The Chinese Language Centre

Tomorrow morning I'm going to take my first on-line lesson with a tutor from the Ottawa Chinese Language Centre, using Skype. Mr Yin gave me a ten-minute trial run yesterday in which he taught me the difference between:

1. mã = mother
2. má = a feeling of numbness / flax (the plant)
3. mǎ = horse
4. mà = curse / swear / scold
5. ma = a question particle

All these monosyllables are pronounced with a different intonation. Fascinating, isn't it? but I shall have to watch out. I've now paid in advance for 10 hours of instruction and am working on the notes for Lesson 1, Greetings: 第一课 问候

A variety of animals

It was a good weekend altogether. Not only did we share it with a whole bunch of friends, we also shared it with some children and some animals. (I'd rather not count the roadkill, although I must admit that the dead porcupine we passed on Sunday made an impressive sight.)

Saturday, several of us drove to Bourget to visit Bob, Tracey and young Jonas, who showed one of his visitors some fishing in their pond. Small fish and large, noisy frogs, mostly, but a walleye had been spotted there, which Tracey hopes to cook one of these days. They've been pestered by an enormous beaver too whom the neighbour had seen to with a shot gun. There's little sentimentality about animals in the countryside; it's a them-or-us war, more often than not. Anyhow, while I walked around the pond I admired the monarch butterflies and the spiders among the flowers. Another visitor was the dog, Sasha, a golden brown softie.

Sunday saw us on horseback, as described in my last post, and on the way home Chris told Carol about the Edwin Muir poem, The Horses, which he and I first read at an impressionable age. I still think it's a great poem.

We also met the cats at Nicolas' / Isabelle's house and at the ranch that morning, and a large woolly poodle at the roadside stables. On the way home, we drove past a field full of llamas, while talking about how good it was for children like the two little boys we'd met to grow up in such surroundings, having unconfined adventures. How many city kids get the chance to play like that?

Having crossed the Ottawa River into Ontario on board the Thurso ferry, we were home in time for me to snatch a siesta before setting out again to meet a third lot of friendly people: Nicola, Maha and their daughter Lulu, in New Edinburgh. What a pleasant evening! As we came down the steps into their back garden we were greeted by a magnificent spread of Mediterranean dishes on the patio table (Maha comes from Syria) to which we tried to do justice as darkness fell and the stars, lamp, torch and candles came out (Chris questioning Maha about the Abasid Caliphate in which he's recently been taking an interest), while a family of raccoons rooted and snuffled in the flower beds behind us and the three cats of the household stretched themselves decoratively on the steps, among the flower pots. Indoors we also met the pet turtle.

Going for a ride

Marie-Ève adjusting Chris' stirrups on Navaho, Carol getting to know her horse, Éminence

Yesterday, at the Ranch du Versant near Ripon, Quebec, we were given a rare treat, a ride through the Montagnes Noires on horseback. This was a gift in appreciation of a couple of sight-seeing flights Chris has given ... to people who own horses!

Mounting my horse, Déesse, Nicolas looking on

To reach the stables it was a 100 km drive from home through lovely countryside, Nicolas and his wife leading the way in a truck, and when we arrived the horses were saddled and bridled, but not necessarily eager to depart. Isabelle called them paresseux, the day was warm, but we were assured that they like being with people and with one another, so wouldn't be hard to persuade to follow one another down the trails. I hoped that my horse would be happy just to keep in line and, despite detailed rider's instructions on how to make her stop, start, turn left and turn right, that she'd want to do no more than follow the others in a docile manner. In fact I made a private vow to leave most decisions to the horse, as I was sure she'd know far better than I what to do, if we came upon any obstacles. Nobody told me at the start that Déesse used to be a racing horse. As a matter of fact, she proceded in a leisurely manner all the way. Only once did she break into a little trot, which was quite enough excitement for a novice such as me.

We rode for nearly an hour in single file, Marie-Ève leading the way, acquiring some basic skills as we went. Downhill, we leant back to keep ourselves as upright as possible on the saddle. Going uphill, we leant forward, which encourages the horse. (Chris joked afterwards that he'd coped fine with the ride except for the stretch where he'd had to carry his horse up the steep hill.) Carol, who'd ridden before, was relaxed enough to take photos whereas I kept a tight hold of pommel and reins (le pommeau et les rênes) all the way around. My calves began to ache within minutes, probably because I was too tense. Later, I realised how much I was enjoying myself and relaxed into the ride. We'd had to sign a waver to say we accepted the possibility of injury or death in the enjoyment of this activity. I wore a riding hat, although the more experienced members of the expedition all sported cowboy, or sun hats. The ranch couldn't supply a riding hat large enough for Chris so he wore his bike helmet.

When we came to muddy patches, the fastidious horses preferred to step around the mud rather than go through it, so we had to contend with branches getting in the way. There were roads to cross with care as well and, at one point, a little ditch. "Navaho might jump it," said Marie-Ève to Chris, "but don't worry. Let him, if he wants to!" But he didn't. Déesse, following Éminence's footsteps, picked her way delicately across the ditch and didn't jump either. Nor did we see the bears that sometimes make an appearance on this trail; even so it felt like a truly American experience to be riding, Western-style, through those hills. We thought of the early settlers who had covered thousands of miles this way. I don't suppose they were always rewarded by a distribution of cool beers at the ranch at the end of their expeditions, as we were. We sat by the barn and watched the horses, unencumbered by bridles or saddles, canter around and greet each other by rubbing noses, and saw the big one, Duc, roll in the sand because he felt hot and sticky. A sense of bien-être pervaded among adults, children and the animals themselves.

The only point at which I fell off was when trying to dismount at the end of the ride, having left one of my feet in the stirrup, much too far off the ground. (Notice that everyone in the picture, including me, is in fits of laughter.)

Tomorrow will be too late!

This morning I spent an hour trying to get to grips with Mandarin Chinese and, finding it hard on my own, sent an enquiry to the Ottawa Chinese Language Centre, to see whether they can help me. Still in the mood for things Chinese, I then rode off on my bike to the nearby Emerald Buffet, in Vanier, serving an enormous selection of "independent items" for lunch which you can eat in one of those vast dining halls typical of Chinese eateries and, come to think of it, not unlike the Lyons Corner Houses of my parents' day, in Britain. The Emerald Buffet was crowded with Chinese people, so I assume it's fairly authentic. I ordered a pot of green tea with my meal.

Because my son's fiancée wants Chris and me to tell her which Chinese dishes are palatable to us, I made a note of some of the items I chose:

• Pan fried pork dumplings
• Shrimp dumplings
• Stir fried honey peas
• Vegetable fried rice
• Bok choy
• Guy ding chicken
• Sweet crispy twists
• Sesame ball (deep fried)
• An almond cookie

I might not necessarily want all of those items again, at least, not all in one go. Taken as a whole the meal was rather more fried and glutinous than I am used to, so I must be careful. I couldn't locate the advertised steamed buns. Never mind, I'm learning.

By examining my placemat, I discovered that I was born in the Year of the Hare and my fortune cookie reminded me that

Tomorrow will be too late to enjoy what you can today.

That's very true.

Next door was a Chinese supermarket that I also walked around, though I was not hungry enough to want to buy anything; it seemed to be selling foods such as Lo Hung Fat pig's ear, Gung Ho chicken feet, Ping Pong Lychees and the like. (Actually not; I just made those up for fun.)

On the Internet the other day I learned that, in Beijing,

• Helping oneself in Cafeterias is a popular and free dining style favored by multitudes of people.

... plus some more snippets of information:

• When the curtain of darkness falls, the snack handcarts come alive.
• There is simply quite nothing like a perfectly roasted duck.

... and that

• most toilets in Beijing downtown area are free except for some mobile ones.

Where is the toilet? = Cèsuõ zài nãrli? (Now there's a useful phrase, but you have to know how to pronounce it.)

Bombing runs

Bomb gone!

This is the draft of a report for the flying club's newsletter:

Spot Landing / Flour Bombing Contest,
Volunteer BBQ / Cricket Match, August 21, 2010

It was a cool, damp day for the Flour Bombing and Spot Landing contest at CYRO this summer, but fun was had, nonetheless. A dozen or so aircraft made fly-by circuits so that their bombardiers could observe the bombing target, the pilots then announcing their bombing runs, the bombardiers being “responsible for ensuring that a bomb is dropped in such a way as to remain within the confines of the Rockcliffe Airport and … does not hit aircraft, or buildings, or people.” Rainfall tended to erase the perimeter of the target so that flour from the used bombs had to be recycled as a target marker; it was later pointed out that this wouldn't have been such a good stratagem in the winter. Some bombs, falling to the north of the mark, came quite close to hitting spectators and adjudicators, and, despite everyone's best efforts, all the bombs dropped (identified and with streamers attached) fell wide of the mark, but Chris Hobbs and Nicola Vulpe in Cessna 172 C-FPTN won the trophy by dropping their bomb the least far from the mark. It was probably an advantage to be flying in a high winged aircraft with the co-pilot's door removed, although not so comfortable for their back seat passenger who was obliged to wrap herself in a blanket to keep warm. They landed in a downpour.

After burgers and sausages cooked out of doors by Tony, but eaten in the clubhouse because of the inclement weather, Nicole announced the competition results and presented trophies and prizes to much amusement and applause. Kevan received the winner's trophy for the Spot Landing competition, flying his Cessna 150, C-FIII. The objective of this contest was to "land in or as close to the box as possible," using power, flaps and sideslips as necessary, the box having been marked on Runway 09, with lines before and after it at 5 metre intervals.

A novel end to the party for the club’s volunteers and their families was the showing of the movie Amelia in the ground school classroom, starring Hilary Swank and Richard Gere, but in a rain-free interval before that happened, fortified by pieces of celebratory cake, Chris Hobbs managed to persuade a number of people, young and old, to practise some cricket-playing skills on the field, to the west of the new hangar.

Auspicious and inauspicious

George is already warning me about mistakes we might make in China, for Chinese people are apparently sensitive to symbolism and attach great importance to luck, good and bad.

Inauspicious:

We must not give people gifts featuring the number four (such as a book with forty-four pages) because their word for 4 ressembles their word for death. Every number suggests some meaning or other. Likewise we should never share a pear; the word for pear is the same as the word for separation.

We're not to wear dark blue or white clothes at the wedding because these are funereal colours. Nor a green hat, because that stands for infidelity.

Auspicious:

On the other hand, other colours are encouraging, red and yellow in particular. Black doesn't have the same gloomy connotations as it does on the other side of the world, and the numbers 6 and 8 are lucky numbers.

George thinks it likely that his dad, "Hobbs Chris," will be referred to as "Old Hobbs" or "Uncle"—shu-shu—in Beijing, and I'll be called "Aunty"—ayi.

All our yesterdays ... and tomorrows

Our son has just become engaged to Sha, whose parents speak no English, and we have been racking our brains for ways to communicate when we meet them next year. Chris already got a colleague at work to translate a message that could be sent on a greetings card in Chinese characters––this has been posted to Beijing––and I have started creating a picture book which I hope might give them some idea of what George's childhood was like and where he has lived between 1977 and 2010. The search for appropriate pictures is taking me back through many old memories and to the places where we used to live––Bern, for instance, in the winter of 1981-82 when George was 4 and his sister 6 years old––or visited, such as Settle and Giggleswick in 1986, the year we moved to Hertfordshire, England, in the days when Emma and George were keen rail riders.

The picture book is a project that will take weeks to finish and is probably something of a displacement activity instead of the real effort I should be making to learn some useful Mandarin (普通话 ) during the next nine months, before we arrive in Beijing for the wedding!