Does It Pay to Be German?

Since it’s a lot harder to come face to face with the puzzled confusion of local people when I answer the ‘what country?’ question, I adopted Germany as my native country: Nepali know Budesliga, Indians know ‘wie geht’s?’ and Sri Lankan know Volkswagen, which makes everybody happy, as opposed to the worried countenances people get when faced with the real answer. I think it’s always easier (for me and for my conversational partner) to choose this win-win situation because they beam with the pleasure of knowing something about my Heimat, and I can smoothly avoid the ‘which country is near? Hmm? Ukraine? Ahh, Russia! You speak Russian? No? [disappointed face]’ line of questioning.

But on the other hand, my being German converts people’s faces from happy-to-meet-you to borderline exuberant, as, in their eyes, I suddenly turn from smiling foreign tourist to a walking dollar sign (better yet, euro sign), ensuring my interlocutor good impending fortune somewhere down the line.

It’s never entirely clear when this strategy is best employed. But in Jaffna this answer ensured several conversations with German-speaking Sri Lankans, conversations that left me flabbergasted no matter the language. Who would expect such German fluency from the inhabitants of a small island in the Indian Ocean? So, on more than one occasion my white lie almost came back to bite me in the arse, only I was faster: if they have worked in Hamburg, I came from the Austrian border; if they moved to Switzerland, I came from Berlin and so on, so that my somewhat shady German accent would not give away my true secret identity.

But on one occasion, the Bundesrepublik Deutschland came to my aid in the least expected way: I set out to buy a men’s sarong for my imaginary brother because of the pretty batik patterns I had seen on some of these male skirts flapping around the Sri Lankan male shins, and because it’s always nicer to buy stuff for other people than for yourself (or at least that’s what you are supposed to say to the sellers in order to impress them). All around the Jaffna bazaar the prices ranged from exorbitant to outrageous (that is, if you consider $5 a bit costly for a 2m long piece of fabric turned into a comfy cylinder) and the traders didn’t even think about budging or haggling. They even seemed on the verge of bursting out in a fit of an infectious laughter at the mere thought of settling for a lower price and I got sniggered at from shop doors in front of which I passed twice. Feeling like not getting the great deal I was hoping for, I just walked around aimlessly, letting the alluring invitations to buy saris and skirts with flower patterns bigger than my head pour over me like a jar of spilled honey, contemplating my ever diminishing chances. And, as I responded to another ‘hellowhereyoufrom’ with my mechanical ‘helloGermany’ answer, again I got spoken to in German.

A middle-aged fellow with a sad receding hairline but grinning like there’s no tomorrow fancied a good German speaking practice session and tackled the situation not with the usual ‘aaa, Volkswagen’ but with an effortless conversation about the German football team and the FIFA World Cup and lured me into the normal conversation that comes after the first introductory lines: you came alone? are you married? what is your work? I like your hairstyle…

‘You know, I live in Switzerland' he said. 'My family is still there but I’m on holiday and help my brother with the shop… Come in, look around. Want to buy a sari?’

‘Well, actually I’m looking for a sarong for my brother…’

With a palpable feeling of pride and self-importance, he felt that it was his duty to translate all my German words to his brother and their helper and all the other curious spectators, who by this time started their own parallel conversations with me along the exact same lines, only this time the dialog was in English. I felt like being transposed in a second superimposed universe, the latter being the English dubbed version of the first German one, both having a strange storyteller laid over. And the only main difference between the two was the price of the sarong: the English universe offered me the sarong for 450 rupees, while the first one clearly stated (as I repeatedly checked) that the sarong was dreihundertfünfzig, 350. By this time I was already so confused as to which conversation to square up to in which language that I decided I would entirely ignore the English one and concentrate on the one that promised the better deal. And by this time, the Swiss Sri Lankan and his brother also figured out that they were rear-ending each other and decided to reunite their universes. To make up for the bad business decision of his Swiss brother, the shopkeeper ceremoniously presented his best merchandise: a lovely pair of plastic training trousers, in case the sarong proved too airy and the wearer would prefer a better shielded option. I dismissed the trousers, reverently accepted the sarong and the receipt nicely wrapped in a FIFA World Cup plastic bag, and victoriously, Germanly exited with a ‘Tschüss papa!’

So, does it pay to be German? Sometimes, it pays less.