You get what you pay for... most of the time...

Новая супер-пупер программа-переводчик накрылась...

Новая супер-пупер программа-переводчик накрылась на русской фразе 'Я недоперепил на Старый Новый год, когда зайцем ехал в поезде'...


http://www.russiantranslate.org/

About Pyotr Patrushev

Lust in Translation...

http://www.salon.com/books/int/2007/04/23/lust_translation/index.html

Were you surprised that Russia turned out to be the capital of cheating?

I knew Russians had a reputation for not being particularly rule-bound. But the extent to which they totally accepted infidelity very much surprised me. I later found an international poll that said that 40 percent of Russians say that extramarital affairs are either not at all wrong or usually not wrong. The percentage of Americans who say cheating is not at all wrong or usually not wrong is 6. So Americans are at the other end of the spectrum.


It's not that Americans cheat any less than the French -- in fact they cheat a bit more -- it's just that when Americans do cheat on their spouses they feel so damn guilty about it, it's a wonder they ever had the affair at all. To Americans, "it's not the cheating, it's the lying." And couples who don't break up over infidelity often turn to therapy and support groups, which, ironically, frequently encourage cheating spouses to reveal every last detail about their illicit relationships to regain the trust that was lost when their pants came off in the first place.

Yes, I had this image of France as this place where husbands and probably even wives play around and it's just part of life -- everyone accepts it, it goes on, and no one makes a very big deal about it. The big example of this is the Mitterrand funeral photo. I thought, well, wow, they have a president whose mistress and illegitimate daughter showed up at his funeral standing next to his wife, that this is obviously a place that is at peace with extramarital affairs. And it turned out not to be the case at all. It turns out Mitterrand's second family had been a state secret for decades. He had been petrified that the public would find out about it. He had hired a special government team to tap the phones of any journalists that were going to reveal the fact that he had a second family. It was an inside secret and the public didn't know at all until less than two years before he died. And even then, the release of that [information] was carefully crafted. It turns out that French people don't cheat very much at all. They might be more tolerant of the idea of infidelity, but in reality they cheat pretty much exactly as much as Americans do, or even slightly less.

Next page: "Nobody said: 'Now that I know how many blow jobs my husband got, I feel a whole lot better'"

http://www.salon.com/books/int/2007/04/23/lust_translation/index1.html


http://www.russiantranslate.org/

William Shakespeare Sonnet 66 Уильям Шекспир Сонет 66

William Shakespeare
Sonnet 66

Уильям Шекспир
Сонет 66

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,
As, to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And gilded honour shamefully misplaced,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And strength by limping sway disabled,
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly doctor-like controlling skill,
And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill:

Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.




Устал я жить и умереть хочу,
Достоинство в отрепье видя рваном,
Ничтожество — одетое в парчу,
И Веру, оскорблённую обманом,

И Девственность, поруганную зло,
И почестей неправых омерзенье,
И Силу, что Коварство оплело,
И Совершенство в горьком униженье,

И Прямоту, что глупой прослыла,
И Глупость, проверяющую Знанье,
И робкое Добро в оковах Зла,
Искусство, присуждённое к молчанью.

Устал я жить и смерть зову скорбя.
Но на кого оставлю я тебя?!

Перевод А.М. Финкеля



Я жизнью утомлён, и смерть — моя мечта.
Что вижу я кругом? Насмешками покрыта,
Проголодалась честь, в изгнанье правота,
Корысть — прославлена, неправда — знаменита.

Где добродетели святая красота?
Пошла в распутный дом, ей нет иного сбыта!..
А сила где была последняя — и та
Среди слепой грозы параличом разбита.

Искусство сметено со сцены помелом,
Безумье кафедрой владеет. Праздник адский!
Добро ограблено разбойнически злом,
На истину давно надет колпак дурацкий.

Хотел бы умереть, но друга моего
Мне в этом мире жаль оставить одного.

Перевод В. Бенедиктова


Зову я смерть. Мне видеть невтерпёж
Достоинство, что просит подаянья,
Над простотой глумящуюся ложь,
Ничтожество в роскошном одеянье,

И совершенству ложный приговор,
И девственность, поруганную грубо,
И неуместной почести позор,
И мощь в плену у немощи беззубой,

И прямоту, что глупостью слывет,
И глупость в маске мудреца, пророка,
И вдохновения зажатый рот,
И праведность на службе у порока.

Все мерзостно, что вижу я вокруг...
Но как тебя покинуть, милый друг?!

Перевод С. Маршака



Ни жить, ни видеть больше не могу:
Величье побирается под дверью,
И высота — у низости в долгу,
И верою командует безверье,

И почести бесчестью воздают,
И честь девичья пущена по кругу,
И перед правдой прав неправый суд,
И услуженье ставится в заслугу,

И свет доверья обратился в тьму,
И власть уста замкнула златоусту,
И доброта сама идет в тюрьму,
И ложь диктует истины искусству...

Не жить, не видеть, сжечь бы все мосты,
Да пропади всё пропадом! Но ты...

Перевод Н. Голя


Я смерть зову. Я до смерти устал
От гордости — жеманной приживалки,
От пустоты, занявшей пьедестал.
От вымученной веры из-под палки.

От срама орденов и галунов,
От девушек, что смолоду пропали,
От силы под пятою болтунов,
От мудрого величия в опале,

От простодушия исподтишка,
От человеколюбия без прока,
От знания в руках у дурака,
От красоты на стрёме у порока.

Устал — но как мне выпустить из рук
Ту жизнь, в которой остается друг?

Перевод В. Орла





Измучась всем, я умереть хочу.
Тоска смотреть, как мается бедняк,
И как шутя живётся богачу,
И доверять, и попадать впросак,

И наблюдать, как наглость лезет в свет,
И честь девичья катится ко дну,
И знать, что ходу совершенствам нет,
И видеть мощь у немощи в плену,

И вспоминать, что мысли замкнут рот,
И разум сносит глупости хулу,
И прямодушье простотой слывёт,
И доброта прислуживает злу.

Измучась всем, не стал бы жить и дня,
Да другу трудно будет без меня.

Перевод Б. Пастернака



НОВЫЙ ПЕРЕВОД

Вот знаменитый сонет № 66 в переложении Сергея Шабуцкого:

Когда ж я сдохну! До того достало,
Что бабки оседают у жлобов,
Что старики аскают по вокзалам,
Что "православный" значит - бей жидов.

Что побратались мент и бандюган,
Что колесят шестерки в шестисотых,
Что в загс приходят по любви к деньгам,
Что лег народ с восторгом под сексотов.

Что делают бестселлер из говна,
Что проходимец лепит монументы,
Что музыкант играет паханам,
Что учит жить быдляк интеллигента.

Другой бы сдох к пятнадцати годам -
А я вам пережить меня не дам.

Collecting Rent in the Tower of Babel

Collecting Rent in the Tower of Babel



There are some people who think that translators and interpreters are at worst a nuisance and at best a necessary evil; many a businessmen and lawyer have asked questions about the possible advent of automated translation and interpreting systems.

One of the few fortunate polyglots, the writer Nabokov, wrote, only half in jest:

What is a translation? On a platter

A poet’s pale and glaring head;

A parrots screech, a monkey’s chatter,

A profanation of the dead.

Yet it is likely that, even with all the recent advances in voice recognition and machine translation, translators and interpreters are here to stay. Why? One of the more notorious examples of machine mistranslation is the computer rendering of the proverb, “Out of sight, out of mind” as “Blind idiot”.

Not that human translators are always faultless. One often cited example is the allegedly faulty rendering of the message from the Japanese War Cabinet to the US government during the Second World War. Apparently, the conciliatory and polite undertones of the Japanese message were totally lost in translation. What came next was Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

President Carter’s interpreter’s faux pas during a trip to Poland is another example etched into the annals of interpreting history. The “longing” for friendship with the Polish people was rendered as “lusting”. It was particularly embarrassing after Carter’s disclosure in his interview with the Playboy magazine that he was prone to an occasional lascivious thought.

In this perfectly imperfect world, interpreters and translators are sometimes required to do much more than faithfully translate someone’s occasionally confused utterings into another tongue. For politicians, interpreter can be a buffer against a careless slip of the tongue, or, if need be, even a convenient scapegoat.

It is well-known that in the pre-perestroika days Soviet interpreters had a fairly free hand in shaping their politicians’ speeches, in order to make them more acceptable. Of course, they were occasionally caught red-handed, as it happened during Brezhnev’s visit to London, when a glaring mistranslation was detected by the watchful fellows from the Russian Service of the BBC, who listened to the broadcast interview.

But even at the best of times interpreting may sometime present a conflict between etiquette and fidelity.

I recall how once in California, a visiting Soviet surgeon tried to defend the political apathy on the part of the majority of Soviet scientists by claiming that they were simply too busy with science to worry about politics. His blunt American host retorted by saying, “This is the biggest load of bullshit I have ever heard in my life”. The apprehensive face of the Soviet visitor, who pretended to be so obtuse only because he did not want to lose his privilege of foreign travel, the smell of the Alaskan salmon baking in the kitchen, and the generally genteel atmosphere of the preceding discussion militated against literal translation of the host’s ungracious outburst. Yet, I did translate the mood, if not the literal language, of his remark. The interpreter is not the keeper of his clients’ peace of mind--or the flow of other guests’ digestive juices.

One of the more daunting assignments I had faced was interpreting during a conference of the American and Soviet writers at a resort on the US West Coast. The conference was attended by a number of leading US academics whose profession obviously included linguistic nitpicking.

During the first hour I saw how the bilingual participants at the conference were frantically flicking channels on their headsets, trying to compare the original with the translation. However, at the end of the day, I felt greatly relieved when a formidable looking white-haired female professor of literature from one of the East Coast universities came to me and confessed that she preferred to listen to my Russian translation of one of her colleagues’ speeches (he happened to come from a rival university), rather than the original. “I never knew that he could be made to sound so lucid--in any tongue,” she confessed without the slightest trace of malice in her voice.

Of course, sometime an original turn of phrase or a pun is too tricky to translate “on the fly”. Once, during a discussion on Freud, an American psychologist came up with a limerick that he thought his Soviet colleagues would enjoy.

Young men who frequent picture palaces

Have no use for psychoanalysis;

If you mention Freud

They are vastly annoyed

And cling to their longstanding fallacies.

But perhaps the most demanding interpreting jobs are the indoor “booth” jobs, with you and another interpreter sitting for days or weeks on end in a small and often poorly ventilated cubicle, with headphones perched on top of your head, trying to keep track of some obscure legal, technical or political discussion.

After a few years’ practice, the main danger is not in making mistakes in terminology but in succumbing to fatigue and boredom. There is a peculiar sort of ennui that can overtake a long-distance simultaneous interpreter after many days of virtual non-stop talking, as well as late night receptions, replete with cholesterol and generous doses of alcohol. Just when you thought you could safely go on autopilot, some delegate would decide to make a controversial interjection that would send everyone into a flurry of sharp-tongues repartees. If this happens late in the day, you begin to long for a good cup of coffee instead of the traditional carafes of cold water.

The sound technology, while being continually improved, can be a boon and a bane. Risque comments, even with the microphone supposedly off, are strictly off-limits. There was at least one case that I remember, when a colleague made a comment about the depth of the cleavage of the only female delegate during a conference on “Safety in Marine Environments”. The mike happened to be on, and the comment enlivened the otherwise dull proceedings. The interpreter was never thanked for his contribution--instead he got a reprimand from the organisers.

Different schools of interpreting insist on varying “safe distances” the interpreter must keep behind his or her client during simultaneous interpreting, to avoid mistakes. Yet, there is a sense of exhilaration when one is so confident of one’s skill that one can keep only a fraction of a second behind the speaker, almost breaking the “sound barrier”. The temptation to go ahead of the speaker, no matter how strong, must be resolutely resisted. Any attempt to defy linguistic gravity and to indulge one’s mind-reading abilities will usually lead to a disaster.

Observing famous or powerful people in their private, unguarded interactions with their peers is certainly an eye opener. One learns that often they are not only human, but all too human. There is that famous (and apocryphal) story about Stalin’s fly being open during his meeting with President Roosevelt. When he was discretely reminded by his host that “his bird is about to fly out of the nest”, Stalin, looking despondent, said, “Alas, only the two eggs remain in the nest.”

During the first live satellite hook-up between the US Congress and the Supreme Soviet in the 80’s, it was very instructive to watch the participants on close-circuit television during commercial breaks. The Americans were still trying to outsmart each other, while the Soviets were using their time to thrash out a common line of defence. The Soviets even provided the Americans with advance information about the number of “spontaneous comments” that could expected from them, without ever thinking that there was anything wrong with a bit of stage-managing.

Interpreting for the first time for two teams of heart surgeons was about as close as I had ever come to actually fainting on the job. Seeing a human rib cage unceremoniously ripped open and then held by butcher-like hooks in position was enough to make one forget how to translate “sternocleidomastoid” into another language. The need for quality interpreting during a heart operation is obvious. It may be less obvious in other areas, although the consequences of choosing a wrong person for the job may be just as dramatic.

Alas, the life of a freelance interpreter, no matter how clever or experienced he or she may be, is getting more demanding by the day. The funding of many international organisations is getting scarce, increasing competition for the remaining jobs. Professional bodies, such as the Geneva-based AIIC and the Australian NAATI, are attempting to impose stricter rules and greater professionalism on the field that is at the same time driven by laws of supply-and-demand, just like the rest of the economy. The selling point now is a proven experience under demanding and diverse environments, as well as the necessary connections with conference organisers and one's colleagues.

As with writing, interpreting and translation require certain flare. Otherwise, the translation would simply resemble, in the immortal words of Cervantes, “the other side of tapestry”. The worst translations of the famous Chinese classic the I Ching (The “Book of Changes”) are by expert Sinologists. They are turgid and unimaginative. One of the most popular English renditions of this venerable Chinese classic is a secondary translation from German. But it is an inspired translation by someone who was a true mediator between East and West. It was Voltaire who said, “Woe to the makers of literal translations, who by rendering every word weaken the meaning!”

Poetry is notoriously hard to translate, although Pasternak’s translations of Shakespeare seem close to being perfect. Joseph Brodsky translated Polish poetry from literal translations done by others, as he spoke no Polish. The Soviet district court judge who was trying him on charges of “social parasitism”, complained about the quality of Brodsky’s translation purely for political reasons. Other, less capable translators can only render a synthetic replica of the flavour and taste of the original, even when they are supposedly fluent in both languages.

In the words of another Chinese classic, the Tao Te Ching, a master craftsman “can fashion a door that requires no lock and create a good binding for a book without using knots”. But perhaps this is too much to expect from mere mortals who are only trying to pay their own rent by collecting the rent in the Tower of Babel. “The plant must spring again from its seed, or it will bear no flower--and this is the burthen of the curse of Babel,” wrote one critic. But another one replied, much more forgivingly:

“Translation is entirely mysterious. Increasingly I have felt that the art of writing is itself translating, or more like translating than it is like anything else. What is the other text, the original? I have no answer. I suppose it is the source, the deep sea where ideas swim, and one catches them in nets of words and swings them shining into the boat … where in this metaphor they die and get canned and eaten in sandwiches”. True, true... But does the writer fish in the open sea, while the translator casts his net in a fish pond? The argument goes forever, reverberating through the clamorous chambers of the Tower of Babel.

www.russiantranslate.org

A CAREER IN GLOSSOLALIA!

A CAREER IN GLOSSOLALIA!

(speaking in tongues)

The road to a successful career in interpreting is not always strewn with roses. Mastering language and the craft of interpreting may be just a beginning. One of the hindrances of this profession is dealing with competition that will on occasion resort to cunning and deceit.The methods used by crafty competitors are universal and could be compared to horse-training techniques. Some useful illustrations may also be borrowed from another related profession, that of speaking in tongues.

It is generally assumed that in order to become a successful speaker in tongues you have to go to an elite school in Cairo or Haiti, have many years of practice at a junior level, and then graduate to those rarefied heights, attainable only to select few, namely, performing in front of a large congregation.

One of the first rules of successful career in speaking in tongues is to accumulate all sorts of credentials and references that may seem superfluous to the uninitiated, but can become a veritable goldmine to those who understand tricks of the trade. Become a member of as many groups, churches and organisations as you can. Get invitations as a speaker, particularly if you don't actually have to provide bilingual examples of speaking in tongues, in case there may be people in the audience who channel your languages fluently. Accumulate references from even minor organisations, such as community groups and colleges, where you may be invited to perform. Ingratiate yourself with as many of your more gifted colleagues as you can, so that when time comes and you will need endorsements and references you will have plenty to draw upon.

Remember that many people who work in this demanding field are rather naïve, despite their extraordinary knowledge of other worlds, and are willing to help a novice colleague, not suspecting that in time he or she might become a fierce competitor.

When you have finally come to the point that you're allowed to practice speaking in tongues publicly, you will have to use more elaborate strategies and ruses. You have to develop a special patter that will be a mixture of hesitancy and ingratiation, while at the same time giving a semblance of fluency (Note 1).

Most people will have difficulty in deciding whether it is the faulty loudspeaker, their own hearing, or the halting speech of the spirit you are channelling. At any rate, by the time they finish pondering on these topics, the performance is over and they can begin concentrating on more important matters, such as the long-awaited coffee break.

It will be most important for you to present yourself to your congregation during informal breaks and/or evening cocktails and dinners. Try to be helpful in their extracurricular activities such as shopping. Most people, once they have become familiar with you, will be averse to judging you too harshly or making an official complaint.

Another very important trick is not to be the first speaker at the start of the session. Initial impressions are important, and if the audience hears poor quality speaking in tongues in the beginning, this will be a cause for complaint. Therefore, if you are the first in line to begin speaking, you must use every trick you can, such as dropping your microphone, fumbling with your hair, pretending to be finishing a snack, or anything you can think of, so that your more conscientious and diligent colleagues will start channelling instead of you. After the initial impression has been formed, your own performance will be less important.

When engaging in xenoglossia (the speaking of an actual foreign language) try to avoid using commonly understood languages such as Pidgin English. If you have to do bilingual speaking in tongues, use every trick you know in order to limit your potential exposure. Arrange it so that your colleagues will do most of speaking into broken English. If all fails, you can simply “throw the switch” to your colleague, so that he or she will have no choice but to start speaking, because if they don't, there will be an embarrassing silence and maybe a complaint.

It is vital to ingratiate yourself as much as possible with people who are truly important in the game of speaking in tongues, that is, agents/priests and contractors-speaker-in-tongues. More often than not, they will not speak a particular language that you speak and will therefore have no knowledge about the quality of your channelling. Remember, they are only human, and will therefore appreciate every bit of flattery, accommodation, I-am-not-the-one-to-rock-the-boat impression, and general pleasantries portraying a person who is easy-going and a “good team member”. Once you become accepted, it will be easy for you to manipulate the composition of the team, so that you will have only those people who either do not care about the quality of speaking in tongues, or are so grateful to be invited on the team that they will cooperate with your tactics fully.

But perhaps the most important choice you will make is the choice of languages. Try to choose languages that are not broadly known. If you find that Zulu or Pashtu are either beyond your ken or do not have enough aesthetic appeal, you can always try xenoglossy - speaking in a natural language that was previously unknown. If you think this is too cheeky, try Albanian or Slovene. Most people regard these and similar tongues so obscure that they will be grateful to get any exposure to them at all. Conversely, the spirits you channel will be so thankful that their languages are being recognised and that the organisers of the session have made an effort and have gone to the expense of paying for professional speaker in their tongues, that they are unlikely to complain. When all fails, demand to speak in front of a deaf audience (see cartoon). Practicing echolalia (Note 2) in front of a deaf (or stunned) audience produces a curious effect known as ‘deafening silence”.

And if they still complain, remember, all water finally runs under the bridge, contractors-speaker-in-tongues and agents/priests move on or get replaced, and the weight of evidence you have accumulated as a “star” speaker in tongues will, hopefully, nullify any temporary inconvenience of a localized complaint.

And so bon voyage, my aspiring speaker in tongues! Let your less practical colleagues languish in their ivory towers, talking to their elitist spirits , while you get all the really juicy jobs and the resultant adulation of the masses (and the financial rewards that come with it).

There is a saying: it is not what you know, or even the spirits you channel , but how you can manipulate the crowd that you are channelling to!

Note 1: Uttering gibberish that is interpreted as profound or even mystical insight is an ancient practice. In Greece, even the priest of Apollo, god of light, engaged in prophetic babbling. The ancient Israelites did it. So did the Jansenists, the Quakers, the Methodists, and the Shakers. (From “The Sceptics Dictionary”, http://skepdic.com/glossol.html)

Note 2: Meaningless repetition of words or sentences spoken by another person

(Additional useful information can be found in “Translation Uncensored” under the titles of “Collecting Rent in the Tower of Babel” and “Interpreting in the City of Dreams”). For visual demonstration please google “Katherine Tate, Translator” i.e. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zdf2eLeCLHI .

AN INTERPRETER IN "THE CITY OF DREAMS"

AN INTERPRETER IN "THE CITY OF DREAMS"

A really surreal story

"The greatest city on the face of the Earth?"

A few years back I got an email from a colleague, a French interpreter, that the City of Dreams was looking to hire international interpreters like myself for the Greatest Fun and Games event on earth.

I must say that although I had worked and interpreted for other major international events in the past I knew little about the Greatest Fun and Games on Earth and even less of the City of Dreams. A search on the Internet shed some light on the mystery. A nation of former fishermen and nomads has become one of the wealthiest countries in the world due to its natural resources For centuries, while occasionally dabbling in piracy, the natives traded in pearls and spices, sailing dangerous seas.

In the City of Dreams the Dreamers control its natural resources, real estate and wealth. They pay no taxes, enjoy free education and medicine, and have the average per capita income similar to most developed countries. But this is not the whole story. Aside from the native Dreamers, there are almost three times as many foreign (slave) workers.

I decided to send my résumé to the address supplied by my colleague and waited… and waited… I did more research on the Internet. Many expats and travellers reported that the City of Dreams was in reality “the most boring city on the face of the Earth.” That was encouraging!

Although the date for the core group of interpreters to arrive in the City of Dreams was rapidly approaching, none of my emails were answered. I also made a number of fruitless phone calls to the agent called Satyr.

Unexpectedly, while on another interpreting assignment, I received a brief message on my mobile that I was hired for the whole of the preparatory period as well as for the duration of the Fun and Games. When I attempted to question the terms of our contract, which were exceedingly skimpy, the response was, “everything will be sorted out upon your arrival in the City of Dreams.” It was a slow post-holiday period and, despite some reservations, I signed the contract.

I got my e-ticket just before the departure date. I was ready to travel. I foolishly assumed that it being a tropical place, the City of Dreams would be hot and packed my light clothes.

After an 20-hour flight I landed in the Transit City. The sprawling airport resembled a giant shopping mall. I managed to get myself a chair in a busy coffee shop and spent some hours waiting for a connecting flight to the City of Dreams. Along the corridors sleeping on the floors were colourful groups of migrant workers, looking bedraggled and bewildered.

Upon entry into the departure hall I was somewhat taken aback by the casual attitude of the security officers who heedlessly chatted with each other and drank coffee while largely ignoring their computer screens. But then I thought, “Who was going to blow up the City of Dreams anyway”?

We, the workforce

After a short flight I arrived in the City of Dreams and was met at the airport by Satyr's friendly helpers who bundled me into a taxi. My ankles got swollen during the long flight. At the hotel I gratefully threw off my shoes, turned on the TV and got myself a cold drink.

In the evening ten core team interpreters were introduced to each other during a rather chaotic meeting. Among other things we had to sign a waiver saying we would consume neither alcohol nor tobacco in our rooms, nor bring them onto the premises. Someone found this waiver onerous and wanted to find out what would happen if he secretly had a drink in his room. The more experienced travellers jokingly assured him that there were probably no cameras in the rooms and, as long as he kept his mouth shut, everything would be OK.

We decamped to our rooms, which were rather oversized suites with common kitchen facilities. We were stationed at a hotel called Al Seraglio, which, as we found later, was completed well in advance of our arrival. That meant that all the facilities were reasonably comfortable, compared to some other hastily completed buildings, as we were soon to find out. Al Seraglio even boasted an outdoor swimming pool and a spa. The hotel manager was an elderly Philippine, trained as a plastic surgeon in his native country but working for many years in Berlin as a taxi driver. His English was elaborate and convoluted but his manner was friendly and courteous.

Next morning we collected our uniforms. What we did not realise at the time but came to learn rather painfully later on was that being interpreters we were neither journalists, nor delegates, nor VIPs, but “workforce”, alongside cooks and cleaners. Apparently, the whole idea of providing language interpreting at the Fun and Games was a bit of an afterthought. Interpreting booths at conference centres and other venues were hastily constructed and subdivided at the last minute (often unevenly, provoking rivalries for the most spacious booth) to provide for the requisite number of languages. Microphones and other equipment were still being installed and tested on the day the press centre was being officially opened.

Our uniforms were of colourful green, pink, yellow and white hues (somebody compared them to the plumage of tropical parrots), and made of synthetic material (which meant that in hot weather outside one sweated and then, on re-entering indoors, froze). Massive air-conditioning installations were working full pelt at most indoor premises, with blasters directing cold air in powerful streams (it was too cold to sleep at night under flimsy blankets). As soon as we were moved into our permanent accommodation (more about that later), I claimed that I suffered from claustrophobia and was moved into a room with street-facing windows that could be opened.
From then on I never switched on the air-conditioning, relying on the cool wind. The wind brought in swarms of harmless-looking locusts. Their presence, when detected by cleaners or (foolishly) reported by a guest, would draw into the room a team of exterminators, with industrial-sized spraying canisters on their backs. I posted graphic signs around the room, asking not to spray. I was happy to co-exist with the locusts.

We were taken to a canteen that resembled a huge army barrack. It could provide meals for a couple of thousand people at any one time. Queues swiftly moved past the counters (with signs exhorting one not to take more than the allotted number of food items – which everybody seemed to ignore). We were issued with the cheapest possible disposable plastic cutlery and crockery. Experience taught us to take at least two lots of plastic knives and forks because they inevitably broke under the slightest pressure.

During the first few days we complained about lack of choice in our food. Most of it seemed to be of the Indian variety, with lots of cheap hot curries and chilies. We knew that in the delegates’ dining hall next door there were five separate kitchens: Dreamers’, Chinese, Arabic, Continental and Indian-Thai, plus a great assortment of cold foods and salads, as well as fresh fruit. Our complaints and pleas to change the menu went unheeded; we were too far down the totem pole.
A few times I visited the local food court at the supermarket. I recall once sitting at the same table with a local man, no other tables being available. He courteously invited me to join in his meal. I was still dazed from the flight and, since I had already ordered a meal, I was unsure how to respond. So I politely declined. Although I have lived in and visited many exotic lands, nothing prepared me for dealing with locals in the City of Dreams.

Occasionally, I noticed an apprehension mixed with thinly veiled contempt. When I tried to taste some expensive (around US $100 a kilo) local honey at the market, the seller thought I could not afford to buy it (and was not enough of a man to splurge). Generally though the sellers were friendly, especially to our women interpreters, and willingly posed for photos. Only occasionally I sensed the guards’ resentment at various checkpoints when they exaggerated security precautions by unnecessarily frisking us and checking our bags.

A safe heaven lost and “Faulty Towers” found

Since most of us did not like wearing uniforms we gradually began to discard items of our apparel one by one, replacing them with more comfortable clothing, wearing down the protests and the resistance of the management. But that was a minor battle. Soon we had to leave our spacious lodgings at Al Seraglio and move into a complex that we dubbed “Faulty Towers.” The towers were huge forty-story-high blocks of units, luxurious-looking on the outside but uncomfortable on the inside, with barrack-like cafeterias submerged in cavernous and labyrinthine basements.

When we were moved into one of the towers we at first refused to be lodged there. The lifts were shaky and seemed unsafe, bathrooms leaked, rooms were dark, windowsills dirty, the windows themselves covered in layers of concrete and dust. The buildings were obviously hastily commissioned under pressure from the authorities, eager to start the Fun and Games on time. The pool at Faulty Towers was full of building debris and was never opened, despite promises. Weeks into our occupancy, some rooms got telephones and a slow dial-up internet that we had to pay for by at the city shopping centre.

We were told by an aggressive-looking Englishwoman that everything will be OK, and that the buildings were safe and comfortable. Some of us tried to stay as long as possible in the check-in lounge but gradually it became clear that with something like 20,000 guests arriving that day in this City of Dreams, we had no chance. A group of interpreters threatened to pack up and fly back home in the morning.

No sooner than getting to our rooms and settling in just for the night, prepared to renew our fight to relocate in the morning, a wail of sirens started up, signalling that we evacuate the building. We hastily threw our belongings together and ran down the stairs, with wet paint from the freshly painted staircase sticking to our shoes. So it was back to Al Seraglio for a couple of nights until another “Faulty Tower” was hastily prepared.

For the next thirty days we would be subjected nightly to the deafening fire alarms (occasionally three or four times a night). At first we would stagger out of bed and attempt to evacuate (as required by the rules) but eventually we ignored the alarms, trying to get as much sleep as we could (our shifts meant a 5:30 am rise). On one of those restless nights, as I peered into the corridor, barely awake, I was amazed to see our Japanese interpreter already at the exit, fully dressed, with a neatly packed suitcase at his side, and a uniform cap on. He must never have slept at all.
Nobody could tell us why the alarm malfunctioned. Finally, a slave worker was positioned at the fire alarm station round the clock to press the stop-button as soon as it went off.

As we got to know more referees and technical officials living in our building we found out that we were relatively fortunate. Some people had been moved four to five times. There was a shortage of about 2,500 beds, and three cruise boats in the City of Dreams harbour were commandeered to accommodate extra guests.

Transport, science, and blood sports

Getting around to work areas and to the central canteen was a problem. In theory, we were provided with cars and drivers by Satyr. There were also official buses running between the hotel and the venues. Often it would have been easier to walk, instead of trying to adjust to the unpredictable and awkward schedules or faulty communication with our Dreamer drivers or the office. But there were no pedestrian walks and the roads were dusty and dangerous as the City of Dreams’ drivers had no respect whatsoever for pedestrians (nor other drivers for that matter). The height of driving prowess for a local driver is to move unexpectedly at 120 km an hour out of his lane at a roundabout across the screeching traffic and dash out to a side street causing confusion, curses and, with God’s help, accidents. "Slow down, slow down…" was the first Dreamer phrase that I learned. One literally took one's life in one's hands crossing busy roads. Some volunteers were actually run over and killed. I barely survived one close call. There were supposed to be taxis in the City of Dreams. In practice, you could sometimes find an expensive limousine at a luxury hotel. In desperate cases you tried to hail local drivers and were mostly ignored.

The work entailed waiting for meetings and press conferences to happen, often at the last minute. Occasionally, conferences were "wall-to-wall." We had to interpret at early morning VIP’s meetings and also take care of the delegates’ needs. Other interpreters were sent into the media mill with those journalists who could not attend the events.

A few times when I went to the competition venues I was struck by the fact that seats were mostly filled by students brought from schools and colleges to create an impression of a good crowd. Journalists brought up this question of attendance on numerous occasions.

The huge wealth of the City of Dreams was going to be channelled into making the country one of the leading sporting nations in the region. Giant sporting arenas were being built and famous foreign coaches were recruited to bring local teams up to world standards. Yet native Dreamers generally seemed uninterested in sport. I never saw anyone jogging on the lovely esplanade that circled the harbour. Their only huge success at the Fun and Games was in cricket. Their victory created quite a pandemonium in the City of Dreams, with cars racing around all night, people sitting precariously on sun-roofs, and jubilant crowds everywhere.

The same could be said for science. Although science (together with folklore) featured large during the magnificent presentation emphasising the debt of western science to Dreamer innovation, names of leading scientists (shown on a wide screen) and their discoveries would have been utterly unfamiliar to the majority of the Dreamers. One of our bosses, a university educated professional, stunned us with his assertion that apes were derelict humans who did not follow the Dreamers’ rules.
Disregard for the environment and conservation was evident everywhere. Huge mascot figures of Sphinx were erected around the city for the Fun and Games. Exorbitantly priced hunting birds were sold at markets, with almost no native prey left. Wealthy Dreamers amused themselves by flying to countries like Uzbekistan and Tajikistan to hunt, where game still survived and where there were few restrictions on hunting.


The Sphinx and the Running Sands of Time

I gradually began to gain the impression that the whole purpose of the "Fun and Games" was to enhance the international prestige of the City of Dreams and impress the visiting VIP's who were receiving royal treatment. The Fun and Games were reported to have cost enough money to pay a decent salary to all the slave workers for the next 100 years. More than 500,000 km was covered by the VIP's in over 5,000 petrol-guzzling vehicles, as announced proudly by the organisers. It all really seemed an extravagant waste of money. Dreamers were proudly pointing out the skyscrapers that dotted the city's skyline, with the city resembling a huge building site.

I imagined the skyscrapers being submerged once again by running sands in 30 years’ time, when the City of Dreams would run out of its supplies of cheap oil and gas (or when some substitute for them is discovered). The old Dreamers’ architecture seemed ecologically sound and sustainable– thick-walled buildings with good thermal mass and narrow, shaded windows. However the modern American and European steel and plate-glass buildings being sold to the Dreamers by unscrupulous developers and architects were totally unsuited to local conditions and needs. They seemed more like monuments to greed and wasteful extravagance. It would probably be cheaper after the Fun and Games to pull some of these buildings down rather than bring them up to any sort of decent standard. Their whole existence was predicated on an unlimited supply of cheap energy and slave labour.

Dreamers themselves took a hands-off approach to most "on-the-ground" matters. Jobs were supervised by hired contractors. Workers were ill-trained, lacked proper tools, and were poorly motivated. Theft of food and small items from our hotel rooms was rampant. I could hardly blame these lowly paid migrant workers as they were getting something like US $5 per day (out of which they paid for their food and lodgings, sent money back home and paid off the gang leaders who hired them).

The attitude to women in the City of Dreams was in accordance with Dreamer traditions. They were draped in dark clothes while men, on the contrary, sported colourful flowing robes. One could occasionally see a flash of cherry-black eyes and wonder what passions and, dare one say, thoughts, swirled behind them. The attitudes of men were much more “in your face.” During a trial of new video equipment in our booths local technicians put on a full-blown porno movie. There were shrieks of shock and surprise from our women colleagues (some of whom came from other Dreamer-like countries). The technicians thought it was a huge joke until the women complained and one of the technicians was (reportedly) sacked on the spot.

On another occasion one of our women interpreters was subjected to a rude sexual advance while visiting a local resident. If this could happen to a relatively well-protected and respected female, what could be said about the thousands of lower class women working as housekeepers, cooks and nannies in Dreamers’ homes? As foreign women mixing with men, they were legitimate prey.


We came from across the globe…

Logistic bungling was rampant. Teams were taken to wrong venues, food and supplements were confiscated from hotels. Some guests were left in the pouring rain and freezing wind for hours to allow the VIP's to get to their buses first. Many complained of catching cold as a result. The weather was unseasonably cold and wet, with piercing winds blowing from the desert. Due to heavy rains the conditions were so difficult that an equestrian champion was killed. Horrified, we watched the unfortunate rider on a huge screen in front of us being crushed to death by a falling horse.
But there were moments of camaraderie among us notwithstanding the environment we had to work in. Anyone looking from outside would have thought that we were having a terrific time, with flying jokes and flashing smiles. I will cherish the concentrated look on the face of my colleague reading a trash detective story in the booth, tearing out one by one the pages that were read and tossing them into the bin (to lessen the weight of the book, no doubt).

Or us, sleeping and resting on dirty floors covered by newspapers at the deserted top floors of the administrative building (having been chased out of the lounge, as we were spoiling the official decorum). Or trying to brave the street crossings, holding hands and dashing madly across the road before the hordes of SUV’s would trample us under their wheels. Or the I Ching sessions where fortune-telling coins were cast during the waiting hours, amid discussions about our diverse cultures and backgrounds.

One tried to put on a brave face and soldier on. But the strain showed. At one point when I brought a delegate to the doctor to be examined, the doctor asked me to sit down, took my blood pressure and told me to leave work immediately and go to bed. I was apparently suffering from exhaustion due to lack of sleep (the nightly fire alarms!), stress, and unaccustomed food.

I wrote a humorous poem about our days in the City of Dreams. In a strange way, I was grateful for the experience (not that I would care to repeat it any time soon). I saw the City of Dreams in 20-30 years time possibly reverting to some form of (cyber?) piracy after its futile attempts at supremacy in sports and science, and the exhaustion of its oil and gas reserves. Somehow, I just could not see the Dreamers going to work as hired labourers for their former slaves. And I saw our own Western way of life as a milder version of the dream-like extravagance, haughtiness and folly.

I did not think that the City of Dreams was "the most boring place on the face of the Earth" after all. It was just another strange and yet a familiar mirror we could hold up to ourselves.


The Dream City

We came from across the globe
And despite the lengthy run,
We wanted to visit the desert
And take part in the Games and Fun.

We were lodged at Al Seraglio
Of which fond memories we nurse
But they moved us to Faulty Towers
Which caused us to fume and curse.

We were tested with fire and water
And woken up through the night.
You should have seen us totter
In pyjamas when taking a flight.

Brave Satyr, all courage and mastery,
Sprung to action with curious speed,
As we glimpsed in the mists of history
In full gallop Dreamerian steed.

And so the Fun and Games kept rolling
Between the Press and the exposition,
Till we felt we broke all records
And fulfilled our lives' ambition.

Our tummies were full of curry
And our brains were like scrambled eggs,
But still we continued onward
With our noble profession's quest.

As we left the City’s calm waters
With its sands and pouring rains,
We returned to our own native quarters
To recall the Fun and Games.

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