she told me that she thinks that an Afrikaans-English accent sounds “mysterious and noble”, well that really hurt. Surely that's the section of the market us Brits should have cornered?

So, considering the near constant barrage of abuse I receive for having a non-North American accent and vocabulary, it's probably naïve of me to pick fun at another's – but crikey, the Newfoundland accent's a bit weird isn't it?

It's a bastard mix of Irish, Canadian, French and god-knows-what-else. It sounds like a Hollywood actor in a period-piece who got stuck with an awful voice coach. A Newfoundlander I met in a Taipei bar took great pride in telling me his island's history (which is fascinating, by the way, and goes some way to explaining the accent).

Take Leonardo DeCaprio's awful lilt from Gangs of New York, add reactionary Catholic bigot and racist Mel Gibson's attempt at a Scottish accent in Braveheart and mix them together. Then I suppose you're getting close.

But don't take my words for it. Listen to some samples:

An overweight gentleman in a baseball cap speaks about something or other.

A younger man with stick-on eyebrows made of felt makes a telephone call.

A rubbish song, sung by a man called Barry Davis who made a CD of songs about Newfoundland which, presumably, didn't sell.

Adaptation

Humans adapt. That's what we're best at. Today's exciting and new is tomorrow's grey and moribund. Even tragically shit things become tolerable if they are drip fed to us over a long enough period. That's why Armageddon will be met not with mass hysteria, but a swathe of tuts and grumbles, as we slide slowly into the abyss.

In Taiwan, my adaptation has led me to become less impressed by the charming, the wacky and the downright bonkers. And it's lamentable. Not least because it makes writing this blog harder. So this post's for all the little things. All those lovely little Taiwanese happenings. For getting treated like a King – and taking it for granted like a spoilt little Prince.

This one's for the bus driver who stopped outside my house – not an official stop – and made me feel like Tyler Durden in Fight Club.

And it's for the countless 7-Eleven workers, restaurant staff, co-workers, and builders who tell me that I'm handsome (yes, I said builders. They shouted “handsome guy” at me. Things are different here).

It's for the grandmas on the fruit and veg stalls who always give me free samples. And the aunties in the canteen restaurants who give me extra-large portions for cheap.

And this one goes out to the lady in Carrefour supermarket, who tried to convince Jen that she should marry me, on the grounds that she won't do any better. Simultaneously complimentary and abusive.

This post's also for our landlady, who thought she'd seen me and Jon around her neighbourhood before. And when we mentioned that we were new in town, rendering that impossible, she pointed out that all Westerners look ostensibly the same anyway, because we all have massive heads.

It's for the competitive dad. The one who asked if his son Felix could join in with our kick-about in the park, and then filmed the whole thing on his video camera – while shouting at Felix in the manner of a desperate football manger.

And I wouldn't want to forget my trip to an old fortress in Danshui. The rattly old geezer who was a volunteer in the museum hung off my every word, as if I were Simon Schama, asking me questions about Victorian history and taking photos of me for his own collection.

And, last but not least, the guy outside the supermarket last week who looked less mental than his actions suggested. He stood to attention and saluted me. Twice. A gesture of respect which I do not really deserve and, instead, would like to offer to every wonderful Taiwanese person on this island.

God bless Isla Formosa.

Kill em with kindness

Taiwanese breakfasty treats

While the western world goes increasingly nuts over Odd Future Wolf Gang - and “Kill Them All” becomes the meme of the year - Taiwan carries on killing me with kindness.

The latest episode happened last week, when my sister was visiting. Her first morning in our apartment after a late-night landing in Taipei, I ran downstairs to our local breakfast place to grab some take-out sustenance.

In my awkward, stuttering Chinese I ordered a load of Taiwanese delights. Four zhua bing (a thick pancake) with bacon and cheese on, two soy milk drinks and – obviously – some hash browns. No problem with the first two items, but through my uneducated ear came the bad news “we don't have hash browns, but we have mai wan”. “Hmmm, this mai wan sounds tasty!”, I thought. And so I asked, in Chinese, what it was...

Unbeknownst to me, mai wan is not an undiscovered morning delicacy. It means “sold out”. But the three kind ladies behind the counter mistook my enquiry for a translation request. My innocent question started a complete circus;

The staff behind the counter frantically interrogated each other. “I don't know in English!”, came the pained responses.

The lady who had been the target of my question grabbed the phone and started calling friends and family. Still no luck.

Free with every Taiwanese breakfast

In one final, desperate bid to get rid of me, one of the ladies ran to the noodle restaurant next door and grabbed the owner. Jimmy's English is pretty good and he managed to define the words, “they no more have”... “they out stock”.

It dawned on me, “Ah! They've sold out!” and, as one of the restaurant staff scribbled all this down on a piece of paper, three little Taiwanese kids – who I hadn't noticed until then – broke into a chorus,

“sold out!”

“sold out!”

“sold out!”

In Taiwan, it seems, they always go the extra mile. They wouldn't know complacency here if it couldn't be bothered to hit them in the face. And God bless Taiwan for it. It makes the life of this idiot so much better.