Living in a Bilingual World (Grave)

Havana, Cuba, September 1997. OSPAAAL and the Tricontinental Magazine, for which I work, have organised an event called 'Che's Legacy in the Threshold of the 21st Century' (or so I think it is called). As the official translator and interpreter of the organisation my main job is to liaise with the various delegates to the convention and talk about the work the magazine and the OSPAAAL do. Although I have long stopped being so naïve and gullible regarding the political and economic reality of mid 90s Cuba, I undertake my tasks with the professionalism required of a polyglot who has to communicate in English, French, German and Spanish with people from Austria, France, the UK, the US, Canada and various islands in the Caribbean, mainly French-speaking.

The main event is held at the the Journalists' Centre on the corner of 23rd Avenue and O St. I am familiar with the building having attended many painting and photo exhibitions in the foyer before. It is already 10am and the launch is about to take place. The people from ESTI (Empresa de Servicios de Traducción e Interpretación) are in their places and ready to go. I feel slightly jealous. There was a time when I wanted to belong to ESTI. But life sent me to a language school just after graduation and there I stayed for almost two years after which I became a free-lance interpreter, translator and Spanish teacher.

The chairman of OSPAAAL comes over to say hello. He is a likeable man, ex-consul of the Cuban embassy in Turkey and someone I shared my anecdotes about eating kebabs in the UK with. He found them amusing because that used to be one of his favourite foods when he lived in that eastern European nation.

All of a sudden the lights dim and the first speaker comes on stage. It's Aleida Guevara, one of Che's daughters. She talks about how nice it is for everyone to gather under the same room together to honour his father's memory, how he would have loved to see this dream come true, people from many countries uniting against the mighty Yankee imperialism. After her a succession of speakers come and go. Lunchtime arrives. We are asked to cross the road and make our way to the restaurant on the opposite corner downstairs (the name escapes me now). Together with the throng of delegates, speakers and interpreters I plod along. Out of the blue I feel a hand pulling on my arm. I turn around and find the chairman of OSPAAAL standing right in front of me flanked by Aleida Guevara on one side and the Turkish consul on the other. The chairman is grinning.

- This is the man to help you out, Aleida, he speaks many languages!

- Oh, thanks, well, I am Aleida Guevara...

The conversation starts and I, sneakily, check my watch. Hmmm... I still have time to have lunch, probably forty minutes or so. The consul can't speak English very well, so we resort to German, whereas Aleida can speak neither German nor English. The crowd thins out until we are the only ones in the building.

We make our way upstairs, talking all the time. The consul turns out to be a great talker and Aleida relates to him many anecdotes to do with her almost fatherless upbringing.

Twenty minutes elapse.

Upstairs both the consul and Aleida are interested in a painting exhibition that has been up for a long time now and which I have seen a couple of times. The conversation continues. I keep checking my watch. I have possibly five minutes left maximum to catch some food.

Finally the consul shakes my hand and Aleida's and says goodbye. He thanks me profusely for being so helpful. Aleida turns to me and looking at one of my ears exclaims:

- You know what? My father used to say that men should not wear earrings. He was dead against men who wore any type of jewellery, except for watches.

And with that she leaves.

Note: One of my work colleagues, the editor-in-chief's PA, saved me some lunch, which needless to say was lavish as befitted an event organised to acknowledge Che's legacy. So there was a happy ending, at least for my poor stomach.

Living in a Bilingual World (Agitated)

Summer 1997. I had been at Tricontinental Magazine for a couple of months as the official translator and interpreter or as the cleaner used to call me as 'el tradultol'. My daily tasks included overseeing the translation of the different contributions sent by the magazine's columnists into Spanish and work alongside an American woman called Karen and resident in the island for many years on the translation from Spanish to English. This proved to be more difficult obviously.

That day we were expecting a delegation from South Africa. I was fascinated and enthralled at being able to meet someone from a country I had heard so much about but knew so little about, too. Mandela's release from prison a few years before had taken over the only two television channels we had in Cuba at the time and the image I had of him was that of someone who had withstood a lot of pain and distress in order to make his country a better place. I was looking forward to meeting this party from the African nation.

At around 11am the South Africans turned up and the chairman of OSPAAAL, the NGO that produced Tricontinental Magazine, came to greet them. I was there by his side and I noticed a sigh of relief from the lady in charge of the group when she noticed that both of us were black. However that small comfort was to change in no time.

They were invited in and led upstairs to one of the meeting rooms. Once inside, we all sat down and started discussing ideas, plans, projects. I was feeling nervous and restless. The reason? I could not understand a word of what the party from the African nation was saying.

I had been to university, performed in an improvisational theatre outfit in English, done free-lance translation and interpreting a for a couple of years, taught at a language school, and yet nothing prepared me for the shame that overcame me in that small room. I was mumbling, stammering (quite badly) and on two occasions had to be helped out by one of the other OSPAAAL's members. The woman in charge of the delegation, who, a few minutes before had greeted me so warmly, was throwing icy stares in my direction now. How to explain to her that the English I had learnt in uni was from the USA? How to put that to her in a way that she could understand that I was not pretending not to comprehend what she was saying, that I just COULD NOT GET IT?

And then, the bomb.

She used the phrase 'PC culture' and I, like a striker who just carries on dribbling the ball he has just been passed without stopping, took it in my stride and tried to put it in the back of the net; I spat the words out:"La cultura de la computadora personal". I should have realised that something was wrong. Even the rest of the South African delegation, men and women, who could not understand one word of Spanish could see that my gaffe had been too big. It was the same colleague from before who interceded for me and helped clear the situation once again.

Once outside the South African woman heading the party reprimanded me, unfairly, for not understanding her. I tried to explain to her in the best way I could that it was nothing to do with her but with the type of English I was used to. It did not help that at the time I still had a strong northeast American accent, mainly from Boston, where many of my post-graduate teachers hailed from. In the end she calmed down a bit and realised that it was not my fault.

It was only years later and whilst living in the UK that I came across the same expression, but by then I was ready and was able to translate it properly or give it my own variation: 'PC-culture'="Actitud politica correcta". If only that lady had been there.

Copyright 2007