Lost in enunciation

Like I mentioned two blog entries ago, I was thrilled to have found the perfect pair of winter shoes at the Rockport store in Ayala Cebu. They were high-cut, insulated, waterproof, chocolate brown to match my coat, much more stylish than any of the pairs I had started to consider in Manila, and at 30% off.

My only worry was that they were suede. I had not had good experiences with suede shoes.

“Medyo mahirap itong linisin, ‘no?” I asked the saleslady.

“Hindi po sir. Meron naman pong suede cleaner. Kaso wala kami rito. Meron doon sa kabilang boutique, sa BUS.”

Bus?

I had never heard of a brand, or a mall, named BUS. And there weren’t any bus stations in Cebu City. There weren’t even any buses in Cebu City.

“BUS…?” I asked, carefully.

“Yes sir. Sa BUS.”

I was thinking very very hard.

“Sa BUS. Doon sa kabila…” she said again, slowly, in response to my puzzled look. I could see a huge thought balloon inflating above her head, with moron in big bold letters.

I gave up. “Sige miss, hanapin ko na lang.”

Exactly two seconds later, I realized what bus in the mall sold suede cleaner. By that time, I was already on my way out the door.

* * *

If you haven’t figured out what “bus” is, text me and I’ll tell you. I bet you’ll want to kick yourself—just as I wanted to when I figured it out mere seconds too late.

As much as I am a grammar nazi, I am also an enunciation nazi. And this is also thanks to my parents, who correct me to this day (“It’s conTRIBute, not CONtribute, though you say CONtriBUtion, you say conTRIBute…”), and are even subjecting my seven-year-old niece to the same formation (“Audrey, did you learn to say ‘DIS IS A DOG’ and ‘OLREHDY’ in Assumption?? Say ‘THIS’, and ‘ALREADY’…“).

Having grown up that way, these days, I get huge kicks out of push-girls selling ULEH RIGINERESS, a LESSERLESS option to reduce lines and wrinkles, or HIDDEN SOULDERS, the best way to fight dandruff; lectors who read from the first letter of St Paul to the ROMANCE, and choirmates who ask if the word in the song is pronounced ANTICIPATE or ANTICIPITT; and Vietnamese Finance managers talking about HUH-KEE TRAH COMFAHH diapers costing TW’ DOWHLAH.

Strangely enough, my favorite moments of enunciation nazism are the ones which have dealt me my healthy share of stupid.

Here are just a few.

* * *

Around ten years ago, when VCDs were the latest thing in home entertainment, I lent a friend one of the most valuable discs in my collection: The Red Violin.

Weeks later, I asked for it back—and he said he had lost it.

Unwilling to wait for him to replace it, I headed for one of the audio and video stores in Shangri-La. While fingering through the clutter of VCDs, a saleslady approached and asked if she could help.

“Meron ba kayong VCD ng The Red Violin?” I asked.

“Wala po,” she said. “Beaches lang.”

Eh?

“Hindi Beaches, miss. The Red Violin.”

“Oo nga po,” she said, bewilderingly sure of herself. “Merong Beaches.”

WTF, I thought. I wanted an epic art film with a fantastic score played by Joshua Bell. Not some Bette Midler sob story.

I spoke very slowly, in order that she might understand. “Miss, hindi Beaches. Gusto ko, The Red Violin.”

She, too, spoke very slowly, in order that I might understand. “Oo nga sir. Meron kaming Beeeaaaacccchhhhheeesssss.” And with that, she walked over to the shelf full of VHS’s—and handed me one of The Red Violin.

“Aaah, Beaches,” I said, smiling sheepishly as she smirked at me. I hurriedly handed back the tape and said, “Sige, thank you na lang miss. VCD na kasi ako e.”

* * *

When I was based in Cebu nine years ago, someone from the Cebu Sun Star was instructing me over the phone to send her a fax.

Whom should I “ATTN” it to? I asked.

Her response was: “Attention to JOVIE.”

Now anyone who’s spoken to a full-fledged Cebuano will know that what sounds like “JOVIE” could actually be a multitude of different letter combinations.

Not wanting to offend anyone with a misspelled ATTN, I asked, “Ah. Okay. JOVIE. How do you spell that?”

The answer came, quite rapidly: “Jugguwar, Uneform, Vektory, Eeeko, Yunkee.”

It hit me like a hurricane wind. She was already through with “Yunkee”, and I had only just figured out “Uneform”.

“I’m sorry?” I stammered.

She repeated it, testily. “JUGGUWAR, UNEFORM, VEKTORY, EEEKO, YUNKEE.”

“Aaah, okay. Thank you,” was all I could say.

I sent the fax to Juvey a few minutes later.

* * *

I have nothing against Visayans. My dad is Bisaya (though I’ve never heard him say “UNEFORM”). My ex, who is Cebuano, always had and continues to have my utmost respect (despite his endearing occasional lapses).

So, no, it’s not a Bisaya thing.

To illustrate: my final interview for P&G in late 2005 was with an Indian named Anoop. He would later become my boss (and one of my best bosses ever, at that).

This was the first conversation I had ever had with an Indian. Take note, I pride myself on being able to decipher strange accents more quickly than most others. (In Bangkok, for instance, when a touts call out, “Eeh yeewwww, yer wan’ watch fa-hkee sherrr?”, I have no problem figuring out that he’s inviting us to a fucking show.) But early on in the interview, even before the questions came, Anoop presented me with a pretty tough puzzle.

“Before I came to the Philippines,” Anoop said, introducing himself, “I was handling Wix for Indonesia...”

Handling what? In a panic, I jogged my memory for the existence of any P&G brand named Wix. It was only when I was pretty sure there was none that I spoke.

“Sorry? Wix?” I don’t think I had ever mustered so humble and apologetic a tone.

“Yes. Wix.”

I continued to look at him, slack-jawed and questioning.

“Wix,” he said again. “Wix. You know. Cough drops.”

A 1,000-watt light bulb flicked on in my mind: “Oh. Vicks!”

Unfortunately, my automatic mouth was attached: “OH! VICKS!”

Most of my bosses tell me that my face is as easy to read as the first line of an eye chart, so I can imagine how my look must have shifted from befuddled, to suddenly enlightened, to so-embarrassed-I-want-to-die, within a matter of seconds.

I guess the rest of the interview went pretty well, because Anoop still hired me.

And if there’s one good thing that came out of this—it’s that, speaking with another Indian four years later, I had no problem at all understanding what he meant when he talked about advertising in “WOGUE.”

* * *

The list goes on. Not just my own experiences, but even colleagues in meetings. For instance, big boss talking about through-the-roof objectives, and saying, This is not a HYPERBOWL. A what? asked a colleague. Not a HYPERBOWL, not a HYPERBOWL, the big boss says again and again. Oh, HYPERBO-LEE, the colleague says out loud.

But once in a while, the tables turn.

In Psychology class in third year college, our teacher gave the class a set of mazes to work on. I finished each maze ahead of the rest of the class.

The teacher came up to me and said, “Wow, you’re so speysyal.”

Trying to be clever, I answered, in a cheeky, mocking tone: “Ah talaga? Napaka-ispesyal ko ba?”

“Sira,” she said. “I meant, you’re very spatial. Magaling ka with space.”

Incidentally, this teacher was Cebuana. This time, Cebu got the last laugh.