A man called Maggie

My faith is restored. Not quite yet in international removers, who still have our 19 sea freight boxes SOMEWHERE between Dalian and here (we think) but in humanity and Harbin.

Last night I heard a loud noise from outside and looked out to see a large number of fireworks being let off from somewhere nearby. Now, it has to be said the Chinese do like their fireworks, but seeing as it was Nov 5th I like to think it was either some Brits – which means there ARE some others here, and not far off at that – or else it was some Americans celebrating the Obama win. Either way, it’s all good.

So, we’ve decided to have a party, as a flatwarming and celebration of getting our residency and such like. Well, to tell the truth we decided to have one a couple of weeks ago, and had even sent out the invitations to a ‘Hallowe’en Flatwarming’ to be held on Nov 1st. But then those mice & men intervened as usual, we had our little hospital drama and were going to postpone it until this Saturday. Unfortunately though Peter’s still not really up to prancing around the lounge doing the Gay Gordons (more next time on this) so we have rescheduled it to the last Saturday of this month, or first Sat of December, depending on when Boss is around.

The guest list, albeit short, reads unlike any other I have ever compiled, for one simple reason. Chinese names. Or to be more precise, the English names which Chinese people adopt for themselves when they start to learn English, and use for the rest of their lives whenever dealing with westerners, on the (probably correct) assumption that most westerners will find their real names too hard to pronounce. You know the kind of thing – Jackie Chan, Jimmy Chung. It’s a sensible idea, although a rather strange concept that you could conceivably work closely with someone for years without ever finding out what their real name is.

The trouble is that the names they choose are so – well – I’m trying to be charitable here; let’s face it, if I was asked to choose a Chinese name at random ‘from a book’ (which is seemingly where they get the English ones from, Manuel-style), I’m sure I’d inadvertently come up with something that meant ‘Rotten Lotus-Flower Breath’ or ‘Number One Puppy Mutilator’ or some such thing. But still, you’d think that this book, whatever it is, would give them SOME indication as to whether the name is popular/old-fashioned, male/female, likely to make westerners crack up, or is, indeed, a name at all. But no. Perhaps it was written by someone with a particularly mean streak who wanted to humiliate Chinese people.

Most of the names have two syllables, presumably because Chinese given names have two syllables so this sounds right to them. Men seem to favour patrician names which make them sound like New England landowners: Simon, Roger, Henry, or the surname-as-first-name variety such as Schofield or Hunter. (Though I did see a hotel lift attendant called Elton, which made me smile). For the women, the choice seems to be between wife-of-New-England-patriarch (Lily, Julia, Serena), or a whole catalogue of shockingly twee monikers which would befit the waitresses in a dodgy cocktail bar or a range of 1970s dolls. Candy and Wendy are extremely popular, but we’ve encountered Coco, Calyx and even Fairy.

Thus, my invitation list (in part) reads as follows: Kevin, Wildon, Tiffany, Eileen, Hunter, Sunny, and Magi.

It’s like living in The Great Gatsby. In a gender-confused kind of way. Sunny, you see, is a girl. And Magi (that’s as in Thatcher) is a man.

Some of you have heard this story before but I think it bears the retelling. This poor chap, who’s something quite important at one of the universities in Harbin, at the time he was choosing his English name, came across a reference in an art book to The Adoration of the Magi, where it said that ‘Magi’ meant ‘a wise man from the East’.

‘Ah, a wise man from the East,’ thinks he. ‘That is me.’ So that was the name he chose. Sadly no one told him the correct pronunciation, so for years he’s been handing his business card to people with the name ‘Magi’ on it and saying ‘Call me Maggie’.

He has since been disabused, as he told us, ‘When I first went to Australia, they were most disappointed that I was not young lady!’ but he still persists with it. You’d think – seeing as it’s not actually his real name and all – that he could change it. But it doesn’t seem to work like that.

So there you have it. The idea with the party is that one of the guys will bring his English teacher, thereby enabling us to meet some other expats here at last, and that Magi (who teaches English and has lots of native-speakers on his staff) will be the catalyst in our plan to turn Harbin into the Ceilidh Capital of the East.

Tune in next time….