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Sample translations submitted: 2
Spanish to English: Jornalistic translation General field: Other Detailed field: Journalism
Source text - Spanish Al menos 61 cadáveres fueron hallados en un crematorio abandonado en el balneario mexicano de Acapulco, ubicado en el estado Guerrero, donde en septiembre pasado desaparecieron 43 estudiantes, informaron hoy fuentes de la fiscalía estatal.
El hallazgo de los cuerpos fue posible por una llamada de los vecinos a las autoridades, que acudieron al crematorio, situado en la ruta Cayacao-Puerto Marqués, y retiraron los restos humanos en vehículos del Servicio Médico Forense.
Según las fuentes, el olor fétido llamó la atención de los vecinos de esa zona, que anoche llamaron por teléfono a las autoridades para alertarlas del caso. El recinto, llamado Cremaciones El Pacífico, estaba abandonado desde hacía un año.
Hasta el lugar se acercaron integrantes de las policías federal, estatal y ministerial, así como de la gendarmería, que acordonaron el área.
A media mañana terminaron de sacar los cadáveres en camilla y de llevárselos tapados con sábanas blancas al instituto forense local.
Las autoridades tienen previsto emitir un comunicado oficial en las próximas horas, pero las fuentes anticiparon que al parecer uno de los cuerpos -que no estaban mutilados- corresponde al de un menor de edad.
Además, los cadáveres tenían cal encima y ninguno había sido quemado.
Guerrero es uno de los estados más pobres, con mayor presencia del crimen organizado y mayor conflictividad social de México.
La desaparición de los estudiantes
A unos 200 kilómetros de Acapulco se encuentra Iguala, el municipio en el que el pasado 26 de septiembre desaparecieron 43 estudiantes de la Escuela Normal de magisterio de Ayotzinapa tras ser atacados por policías locales corruptos que los entregaron al cártel de Guerreros Unidos, en un episodio que todavía sacude a todo México, generó repercusión internacional y puso contra las cuerdas al presidente Enrique Peña Nieto.
Según el testimonio de algunos de los criminales detenidos desde entonces por este caso, los jóvenes fueron asesinados y sus cuerpos quemados en un vertedero de la población vecina de Cocula.
La Autopista del Sol, que une Acapulco con la capital mexicana, fue escenario ayer de una manifestación de miles de personas para reclamar la aparición con vida de los alumnos de Ayotzinapa y exigir la salida del ejército de Guerrero.
Translation - English Shocking discovery of 61 bodies in Acapulco, close to where students disappeared
‘La Nación’, Friday, 06 February 2015
At least 61 bodies were found in an abandoned crematorium by a Mexican spa resort in Acapulco, located in the state of Guerrero where 43 students went missing last September, informed sources from the State Prosecutor today.
The discovery of the bodies was made possible by a telephone call from the neighbours in this district to the authorities, who came to the crematorium located on the road between Cayacao and Puerto Marqués, and collected the human remains in medical forensics vehicles.
According to sources, the putrid smell called the attention of the district’s neighbours, who then alerted the authorities. The compound, named ‘Pacific Cremations’, had been abandoned for a year.
Contingents of federal, state and ministerial police arrived at the scene, including the gendarmerie, who cordoned off the area.
By midmorning, they had finished extracting the bodies on stretchers covered with white sheets and take them to a local forensic institute.
The authorities have scheduled an official statement in the next few hours; however, sources anticipated that on viewing one of the bodies – that were not mutilated – it corresponded to that of a minor.
Guerrero is one of the poorest states, with the highest presence of organised crime and social conflict in Mexico.
The disappearance of the students
Approximately 200 km from Acapulco the community of Iguala can be found, where, on the 26th September last, 43 students from the College of Escuela Normal in Ayotzinapa disappeared after being attacked by corrupt local police. The police handed them over to the cartel of ‘United Warriors’, in an episode that still shocks all of Mexico, has generated international repercussions, and has put Mexican president Enrique Peña Nieto up against the ropes.
According to the testimony from some of the criminals that were detained for this reason since then, the young people were murdered and their bodies burned in a landfill dump of the neighbouring community of Cocula.
The Autopista del Sol freeway, which connects Acapulco with the Mexican capital, was the scene of a protest of thousands of people yesterday, to assert a claim for the fragile livelihood of the students of Ayotzinapa and call for the ousting of the so-called ‘army’ of Guerrero.
1) I have chosen to translate cadáveres (meaning ‘cadavers’) as ‘bodies’ in my translation. If applying a SL bias, the somewhat overly- scientific and rarely used term in English; ‘cadavers’ would deny the text’s universality. It is important that the intended target audience (in this case, the readers of The Guardian) may be able to easily relate to words most commonly used in their vocabulary (‘cadavers’ is not a commonly used term) which in turn would allow the newspaper’s story to reach a more expansive demographic of audience. Another option was to translate cadavers to ‘corpses’, which would be an overly prosaic option. The Guardian newspaper bears an ethical responsibility not to shock, but to simply tell the news in the most truthful way.
2) I have chosen to translate the cartel’s so called name (Guerreros Unidos) into ‘United Warriors. By choosing to translate the cartel’s title I have distinguished their organisation from name of the state in which the crime happened (the state of Guerrero) so as not to confuse the criminals from the place where the crime was committed. I have also domesticized the term for my intended reader so that may feel closer to the unfolding story, instead of excluding the reader from the names of organisations and geographical location through foreignization.
3) I have chosen divide up the paragraph about the president using a full stop. If translated without the added punctuation the sentence length, which would be normal in Spanish, could be too long if read in English and may confuse the reader.
English to Portuguese: The Bear came over the mountain General field: Art/Literary Detailed field: Poetry & Literature
Source text - English (This story originally appeared in the December 27, 1999, issue of the magazine.)
Fiona lived in her parents’ house, in the town where she and Grant went to university. It was a big, bay-windowed house that seemed to Grant both luxurious and disorderly, with rugs crooked on the floors and cup rings bitten into the table varnish. Her mother was Icelandic—a powerful woman with a froth of white hair and indignant far-left politics. The father was an important cardiologist, revered around the hospital but happily subservient at home, where he would listen to his wife’s strange tirades with an absentminded smile. Fiona had her own little car and a pile of cashmere sweaters, but she wasn’t in a sorority, and her mother’s political activity was probably the reason. Not that she cared. Sororities were a joke to her, and so was politics—though she liked to play “The Four Insurgent Generals” on the phonograph, and sometimes also the “Internationale,” very loud, if there was a guest she thought she could make nervous. A curly-haired gloomy-looking foreigner was courting her—she said he was a Visigoth—and so were two or three quite respectable and uneasy young interns. She made fun of them all and of Grant as well. She would drolly repeat some of his small-town phrases. He thought maybe she was joking when she proposed to him, on a cold bright day on the beach at Port Stanley. Sand was stinging their faces and the waves delivered crashing loads of gravel at their feet.
“Do you think it would be fun—” Fiona shouted. “Do you think it would be fun if we got married?”
He took her up on it, he shouted yes. He wanted never to be away from her. She had the spark of life.
Just before they left their house Fiona noticed a mark on the kitchen floor. It came from the cheap black house shoes she had been wearing earlier in the day.
She rinsed out the rag she’d been using and hung it on the rack inside the door under the sink. Then she put on her golden-brown, fur-collared ski jacket, over a white turtleneck sweater and tailored fawn slacks. She was a tall, narrow-shouldered woman, seventy years old but still upright and trim, with long legs and long feet, delicate wrists and ankles, and tiny, almost comical-looking ears. Her hair that was as light as milkweed fluff had gone from pale blond to white somehow without Grant’s noticing exactly when, and she still wore it down to her shoulders, as her mother had done. (That was the thing that had alarmed Grant’s own mother, a small-town widow who worked as a doctor’s receptionist. The long white hair on Fiona’s mother, even more than the state of the house, had told her all she needed to know about attitudes and politics.) But otherwise Fiona, with her fine bones and small sapphire eyes, was nothing like her mother. She had a slightly crooked mouth, which she emphasized now with red lipstick—usually the last thing she did before she left the house.
Over a year ago, Grant had started noticing so many little yellow notes stuck up all over the house. That was not entirely new. Fiona had always written things down—the title of a book she’d heard mentioned on the radio or the jobs she wanted to make sure she got done that day. Even her morning schedule was written down. He found it mystifying and touching in its precision: “7 a.m. yoga. 7:30–7:45 teeth face hair. 7:45–8:15 walk. 8:15 Grant and breakfast.”
The new notes were different. Stuck onto the kitchen drawers—Cutlery, Dish-towels, Knives. Couldn’t she just open the drawers and see what was inside?
Worse things were coming. She went to town and phoned Grant from a booth to ask him how to drive home. She went for her usual walk across the field into the woods and came home by the fence line—a very long way round. She said that she’d counted on fences always taking you somewhere.
It was hard to figure out. She’d said that about fences as if it were a joke, and she had remembered the phone number without any trouble.
“I don’t think it’s anything to worry about,” she said. “I expect I’m just losing my mind.”
He asked if she had been taking sleeping pills.
“If I am I don’t remember,” she said. Then she said she was sorry to sound so flippant. “I’m sure I haven’t been taking anything. Maybe I should be. Maybe vitamins.”
Vitamins didn’t help. She would stand in doorways trying to figure out where she was going. She forgot to turn on the burner under the vegetables or put water in the coffeemaker. She asked Grant when they’d moved to this house.
“Was it last year or the year before?”
“It was twelve years ago,” he said.
“That’s shocking.”
Translation - Portuguese O urso veio pela montanha, Alice Monro, New Yorker, 27 dezembro de 1999
Fiona vivía na casa do seus pais, na cidade a onde ela e Grant estudaram na faculdade. Era uma casa grande com janelas salientes que, no ponto de vista do Grant, parecia luxa e desorganizada com os tapetes tortuosamente colocados no chão e as manchas redondas feitas pelos copos sobre o verniz da mesa. A sua mãe era islandesa – uma mulher poderosa com cabelo branco e espumoso e uma política indignada da extrema-esquerda. O pai era um cardiologista importante, venerado em torno do hospital más alegremente subserviente em casa, a onde ele escutaria as tiradas da sua esposa com um sorriso desatento.
Fiona tinha a seu próprio carrinho e uma pilha de blusas feitas de caxemira, más ela não fazia parte de um clube de estudantes, e a atividade política da sua mãe provavelmente era a razão. Más claro que ela não se importava com isso. Para ela os clubes eram uma piada, tal como a política – mesmo que ela gostasse de tocar ‘Os quatro generais insurgentes’ no fonógrafo, e as vezes o hino socialista o ‘Internacionale’, com volume aumentado, como se estivesse um convidado que ela pudesse perturbar. Um estrangeiro com cabelo encaracolado e uma cara tenebrosa estava namorando-a. Ele diz que ele era um Visigodo – tal como dois ou três outros estagiários respeitáveis, inquietos e jovens. Ela tirava o sarro de todos eles, e do Grant também. Ela repetiria algumas das suas frases engraçadas da zona rural. Ele pensou que ela estava brincando quando ela lhe propôs, um dia fria e brilhante na praia do Port Stanley. A areia estava ferroando suas caras e as ondas lhes entregavam aos seus pés cargas explosivas de cascalho.
‘’Você acha que seria legal-’’ Fiona gritou. ‘’-você acha que seria legal se a gente for casados? ’’
Ele aceitou-a, gritando que sim. Ele nunca queria estar longe dela. Ela tinha a faísca de vida.
Muitos anos depois...
Ela se vestiu a sua jaqueta de esqui com colar de pelagem e de color dourado-marrão, sobre uma blusa branca com gola olímpica e calças castanhas e personalizadas. Ela era uma mulher alta e asseada com ombros estreitos, com setenta anos, mas ainda exibindo uma postura reta. Ela tinha pernas e pés cumpridos, pulsos e tornozelos delicados e orelhas minúsculas que quase pareciam cômicas. O seu cabelo, que era tão claro como a penujem de asclepiadea, tinha mudado de loiro para branco de alguma forma, sem Grant perceber quando exatamente, e ela ainda o usou caído até os ombros, como a sua mãe também tinha usado. No entanto Fiona, de outro modo, com seus ossos delicados e olhos pequenos de safira, parecia nada como a sua mãe. Ela tinha uma boca torta, que estava enfatizada agora com o batom vermelho – um ato que normalmente era a última coisa que ela fazia antes de sair de casa.
Há mais de um ano, Grant tinha começado a perceber várias anotações amareladas e pequenas, grudadas pela casa inteira. Isso não era uma novidade. Fiona sempre tinha escrito tudo à mão – o título de um livro que ela tinha ouvido falar no rádio ou as tarefas diárias que ela queria que fossem feitas. Até a seu programa da manhã estava escrita à mão. Ele achava a sua precisão mistificante e comovente: ‘07:00. Yoga. 07:30 – 07:45 dentes, cara, cabelo. 7:45-8:15 caminhada. 8:15 Grant e café da manhã. ’
As anotações novas eram diferentes. Estavam grudadas nas gavetas da cozinha – talheres, panos e facas. Porque ela não podia apenas abrir as gavetas e ver o que tinha por dentro?
Coisas piores estavam acontecendo. Ela foi para a cidade e telefonou Grant de uma cabine para lhe perguntar como que funcionava o carro para dirigir até casa. Ela foi fazer a sua caminhada habitual através de um campo para dentro do bosque e voltou para casa pelo caminho cercado – um caminho muito mais longe. Ela falou que tinha contado com cercas para se levar até algum lugar.
Era difícil compreender o que estava acontecendo. Ela tinha falado isso sobre cercas como se fossem uma piada, e ela tinha lembrado o número do telefone sem problemas.
‘’Eu não acho que seja algo preocupante. ’ Ela diz. ‘Espero que eu esteja perdendo a minha cabeça! ’
Ele lhe perguntou se ela tivesse tomado pílulas para dormir.
‘’Se eu tiver tomando-as, eu nem me lembro. ’ Ela diz. Depois ela lhe pediu desculpas por ser tão petulante. ‘’Tenho certeza que eu não estou tomando nada. Tal vez eu deveria. Tal vez algumas vitaminas. ’’
Ela encostar-se-ia nas entradas das portas tentando compreender para onde ela ia-se. Ela esqueceria de ligar o queimador sob as verduras ou por agua dentro da máquina de café. Ela perguntava Grant quando eles tinham mudado a esta casa.
‘’Era o ano passado ou o penúltimo ano? ’’
‘’Há mais de 12 anos, ’’
‘’Que chocante.’’
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Bachelor's degree - University of Bristol
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Years of experience: 10. Registered at ProZ.com: Jul 2017.