A humble translation

DA YE

By CHIP TSAO

In 21st century Greater China, there is an up-and-coming class called da ye (the lord).

One Hong Konger puts down another with – “Aren’t you cocky, are you a da ye?” Mainland free-and-easy tourists have been panned by Hong Kong media for pooing and peeing in Disneyland and Chinese netizens wilfully come back with – “Da ye has spent the money, I’ll do as I please.”

China’s da ye and his ilk have wreaked havoc in Europe, speeding on Germany’s roads and roaring with laugher as they shop in Paris’s designer stores. Da ye has the money, you’ll do as you please? Sure. But you have disturbed the order and harmony of world civilisations; you have provided the best proof of the Yellow Peril; you are the basis for the China Threat theory; you and your ilk have sowed the seeds of the next rash of anti-Chinese outbreaks in the world.

How does one say da ye in English? In English, king and beggar alike refer to themselves as I; in Chinese, an emperor refers to himself as zhen (the sovereign). Even zhen is not as ruthlessly oppressive and insufferably arrogant as da ye, though his mandate is from Heaven and he is the most da ye of all under Heaven. The Chinese emperor never referred to himself as da ye. He sometimes spoke of himself as gu jia (my humble self) or gu wang (the humble monarch). The empress dowager and other palace-bound, unhappy women followed his lead and referred to themselves as ai jia (my mournful self). It was all self-effacement. What they meant was: Grand as it is the palace, it is cold at the top, nobody knows of my misery.

So in Chinese culture, a modicum of modesty was the most important in references to the self: a civil official such as the prime minister, who wielded administrative might, referred to himself as bei zhi (your meek servant); a military marquis such as the commander-in-chief of the Nine Gates[1], who commanded three thousand armoured soldiers, referred to himself as mo jiang (your inferior general). Scholars announced themselves as wan sheng (your junior); rich men and landowners referred to their wives as zhuo jing (my humble wife) or jian nei (my lowly wife); the most proper universal designation was bi ren (your lowly servant) or zai xia (my lowly self). This was the Chinese civilisation.

Bandits and pirates alone referred to themselves as ye every time they opened their mouths. “If ye is not wanted here, ye will be wanted elsewhere, if ye is not wanted anywhere, ye will enlist in the Eighth Route[2],” – if one did not thrive as a thief, there was the army, if the Nationalist Army did not take one, there was the Communist Party. Forest and mountain bandits alone oft had the word ye on their lips; their business was pillage and rape; they referred to themselves as da ye and they were not mistaken. Once upon a time in Beijing, luminaries, too, were addressed as ye. A son of a rich family who roamed the brothels was hailed from afar by tea boys and doormen in the eight hutong – “Welcome, San Ye.” This San Ye, Er Ye, Ba Ye or whatnot would be wearing brocade and jade, with fan in hand, and he would be smiling as he walked to the door and cast a name card. This was yesteryear’s cultured China.

In today’s mainland, the “get rich first” crowd have become the da ye class, with civilian Lai Changxing[3] as their economic ambassador and military man Zhu Chenghu[4] as their foreign-affairs spokesman. Looking northwards, there is no Divine Land, only a reptile park crawling with da ye. Is this still China? How in the world would I know?

[1] The city wall of Beijing had nine gates.
[2] The Communist Party of China led the Eighth Route Army during the Chinese Civil War and the Sino-Japanese War.
[3] Mr Lai is called the most-wanted man in China for his alleged involvement in a multibillion-dollar smuggling operation and is now in Canada.
[4] Major General Zhu has caused a controversy for saying that if the United States attacked China while defending Taiwan, Beijing would respond with nuclear weapons.

BROWN RICE DIARIES | Chapter Six

My father isn't a phone person. During his pre-retirement days, we were not to call him at work and he hardly called home. He didn't, and doesn't, have a cell phone. Nowadays, if he has something to tell us when we are at work, my mother - who is deaf in one ear and has a gift of garbling words - is the one who picks up the phone to pass us his messages.

Ma: (In Cantonese.) "Your father says you should buy some shares from that leit today."

Me: "What leit?"

Ma: "That leit." (Maybe five feet from her, my father is saying a word that sounds like reit.)

Me: "What reit?"

Ma: "That one that starts with P. He says you should buy some today. (Now, someone is saying what sounds like prime reit.)

Me: "Prime Reit?"

Ma: "That one that owns two buildings in Orchard. It's in the news today, your father says."

No, I don't have a clue why he can't come to the phone himself. But imagine my bewilderment when, for the first time ever, he called me at work yesterday. Yes, my mother has gone to China for a week, but what could be so crucial, he had to dial my number?

Me: "Lou Dao?"

Pa: "I want to cook a bit of brown rice. How many bowls of water do you add to a cup of rice?"

Welcome to the University of Fans

A mii-haa, if I understand it right, could be a girl with a crush on Doumiyouji - a romantic comic-book character also known as Daoming Si - a grown woman mad about F4 or a grandma crazy about Bae Yong Joon. To many members of the media, she is just another fanatic and the object of her fanaticism, just another heartthrob. They will tell you about this woman who became a full-time F4 stalker at the expense of her marriage or that woman who claimed to have been cured of her menopause by Yon-sama. But scarcely do they try to make sense of what is in fact a force of pop culture.

Which is why what my writer friend, Ms Shimamura, is doing is important. Ms Shimamura, author of such books as All Women Are Mii-Haa!, is writing a book on auntie fans titled Romantic Virus. There are no English translations of her books - yet - but here is a translation of her column for Kyodo News.

Arrival of the Romantic Virus

“Attack of the Auntie Brigade!”

This spring, this headline appeared in a Singapore newspaper. Approximately one thousand middle-aged women crowded Changi Airport when Yon-sama aka Bae Yong Joon made his visit. So the Yon-sama phenomenon, which set the record for the highest number of waiting fans in the history of Narita Airport, is not confined to Japan.

So far, there has been transnational fan movement in East Asia and Southeast Asia for Hong Kong actors, Johnnys and so on. But considering the fact that the Yon-sama phenomenon spawned a great number of virgin auntie fans (a Singapore newspaper’s term) who became groupies for the first time at middle age, Yon-sama deserves special note.

Why?

Firstly, Yon-sama made his debut on TV. The Madams did not need to make their way to the cinema or concert hall. From the first, they could enjoy Yon-sama in the comfort of their own homes. His shows were telecast over, and over again. Hong Kong stars who debuted in Japan through the movies could not boast the same.

Further, Yon-sama and the Korean Wave are part of a national project. Once Mr Bae became a hit with Madams in different parts of Asia, other actors would be shipped in, one after another; heartthrobs would become a national export. The explosive popularity of Winter Sonata was only possible because of the effort and support of the national tourism organisation and other government bodies.

In Japan’s case, the way had already been paved. We had girls’ comics and “junior novels”, and one of the world’s most developed fan media, consisting magazines, star photographs, pictorial books et cetera. Mii-haa-friendly soil was there from the beginning.

Objects of the Madams’ fanatic passion, such as Tama (Saburou)-sama and Sugi (Ryotaro)-sama, have always existed. Matsuken (Matsudaira Ken) is still in the game. The Kabuki Theatre, Kokugi-kan (sumo stadium) and the Koma Theatre – each generation is already provided with a corresponding centre of fandom. What’s more, compared to the couple-centred societies of Europe and the US, Japanese society is more tolerant of women herding together to entertain themselves.

Perhaps the Yon-sama Madams wished to avoid the traditional “auntie course”. They wanted to go wild over something, but not in the senior citizen seats. Hikawa Kiyoshi was not bad, but he lacked sophistication.

It was then that Yon-sama - sweet, soft, and old-fashioned in the right degree – appeared. That there was only the faintest whiff of sex about him was a bonus for the Madams. Yes… With him, one could most safely swoon. They want their hearts to flutter, no matter what age they are. If only in fantasy, they want to be loved by, and to fall under the spell of, a young, handsome man.

It was to that breeding ground in Madams that Yon-sama arrived with the force equivalent, if you will pardon the comparison, to Sars - a romantic virus of unprecedented scale.

And the time was ripe with just the right nutrients for its growth. Many of the Madams have a small fortune. They can fly often to Korea with ease. The population continues to age and the birth rate to fall. They have a lot of time ahead of them. The necessity for pastimes grows more acute. If they aren’t into something, they can’t go on.

They start attending Further Education School overseas at middle, or early old age, saying, “I started Korean lessons after seeing Winter Sonata.” The Yon-sama boom overlaps with the hobby kingdom’s (Japan’s) style.

One could easily diagnose this as a lack of fulfilment in one’s personal life and an attempt to escape from the anxieties of ageing. But once you are infected with the Romantic Virus, there is no going back. That is where the merits and demerits of Yon-sama lie.

Most of the Madams who awoke to “fanhood” through Yon-sama had no immunity to the virus, and for that reason, their fuss was conspicuous. You would expect them to regain their self-possession when they develop an immunity, but no. They will inevitably seek to swoon in deeper, and more varied, ways. As a mii-haa of 40 years who had too strong an immunity to lose her head over Yon-sama, I can say that with certainty.

There is no need to look at the extension of the FTA to conclude that the exchange of human resources and commodities in the Asian region is increasing. I wouldn’t be surprised if new viruses continued to be discovered. This time, will they come from Thailand, or Vietnam?

BROWN RICE DIARIES | Chapter Five

When you're a psycho, your life is lonely and that's how you like it. You enjoy your uniquely psychotic existence. (Have you heard of a stalkers' society or a fellowship of brown rice?)

Alas, have been discovering to my disappointment that I am not alone. Met my JC comrades at a wedding tonight and one of them, Mr Tan, now gets out of bed at 5am - 5am! - on weekdays to work out, then cook the brown rice, greens and chicken breast to be taken to work. Not that I should be surprised. Mr Tan has always been a fascinatingly focused person. He was a straight A student who did his homework on the bus; he would work his way through a physics tutorial paper in pencil and his answers would be correct but so concise that only he understood them and no one could copy them. He has known his wife since he was 14; they have been together for 15 years - 15 years! - and now have two children. And he has always been on a gym-rat low-fat diet; but then it was white rice, egg white, greens and chicken breast every day and now it is brown rice, et cetera.

Then there is Ms L. We travelled together to Seoul on a junket months ago, found a fabulous mall there that opens at 10.30am and closes at 5am, spent hours shopping together and got on fabulously. I meant to talk to her more after the junket. We did not have a chance to chat, however, until the other day, when I saw someone a few steps ahead in a baby doll top similar to the one I got in Seoul. It had to be her. So I caught up with her and soon we were catching up. But before I could tell her about my recent yoga-and-brown-rice regimen - she told me all about hers.

"I've taken up yoga, it's been four months," she told me - I wanted to tell her that so had I but she went - "Lost 7kg leh, I didn't know you could lose that much weight from taking up yoga" - I could not say the same for myself so I went, "Wow," and she said - "I practised every day" - I wanted to tell her that so did I, um, on the days when I woke up early enough, but she went - "Two hours every day till I lost too much weight leh, now it's one hour every day." And she does the brown rice thing, too.

Next to the two of them, I'm a loser psycho.

Taiwan Idol

Taiwanese are bastards but they are more adorable; Hong Kongers are trickier; Singaporeans are dumber; Chinese are more unfathomable - Li Ao, Harbin-born Taipei-based author-politician, after his tour of the mainland

When Li Ao scolds someone on his TV show, it's a spectator sport. He does not so much cross the line separating what you may say from what you may not say as vault way over it. When he calls past and present Taiwan presidents names like wang ba dan (turtle spawn), the right response is something between a gasp and a giggle. Then you wait for the best bit: the bit when, armed with articles, books and anecdotes, he spells out why so-and-so is a moron or worse, a moral midget.

But he is much more than a madman of letters who barks at presidents period. His bite is actually as bad as his bark. He is a bad boy who delights in getting the better of any government. In his own words, a hen jiao se (ruthless character).

Once, one of his homes in a certain county - say County A - was raided by the police for banned books when he was out of town, or so the story goes. The smarty-pants policemen, mindful of how lawyer-happy he was, actually made a recording of their raid as proof that they did not make a mess of his home. But they were not smart enough. Apparently, by Taiwan law, the Taiwan equal of a resident's committee representative has to be present at a raid if a homeowner isn't. As Li Ao pointed out to the police, their recording was actually proof of their illegal raid. They had burned his books by then, so he asked them to compensate him. But they hemmed and hawed.

Meanwhile, in County B, a policeman had seized a Li Ao book from a shop in the belief that the volume was banned. But he had the wrong book. So his superiors, all apologetic, invited Li Ao to tea. They told the policeman to say sorry to Li Ao. They told Li Ao they had demoted the policeman. They thought, "What more would Li Ao want?"

He said, "I want one dollar." So one of them started to fish out a dollar note, but he stopped them, saying, "No, no, no. I want it official. I want a treasury note." So they had to mail it to him: a one-dollar treasury note.

What was on his mind was the story of the Qing Dynasty scholar who once was jailed. It was standard prison procedure then that wardens would supplement their income by beating up a new inmate for a bribe. The scholar, being an understanding man, could see why they would want to beat up a rich inmate. But he could not bear to see them beat up a poor inmate. So he had to ask a warden, "What do you get from beating up a man who has nothing to give?" The warden said: "Sir, you know not how it is. If poor men are not beaten up, rich men will pretend to be poor."

Li Ao had gone out of his way to get his $1 treasury note from County B, to send a message to County A. They got his message - and coughed up tens of thousands of dollars as compensation. He's my hero.

BROWN RICE DIARIES | Chapter Four

It's the eve of Children's Day. My parents have come home from their Journey To The West, bearing their buys from Chinese Turkestan: mutton buns, pomegranates and wind-dried raisins for their greedy grown-up children; and child-size sheepskin clothing for other people's children, like the lovable little terror next door.

My father, the man who gave me my obsessive gene, asks: "Did you cook your brown rice?"

Me: "Yes."

Pa: "Every day?"

Me: "Yes. Day one, I burnt the rice. Day two, I burnt the rice. But you learn after two nights spent scrubbing pots."

Pa: "Aiiiyaaa."
(The Cantonese aiiiyaaa is not to be confused with the Singlish aiya. Aiya implies impatience. Usage: Aiya, I don't have time for your rubbish. But aiiiyaaa, said in a dramatic drawl, connotes concern and is as close as some Cantonese men will ever come to saying, "Poor baby.")
"What did you eat your rice with?"

Me: "Mad cow."
(Translation: The Laughing Cow.)

Pa: "You ate your rice with cheese?"

Me: "Gwai lo fu yu yer ma."
(Translation: It's white men's fermented beancurd what.)

My father falls silent. Maybe it is because he is married to the woman who went to the Silk Road with a jar of fu yu in her handbag so she could eat her rice with fermented beancurd every day.

BROWN RICE DIARIES | Chapter Three

Believe me when I say I'm a slow learner. It's taken me three days to learn that to boil brown rice - as opposed to burning it - you simply set the stove at minimal heat.

Today's rice turned out so right, so beautiful, I ate it with cheese in celebration. A portion of cheese spread by La Vache Qui Rit or The Laughing Cow or as we call it in our house, Chio Goo or Seow Goo. (What to do? Bourgeois is as bourgeois does.)

BROWN RICE DIARIES | Chapter Two

I'm wondering: Did Cinderella get a magic manicure from the fairy godmother before going to the ball? I'm wondering because my nails are a discoloured dark grey now; because I've had to scrub a sooty pot twice in two days; because - yes - I burnt more brown rice today.

Today, remembering the golden rice-cooking ratio, I did one cup of rice to two bowls of water. But at 20 minutes, things started smelling suspicious and I lifted the lid to find that, fuck, the water had evaporated and the rice was blackening. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

If it was my mother, when the food was burnt but still saveable, she would first ground the pot i.e. lift it off the hot stove and lower it to the cold ground, then transfer the unburnt food to a fresh pot for further cooking. Somehow - maybe by an old wives' spell - her food would be free of the bitter burnt taste.

Not being my mother, I did it my half-arsed way. I did the grounding but not the transferring. (Would you want to wash two pots if you were in my shoes?) So I added much more water and keeping my fingers crossed metaphorically and half-watching the boiling pot non-metaphorically, I began to practise yoga poses. But at 40 minutes, when the pot did the rattling thing, I had to come out of the corpse pose at record speed and rush to the stove.

So today's rice was more like burnt porridge, as opposed to yesterday's rice, which was charred, not cooked through - more like burnt pebbles. In other words, I'm improving! I hope the pot holds up. Already, it's scarred for life from all the scrubbing.

PS. Thanks for the tip, dark orpheus. Tomorrow's rice is being soaked now.

BROWN RICE DIARIES | Chapter One

I've been deeply, crazily, compulsively committed to brown rice for a few months now; I have it for breakfast, lunch and dinner; when I go to work, I take it with me in a lunchbox so I won't have to ingest any evil white rice (save when it is served in sushi). My commitment to brown rice was severely tested today, however.

My mother, the one who wakes up an hour before me to cook me brown rice every morning, has taken off to the Silk Road for two weeks. So poor little pampered me had to make myself get out of bed at 6.30am today to cook the rice with what I thought was an idiotproof AMC stainless steel pot. Put rice in the pot, add a bowl of water, put the pot on the stove for 40 minutes: How hard could it be, right? Wrong. Now I'm no good with boiling pots when steam starts to lift their lids a little and makes them rattle. It makes me nervous. This morning, there was no more rattling after 20 minutes. The silence, if I was less of an idiot, should have set off all sorts of alarm bells: Has the pot run out of steam? Of water? Do I add another bowl of water? Instead, I said, "Good, let me read the paper in peace."

By the time I smelled what could have been burnt coffee beans, it was too late. I've since chipped three nails trying to clean the pot, which is still covered with crisps and craters.

The taxi, the jetty and the marriage boat

True love's the gift which God has given
To man alone beneath the heaven:
It is not fantasy's hot fire,
Whose wishes soon as granted fly;
It liveth not in fierce desire,
With dead desire it doth not die;
It is the secret sympathy,
The silver link, the silken tie,
Which heart to heart and mind to mind
In body and in soul can bind - Walter Scott

A little after 9am, the adorable Ms C, in a lovely lilac dress, came out of her house into her yard to marry her Mr K. I watched the wedding from the gate, where I was waiting for a cab that wouldn't materialise.

Yes I had to be at a church for the next wedding at 9.30am - because yes Ms C, a close office comrade, and Ms Ong, my favourite friend, were both doing the marriage thing on the same morning and I wanted to be at both weddings. I had to. (Am a I wedding whore? Maybe.) Never mind that (a) I live on the western end, (b) Ms C lives on the northern end, (c) Ms Ong lives on the eastern end, (d) I don't drive, and (e) many cabbies don't get out of bed before noon on weekends, to be true to their nature of never ever being there for you when you need them.

So, where was I? Yes, at the gate.

On one hand, it was good that the cab that I had called was so late, I didn't have to miss a moment of Ms C's ceremony. Not one "I will", not one "I do", not one joke by her jolly justice of peace ("don't hold your cert, hold your wife"). On the other hand, it was bad for the cabbie and bad for my karma. He finally found his way to Ms C's house at 9.20am; I wasn't good enough to spare him a scolding. But he's a great old Hokkien guy who ignored my scolding, talked to his friend on his walkie-talkie, and still sped me to the church in time for me to scoot up the stairs, steal in through what turned out to be the back door and see... Ms Ong's bridesmaid and matron of honour marching towards me?

And here's Ms Ong now, all bridal and aglow. And there's her father. And there's the man who will be her husband, Mr Lan. And as she walks towards him - and towards me, because I'm standing somewhere behind him - I try to wave to them to tell them, "I made it! I was this close to killing the taxi man and he was this close to getting me killed with his speeding and my hair is messy but I made it!" I might have been waving like a drowning man but no one seems to see me - and it's fine. It's like when your friends are about to begin a very important journey - that's not yours to take with them and really, with regard to marriage, you're more of the armchair travel type - and the next best thing that you can do is just to be at the jetty as they're setting sail. I'm very, very glad to have got to the jetty - twice - today.