I know what you did!

A trip down to Durban gave me the impression that our society ran out of names for things.  Gone are the days where we build a travel device, lie under a tree with a pie, and proudly announce half an hour later, "this is a car".  This is way too much trouble, as it requires thinking, so we string words together at random to identify new inventions.  Picture this scene...

Upon arrival, I glanced around the deck, familiarizing myself with the establishment and opportunities presented.  I then walked over to the Rasta-man in the dark corner and kindly asked, "I really fancy a Cherry Hooker?"  He developed a partial grin to the left corner of his mouth and replied, "That is not possible tonight".  I reconsidered my options and announced, "Sex on the Deck then?"  He scanned the deck, intensely studying the people scattered around, and then replied "I'll recommend Sex on the Beach, it will suit you better?"  I agreed to this.

If I would cut the story here and present to my wife for proof reading, I'd be sure all hell would break loose.  She would go on for some seconds about this type of behaviour, after only one night stay in Durban, before she kicked me out.  The consequences would be even worse of she were in the kitchen, armed with a meat cleaver.  But she would be wrong.

I had no intention of giving in to feeble behaviour; these are all cocktails in a seaside bar called Joe Cool.  An innocent discussion to quench a thirst, overheard by the wrong person, could have me starring up to a dimming moon out of my, not very comfortable, shallow grave.

Since I only had the one drink, my analysis of the drink to find the link between appearance, taste and name was limited.  There were none.  I struggled half way through the drink just figuring out how to conduct the evaluation and even that was impossible.

Then I summonsed over Rasta-man.  I figured, as the creator of these exotic items, he would hold the keys to their meaning.  I asked him about the name and drink, and waited for the explanation.  He was stunned at the question, and in an instant I could see it did not make sense to him either.  The smile took 30 seconds to drain from his face, and then twisted his nose into a question mark - that was quite an achievement.  Later in my room I tried to do the same, but realized that this must be a special skill taught at level 3 in Rasta school.  My thinning mane however, will ensure that I do not make the cut for entry.  Thus realizing I am damned with underdeveloped nasal ability, I will return to the main story here.  Rasta-man said, “I got this from a book, the name, ingredients, presentation method and all”.  He offered no further intellectual material to ponder over, only this bland statement.  I was obviously glad that he could read, but thought telling him so much would not help my situation.  My gaze went from his face down to the drink, and then a thought struck me.

Parents all over the world face the same problem.  What to call the fresh bundle of joy upon arrival?  It does need to be called something when you need to draw their attention; it is also a helpful reference if you need to fill in a form.  However, what qualifies your screaming pink foot to be called John, Graeme, or Ann?  Surely there are simple rules governed by sex, of the child, but even these get distorted nowadays.  What character traits need to be identified, and that most of the time prior to birth, before a proper name be bestowed on the helpless child?  This is impossible!  The only conclusion - call the child some recognizable arrangement of letters which is not too difficult to announce, with no regard of the child's ability or ambition.  Name and traits completely unrelated.

With cocktails there is the stray chance however that two bartenders in different locations have the same name for something with the same ingredients because they use the same recipe as reference.  With a bit of luck both Rasta-man and his ghost counterpart exhibited the discipline and attention span to follow the recipe, thus created the same taste and visual experience.  My cry is thus incorrectly directed to the bartender, it should be to the person writing up the recipes to have some discretion in concocting the name.  I am sure no one will have the foggiest idea how Sex on the Beach contained in glass relates to the suggested activity based on visual analysis or taste.  Why then this name?  Is it the last reminder of a historic even from an originator?  Now all of us can be exited, walking up to an unsuspecting bartender and force a smile with a simple request.

Lost to time is the name of the originator of the experience, but I am sure I know what he did, and what he drank.

Friday 31 May, 2013

The Chinese Blonde

My trained eyes discovered during many visits that all Chinese woman have brown or black hair, unless human intervention turns it green, blue or any other possible colour.  Thus any visitor to China might frown at the title of this essay, but wrongly so.

There is the old conventional wisdom that blondes are a little sparse in the intellectual department.  Being married to one of the natural kind, I know this tightrope is suddenly strung over very dangerous territory, but brave as I am, I will soldier on.

There is an old joke that places a blonde; very beautifully I must add, in the first class seat of a plane.  The problem is that her ticket was booked in coach.  The very junior flight attended then come up to the gorgeous blonde and indicates that her seat is in the back of the plane.  The blond refuses to move, and then the problem gets escalated to the next level.  The senior flight attendant then tries with her best persuasive ability to move the blonde to the back of the plane, with no success.  As soon as the captain hears of the growing disaster, he declares to the senior flight attendant, "I speak blonde and the matter shall be resolved swiftly".  The man of action then walks up to the blonde and whispers something in her ear.  Without hesitation she gets up and moves to her allocated seat in the back of the plane.  All witnesses astonished then confront the captain as to the powerful message he delivered.  The captain then stated, "I only told her that this section of the plane does not go to her destination, only the back section does”.  Everyone now break into a bout of laughter because no intellectual person could belief such an explanation.  I was part of those in the laughing crowd until today, when I realised this had to be a Chinese blonde, and I shared a flight with her.

In a previous essay I was en route to Jinan.  I was allocated a ticket after a fiasco where my flight was cancelled.  The forgiving character that I am, I shall not describe this in detail except to note that upon arrival in the lounge, I realized my flight number did not appear on the electronic departure schedule.  As I then had the recent experience of how unemotionally a flight could be cancelled, I was, to say the least, stressed out of my scull.

I went to the front desk no less than 12 times in as many minutes, and was assured my flight did not arrive.  My Chinese is limited and so is their English in Dalian, but I could figure out that one flight published on the display board had as destination Dalian.  I thought this was very strange on the departure schedule in Dalian.  However, I did prior to this event notice that Chinese are not always doing things the way we Westerners find efficient or logical.

Exactly 15 minutes after the scheduled boarding time on my ghost flight's boarding card, a rather nervous looking front desk attendant came searching for me in the lounge.  This made me feel important, but her distressed manner caught my attention.  She announced in broken English, "Gate 16!".

I did note before that I grew a particular mental ability, and thus realized that I have to go there.  I glanced at the departure board one last time and saw nothing.  My flight is still not there.  I do not know what finally drove me to action.  Was it pure faith in wanting to leave Dalian, or a general mannerism of listening to people in uniform that drove me?  I went to departure gate 16.

Upon arrival I saw people going through the gate, but this was not my flight number.  My ticket was on flight ZH9472 to Jinan, and this flight was ZH9430 to Fujang.  "Wait a minute", I thought and rushed to the desk.  I produced my ticket and pointed to the flight number discrepancy.  I demanded answers with a rather stressed gesture of hands and animated pointing.  I could have been Italian right then.  The flight attendant took my ticket and scanned it.  Within split seconds a green light illuminated on the scanner and with her confident smile she requested me to board the plane.

I was dumb struck by these evens and several minutes later realized I was in seat 3F on the wrong plane to the wrong destination after following due procedure.  I did what people in uniforms told me to do.  I felt like a man in desperate need of a mother.

Seconds later I felt the plane leave the safety of the runway with my only consolation that I escaped from Dalian.  Earlier that day I thought this would not be possible, and I would grow old in this unforgiving city.  But, where would this flight take me?  What about the people waiting to collect me in Jinan?  The flight was short, 52 stressful minutes.  Then touch down.  I was glad, but where?

The revelation came unceremoniously in an almost digitized effort of English, after a much elaborated Chinese version, "Plane now in Jinan, this passenger to get off now, passenger to Fujang must remain in seat for flight leave in 15 minutes".

As I saw people in isle seats, and in the front of the plane get up and collect their things.  I turned around and my mind turned to the blonde Chinese woman, seated in the back, on her way to Fujang.  Is this the milk plane?

Wednesday 22 May, 2013