Understanding

Walking down Farringdon Road on my way home last night, a car pulled up to the kerb beside me and a window rolled down. The car was full of Asian men, Indian or Pakistani, one of whom beckoned me over. "Is there something something something around here?" he asked.

"Sorry?" I couldn't hear what he was saying, couldn't make it out.

"Is there something something something around here?"

Now I was feeling stupid. I genuinely couldn't understand the question. All four men were looking at me expectantly. There wasn't a lot of background noise. The guy was speaking English, albeit with a heavy accent, but the sounds he was making just weren't turning into words.

I remember situations like this in India, in reverse. There are probably more English speakers in India than there are in England; as in many ex-British colonies, it is still an official language. For many people there, English is an Indian language, belonging to them, that we pallid barbarians from across the sea barely grasp and tend to mangle incomprehensibly. And who is to say they are wrong?

In any case, a simple matter of asking directions in India can quickly develop into an entertaining pantomime in which the funny accents of the foreigners are a source of great confusion.

"Excuse me, which way is the post office?"

The listener tries his best to understand what you are saying. He is unfailingly polite and helpful, but you are simply not making any sense. A crowd gathers, the question is repeated, each syllable carefully enunciated, but as far as these fluent English-speakers are concerned you might as well be talking in ancient Sumerian.

Eventually, someone turns up who has some specialized knowledge -- perhaps he has lived in England, spent some time there studying our peculiar argot. He is bundled to the front of the crowd. Everyone shushes each other to enable the question to be asked once more.

"We are looking for the post office."

The interpreter smiles: the light has dawned. He turns to his companions and announces: "They are looking for the post office!"

To your clumsy foreign ears there is no perceptible difference between his pronunciation and your own, but suddenly everyone understands: "Oh, the post office! Ha-ha, of course! The post office! Why didn't you say so?"

I was reasonably certain the men in the car on Farringdon Road weren't looking for the post office, though it was only a block away. I still couldn't make out the phrase. It just wasn't triggering any neurons. I wanted to help, wanted not to seem like I was making fun of this man's accent.

Sheepishly apologetic: "I'm sorry, I can't understand what you're asking."

He repeated the question, and this time the syllables fell together into some kind of meaning. "Is there a red light district around here?"

A red light district?

"Uh. No. Not that I know of, sorry."

If I'd been thinking more clearly, perhaps I would have pointed them towards Kings Cross, though I don't really know where or whether all that stuff goes on since the whole area turned into a building site. Actually, I don't know where it went on before, either. I did once get propositioned at the HSBC cashpoint by a woman in spike heels and a tight leather microskirt. I was on my way to what turned out to be a weirdly inept sex club, not much more than someone's basement, and I was tripping on some ill-advised ketamine. Then, as last night, I made my excuses and stumbled away.
Posted by matt at February 2, 2004 01:46 PM