THERE is a world of difference between conversing in Mandarin with a Singaporean compared to conversing with a mainland Chinese.
You're at a hawker centre and you call out in your “O” Level A-grade Chinese to the stall owner: “Xiao jie ah, ke yi gei wo duo yi ge tang chi.”
The 50-plus-year-old Auntie will readily give you a spoon.
But say that in a Beijing and chances are that the fu wu yuan will glare at you for (1) implying she is a xiao jie offering services more appropriate in a motel than in a Chinese restaurant; (2) for being a yellow-skinned lao wai who is so ignorant that you don't even know local lingo like “shao zi”; and (3) for being downright rude.
The gap in the way Singaporeans and mainland Chinese communicate has landed some Singaporeans in a few scrapes and prompted them to join the growing pool of students signing up for Business Mandarin classes.
One Singaporean recalled how bemused he was when a Chinese official diplomatically welcomed him as a yuan qing - a polite term, often used to refer to the bilateral ties between mainland China and Singapore). Being a straight-talking guy, he corrected the official: “No, you're wrong, I don’t have any faraway relatives living in China.” That gaffe got him “clobbered by the boss”. He learnt his lesson and promptly signed up for business mandarin courses.
This anecdote jolted my memory with an interview I did during a press trip to Tianjin last year.
The Chinese official corrected me for referring to Zhong Guo when talking about various investments in the country, and suggested that I use nei di instead, as I am an ethnic Chinese hua ren and therefore should not refer to China as the foreigners would.
This puzzled me initially as I had translated nei di literally in my head as “inland”. But I certainly was not about to protest – especially since I was busy figuring out how to discreetly empty my allotted share of 5 cups of potent bai jiu (white wine) into a plastic bag I had stowed under the table, without being spotted by the generous Chinese hosts.
I wished then that I had learnt some tips about how to navigate Chinese cultural norms and popular business practices – like the proper etiquette and toasting procedure during endless gan bei sessions – before I went on the Tianjin trip. It was a sentiment echoed by Singaporeans who joined classes at centres such as the Singapore Chinese Chamber Institute of Business (SCCIOB) after suffering culture shock on their maiden business trips to China.
There were students like Julie Chong and Grace Yeo who impressed me with their genuine passion for the Chinese culture and language, which are so closely intertwined. For them, commercial use of their bilingual ability was a secondary consideration. No wonder they were willing to fork out several thousand dollars to attend a bachelors of arts degree course at the Singapore Institute of Management on English-Mandarin translation and interpretation.
But what intrigued me most was that practically all of the business mandarin students in the - admittedly small - random sample that I interviewed seemed to take up the course out of desperation.
They had discovered their language inadequacy and cultural barriers only after struggling with their interactions with mainland Chinese clients. They were taking the courses purely for pragmatic reasons, and just as an after-thought, rather than something that they planned to do in preparation for work in China.
As one student told me: “I just want enough business Mandarin to get a deal going there, and then get out, and get back to my comfort zone in Singapore. Frankly, I sometimes wish I’m a westerner instead of a Singaporean, so that the Chinese would excuse me for my bad Mandarin and let me use a translator without despising me.”
Nothing wrong with pragmatism, or with yearning for the comfort zone. I grew up speaking English, but I've been immersing myself in all things Mandarin - from Zhang Ailing novels to popular Chinese search engine Baidu, to the sheng jing (bible) - not just because I'm fascinated with China, but also because I know my life and world will be profoundly shaped by the roaring dragon economy.
But I couldn't help contrasting the rather half-hearted desperation displayed by some Singaporeans to learn Chinese with the impassioned drive displayed by the millions of Chinese who underwent English boot camp to prepare for the Beijing Olympics, portrayed in the movie “Mad About English”. I was gripped by awe when I watched masses of Chinese people hurl themselves into the great campaign to learn English - for the success of the Beijing Olympics, for the honour of their parents, for the reputation of their glorious country. They were learning English to communicate with the world, because those foreigners are to be pitied for not knowing how to speak the great Chinese language.
Try shouting that sort of motivational slogans in mandarin classes in Singapore and I can wager my brand-new 1248-page Advanced English-Chinese dictionary that the response may be well be one of stunned – even incredulous - silence.
What a world of difference.
Read Grace Ng's full report Professionals hit by language fever.