Speaking the same language as Dashan
By Emily Ford |
May 28, 2012, Monday
|
Print Edition
Print Edition
I AM having lunch at a conference when the conversation at my table turns to a celebrity I have never heard of called Dashan.
Dashan was originally from Canada, I learn, but since landing on state TV in the 1980s he has been adopted by the Chinese as a national treasure, primarily for his freakish ability to speak pure Beijing Mandarin.
"Dashan has absolutely no accent whatsoever," one of my dining companions gushes. "If I couldn't see him I would never know he wasn't Chinese." Dashan's language skills, I learn, are so good that he can even do xiangsheng, an archaic form of comedic wordplay beyond the reach of most native speakers.
In particular, Chinese taxi drivers seem to have a special fascination with Dashan.
"If you can say your address to a taxi driver without having to show a piece of paper, he'll tell you that you sound like Dashan," the American next to me says convivially.
This makes me feel a little depressed. "No taxi driver has ever told me I sound like Dashan," I think, sadly.
When I get home I look Dashan up on YouTube. It turns out his name means Big Mountain. He has a habit of referring to himself in the third person, like some kind of genial bilingual cartoon character. His English name, I discover, is Mark.
It is not easy being Dashan. Some foreigners hate him and this makes him upset. "I have never personally claimed to be the best at Chinese," he has written in a lengthy essay on a website. "My success is not something I should feel ashamed of."
I start to feel rather sorry for him. "You shouldn't feel ashamed," I tell him mentally. "They're clearly just jealous."
I want nothing more than for a taxi driver to tell me I sound like Dashan. One rainy afternoon a few days later, I spot my opportunity.
"Ni yao qu na li?" the driver asks as I get in the car. "Where do you want to go?"
I take a deep breath and deliver my opening line. "Gao'an Road, near Jianguo Road, please," I say. Even I have to admit it is an exceptional performance. My tones are flawless, my pronunciation crisp.
"Here it comes," I think. "He's going to tell me I sound like Dashan."
"Your Chinese is not too bad," the taxi driver says approvingly.
He starts asking the Shanghai taxi driver questions. These follow a rigidly predictable pattern: "Where are you from?" "How long have you been here in China?" "Are you married yet?" "How much do you earn?" and "How much is your rent?" I have heard the questions so many times that I am able to respond with a degree of flair and skill. I throw myself into the dialogue, stretching out answers far beyond the rudimentary monosyllables required, adding flourishes of color and detail to every vignette.
"He's definitely going to tell me I sound like Dashan," I think, as we stop at a red light.
"Really, your Chinese is alright," the taxi driver says.
"You're very kind," I say. "I'm studying hard." I pause, then add: "Though I've heard there are foreigners on TV who speak it fluently. There's one, a Canadian guy, what's his name ..."
The taxi driver falls silent.
"Maybe when we get there he'll tell me I sound like Dashan," I think, hopefully.
As we turn into my road I pull out my piece de resistance, a dazzling monologue on Shanghai's spring weather, then in a final flash of brilliance, say "thank you" in the local dialect.
"Bye bye," the taxi driver says. Handing over the money, I linger. He looks at me expectantly. I press an extra kuai coin into his hand. "See you another time," he says.
"Do you think I sound like Dashan?" I ask, trying not to sound desperate.
Dashan was originally from Canada, I learn, but since landing on state TV in the 1980s he has been adopted by the Chinese as a national treasure, primarily for his freakish ability to speak pure Beijing Mandarin.
"Dashan has absolutely no accent whatsoever," one of my dining companions gushes. "If I couldn't see him I would never know he wasn't Chinese." Dashan's language skills, I learn, are so good that he can even do xiangsheng, an archaic form of comedic wordplay beyond the reach of most native speakers.
In particular, Chinese taxi drivers seem to have a special fascination with Dashan.
"If you can say your address to a taxi driver without having to show a piece of paper, he'll tell you that you sound like Dashan," the American next to me says convivially.
This makes me feel a little depressed. "No taxi driver has ever told me I sound like Dashan," I think, sadly.
When I get home I look Dashan up on YouTube. It turns out his name means Big Mountain. He has a habit of referring to himself in the third person, like some kind of genial bilingual cartoon character. His English name, I discover, is Mark.
It is not easy being Dashan. Some foreigners hate him and this makes him upset. "I have never personally claimed to be the best at Chinese," he has written in a lengthy essay on a website. "My success is not something I should feel ashamed of."
I start to feel rather sorry for him. "You shouldn't feel ashamed," I tell him mentally. "They're clearly just jealous."
I want nothing more than for a taxi driver to tell me I sound like Dashan. One rainy afternoon a few days later, I spot my opportunity.
"Ni yao qu na li?" the driver asks as I get in the car. "Where do you want to go?"
I take a deep breath and deliver my opening line. "Gao'an Road, near Jianguo Road, please," I say. Even I have to admit it is an exceptional performance. My tones are flawless, my pronunciation crisp.
"Here it comes," I think. "He's going to tell me I sound like Dashan."
"Your Chinese is not too bad," the taxi driver says approvingly.
He starts asking the Shanghai taxi driver questions. These follow a rigidly predictable pattern: "Where are you from?" "How long have you been here in China?" "Are you married yet?" "How much do you earn?" and "How much is your rent?" I have heard the questions so many times that I am able to respond with a degree of flair and skill. I throw myself into the dialogue, stretching out answers far beyond the rudimentary monosyllables required, adding flourishes of color and detail to every vignette.
"He's definitely going to tell me I sound like Dashan," I think, as we stop at a red light.
"Really, your Chinese is alright," the taxi driver says.
"You're very kind," I say. "I'm studying hard." I pause, then add: "Though I've heard there are foreigners on TV who speak it fluently. There's one, a Canadian guy, what's his name ..."
The taxi driver falls silent.
"Maybe when we get there he'll tell me I sound like Dashan," I think, hopefully.
As we turn into my road I pull out my piece de resistance, a dazzling monologue on Shanghai's spring weather, then in a final flash of brilliance, say "thank you" in the local dialect.
"Bye bye," the taxi driver says. Handing over the money, I linger. He looks at me expectantly. I press an extra kuai coin into his hand. "See you another time," he says.
"Do you think I sound like Dashan?" I ask, trying not to sound desperate.
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