A long walk to hope. A long
walk to salvation.
(The experience of
translating A long walk to water)
For Isabel Campoy, my fairy
godmother
THE EXPERIENCE
The experience of translating is magical. And
multifaceted. Sometimes (very seldom, actually) it’s simple; sometimes (that
is, almost all the time), it’s terribly complicated. And this doesn’t
necessarily entail that it’s a “difficult” text with hyper-technical
vocabulary. Paradoxically, those are usually the easiest to translate.
Technical terms usually remain the same. In other endeavors that might seem
simpler, what eludes us are the subtleties the text calls for, or that we
demand of ourselves. I need this word, not that one. The words dodge our grasp,
or hide from us or refuse to come forward. Almost always at some point the
heavens open, and Saint Jerome himself, with collegial complicity, slips us
what we’ve been looking for. (There are also translator angels who whisper
words to us as we sleep, and then what an epic awakening we have…).
We crossers of bridges live between two
languages (in my case, English and Spanish). Sometimes we end up stuck in a
limbo that’s just a tad hallucinatory. But as history shows, we always emerge
at the right moment, and nearly always with the necessary word.
There’s one thing that any seasoned translator
knows: every translation leaves you richer. Without fail. With more words, with
the endowment derived from the work of translating about cities, contracts,
syndromes, policies, the Dinka tribe. To say nothing of the intellectual
challenge posed by neologisms. The experience of translating is vast and
splendid and nourishing. We discovered all this when we were just raw novice
translators. We’re still discovering it now (and more intensely) with almost 40
years on the job.
One fine day my screen flashed with an
opportunity long dreamt of: a proposal to translate A long walk to water (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, HMH) into Spanish. I read that it’s a New York Times
best-seller. That it’s a short novel written by Linda Sue Park, award-winning
American author of children’s and young adult literature. And I wonder, what
have I done to deserve this?
I don’t read more because I want to be a virgin
to this story, and because I face up to translations without introductions.
None of that “how do you do? I’m the translator, get ready for a journey into
Spanish.” I translate without anesthesia, without further ado, without reading
the story through beforehand. I dive straight in, no shyness or squirming to
avoid the cold water, right off the highest diving board. Olympically yours.
Translating this novel has been one of the most
moving things that’s ever happened to me. Although it was months ago that I made
the final click on the last SEND to deliver my translation to the publisher,
I’m still discovering how alive it is, throbbing more warmly than ever in my
heart as I fly towards the UAE (invited by the Ministry of Culture and Tourism
of Abu Dhabi to give a talk).
We tend to be ignorant of the African
continent. It’s made up of mysterious lands about which all we “know” (as TV
taught us when we were kids), is that Johnny Weissmuller and his ape companion
Cheetah are somewhere out there. Down the years some of us may have the luck to
enhance our view through readings or travel, though in general the focus stays
on a couple of zones: North Africa (with Egypt, which I’ve always admired), its
regions so touched by things Spanish, and to the south… an unexpected trip to
Pretoria, Zulus, Durban and the vestiges, still recent, of the incomprehensible
apartheid. Between these scattered
points, nothing. Unforgivable ignorance.
The plane’s map tells me what cities we’re
flying over. Juba! I read with sudden excitement. For a while there’s
nothing to look at but desert in all directions. Sudan. The Nile. Before Salva Dut,
the Nile had been the river of my beloved Egyptians. Now, it had become another
obstacle faced by the great Salva, leader of children, hunter of dreams, worker
of wonders. My heart wilted as I realized what the journey of the Lost Children
must have been like. I felt guilty for having been born in this game of snakes
and ladders that is life with a such a handsome tally of advantages. I dearly
hope that the experience of having “met” Salva may have made me a somewhat better
person. That would be another one of Salva’s achievements.
THE TRANSLATION
These are two terribly harsh stories proceeding
in different times; about two people to whom the very same fate that has graced
me with good fortune has allotted them hunger, war, disease and death, cruel
boundaries, and the desiccation of their lands and their dreams.
Linda Sue Park’s literary style is beautiful:
plain, compelling, gripping. Musical. Which meant that the main challenge was
to rewrite (to try to rewrite) the story of Salva and Nya with the same measure
of skill. Out of respect for the author.
Her descriptions are precise and lovely. It was
essential to translate the text without leaving any possible “noise” that might
distract a Spanish-speaking reader. To be tough, engaging, steady, intimating
or explicit, just as the author had been.
A number of times the novel takes our breath
away. It’s almost impossible to stop reading. And so it’s indispensable for the
translator to stay close to the reader in order to move her to joy, fear,
relief and excitement, just as the author has done.
I tried to use as few translator’s notes as I
could in order not to hinder the narrative. Right or wrong, I feel that having
to explain myself in a note is somehow a dismal failure on my part, though of
course sometimes there’s no choice. “Good morning, auntie,” says Salva at one
point. A dear colleague from Kenya
explained to me that in certain parts of Africa it’s common to address ladies
as “auntie” or “mother.” I think it makes sense to interrupt the reader and
take him down to the foot of the page, so that’s what I do.
I hope I have been worthy of the task of
translating this story that is so wrenching, yet at the same time inspires such
hope. Behold, there are people in this world like Salva.
Always the translator, I can’t fail to note the
knowing wink of one of the words in this novel: the name of Salva Dut. I wonder if Salva has any idea that the
Spanish language lends enchantment to the story as the very name of Salva*
resonates with hope.
Aurora Humarán
Translated by Kevin Mathewson
Illustrated by Juan Manuel Tavella
* Translator’s note: The verb salvar in Spanish means to save, or rescue
