Om agter die kap van die byltjie te kom

Taal is dinamies en gedurig aan die verander om aan te pas by die tydsgees, tegnologiese ontwikkeling en ’n magdom ander faktore. Ek twyfel of my kinders my ouma se taal sou verstaan. Sy het grootliks in idiome gepraat, meestal ontleen aan die Bybel, landbou of die trekpad. My kinders verstaan my idiome meestal. Hulle maats, dikwels nie.

Wat is idiome? Metafore, vergelykings, kortpaaie, snelskrif – ’n hele prentjie word in ’n paar woorde geskilder. Maar jy moes daar wees, soos hulle sê. Jy moet ’n agtergrond deel. Dis binnepret, ’n inside joke.

’n Nuwe leërskare wat glad nie idiome snap nie, wat rigied en letterlik funksioneer, is vertaalbots. Dit verskaf groot vermaak in ons redaksie. Vanoggend weer het ChatGPT “boskase” vertaal na “forest cheeses”.

Bots word gedurig verfyn, maar hulle snap nie werklik konteks nie. Nuanse vlieg oor hulle koppe. Wat my laat wonder: sou komediante (daardie spesie wat aan die uitsterf is) vir ’n bot kon vra om ’n grap uit te dink? Kom ek probeer.

My opdrag: Tell me a joke about farmers.

Die blitsige reaksie: Why did the farmer bring a ladder to the farm? Because he heard the crops needed a little “uplifting”!

Dis redelik flou as jy my vra, plus die uitroepteken aan die einde impliseer dat hy vir sy eie grap lag – ’n doodsonde.

Natuurlik is die grap in die blikbrein ingeprogrammeer en nie uitgedink nie. Om ’n grap uit te dink, het jy ’n leeftyd se ervaring nodig, mensekennis, sielkundige insig, ’n kulturele verwysingsraamwerk. ’n Gevoel vir tydsbrerekening, vir die onverwagte. Nie net ’n spul data nie.

Hier is ’n voorbeeld van hoe die bot idiome vertaal:

I am a church mouse. My plans bore dates. Husks with long ears. Little bean found its reward. I was diligent at the bucket but lazy at the task. My kierangs have roasted. My hand is struck in the ashes. I've scratched in your salad.

But I refuse to put a spoon in the roof. I will discover the handle of the hatchet. I have a little apple to peel. I will fall with the door into the house. I will tie the bell on the cat. I will pull the wagon through the drift. It will go bumping along again. I won't go to bed with mockery. I won't pull a small head.

Natuurlik gaan die hele proses nog met rasse skrede verbeter, omdat ons almal fluks besig is om die bots op te lei. Sommige idiome is wel in hulle databasis. “Rasse skrede” word vertaal as “by leaps and bounds”. Ek dink die ouer Afrikaanse uitdrukkings word redelik goed vertaal omdat daar ’n omvangryke Nederlandse databasis is.

By “uit die veld geslaan", verskaf hy: The translation to English is: “I am thrown out of the field." This phrase is an idiom in Afrikaans, meaning to be thrown off balance or disoriented by something unexpected or surprising. In English, a similar expression would be “I am thrown off balance" or “I am taken aback."

Ook “Die oggendstond het goud in die mond” kon hy vertaal na: The early bird catches the worm.

Só word die toring van Babel steen vir steen afgebreek. Nêrens gaan ons meer kan skinder sonder om verstaan te word nie.

A Language

I had heard the story before
about the two prisoners, alone
in the same cell, and one
gives the other lessons in a language.
Day after day, the pupil studies hard—
what else does he have to do? — and year
after year they practice,
waiting for the hour of release.
They tackle the nouns, the cases, and genders,
the rules for imperatives and conjugations,
but near the end of his sentence, the teacher
suddenly dies and only the pupil
goes back through the gate and into the open
world. He travels to the country of his new
language, fluent, and full of hope.
Yet when he arrives, he finds
that the language he speaks is not
the language that is spoken. He has learned
a language one other person knew — its inventor,
his cell-mate and teacher.

And then the other
evening, I heard the story again.
This time the teacher was Gombrowicz, the pupil
was his wife. She had dreamed of learning
Polish and, hour after hour, for years
on end, Gombrowicz had been willing to teach
her a Polish that does not and never
did exist. The man who told
the story would like to marry his girlfriend.
They love to read in bed and between
them speak three languages.
They laughed — at the wife, at Gombrowicz, it wasn’t
clear, and I wasn’t sure that they
themselves knew what was funny.
I wondered why the man had told
the story, and thought of the tricks
enclosure can play. A nod, or silence,
another nod, consent — or not, as a cloud
drifts beyond the scene and the two
stand pointing in different directions
at the very same empty sky.

Even so, there was something
else about the story, like teaching
a stunt to an animal — a four-legged
creature might prance on two legs
or a two-legged creature might
fall onto four.

I remembered,
then, the miscarriage, and before that
the months of waiting: like baskets filled
with bright shapes, the imagination
run wild. And then what arrived:
the event that was nothing, a mistaken idea,
a scrap of charred cloth, the enormous
present folding over the future,
like a wave overtaking
a grain of sand.

There was a myth
I once knew about twins who spoke
a private language, though one
spoke only the truth and the other
only lies. The savior gets mixed
up with the traitor, but the traitor
stays as true to himself as a god.

All night the rain falls here, falls there,
and the creatures dream, or drown, in the lair.

- Susan Stewart

♦ VWB ♦

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