Winston Churchill once said that the Americans and British are two peoples separated by a common language. The more countries I visit， the more this seems to be true all over the globe. For better or worse， English has become the second language of the world.

I will never cease to be amazed by people who speak impeccable English in the mountains of Peru or the jungles of Cambodia. Yet I have found that an accent can make quite a difference.

Recently my wife and I， along with a travel companion， were in the tiny town of Battambang in central Cambodia. We hired a guide to take us up the river to our next destination at Siem Reap. This was to be a six-hour trip followed by crossing the Tonlé Sap， the largest lake in Central Asia.

Battambang is an extremely poor area， and our mode of transport was a very small and battered boat， not much larger than the three of us. With six bags lashed to the bow， four travelers and the boatman， I figured we were overloaded by at least a ton. We frequently had seen four or five people on a single motorbike， so no one but us was concerned about our weight.

We had been on the water only a few minutes when our captain made for shore and hopped from our boat to another. Our guide said not to worry， he would only be a minute. He then added， “We need to pick up live chickens for their legs.”

My wife and I exchanged glances. We are pretty open-minded， but it was obvious there was little room in our tiny vessel for live chickens.

If we had to take them along， we were willing to hold them on our laps—there was no place else to put them. The thought even occurred to me that perhaps the chickens were needed if the boats engine were to stop in the middle of nowhere.

I had a vision of us holding them over the side of the boat while their tiny legs paddled away， guiding us to safety. After all， our guide said we needed them for their legs.

We proceeded to make jokes about live chickens towing us to shore if we capsized or about eating them if we became marooned in the jungle. Meanwhile， our guide just gave us puzzled looks.

Finally， my wife turned to him and asked， “How many chickens are we taking？” At first he seemed totally confused by this question， then a large smile spread over his face. He bent over and began to laugh uncontrollably.

My wife turned to me and said， “Im glad he thinks us holding live chickens on our laps for six hours would be funny.” When he finished laughing， he looked at us and said loudly： “No live chickens！ What I said was， ‘we need life jackets for the lake！”

It took a moment for this to sink in. “Life jackets for the lake” when filtered through a Cambodian accent came to my ears as “live chickens for their legs.”

Suddenly we all found this to be profoundly funny and for the next six hours chicken jokes abounded.

Whenever we made eye contact， our guide would laugh， shake his head and say， “America， so funny.”

Yes， indeed.

温斯顿·丘吉尔曾经说过，美国人和英国人是有着共同语言的两个民族。我去的国家越多，似乎越能感受到这句话放在全世界都适用。不管是好是坏，英语已经成了世界第二语言。

当秘鲁山区或柬埔寨丛林里的人说出无懈可击的英语时，我总会惊讶不已。不过，我发现口音真的会有很大影响。

最近，我和妻子，还有一位旅伴去到位于柬埔寨中部的小镇马德望游玩。我们雇了一位导游，带我们沿河而上到达位于暹粒的下一个目的地。这趟旅程估计耗时六小时，横越中亚最大的湖泊——洞里萨湖。

马德望地区非常贫穷，我们的交通工具是一艘陈旧不堪的小船，那船不比我们三个人大多少。船首拴着六大包东西，四个旅客加上一个船夫，我想我们至少超重了一吨。我们经常看到一辆摩托车上载着四五个人，所以只有我们（这些外国人）才会担心载重。

我们才在水上呆了几分钟，船长就把船驶向岸边，然后跳到另一艘船上。我们的导游说不必担心，他只要一会儿工夫。随后他加了一句：“我们要带上活鸡，鸡脚有用。”

妻子和我交换了一下眼色。我们一向很开通，但我们的小船显然没地方再放活鸡了。

如果真要带上活鸡，我们很乐意把它们抱在膝盖上——也没有别的地方可以安置它们了。我甚至想到，万一船的引擎在某个前不见村后不着店的地方停了，这些活鸡说不定能派上用场。

我想象着我们抱着鸡坐在船边，它们则用小小的鸡脚划水，把我们带到安全的地方。毕竟导游说它们的脚有用。

我们继续以活鸡开玩笑——要是我们的船翻了，它们会拖着我们上岸；或者万一我们在丛林中迷了路，我们就吃掉它们。与此同时，导游只是一脸疑惑地看着我们。

最后，我的妻子转向导游问道：“我们要带几只鸡？”起初，他完全被这个问题搞糊涂了，然后大笑起来。他弯起腰来笑个不停。

太太转向我说：“他认为我们把活鸡抱在膝盖上六个小时很好笑，这真让我高兴。”等他笑完，他看着我们大声说道：“不是活鸡！我说的是：‘我们穿越湖泊的时候需要救生衣！”

我们花了一点时间才消化了这句话。“穿越湖泊的时候需要救生衣”经过柬埔寨口音，到达我的耳朵就成了“活鸡，鸡脚有用”。

突然间，我们全部人都觉得这个误会太好笑了，在接下来的六个小时里，关于鸡的玩笑此起彼伏。

每当我们目光相触，导游就会笑起来，摇着头说：“美国，真好笑。”

确实如此。