I put up the first transparency and introduced myself.
“I’m very happy to be here in Changsha, China,” I lied.
Wing translated this and we were on our way.
“I’m here today to talk to you about voice mail, and the global trends we are seeing.”
Wing began translating, but half way through the first sentence, he paused, then made a long “ummm” sound just as he did with Mr. Disheveled. He then seemed to restart the sentence, perhaps taking a different tack. Almost immediately he was back to “ummm, ummm” followed by “heh heh.”
I looked to him waiting for the signal that he was done. But he kept talking, and he kept ummming. Finally he finished.
“Many telecom carriers have discovered voice mail to be the new killer application driving traffic to their networks, especially to their cellular networks,” I said cautiously, pausing before biting off more than Wing would be able to chew.
Something was seriously wrong here. Wasn’t Chinese Wing’s first language?
He managed to get through the sentence and I spoke another.
“Ahhh…ummm…Chinese words…Chinese words…ahhh…Chinese word…heh heh.”
We were still on the first slide. This is going to be a long afternoon, I thought, glancing at the thick stack of remaining slides.
Wing knew the industry well and had been working with us for some time. But I had yet to say anything complicated or technical. Surely he knew the Chinese terms for things like “voice mail,” “telecom carrier” and “global trends.” Didn’t he?
Maybe he was just losing his mind. Either way, I was starting to lose mine. I plodded on, hoping things would improve.
Wing got more and more nervous and his “heh hehs” became more and more frequent. I was sure we were losing the audience. At this point it probably would have been equally effective if I turned to charades to act out the presentation. It couldn’t be worse than what was happening now. My annoyance level was rising rapidly but I was also beginning to feel bad for Wing. He had done a lot of work to get us here and now it was all going south. What a disaster.
A few more slides went by and you could almost hear a collective sigh from the audience as Wing searched for the right words, or any words at all. I was wondering if we would have been better off had Harry sent us to the wrong city when a man raised his hand. Wing called on him.
“This man can speak both Cantonese and Mandarin,” Wing quietly told me with an almost confessional look on his face.
So that was the problem! Wing’s Mandarin was terrible.
I knew that coming from Hong Kong, Wing mainly spoke Cantonese, but he had assured us that he also spoke Mandarin. I thought Mandarin was similar to Cantonese anyway and that it wouldn’t be a big deal. Clearly I was wrong. Wing’s Mandarin seemed quite serviceable when we were getting around town, eating and even exchanging money. Now I realize he was probably constructing Mandarin phrases on the order of “please take Honky hotel” and “we eat food hungry.” This would explain the trouble he had earlier with Mr. Disheveled.
And so it was that we proceeded: I said it in English, Wing translated effortlessly into Cantonese and the helpful guy from the audience–I’ll call him “the soldier”– translated it into Mandarin. Despite the tedium of this three stage communication, the audience, exactly as promised, seemed highly interested. Their heads followed us as if they were watching a triangular ping-pong match. They even stopped to explore topics in greater depth a few times. Most of the questions proceeded through this long chain of translation via the soldier and Wing to me in English, with the answer finally arriving back to the audience in Mandarin.
It wasn’t very efficient, but it was working. A few of the questions only made it as far as Wing, who was able to answer them himself in Cantonese. Some of the questions were even fielded directly in Mandarin by the soldier. My mood began to improve.
At the end, the audience even applauded. Imagine, a kid from Long Island getting a round of applause from the Chinese army! Maybe they were just happy it was over. We left the stage.
We soon found ourselves in a cab heading back to the hotel. I had learned a lot about China in a very short time, I thought. Part of me wanted to stick around to learn more, but fortunately it was a small part of me and was easily overpowered by the much more formidable part of me that was looking forward to a quiet dinner and the next flight back to Hong Kong the following afternoon.
Little did I know that there was one more obstacle I’d have to surmount before leaving. It was a horrifying tradition – the ultimate test a Westerner could ever come up against in China. I would have to survive the Wheel of Death.