On Being Called Duck, Or Was It Dog?

I got on the bus and bought the ticket from the bus driver who called me ‘duck’.

Wondering what part of me resembled the quacking winged animal, I sat down at the front of the bus. An old lady with a zimmer frame got on. The bus driver called her duck too. He was clearly having a duck day.

A few more people shuffled onto the bus followed by a large woman with a screaming kicking baby in a pram. I thought it better to move to the very back of the bus and put as much distance as possible between myself and the screaming at the front. It turned out better. From the very back, I had a full view of the whole bus. I listened into people’s conversation. I heard ‘duck’ again and again. By this time, I became unsure whether it was really ‘duck’. Could it be ‘dog’? Or ‘dough’? And were they even speaking English? They didn’t sound anything like the people on the BBC, the English language tests that I took or the English speaking movies I watched. I became fixated on finding out which of these ‘duck’, ‘dog’ and ‘dough’ they were using.

A week ago, when I first arrived in the home of my adopted family, Grandma called me ‘sweetheart’. Nothing strange there, I had seen movies where adults called their kids ‘sweetheart’. I just assumed that she thought I was a kid which was sweet. But I did hear the occasional word that sounded like ‘dog’ or ‘duck’.

On the bus, I noticed people were very eager to make the act of getting off as quick as possible. They didn’t like to keep the bus driver waiting. As the bus was approaching their desired bus stop, they got up, precariously hanging on to the rails well before the bus came to a halt. Even those who were not steady on their feet got up and hung onto anything stationary such as the backs of seats, rails, screaming baby’s prams, somebody’s flappy bonnet etc. Sometimes as the bus turned a corner just before a bus stop, the people swivelled 360 degrees around the things they were holding onto and got off, merrily waving the bus driver ‘Thank you, duck.’

I thought that if anybody had said ‘thank you’ to a bus driver in Yangon, he would have looked at them like they were out of their heads. After all, he’s only a bus driver. He drives this vehicle and because of him, you get to the place you need to get to. Not a big deal, why does he need a ‘thank you’? Here, over 6000 miles away in this small town in the UK, these bus drivers get a thank you all the time. Not fair.

Anyway, after a few minutes I realized I had reached the town centre because all the occupants were getting off. Every single one said thank you to the bus driver followed by duck, dog, dough, mate, love, darling, or sweetheart. When it was my turn, I just said thank you and omitted the title as I didn’t know which one to use and how to pronounce them. It seemed fine, nobody told me off. I even heard someone said ‘cheers’ and wondered what he was toasting.

As I sauntered happily into town looking in shops, I noticed people queuing up everywhere. Unlike the Burmese queue, they were really neat and almost in a straight line. Nobody was trying to jump the queue. I decided to join one in a shop. My instinct told me to let go of my urge to jump the queue and just stand at the end studying the bald spot on the back of the last person’s head.

Although the queues seemed to shift very quickly, the one I was in wasn’t moving at all. I looked out and saw the lone shop assistant attending a little old lady who wasn’t sure whether she should get the denture solution in the blue package or the red package. While she was deciding which one to get, she was sharing her life story with the sale assistant. She also mixed in a bit of history to keep her conversation interesting.

‘You know when I was about your age, I could get one of these for a tuppence.’

I wondered what a tub pence was. Maybe coins were made in a tub shape in the olden days. I made a mental note to ask my adopted dad.

The shop assistant cheerfully listened. I was amazed how her cheerfulness never tapered off unlike that of people waiting in line. As far as she was concerned, she was attending her customers even though only one out of ten was getting the service they came for. She could realistically only deal with one customer at a time even though it meant the rest had to wait till the next morning to get served. I was amazed at the patience of the people in the line. The shop assistants in Yangon have to put up with people breathing down their necks, crowded around them and asking them things at the same time while they frantically (sometimes sulkily) deal with everyone at the same time. There is no such thing as waiting in line, only waiting in a circle and competing to see who is the loudest. Here this shop assistant had got all the time in the world without any interruption to listen to the life story of one little old lady in the stare of nine other people patiently waiting in a neat straight line. About five long minutes had passed and one more clueless person joined the queue. After looking around for a bit, he too joined in the stare towards the two ladies in deep discussion. The sales lady didn’t even need to be aware that there were ten other people nearby standing with hopeful expression. Nobody got angry. No one complained. I marvelled at everybody’s understanding.

I thought about interrupting but remembered that I recently got told off by a librarian at university when I called her attention while she was checking out books for another student. I was only going to ask her which direction the shelf 31 was as I was in a hurry. But she gave me one of those looks you would give the likes of me who didn’t understand manners and informed me with affected kindliness that she was serving a customer. So, I have learnt to never call anybody’s attention while they are talking to somebody else even if I were dying and needed an ambulance.

So, I decided to leave the shop assistant to her story listening and exited the line. I got what I wanted in another shop with a much shorter queue. I also bought some clothes including a size 18 coat. The coat fitted my petite body like a gigantic duvet which I thought was brilliant because the one that my dad bought me from Yangon was not warm enough to survive January in the UK. Besides, other sizes that were 8 or 10 which didn’t mean anything to me were full priced, the size 18 was reduced. It could swamp me with warmth and it was half priced. What more did I need? I immediately put it on, conscious of the fact that I might resemble a large furry creature, and wondered if the bus driver would call me ‘bear’ this time.

After my clothes shopping, I went past that shop with the long queue. The little old lady was still talking to the shop assistant and the people in line were still patiently watching the show and nodding. The audience seemed to have changed as I didn’t remember seeing the man with the orange coat and tattooed bald head right at the front of the spectacle. But the shop assistant and the little old lady were definitely the same ones I saw earlier.

On the way back to the bus stop, I got sidetracked by the sight of 12-inch-long hotdogs in a caravan café. I didn’t have any problem communicating with the hotdog seller even though he kept having to repeat every question twice.

‘Do you want any salt with it, dog?’

For one thing I was starting to get annoyed with being called ‘dog’ all morning. For another, why was he asking me if I wanted extra salt with the hotdog. I eventually realized he meant ‘sauce’ when he gestured towards the numerous ketchup and mayonnaise bottles.

‘Do you want coffee or tea with it?’

I nodded. He repeated, ‘choose one, tea or coffee.’

‘Tea, please.’ I remembered to add ‘please’ now as I had experienced another librarian telling me off for not saying please. Gosh! I’d met the world’s grumpiest librarians in my time.

‘Here you are, milk and sugar over there.’ He pointed out the spot where people were pouring milk and sachets of sugar into their drink (and some onto their coats). I was puzzled why people put milk in the tea and why my tea looked very black. Even more puzzling was they put sugar in it too. Back in Yangon, my tea was always clear with big tea leaves floating in it and I never dreamed of putting any milk in it, let alone sugar.

I enjoyed the hotdog, it was a lot better than the ones I was used to in Yangon and the sausage tasted more meaty and juicier. After finishing it, I smacked my lips and looked suspiciously at the black liquid in my plastic cup. I couldn’t bring myself to put any milk in it or any sugar. So, I cautiously sipped it. Strange. After saying ‘pyerrr’ to the cup, I put in some milk. I tried it and still had to say ‘phyerrr.’ Then I added some sugar. It tasted slightly better but not much. In the end I abandoned the tea. It was bizarre. But I was very pleased with the 12-inch hotdog. So, it was a great experience.

I wandered back to the bus stop and got on the bus to go back to the home of my adopted family. This time the bus driver called me ‘love.’ I sat down at the back of the bus, observed and took note of all the titles people had called each other throughout the way back: ‘duck, dog, dock, dough, love, mate, sweetheart, darling, duckie, my darling, sugarplum’ occasionally interrupted by ‘cheers’ without raising a drink. No-one had used ‘cat’ or ‘bear.’ I supposed ducks or dogs must be the only animals they used.

As I sat cosily wrapped up in my size 18 coat and my head snuggled up in its fluffy hood, I knew it was going to be a great year. I got a lot of things to explore in this brand new country with its new culture. I smiled with anticipation as I got off the bus, and even remembered to say ‘thank you’ to the bus driver.