The Curious Diary of Mr Jam

by Nury Vittachi

  “Comrade Dave? That don’t sound right.”

  “You see? In Hollywood, communist officials are nasty people in bad-guy military uniforms with scary names beginning with X or Z. In real life, they are gentle civil servants with names like Comrade Dave.”

  He goes quiet for a moment, and then he says: “You included your family in that list. Are YOU a comma-nist?”

  The answer requires a moment’s thought. “I’m definitely not enthusiastic about capitalism. Nor the Chinese communist party. But none of us calls ourselves communists any more,” I tell him. “We prefer to say ‘extreme left of center’.”

  Talking to him reminded me of the time I wrote a novel in which the President of China’s bodyguard begins a romance with the US President’s bodyguard. First I had to do the research. Job one: find out who guards these guys in real life. In China, who guards the prez? I learned only that it was not the army, not the police, nor the security bureau. So who was it? Nobody would tell me. After much reading and talking to people I became aware of a special unit which did the job. Eventually I was told that if I made further enquiries about a certain “discreet division of the People’s Armed Police,” I would be rewarded with a jail term of 150 years, or the average age of Beijing Politburo members, whichever is longer.

  And who guards the prez in the US? I simply logged on to Google, typed “US secret service” and pressed the “I feel lucky” button. It took me straight to the website of the US secret service.

  Job two: check out how the individuals dress. US agents were easy to find. They have “Secret Service” printed on the doors of their cars and carry name cards saying “Special Agent” (not a joke). They will even hand you one if you ask politely, and remember not to describe America as “the Great Satan”. They wear a uniform of white shirts, black trousers and high-top fetish boots, with gartered fishnet stockings underneath. (The last item—and only the last item—is a guess.)

  Finding their equivalent numbers in China was trickier. In Beijing and Shanghai, I saw loads of people in uniforms. The green PLA ones came in two sizes, Too Big and Too Small. Other officers wore blue, black, white or olive ones. One spotted me committing the heinous crime of Looking At Them in Broad Daylight and chased me off. I ran as fast as I could. A hundred and fifty years in jail would cause me deadline problems.

  Later, a Shanghainese friend named Pan Jingxia, a communist party member, explained the philosophy of the Chinese government: “By default, all information is illegal to print, unless the law says otherwise.”

  I reply: “So if you tell me that you keep your skin soft by bathing in noodle soup, I cannot write about it, unless I find a law specifically saying: ‘The government of China officially announces that a Shanghainese guy named Pan Jingxia bathes in noodle soup.’”

  He says that technically I am right. I ask: “IS there such a line in the law books of China?” He tells me he hasn’t checked.

  * * *

  Via email, a Sri Lankan named Edith writes to point out that Christianity’s founder was constantly teasing the religious authorities and his disciples, so joking has a long tradition in that faith. She adds that priests even tell jokes about priests, like this one, which she heard from her minister:

  A priest is on a subway train. A man opposite lowers his newspaper to reveal himself to be a hard-living man who smells of alcohol, has lipstick on his collar and is wearing rumpled clothes in which he has clearly been out all night.

  With pain in his eyes, the man asks the priest: “Father, what causes dyspepsia, gout and cirrhosis?”

  The priest replies: “My son, they are caused by a wild lifestyle, gluttony, alcohol abuse, and the company of wicked women.”

  The man says: “Amazing.”

  The priest says: “Would you like to be free of these ailments?”

  The man replies: “I don’t have them. The newspaper says the Pope has.”

  Tuesday, October 7

  It’s day five of the China tour. At my second-to-last talk, I am summoned to meet another official, a Ms. Huang. I guess someone may have noticed that my speeches don’t stick rigidly to their official titles. This is discomforting. Fanny’s demands for an incident-free speaking tour echo in my mind. I cross my fingers for luck and follow an underling to a dingy office.

  Ms. Huang turns out to be a youngish woman with thick glasses and a smile that flickers on and off, almost like a twitch.

  I greet her with a big smile. “Thank you for taking an interest in my humble performance. May I ask a question? Is comedy emerging in China?”

  She looks puzzled. “What do you mean? We invented comedy.”

  “Well, yes, I guess that’s true. Xiangsheng routines are many centuries old. But I am thinking of modern satire.”

  “We are very funny when we want to be. We are the funniest people in the world. We have Jiang Kung. And Hou Baoling.”

  “Yes, they are part of history. But do you have working satirists today? People who are paid large salaries to satirize the government and the elite in society?”

  “Why would anyone want to do that?”

  “To earn large salaries.”

  “I see. Well, people would still not want to do that. It would be unpatriotic.”

  “Deng Xiaoping said to get rich is glorious.”

  “Mr. Deng is dead.”

  “Does that mean he was wrong?”

  Pause. “Possibly.”

  Ms. Huang, it turns out, has no desire to censor me. She is simply curious and wanted to see me close up. I think she has never seen a brown creature which can walk and talk before. This is what Chinese officialdom is like: extremely scary from a distance, extremely not scary from close-up.

  * * *

  Dear Diary, while in China, I am taking the opportunity to ask people about Buddhism and related faiths, like Taoism. There are some wonderful collections of old Buddhist texts in the bookshops. My mother is a Buddhist, so reading them brings back memories. There is a surprising amount of humor in Buddhism. Many of the books feature the excessively self-deprecating style that people think was created by New York Jewish stand-ups or by the Monty Python team with sketches such as The Yorkshiremen. But no. Check out the brilliant “my life sucks” contest that two famous Buddhist scholars, Chao-chou and Wen-yuan, had in 800 AD.

  Chao-chou: “I am nothing but a donkey.”

  Wen-yuan:”A donkey? You’re SO lucky. I am merely a donkey’s buttocks.”

  Chao-chou: “Actually, I dream that I could one day be a donkey’s buttocks. At the moment, I am what comes out of a donkey’s buttocks.”

  Wen-yuan: “What privilege! I’d give anything to be what comes out of donkey’s buttocks. For I am but a worm living in what comes out of a donkey’s buttocks. And do you know why I’m there?”

  Chao-chou: “Why?”

  Wen-yuan: “Because I went somewhere special for my summer holidays.”

  With that line, Wen-yuan won the self-deprecation competition.

  Wednesday, October 8

  It’s my last full day on the mainland. I decide to tell the audience about an article I read in the paper at breakfast. Scientists in Holland have mapped the complete DNA of a woman. The DNA of the human male was mapped in 2001, and then boffins did lesser beasts, such as the dog, the E. Coli bacterium, the fruit fly, and then, last and definitely least, the human female. “Humanity will at last be able to conclusively identify genetic differences between men and women,” a spokesman told a reporter.

  “Well, hel-lo, scientists. Welcome to Planet Earth. Honestly, you have to feel sorry for these people—they spend years of their lives finding out what the rest of us already know. For example, I know from personal experience that men are genetically programmed to have no opinions whatsoever about the color of curtains. I have spent years strenuously attempting to have an opinion on the subject, but it is simply not possible. Unfortunately, women are genetically programmed to not notice that men have no opinion on this topic, and will ask their partners
for one repeatedly throughout their lifetimes. When I am on my deathbed, my wife will ask: ‘So: what color curtains do you want at the crematorium?’ And my last words will be, ‘Er. Ah. Um. I don’t know. Uh, white?’ She will reply: ‘White? Are you CRAZY? What about all the soot?’”

  A thirty-something woman from the audience raises her hand to give me another example of gender-specific programming. “If a man puts something down and then cannot find it, he is genetically programmed not to look for it but to ask the nearest woman where it is. She will then find that it is exactly where he left it and she will hand it to him.” I nod in agreement. “It’s a kind of comforting ritual,” I tell her. “My wife and I go through it at least once a day.”

  More hands fly up. “There are also genetic differences in shopping,” says a young mother. “Women buy things they need. Men don’t.” Half the women smile, the other half nod sternly. I continue the thought for her: “We men buy things according to how many unnecessary functions they have, which is why the world now has internet-connected refrigerators and Bluetooth-enabled rice-cookers.” A man in the front row nods seriously and holds up his mobile phone to show his love of gadgets.

  This audience is treated to my theory that men and women have different body-clocks. This can easily be proved by observation of The Midnight Conversation, which I suspect all couples have.

  Him: Zzzz.

  Her: Do you think we have enough quality time, I mean, as a couple?

  Him: Zzzz.

  Her: I mean, when was the last time we really talked?

  Him: Zzzz.

  Her: We don’t talk enough.

  Him: You do.

  Her: What did you say?

  Him: Nothing. Zzzz.

  * * *

  Back in my hotel room, I find several emails about Buddhist humor. One Chinese-Australian reader writes: “I think it can be argued that zen koans are among the funniest, cleverest and most thought-provoking jokes and one-liners on the planet.”

  He has attached two samples.

  1) A student is on one side of a raging river. There are no bridges. He has no boat. He shouts out to the master on the opposite bank. “How do I get to the other side?” The master shouts back: “You are on the other side.”

  2) Master: “You stop being a novice and become a great master when you realize that you don’t exist.” Student: “To whom do you speak, novice?”

  Thursday, October 9

  Time to go home, at last. But in the newspaper at breakfast I find another report from a scientist I wish I could have quoted in that final talk. Women in Asia have smaller vocabularies than men but talk more, scientists have discovered. Yet females have a much larger choice of words in certain areas, such as in the description of colors, boffins say.

  This is definitely true. A friend of mine once decided to buy a sports car. “I think I’ll get a red one,” he said. “But what shade of red?” his wife asked. “Blush? Brick? Cerise? Fuchsia? Cherry? Russet? Claret? Crimson? Salmon? Ruby? Scarlet? Vermilion?” We could hear her continuing to identify sub-categories of red as we left the flat and traveled 18 floors down in the elevator.

  Scientists also found that men and women use entirely different words to describe the same thing. Example: a woman’s lower midriff is an “abdomen” or a “tummy,” but a man’s is a “belly” or a “gut”. This also rings true. I mentally play back my library of Arnold Schwarzenegger movies. Arnie never once says: “Damn. They got me in the abdomen.” Or “He’s still alive—I feel it in my tum-tum.”

  In the same newspaper’s serious pages, I read that there really is a global financial crisis in full swing. I think about allowing a bit of schadenfreude to lift my spirits, but then decide against it. If it throws big bad guys out of work, that would be a cause for cheer, but a large enough crash will hurt lots of little people too. I wonder if it is possible to have an economic crash that only hurts one group of people, i.e., Harold S.T. Woot and his ilk?

  On the plane back to Hong Kong, I happily discover that I am sitting next to a practicing Buddhist. She tells me she knows two jokes, both of which are rather modern.

  1) Q: Why can’t a Buddhist vacuum under the sofa? A: Because he has no attachments.

  2) Q: What happens when a Buddhist becomes totally absorbed with the computer he is working with? A: He enters Nerdvana.

  Not bad. She has a theory that humor often deals with paradoxes, which is also the special focus of zen Buddhist koans. A typical Buddhist one-liner: “Things are not what they seem; nor are they otherwise.” (You have to think about that to appreciate it.) And here’s her favourite Buddhist saying: “A Zen master once said to me, ‘Do the opposite of whatever I tell you.’ So I didn’t.”

  Friday, October 10

  Finally, your humble narrator is back in Hong Kong, back in the nest, back in his own bed. It’s cramped, especially since a small child has crept into the bed, possibly bringing the dog with her, but it’s home.

  Monday, October 13

  Good news. Despite my lack of patronage for the past month, the Quite Good Noodle Shop is still in existence—although there are rumors floating around Ah-Fat’s family that it may not last long. (Grandfather and Third Uncle, who control the finances, will make the final decision.) But it feels good to be back in circulation at my old haunts, where it’s easy to relax and scour the Asian newspapers every day for things to discuss with my spambots and readers.

  This morning, an item leaps out of an Indian paper at me. Smart officials in that country are paying people to go to the toilet. The cash-for-deposits scheme in Tamil Nadu creates a useful supply of fresh fertilizer while gently training residents to stop pooping in unsuitable places, i.e., your neighbor’s patio, the queue at McDonald’s, the hospital lobby, etc.

  But I decide I should advise readers not to quit their jobs and fly to India yet. The pay is the equivalent of 12 US cents a month, a salary which is on the low side.

  “Even by YOUR standards,” I say to a teacher friend of mine who is always complaining about his income, and who has come in for breakfast.

  Before he can respond, a woman sitting nearby says: “It’s more than I earn.”

  Shocked, we try to guess her job. Waitress? Exploited domestic helper? Commission-based seller of melamine-based baby-milk powder? The woman, whose name is Charlotte, explains that her only income at the moment comes from an HSBC savings account. The deposit rate has dropped to 0.001, so she earns just under nine US cents a month.

  “That stinks. Why not go to India and get a job as a full-time, professional toilet user?” I suggest. “You’ll get a massive pay rise.”

  The teacher, whose name is Kevin, adds: “Twelve cents probably goes a long way in India. And there’s the curry, too.”

  She thinks about it for a moment. “That must be why they make their curry so hot. To benefit the earn-as-you-poop industry.”

  Tuesday, October 14

  In the bar that night, my reference to the pay-for-poop operation in the morning news (Hong Kong’s biggest English-language newspaper, The Standard, is now printing my diary every day) triggers a discussion on toilets. An American says that in his country you can’t even use the word toilet: “In the US, toilet paper is labeled Bath Tissue.” A Filipina says that toilets in her country are marked “CR” for Comfort Room. A Taiwanese guy says his country goes to the opposite extreme, by being very open about the topic. At a chain of restaurants called Modern Toilet, diners sit at full-size toilets and eat out of smaller ones. They wipe their mouths with toilet paper hanging over the table.

  I tell people that the Indian pay-for-poop scheme would be my dream job, if only they could up the pay. “Imagine getting up every day and heading to the smallest room in the house with a newspaper, while saying to your wife: ‘Goodbye, dear. I’m off to work.’”

  Wednesday, October 15

  In the afternoon, I get some shock news in an email that has been sent to a large number of people. Fanny Sun has shut down her event organization
company. She is going to change careers. She will henceforth be an in-house conference planner for a multi-national investment bank. “I hope to continue my working relationship with many of you” she writes, referring to everyone on her blind carbon copy list, “especially those of you in the financial services sector.”

  That does not include me. I need a new agent. Back to square one. It’s clear that I should urgently start a search for a new one. Maybe next week, or the week after, if I’m in the mood. At the moment I have other priorities: whenever I get back from a trip, I automatically switch into Mr. Mom mode.

  Saturday, October 18

  My databases of Muslim, Christian, Hindu and Buddhist jokes are continuing to grow, but today for the first time, a reader sends me a joke for people with no religion:

  Q: Did you hear about the Dial-a-Prayer service they have for atheists now?

  A: You dial the number and it rings and rings but nobody answers.

  Monday, October 20

  Today starts with my having a typical text conversation with my eldest daughter.

  ME: Feghi suite hart. Did you findelhok moot nug?

  HER: Hi Dad. What’s findelhok moot nug?

  ME: What are u tocking about?

  HER: You texted me about findelhok moot nug. I don’t know what this is.

  ME: I didn’t mean findelhok wit ever. Thats my productive tax pogrom clanging my warts.

  HER: Oh, I get it. What did you mean?

  ME: I just wilted to nose if you glewrumnop zididy?

  HER: Dad. STOP doing text messages. You’re too old. Just call me.

  Dear Diary, okay, I admit it. I’m too old. I have just spent 10 minutes on the predictive text function of my phone and got absolutely nowhere. And all I was trying to do was turn it off.