English/Spanish/Galician to English/Spanish translator specialising in literature, tourism, sport and science.

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Gareth Evans
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Certificates, Diplomas, Licenses, CVs	Poetry & Literature
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Linguistics	Education / Pedagogy
Sports / Fitness / Recreation	Science (general)
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Spanish to English - Rates: 0.06 - 0.10 GBP per word
English to Spanish - Rates: 0.06 - 0.10 GBP per word
Galician to English - Rates: 0.06 - 0.10 GBP per word
Galician to Spanish - Rates: 0.06 - 0.10 GBP per word

PRO-level points: 6, Questions answered: 10

Sample translations submitted: 9

Spanish to English: “Todo tiene un norte”, Salvador Sánchez Melgar, 25th March 2012, 609 words. Source: http://www.articulosgratis.com/cientificos/todo-tiene-un-norte.html (a scientific expository text, from Spanish to English) General field: Science Detailed field: Astronomy & Space
Source text - Spanish “Todo tiene un norte”, Salvador Sánchez Melgar, 25th March 2012, 609 words. Source: http://www.articulosgratis.com/cientificos/todo-tiene-un-norte.html (a scientific expository text, from Spanish to English) Sobre la posibilidad de que el Universo tenga un Norte expansivo. Si una nave espacial se encontrase viajando por el espacio, dicha nave podría viajar boca abajo y sus tripulantes podrían no apercibirse de ello; ya que al no existir gravedad en la nave, sus tripulantes no percibirían donde está lo de arriba ni lo da abajo del espacio. Tampoco sabrían cual es el Norte real del espacio que les rodea, ni si la derecha y la izquierda de la nave es realmente la derecha y la izquierda del Universo. En el futuro sería conveniente que las naves espaciales se situaran en el espacio, no sólo con respecto a la Tierra, como lo hacen actualmente, sino también con respecto al Universo. Que por ejemplo se escogiera una estrella, la que se crea más conveniente, y se eligiera como Norte geográfico interestelar, para que así pudiesen saber los tripulantes de dichas naves espaciales, si se dirigen hacia el Norte, Sur, Este u Oeste tomando como referencia el Norte puesto a dicha estrella. De esa manera, también podrían saber cuál sería la derecha y la izquierda del espacio que cruzasen, ya que se tomaría como referencia la derecha y la izquierda de dicha estrella. Y como no, tomando también como referencia ese Norte de la estrella, también podría saberse donde está lo de arriba y lo de debajo de la nave con respecto a dicho Norte. Lo de arriba sería lo de arriba de la nave y lo de la propia dirección donde está la estrella y lo de abajo lo contrario a lo dicho. Entonces existirían dos arriba y dos abajo. Sin embargo, existen más direcciones posibles, infinitos arriba e infinitos abajo, los ya comentados y todas las demás direcciones posibles de la nave, las cuales no se perciben en la Tierra; pues aquí, en nuestro planeta, como todos sabemos, sólo existe un arriba y un abajo. Entonces, la dirección hacia la derecha y a la izquierda de la nave se podrían definir también como lo de arriba y lo de abajo; así como las direcciones hacia sus cuatros esquinas, como también las direcciones hacia sus infinidades de lados posibles; con lo cual, en el espacio, lo de arriba y lo de abajo serían infinitos arriba y abajo como si fuesen infinitas dimensiones. Por consiguiente, sólo existirían las dimensiones fijas en lugares como la Tierra donde la gravedad ha posibilitado que existan las dimensiones fijas que conocemos. Entonces, en el espacio, en donde no existen fuerzas gravitatorias, las dimensiones son infinitas, lo de arriba y lo de abajo existen en todas partes. Esto demuestra, que las dimensiones no existen realmente, que es como decir que las dimensiones son infinitas. Las dimensiones sólo existen donde se crean, donde existe una gravedad que las crea. En el caso hipotético de que dicha estrella fuese rebasada por la nave, la derecha de la nave se transformaría en la izquierda y la izquierda se transformaría en la derecha. La estrella en lugar de ser el Norte sería el Sur; la referencia de lo de arriba se habría transformado en la referencia de lo de abajo, con respecto a esa estrella. Eso demostraría que no existe ninguna estrella ni ninguna referencia espacial que pueda ser un Norte exacto; puesto que todo lo que contiene el Universo puede ser rebasado. Sin embargo, al igual que existe un Norte magnético en la Tierra, aunque ese Norte no sea exacto ya que se desplaza a unos 40 km cada año; también podría existir un Norte expansivo universal. Tal vez ambos Nortes el de la Tierra y el expansivo sean el mismo, ya que también el Universo se desplaza.	Translation - English Everything has a North (Salvador Sánchez Melgar) On the possibility of the Universe having an expansive North. If we were to take a spacecraft travelling through space, the said craft could travel upside down without its crew noticing; as gravity is non-existent in the craft, the crew would have no perception of where “up” was nor where “down” was. Neither would they know where the true North of the space surrounding them was, nor if the spacecraft's “left” and “right” were the true “left” and “right” of the Universe. In the future it would be advisable for spacecraft to position themselves in space not only in relation to the Earth (as is currently the case), but also in relation to the Universe. For example, a star could be selected (that which were deemed most convenient) and it could be named the interstellar geographical North so that the crews of said spacecraft could know whether they are heading North, South, East or West using the North positioned at the said star as a reference. In this way, they could also know where “left” and “right” would be in the space they were crossing because they would take the “left” and the “right” of the said star as a reference. And of course, also by taking the star's North as a reference, the craft's “up” and “down” could be found with respect to said North. “Up” would be the spacecraft's “up” and that of the actual direction to the star, and “down” would be the opposite to this. Therefore, two “ups” and two “downs” would exist. However, there are more possible directions, with infinite “ups” and “downs”. These include all the ones already mentioned and all of the other possible directions for the spacecraft not perceived on Earth (as we all know, here on our planet there is only one “up” and one “down”). Therefore, to the “left” and to the “right” of the craft (as well as the directions towards its four corners and also the directions towards its infinite number of sides) could also be defined as “up” and “down”. As a result, in space, “up” and “down” would be infinite “ups” and “downs”, as if they were infinite dimensions. Consequently, fixed dimensions would only exist in places such as the Earth, where the existence of the fixed dimensions we know has been made possible by gravity. Therefore, in space, where there are no gravitational forces, dimensions are infinite, and “up” and “down” are everywhere. This demonstrates that dimensions do not really exist, which is the same as saying that dimensions are infinite. Dimensions only exist where they are created, where a gravity exists to create them. In the hypothetical case that the spacecraft were to pass through to the other side of the said star, the craft's “left” would become the “right” and the “right” would become the “left”. The star would be South instead of North, and the reference for “up” would have become the reference for “down” in relation to that star. This would demonstrate that there is no star nor spacial reference that could be an exact North because one can pass through to the other side of everything contained within the Universe. However, in the same way as there is a magnetic North on Earth (even if it is not exact due to it drifting some 40km per year), a universal expansive North could also exist. Maybe both Norths (the Earth's North and the expansive North) are the same, as the Universe is also drifting.
English to Spanish: Passage from “Mountain walking techniques”, Pentagon US Military 1995, 597 words. Source: http://www.mountain-survival.net/chp8.html (an instructive text with specialist vocabulary, from English to Spanish) General field: Other Detailed field: Sports / Fitness / Recreation
Source text - English Passage from “Mountain walking techniques”, Pentagon US Military 1995, 597 words. Source: http://www.mountain-survival.net/chp8.html (an instructive text with specialist vocabulary, from English to Spanish) Techniques Mountain walking techniques can be divided according to the general formation, surface, and ground cover such as walking on hard ground, on snow slopes and grassy slopes, through thick brush, and on scree and talus slopes.  Hard Ground. Hard ground is firmly compacted, rocky soil that does not give way under the weight of a soldier’s step. It is most commonly found under mature forest canopy, in low brush or heather, and areas where animals have beaten out multiple trails. (1) When ascending, employ the rest step to rest the leg muscles. Steep slopes can be traversed rather than climbed straight up. To turn at the end of each traverse, the soldier should step off in the new direction with the uphill foot. This prevents crossing the feet and possible loss of balance. While traversing, the full sole-to-ground principle is accomplished by rolling the ankle downhill on each step. For small stretches the herringbone step may be used—ascending straight up a slope with toes pointed out. A normal progression, as the slope steepens, would be from walking straight up, to a herringbone step, and then to a traverse on the steeper areas. (2) Descending is best done by walking straight down the slope without traversing. The soldier keeps his back straight and bends at the knees to absorb the shock of each step. Body weight is kept directly over the feet and the full boot sole is placed on the ground with each step. Walking with a slight forward lean and with the feet in a normal position make the descent easier.  Snow Slopes. Snow-covered terrain can be encountered throughout the year above 1,500 meters in many mountainous areas. Talus and brush may be covered by hardened snowfields, streams made crossable with snowbridges. The techniques for ascending and descending moderate snow slopes are similar to walking on hard ground with some exceptions. (1) Diagonal Traverse Technique. The diagonal traverse is the most efficient means to ascend snow. In conjunction with the ice ax it provides balance and safety for the soldier. This technique is a two-step sequence. The soldier performs a basic rest step, placing the leading (uphill) foot above and in front of the trailing (downhill) foot, and weighting the trail leg. This is the in-balance position. The ice ax, held in the uphill hand, is placed in the snow above and to the front. The soldier shifts his weight to the leading (uphill) leg and brings the unweighted trail (downhill) foot ahead of the uphill foot. He shifts weight to the forward (downhill) leg and then moves the uphill foot up and places it out ahead of the trail foot, returning to the in-balance position. At this point the ax is moved forward in preparation for the next step. (2) Step Kicking. Step kicking is a basic technique used when crampons are not worn. It is best used on moderate slopes when the snow is soft enough to leave clear footprints. On softer snow the soldier swings his foot into the snow, allowing the leg’s weight and momentum to carve the step. Fully laden soldiers will need to kick steps, which take half of the boot. The steps should be angled slightly into the slope for added security. Succeeding climbers will follow directly in the steps of the trailbreaker, each one improving the step as he ascends. Harder snow requires more effort to kick steps, and they will not be as secure. The soldier may need to slice the step with the side of his boot and use the diagonal technique to ascend.	Translation - Spanish Extracto de “Técnicas para caminar por la montaña” Las técnicas Las técnicas para caminar por la montaña se pueden dividir según la formación y superficie del terreno en general, y el manto que lo cubra. Como ejemplos tenemos las situaciones de andar sobre terrenos duros, en pendientes de nieve o hierba, por zonas densas de matorral, y por pedregales y taludes.  Terreno Duro. El terreno duro es tierra rocosa muy compacta que no cede bajo el paso de un soldado. Se halla normalmente en zonas con una cobertura boscosa muy desarrollada, en zonas de matorral bajo o brezo, y zonas con multitud de senderos formados por el paso frecuente de animales. (1) Al ascender, emplea el “paso-descanso” para dar descanso a los músculos de las piernas. Las pendientes empinadas se pueden ascender en zetas en lugar de subirlas directamente. Para girar al final de cada zeta, el soldado debe arrancar hacia la nueva dirección empleando el pie que se halla pendiente arriba en ese momento. Esto evita que se crucen los pies y la posible pérdida del equilibrio. Al rodear la pendiente, el principio de contacto pleno de la planta con el suelo se consigue flexionando el tobillo hacia abajo en cada paso. En travesías cortas se puede andar “en cuña” - al subir la pendiente se mantienen los pies apuntando hacia fuera. La progresión normal a medida que se empina la pendiente sería pasar de subirla de forma directa a andar “en cuña”, y luego ascender en zetas por las zonas de más inclinación. (2) Se desciende mejor de forma directa, sin hacer zetas. El soldado mantiene la espalda recta y flexiona las rodillas para amortiguar cada paso. El peso corporal se mantiene directamente por encima de los pies y la suela entera de la bota se sitúa en el suelo tras cada paso. El descenso se hace más cómodo si se camina con una inclinación ligera del cuerpo hacia abajo y con los pies en una posición normal.  Pendientes con Nieve. En muchas zonas montañosas el manto de nieve se puede encontrar por encima de los 1.500m a lo largo de todo el año. Puede que taludes y matorrales se cubran por neveros endurecidos y que sea posible cruzar arroyos por las formación de puentes de nieve. Las técnicas empleadas al ascender y descender pendientes de inclinación moderada con nieve son parecidas, aunque con excepciones, a las empleadas al caminar sobre terreno duro. (1) Técnica de Travesía en Diagonal. La travesía en diagonal es la manera más eficiente de ascender por nieve. Empleada en conjunción con el piolet, proporciona equilibrio y seguridad para el soldado. La técnica es una secuencia de dos pasos: El soldado da un “paso-descanso” básico, situando el primer pie (cuesta arriba) por encima y delante del segundo pie (cuesta abajo), y colocando su peso sobre el segundo. Esto se conoce como la “posición de equilibrio”. El piolet se lleva en la mano más cerca de la pendiente (cuesta arriba) y se planta en la nieve encima y hacia delante. El soldado traslada su peso al primer pie (cuesta arriba) y mueve el segundo pie (cuesta abajo) por delante del primero (aún cuesta arriba). Traslada su peso al pie adelantado (cuesta abajo) y a continuación mueve el otro hacia arriba y lo sitúa por delante nuevamente, volviendo a la “posición de equilibrio”. En este momento se mueve el piolet hacia delante en preparación para el siguiente paso. (2) Haciendo escalones. El hacer escalones en la nieve dando patadas con los pies es una técnica básica que se emplea al no llevar crampones. Es mejor usarla en pendientes de inclinación moderada y con la nieve lo suficientemente blanda como para poder dejar una huella clara. En nieve más blanda el soldado columpia el pie hasta clavarlo en la nieve, dejando que el peso y el ímpetu de la pierna esculpan el escalón. Un soldado muy cargado tendría que hacer escalones del tamaño de media bota. Los escalones deben inclinarse hacia dentro (hacia la pendiente) para dar más seguridad. Los montañeros sucesivos seguirían directamente los pasos del que abre huella, cada uno mejorando los escalones del anterior mientras asciende. La nieve más dura requiere de más esfuerzo al hacer escalones, y no serán tan seguros. Puede que el soldado tenga que cortar el escalón con el canto de la bota y emplear la “técnica diagonal” para ascender.
Spanish to English: “Origen e Historia del Camino de Santiago”, last updated September 2005, 650 words. Source: http://www.arteguias.com/camino-santiago-historia.htm (an informative text with historical and religious content, from Spanish to English) General field: Other Detailed field: Religion
Source text - Spanish “Origen e Historia del Camino de Santiago”, last updated September 2005, 650 words. Source: http://www.arteguias.com/camino-santiago-historia.htm (an informative text with historical and religious content, from Spanish to English) Origen e Historia del Camino de Santiago Santiago el Mayor y su vinculación con España Para entender las peregrinaciones medievales a Santiago de Compostela, debemos partir de la tradición que habla de la labor evangelizadora de Santiago en tierras de la Hispania romana. Se sabe que tras la muerte de Cristo, Santiago el Mayor, hijo de Zebedeo, continúa inicialmente su labor apostólica en Jerusalén. Posteriormente, pudo embarcar hasta alcanzar algún puerto de Andalucía en cualquier carguero que comunicaba comercialmente Hispania (que aportaba metales y otras materias primas) con Palestina (de la que se recibían mármol, especias y objetos elaborados) Su misión evangelizadora comenzaría en el sur de Hispania para posteriormente desplazarse al norte por tierras portuguesas (Coimbra, Braga, etc.) llegando hasta Iria Flavia, ya en Galicia. Posteriormente se dirigiría hacia el este de la península (Lugo, Astorga, Zaragoza y Valencia) para partir, de nuevo, hacia Palestina, desde la costa mediterránea española. A su llegada a Palestina y tras incumplir la prohibición de predicar el Cristianismo, fue decapitado en tiempos de Herodes Agripa. Según la tradición, su cadáver fue robado por los discípulos Atanasio y Teodoro y llevado en barco de nuevo a tierras españolas, en concreto a Iria Flavia (cerca de la actual Padrón). La tradición prosigue con el azaroso viaje del cuerpo de Santiago, que es transportado en carro hasta el bosque de Libredón, lugar en que los bueyes se negaron a continuar. Este hecho debió ser tomado como una señal divina y fue elegido como lugar de enterramiento. Para entender el largo viaje emprendido por sus discípulos desde Palestina a las costas gallegas para dar sepultura al cuerpo de su maestro, tenemos las afirmaciones de San Jerónimo que ratifica que fue establecido, al disponerse la salida de los Apóstoles hacia todos los rumbos de la tierra, que al morir: “Cada uno descansaría en la provincia dónde había predicado el Evangelio" Posteriormente, en el Breviario de los Apóstoles, de finales del siglo VI, se habla de la predicación de Santiago en España y de su enterramiento en el Arca Marmárica. La tradición oral se encarga de difundir el portento y en la segunda mitad del siglo VII, Beda el Venerable describe con meticulosa precisión la localización exacta del cuerpo del Apóstol en Galicia. Aunque la invasión árabe y los tumultuosos cambios políticos, sociales y religiosos que acarrearon en el país, silencian durante un tiempo la incipiente tradición jacobea en España, pronto resurge, a finales del siglo VIII de la pluma del célebre Beato de Liébana que escribe: ¡Oh Apóstol, dignísimo y santísimo cabeza refulgente y dorada de España defensor poderoso y Patrono nuestro. Descubrimiento del sepulcro en tiempos de Alfonso II el Casto, de Oviedo Tras la batalla de Covadonga, se asienta en Asturias un pequeño reino que intenta recuperar el ideal unificador de la monarquía hispanovisigoda. Uno de los principales y decisivos monarcas de este periodo inicial fue Alfonso II El Casto que reinó durante un largo periodo de tiempo (entre el año 791 y el 842). Este gran gobernante estableció la capital en Oviedo, a la que dotó de numerosos edificios públicos y construyó numerosas iglesias (Cámara Santa, San Tirso, San Julián de los Prados...) y palacios, tratando de imitar el antiguo esplendor del Toledo visigodo. Su gran logro fue consolidar la resistencia al poder musulmán de Al-Andalus. Es durante sus reinado cuando se produce el milagroso descubrimiento de la tumba del Apóstol Santiago. Según cuenta la Concordia de Antealtares, -el primer testimonio escrito de los hechos, datado en 1077- un ermitaño llamado «Pelayo» que vivía en Solovio, en el bosque de Libredón, empezó a observar durante las noches resplandores misteriosos. Inmediatamente informó del hallazgo a Teodomiro, obispo de Iria Flavia que marchó a aquel lugar encontrándose que esa luz revelaba el lugar donde estaba enterrada el Arca Marmárea. En el sepulcro pétreo reposaban tres cuerpos, atribuyéndolos a Santiago el Mayor y sus discípulos Teodoro y Anastasio.	Translation - English “Origins and History of the Way of St James” (translated from http://www.arteguias.com/camino-santiago-historia.htm) Origins and History of the Way of St James Saint James the Elder and his connections with Spain In order to understand the medieval pilgrimages to Santiago de Compostela we must start from the study of traditional writings on the evangelizing work of St James (“Santiago” in Roman and Spanish nomenclature) in the lands of the Roman-ruled Hispania. It is known that, after the death of Christ, St James the Elder (son of Zebedee) initially continued his apostolic work in Jerusalem. Subsequently, he managed to sail to an Andalusian port in some cargo ship used for trade between Hispania (who provided metals and other raw materials) and Palestine (from whom elaborate objects, ivory and spices were received). His evangelizing mission would begin in the south of Hispania, later moving northwards through Portuguese territory (Coimbra, Braga, etc.) to Iria Flavia in Galicia. He would then head eastwards across the Iberian Peninsula (Lugo, Astorga, Saragossa and Valencia) in order to set sail from Spain's Mediterranean coast for Palestine once again. On arriving in Palestine, and after ignoring prohibitions against the predication of Christianity, he was decapitated under the rule of King Herod. Traditional writings tell us that the body was stolen by his followers Athanasius and Theodore and shipped back to Spain, and more specifically to Iria Flavia (near to the town now known as Padrón). The traditional writings continue to tell of the hazardous journey of St James' body, which was transported by wagon to a woodland with the name of Libredón, at which point the ox's pulling the wagon refused to go on. This had to be taken as a sign from God and the place was chosen for the burial. So as to understand the journey undertaken by St James' followers from Palestine to the Galician coast for the burial of their master's body, we should heed the assertions of Saint Geronimo. He states that this was decided upon when they had the choice of sending the Apostles to all the corners of the Earth because after their death: “Each Apostle should be laid to rest in the province where he had preached the Gospel.” Subsequently, in the Breviary of the Apostles (end of the 6th century), they speak of the predication of St James in Spain and his tomb in the Arca Marmárica.1 It was through oral tradition that these wondrous events were spread, and in the second half of the 7th century Bede the Venerable described the exact location of the Apostle's remains in Galicia with meticulous precision. The incipient tradition relating to St James was silenced for a time by the Arab invasion and the tumultuous political, social and religious changes this brought to the country. Despite this, however, the tradition was revived near the end of the 8th century by the writings of the celebrated Beato de Liébana2: Oh such honourable and holy Apostle! resplendent and golden leader of Spain powerful defender and Patron of ours Discovery of the tomb during the reign of Alfonso II “The Chaste” of Oviedo After the Battle of Covadonga, a small kingdom was built up in Asturias. This kingdom attempted to recover the ideal of unification of the Spanish Visigothic monarchy. Alfonso II “The Chaste” was one of the main and most decisive monarchs of this initial period, and he reigned for a long period of time (from 791 to 842). This great ruler established the capital city in Oviedo, in which he built numerous public buildings and erected numerous churches (Cámara Santa, San Tirso, San Julián de los Prados…) and palaces in an attempt to mimic the ancient splendour of visigothic Toledo. His greatest achievement was in consolidating the resistance to the Muslim power of Al-Andalus. It was under Alfonso II that the miraculous discovery of the Apostle’s tomb took place. According to the Concordia Antealtares (the first written testimony of the events, dated 1077), a hermit named “Pelayo”, who lived in Solovio (in the woodlands of Libredón), began to observe mysterious light phenomena in the night sky. Theodemir, the bishop of Iria Flavia, was informed immediately. He followed the light and found that it revealed the place where the Arca Marmórica was buried. In the stone tomb there lay three bodies, believed to be those of St James the Elder and his followers Theodore and Athanasius. Footnotes: 1. The “Arca Marmárica” or “Arca Marmárea” has been subject to many different translations and interpretations. For some sources, this refers to the ivory box in which the Apostle was buried, for others it refers to a miraculous stone vessel guided by angels in which they shipped the remains to Galicia, and for others it actually refers to the burial of St James being in a completely different place, in the historical region of Acaya Marmorica, to the west of Egypt 2. Beato de Liébana is sometimes translated in English texts as “Beatus from Liébana”. “Beato” is a holy or blessed person, and Liébana refers to a geographic location in the west of present day Cantabria.
English to Spanish: Murder Mile (Tony Black), Chapter 1, Preface Publishing 2012, 630 words. Source: www.amazon.com (a narrative literary text with passages of direct speech from the crime fiction or drama genre, from English to Spanish) General field: Art/Literary
Source text - English Murder Mile (Tony Black), Chapter 1, Preface Publishing 2012, 630 words. Source: www.amazon.com (a narrative literary text with passages of direct speech from the crime fiction or drama genre, from English to Spanish) THE FLUORESCENT GREEN of the alarm clock stung DI Rob Brennan's eyes as he awoke, but it was the ringing phone by the bedside that did the real damage. He reached out, knocked it off its cradle and heard it clutter to the ground. His next instinct was to turn round and see if his wife was still asleep beside him, but she wasn't there; he remembered now. Brennan eased himself upright, leaned over the edge of the bed and retrieved the receiver; his voice rasped as he spoke, “Yes, Brennan.” “Hello, sorry to wake you ...” It was DS Stevie McGuire – the lad still hadn't learned how to handle him, thought Brennan. He didn't like people who opened conversations with the word “sorry.” “What is it?” The line crackled a little. There was a pause, Stevie preparing his words carefully – he knew that much then. “Boss, there's been a call ...” “There better have been more than a bloody call if you're getting me out of my kip at this hour, Stevie.” The DS coughed gently, was he thinking of another apology? “Yes, well … There was a call and we had uniform check it out. By all accounts it's not pretty.” Brennan's interest was aroused. He massaged the back of his neck with his hand and then he rose from the bed, walked towards the window and stuck his fingers in the blinds. It was still dark out. “Go on.” “The early reports are a female, looks sexually motivated.” “Have you been to the scene?” Brennan knew he hadn't; if he had he wouldn't be relaying the uniforms' report. He was reaching, making assumptions. “No.” Stevie sounded defensive now. “The victim's half naked, bound and tied.” “So it looks sexually motivated, Stevie.” He let the implication hang. “Yes, sir.” Brennan removed his fingers from the blinds, turned towards the bed. The wind outside worried the window latch. “Where is she?” Just off the bypass … Straiton will be about the nearest if you're mapping it.” “She's in the wilds?” McGuire's tone softened, he seemed to be relaxing again. “A field … The boffins are setting up, or on their way there now.” Brennan gouged a knuckle into his eye, rubbed. He was awake now, but not fully functioning. It was cold in the room, it would be colder outside; the chill air would wake him, he thought, if the job didn't get there first. “OK, Stevie, pick me up in fifteen.” “Yes, sir.” He hung up. Brennan returned the phone to the cradle and looked at the pillow lying beside his; it didn't look slept on. His thoughts zigzagged for a moment. He turned away, flicked the light switch on, immediately his eyes creased in a defensive move as the shadeless bulb burned. He let his vision adjust for a moment or two and then he headed towards the wardrobe. He stood firm footed as he tried to grasp what his next move should be. He grabbed the first shirt he came to – pale blue, button-down collar – and matched it with the first pair of trousers he found – grey, chino-style – they had been put away with the belt still in the loops and were saggy kneed; he dressed quickly. In the bathroom the strip light was even brighter. Brennan ran a cold palm down his chin but knew a shave, even a quick run over with the electric razor, was out of the question. He looked at his stubble, it had started to lighten, there were white spikes poking through; he wondered why the greying hadn't reached the hair on his head yet.	Translation - Spanish La Milla Mortal (Tony Black), Capítulo 1 EL VERDE FLUORESCENTE del despertador le producía al Inspector Rob Brennan un escozor en los ojos, pero lo que realmente le hacía daño era el teléfono que sonaba en la mesita. Estiró la mano para cogerlo, lo quitó de la horquilla de un golpe y lo oyó precipitarse estrepitosamente contra el suelo. Su siguiente impulso fue darse la vuelta para ver si su mujer aún dormía a su lado, pero no estaba allí; ya se acordaba. Brennan se irguió lentamente, se inclinó por el borde de la cama y recogió el auricular. Habló con voz áspera: “Sí, aquí Brennan.” “Hola, siento haberle despertado...” Era el Sargento Stevie McGuire - el chico aún no le tenía tomada la medida, pensó Brennan. No le gustaban las personas que abrían las conversaciones con una disculpa. “¿Qué pasa?” Se oyó algo de interferencia en la línea. Luego un breve silencio, Stevie seleccionando las palabras adecuadas – así que hasta allí llegaba. “Jefe, ha habido una llamada...” “Espero que haya sido algo más que una maldita llamada si me sacas del sobre a estas horas, Stevie.” El sargento carraspeó levemente, ¿pensaba pedir disculpas otra vez? “Sí, bueno...Hubo una llamada y mandamos echar un vistazo a los de uniforme. No tiene buena pinta que digamos.” Había conseguido despertarle el interés al inspector. Se masajeó la nuca con la mano y después se levantó de la cama, se encaminó hacia la ventana y metió los dedos entre las lamas de la persiana. Aún era de noche allí fuera. “Cuéntame más.” “Los primeros informes hablan de una mujer, parece haber motivo sexual.” “¿Has ido a la escena del crimen?” Brennan sabía que no; si hubiera sido así no estaría transmitiéndole el informe de los de uniforme. Buscaba, suponía cosas. “No.” Ahora a Stevie se le notaba un tono defensivo. “La víctima está maniatada y medio desnuda.” “Así que parece haber motivo sexual, Stevie.” Dejó que la insinuación flotara momentáneamente en el aire. “Sí, señor.” Brennan sacó sus dedos de entre las lamas y se giró hacia la cama. El viento golpeaba la ventana y hacía que temblara el pestillo. “¿Dónde está?” A muy poco de la circunvalación … Straiton será lo más cercano si lo estás buscando en el mapa.” “¿Está en el monte?” El tono de McGuire se suavizaba, parecía que se relajaba de nuevo. “Un campo … Los forenses estarán de camino, si no están montando el chiringuito ya.” Brennan escarbaba en el ojo con un nudillo, frotaba. Ya estaba despierto, sin estar en pleno funcionamiento. Hacía frío en la habitación y haría más allí fuera; el aire gélido le sacaría de su letargo, pensaba, si no lo hacía antes el trabajo. “De acuerdo, Stevie, recógeme en quince.” “Sí, señor.” Colgó. Devolvió el auricular a la horquilla y miró la almohada que yacía al lado del suyo; no parecía usada. Durante unos segundos sus pensamientos deambularon por su cabeza. Se dio la vuelta, dio al interruptor de la luz, y se le entrecerraron los ojos en un reflejo defensivo ante el brillo de la bombilla desnuda. Dejó que se le ajustase la vista durante un par de segundos y luego se encaminó hacia el armario. Se quedó firmemente de pie mientras intentaba dar con lo que debería hacer a continuación. Agarró la primera camisa que vio – una de un azul pálido y con botones en el cuello – y la combinó con los primeros pantalones que encontró – unos grises de estilo chino – los había guardado con el cinturón aún puesto y tenían las rodillas que colgaban más de la cuenta; se vistió de prisa. En el cuarto de baño los tubos fluorescentes deslumbraban aun más. Brennan se pasó una palma helada por la barbilla pero sabía que afeitarse, incluso un repaso veloz con la maquinilla eléctrica, no era una opción. Se miraba la barba incipiente, había empezado a aclararse y brotaban unas púas blanquecinas; se preguntaba por qué las canas no se le habían aparecido en la cabeza todavía.
English to Spanish: “The effectiveness and cost-effectiveness of prophylactic removal of wisdom teeth.” (Song, F., O'Meara, S., Wilson, P., Golder, S., Kleijnen, J.), in Health Technology Assessment 2000, Vol 4, no.15, Chapter 1, NHS Centre for Reviews and Dissemination, General field: Science Detailed field: Medical: Dentistry
Source text - English “The effectiveness and cost-effectiveness of prophylactic removal of wisdom teeth.” (Song, F., O'Meara, S., Wilson, P., Golder, S., Kleijnen, J.), in Health Technology Assessment 2000, Vol 4, no.15, Chapter 1, NHS Centre for Reviews and Dissemination, University of York / US National Library of Medicine (National Institutes of Health), last accessed 19th December 2012), 630 words. Source: http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/10932022 (formal academic journal text on a technical/scientific subject, from English to Spanish) Introduction Removal of third molars (wisdom teeth) is one of the most common surgical procedures performed in the UK. In 1994–95 there were over 36,000 in-patient and 60,000 day-case admissions in England for ‘surgical removal of tooth’. Thirdmolar surgery has been estimated to cost the NHS in England up to £30 million per year, and approximately £20 million is spent annually in the private sector. Around 90% of patients on waiting lists for oral and maxillofacial surgery are scheduled for third molar removal. There are wide variations in rates of third molar surgery across the UK. There is some evidence that deprived populations with poor dental health are less likely to have third molars removed compared with more affluent populations with good dental health. However, the reasons for this are complex. The proportion of third molar surgery which is carried out prophylactically is difficult to estimate precisely and depends on the definitions used. Some estimates of prophylactic removal suggest rates of between 20% and 40%, but rates as low as 4% have been reported. A UK survey of 181 consultants found that of 19,971 third molars referred to hospital for assessment, and subsequently removed, 43.9% were disease-free. This survey also revealed that relatively more maxillary third molars than mandibular third molars were removed prophylactically. The rate of disease-free extracted teeth was 79.0% in 7,735 maxillary third molars and 21.8% in 12,236 mandibular third molars. Little controversy surrounds the removal of impacted third molars when they are associated with pathological changes such as infection, nonrestorable carious lesions, cysts, tumours, and destruction of adjacent teeth and bone. However, the justification for prophylactic removal of impacted third molars is less certain and has been debated for many years. Several reasons are given for the early removal of disease-free impacted third molars: they have no useful role in the mouth; they may increase the risk of pathological changes and symptoms; if they are removed only when pathological changes occur, patients may be older and the risk of serious post-operative complications may be greater. On the other hand, the probability of impacted third molars causing pathological changes in the future may be exaggerated. Many impacted or unerupted third molars may eventually erupt normally and many impacted third molars never cause clinically important problems. In addition, third molar surgery is not risk-free. The complications and suffering following third molar surgery may be considerable. Therefore, the decision to remove third molars prophylactically should be based on an estimate of the balance between the likelihood of retained third molars causing problems in the future and the risks or advantages of surgery carried out earlier compared with later. However, it is not possible to predict reliably whether impacted third molars will develop pathological changes if they are not removed. Wide variation has been observed among practitioners in their perceived risk of future associated pathological changes and in treatment decisions in the management of impacted third molars. Impacted third molars Impaction occurs where there is prevention of complete eruption into a normal functional position of one tooth by another, due to lack of space (in the dental arch), obstruction by another tooth, or development in an abnormal position. According to the definitions given by the Faculty of Dental Surgery of the Royal College of Surgeons of England, a tooth that is completely impacted is entirely covered by soft tissue and partially or completely covered by bone within the mandible (lower jaw) or maxilla (upper jaw); partial eruption occurs when the tooth is visible in the mouth but has failed to erupt into a normal functional position. It should be noted that any normally erupted teeth used to be unerupted and partially erupted at certain stages of the eruption process. Therefore, unerupted or partially erupted teeth may not be impacted.	Translation - Spanish “La efectividad y rentabilidad de la extracción profiláctica de muelas del juicio.” Introducción La extracción de terceros molares (muelas del juicio) es uno de los procedimientos quirúrgicos más frecuentes practicados en el Reino Unido. En 1994-95 ingresaron 36.000 pacientes internos y 60.000 externos en Inglaterra para la 'extracción quirúrgica de diente'. Se estima que la cirugía de terceros molares tiene un coste para el NHS (el sistema nacional de sanidad) de hasta 30 millones de libras al año (aprox. 38 millones de euros) en Inglaterra (sin contar Gales, Escocia y Irlanda del Norte), y se gastan aproximadamente unos 20 millones (25 millones de euros) cada año en el sector privado. Alrededor del 90% de pacientes en lista de espera para la cirugía oral o maxilofacial tienen prevista la extracción de terceros molares. Existen variaciones importantes en los porcentajes de pacientes sometidos a cirugía de terceros molares en diferentes partes del Reino Unido. Hay evidencia que las poblaciones desventajadas y con una salud dental pobre tienen menos probabilidades de que se les extraigan terceros molares si las comparamos con poblaciones más afluentes y con una salud dental buena. No obstante, las razones son complejas. La proporción de la cirugía de terceros molares que se practica de forma profiláctica es difícil de estimar con precisión y depende de las definiciones que se aplican. Algunas estimaciones de extracciones profilácticas apuntan a porcentajes de entre un 20% y un 40%, pero tienen informes de porcentajes tan bajos como el 4%. En una encuesta británica de 181 especialistas, se encontró que, de 19.971 casos de terceros molares enviados para evaluación a hospitales y con extracción posterior, un 43,9% resultaron libres de infección. Esta encuesta también reveló que se extrajeron de forma profiláctica un porcentaje más alto de terceros molares maxilares que de mandibulares. El porcentaje de extracciones libres de infección fue de un 79,0% en 7.735 terceros molares maxilares y de un 21,8% en 12.236 terceros molares mandibulares. No hay mucha discusión en lo concerniente a la extracción de terceros molares impactados cuando viene asociada con cambios patológicos como la infección, las caries no restaurables, quistes, tumores y la destrucción del hueso y dientes adyacentes. No obstante, la extracción profiláctica de terceros molares impactados tiene una justificación menos clara y se ha debatido durante muchos años. Se dan varias razones a favor de la temprana extracción de terceros molares impactados y libres de infección: no son de ninguna utilidad en la boca; pueden aumentar el riesgo de cambios patológicos y síntomas; si se extraen solo cuando surgen cambios patológicos, los pacientes pueden ser mayores y esto puede aumentar el riesgo de complicaciones posoperatorias de gravedad. Por otra parte, es posible que se haya exagerado la posibilidad de que los terceros molares impactados deriven en futuros cambios patológicos. Muchos terceros molares impactados o incluidos pueden erupcionar con normalidad al final y muchos terceros molares impactados nunca causan problemas de relevancia clínica. Además, la cirugía de terceros molares no viene sin riesgos. Las complicaciones y el sufrimiento posquirúrgicos de terceros molares pueden ser considerables. Por tanto, la decisión de extraer terceros molares de forma profiláctica debería basarse en una valoración que haga balance entre la posibilidad que tengan los terceros molares retenidos de causar problemas futuros y los riesgos o las ventajas de practicar la cirugía antes en vez de más tarde. Sin embargo, no es posible prever de manera fiable si terceros molares impactados desarrollarán cambios patológicos si no se extraen. Se ha observado entre dentistas una variación considerable en su percepción del riesgo de futuros cambios patológicos asociados y en sus decisiones acerca del tratamiento en el cuidado de terceros molares impactados. Terceros molares impactados La impactación ocurre cuando la erupción completa de un diente para ocupar una posición normal y funcional acaba impedida por otro diente debido a la falta de espacio (en el arco dental), la obstrucción directa del otro diente, o el desarrollo en una posición anormal. Según las definiciones proporcionadas por la Facultad de Cirugía Dental del Royal College of Surgeons of England (Colegio Real de Cirujanos de Inglaterra), un diente completamente impactado está íntegramente cubierto por tejido blando y parcial o íntegramente cubierto por tejido óseo dentro de la mandíbula inferior o maxilar (parte superior de la mandíbula); la erupción parcial ocurre cuando el diente está visible dentro de la boca pero no ha podido erupcionar para ocupar una posición normal y funcional. Debemos destacar que cualquier diente con erupción normal antes estaba incluido y parcialmente erupcionado en etapas específicas del proceso de erupción. Por tanto, puede que dientes incluidos o parcialmente erupcionados no estén impactados.
English to Spanish: “Could Scottish salmon farming be transformed by moving to dry land?” (Severin Carrell), published in The Guardian, 17th December 2012, last accessed 19th December 2012, 631 words. Source: http://www.guardian.co.uk/environment/2012/dec/17/scottish-sa General field: Science Detailed field: Journalism
Source text - English “Could Scottish salmon farming be transformed by moving to dry land?” (Severin Carrell), published in The Guardian, 17th December 2012, last accessed 19th December 2012, 631 words. Source: http://www.guardian.co.uk/environment/2012/dec/17/scottish-salmon-fishing?intcmp=122 (an informative/reflective journalistic article on environmental issues, from English to Spanish) Could Scottish salmon farming be transformed by moving to dry land? Fishfrom plans to farm salmon untainted by chemicals and sea lice in a Kintyre facility run on renewable electricity Scottish salmon is facing a challenge to its reputation as one of Britain's best loved everyday luxuries, with scares over diseases and sea lice, heavy use of pesticides and seal killing raising fears about its environmental impact. A new fish-farming company called Fishfrom believes it can help solve the industry's problem, and even partly solve future crises over food shortages. Its answer: take salmon farming entirely out of the sea. It is planning to build a vast new warehouse on the west coast of Scotland where it hopes to farm salmon on dry land, cultivating thousands of tonnes of fresh salmon untainted by chemicals, sea lice and seal-control, in a self-contained facility run on renewable electricity. That factory, at Tayinloan, just opposite the Hebridean island of Gigha, will be powered largely by solar panels and a small hydro scheme nearby, feed its salmon on its own supply of a specially farmed marine animal called ragworm, and will recycle nearly all the water it needs onsite. "It does hit all the right parts of sustainable nutrition, grown by authenticated methods. We know that they work," said Andrew Robertson, the firm's director. "Closed containment has got to the point where we can deliver a robust business model and it will be energy efficient. But most important, it'll deliver a fantastic product in a short period of time, with a minimal footprint compared to conventional aquaculture." The firm argues that using farmed ragworm, a burrowing creature which is abundant in estuaries and mudbanks, will save the wild sand eels, anchovies and other fish currently used to feed conventional salmon farms from damaging exploitation. Even the factory's waste could eventually be used to make power. Fishfrom plans to ship out 800,000 salmon a year from that single site, supplying retailers such as Marks and Spencer, Waitrose, Youngs Seafood and in France, Carrefour and Auchain. It already supplies Heston Blumenthal's Michelin-starred restaurant in Berkshire, the Fat Duck, with farmed trout fed on its inhouse fishfood. Eventually, says Fishfrom, it hopes to open a vast farm four times that size nearby on the tip of Kintyre on the former RAF air base at Machrihanish and then a further plant at Port Talbot in Wales, next door to the fishfarm where it grows the ragworm. It claims its purpose-built "kits" can be built anywhere with the right supplies available, and is in talks with buyers in New Zealand, north America and Romania. Fish are already being farmed in other "closed containment" facilities in Spain, Denmark, the Netherlands, Ireland, north America and China. They produce sea bass, catfish, and Atlantic salmon. There is a 1,000-tonne salmon farm recently opened in Denmark, and two more of a similar size being built in China. But nothing, say Fishfrom, on this scale. It has huge ambitions: if all those factories opened, it would end up producing up to a tenth of the UK's farmed salmon, which stands at about 158,000 tonnes a year. Fishfrom will file its first planning application to Argyll and Bute council in January, and hopes to begin production in 2014. And it is optimistic of success. "The council loves the idea, for so many different reasons but fundamentally jobs," Robertson said. To ensure its fish are disease free, the infant salmon, called smolts, will be raised and screened on site. The maturing and adult fish will swim in interconnected circular ponds where a form of whirlpool will form a current to swim against. Its proposals are being treated warily by the conservationists who are harrying the conventional offshore salmon farming industry over its impact on the marine environment.	Translation - Spanish ¿Podrían las instalaciones en tierra firme revolucionar el cultivo del salmón escocés? La empresa Fishfrom tiene la intención de cultivar un salmón libre de contaminación química y de piojos marinos en una instalación del oeste de Escocia (en Kintyre) que se alimenta de energía renovable. La reputación del salmón escocés se está viendo amenazada como uno de los lujos cotidianos más valorados por los británicos por el miedo generado entorno a su impacto medioambiental debido a los rumores de enfermedad y piojos marinos, el uso excesivo de pesticidas y la matanza de focas. Fishfrom, una nueva empresa de piscifactoría, tiene la convicción de poder ayudar a resolver la problemática de la industria, incluso llegando a paliar parcialmente las futuras crisis generadas por la escasez de alimentos. ¿La solución?: sacar las piscifactorías del mar por completo. Su intención es construir un nuevo almacén gigantesco en la costa oeste de Escocia, donde espera cultivar el salmón en tierra firme, produciendo miles de toneladas de salmón fresco libre de la contaminación química, los piojos marinos y la matanza selectiva de focas, todo en una instalación autosuficiente que se alimenta de energía renovable. La piscifactoría, que se ubicará en Tayinloan, justo enfrente de Gigha (una de las islas Hébridas) se alimentará en buena parte de placas solares y de un pequeño proyecto hidroeléctrico de la zona. Para dar de comer a los salmones tendrán su propio cultivo especial de un animal marino conocido vulgarmente como lombriz marina, y podrán reutilizar casi toda el agua que necesiten in situ. “El proyecto de verdad acierta en todos los aspectos relevantes de la alimentación sostenible, que se produce aplicando métodos comprobados. Sabemos que funcionan,” ha dicho el director de la empresa, Andrew Robertson. “La contención cerrada ha llegado al punto en el que podemos proporcionar un modelo empresarial sólido y tendrá eficiencia energética. Pero lo más importante es que proporcionará un producto estupendo en poco tiempo que dejará una huella minúscula en comparación con la acuicultura convencional.” La empresa alega que el uso de cultivos de lombrices marinas, animales excavadores abundantes en estuarios y bancos de lodo, salvará de la sobreexplotación a las anguilas salvajes de arena, anchoas y otros peces usados actualmente como alimentación en las piscifactorías convencionales de salmón. Hasta los residuos de la piscifactoría podrían servir finalmente para generar energía. Fishfrom prevé distribuir 800.000 salmones al año procedentes solamente de este sitio, suministrando a minoristas como Marks and Spencer, Waitrose, Youngs Seafood, y las francesas Carrefour y Auchain. Ya suministra truchas cultivadas con alimentación propia al Fat Duck, el famoso restaurante de tres estrellas Michelín de Heston Blumenthal en Berkshire. Al final, dicen los representantes de Fishfrom que esperan abrir una enorme piscifactoría cuatro veces más grande en la antigua base de las fuerzas aéreas de Machrihanish, cercana al cabo de Kintyre, y después otra adicional en Port Talbot en Gales, al lado de la piscifactoría donde cultivan las lombrices marinas. Afirman que sus “kits” especialmente adaptados se pueden montar en cualquier sitio que tenga los suministros necesarios a su disposición, y que ya negocian con compradores de Nueva Zelanda, América del Norte y Rumanía. Ya se cultiva pescado en otras instalaciones de “contención cerrada” aquí en España y en Dinamarca, Holanda, Irlanda, América del Norte y China. En estas se producen lubina, siluro y salmón atlántico. Hace poco se ha abierto una piscifactoría de salmón de mil toneladas en Dinamarca, y están en el proceso de construir dos más de proporciones similares en China. Pero no existe nada, aseguran en Fishfrom, en esta escala. Éstos son enormemente ambiciosos: si se abrieran todas las piscifactorías propuestas, acabarían por producir hasta la décima parte del salmón cultivado en el Reino Unido, lo cual se cifra en aproximadamente unas 158.000 toneladas al año. Fishfrom entregará su primera solicitud de permiso de obras al ayuntamiento de Argyll and Bute en enero, y espera poder comenzar la producción en el 2014. Y confían en tener éxito. Robertson ha comentado que “al ayuntamiento le encanta la idea, por muchas razones pero fundamentalmente por los trabajos.” Para asegurarse de que el pescado esté libre de enfermedades, los salmones alevines (o “smolts”) serán criados y sometidos a revisiones in situ. Los peces adultos y en proceso de maduración nadarán en estanques circulares interconectados en los que se producirá una especie de remolino para formar una corriente contra la que nadar. Sus propuestas están siendo valoradas con cautela por los conservacionistas que prosiguen en su acoso a la industria del cultivo convencional de salmón debido a su impacto sobre el medio marino.
Spanish to English: “Psiquiatras, Psicólogos y Otros Enfermos” (Rodrigo Muñoz Avia), capítulo 1, Punto de Lectura, S.L. 2006, 639 words. Source: paperback book (a text of popular fiction with heavy doses of humorous and cultural content, from Spanish to English) General field: Art/Literary
Source text - Spanish “Psiquiatras, Psicólogos y Otros Enfermos” (Rodrigo Muñoz Avia), capítulo 1, Punto de Lectura, S.L. 2006, 639 words. Source: paperback book (a text of popular fiction with heavy doses of humorous and cultural content, from Spanish to English) Hola. Me llamo Rodrigo. Rodrigo Montalvo Letellier. Antes de ir al psiquiatra yo era una persona feliz. Ahora soy disléxico, obsesivo, depresivo y tengo diemo a la muerte, o sea, miedo. En el psiquiatra he aprendido que la palabra felicidad es una convención que carece de sentido. He aprendido que el hecho de volver a ser feliz algún día no sólo es imposible, sino completamente imposible. Ahora me pregunto más cosas de las que me gustaría: sobre la muerte y sobre la vida. Vivo en un chalet adosado de la urbanización Parque Conde de Orgaz, cerca de la calle Arturo Soria, en Madrid. Estoy casado. Mi mujer se llama Patricia, pero todos la llaman Pati. Tengo dos hijos, Marcos y Belén. Marcos tiene diez años y Belén seis. Por las noches, cuando Pati está ya metida en la cama esperándome, y mis hijos llevan más de dos horas durmiendo, me gusta salir al jardín y orinar en algún árbol o parterre. Por lo general, cuando esto ocurre, el gato de mis hijos, que, aparte de ser un animal esquizofrénico, conserva todavía algunos instintos, orina exactamente en el mismo lugar donde yo acabo de hacerlo. El gato de mis hijos es un gato persa himalayo de un tamaño descomunal, y su principal peculiaridad es que en vez de maullar, ladra. Esto lo digo completamente en serio, aunque nadie me cree nunca. Ese gato, a diario, cuando llego a casa para comer y abro la puerta del garaje con el mando a distancia, me dirige su mirada cruzada desde lo alto de su columna (una de las columnas de ladrillos que delimitan la cancela exterior) y emite una extrañas ventosidades con la boca, sonidos guturales muy secos y cortos, que si no fuera porque provienen de un gato, nadie dudaría en denominar ladridos. El gato de mis hijos, o perro, o lo que sea, se llama Arnold, supongo que porque mis hijos pensaron que se parecía a su ídolo Arnold Szenchwaseger... o Schwasnezeger... o Schnegerwasze... bueno, no lo sé; hay nombres imposibles, sobre todo para un disléxico como yo. Arnold tiene el morro aplastado, como si hubiera tenido un choque frontal con otro gato de la misma zarra, y cuando te mira parece que no te está mirando, como si su ojo izquierdo sólo pudiera mirar a su ojo derecho y su ojo derecho sólo pudiera mirar a su ojo izquierdo, y sólo sus dientes, asomando como piedras incrustadas en su morro aplastado, estuvieran atentos a cada uno de tus movimientos. Arnold me tiene manía. Cuando era sólo un cachorro de unas cuantas semanas se orinó encima de un grabado antiguo que me había regalado mi mujer y yo lo tiré a la piscina (al gato, no al grabado) de donde, sin apenas tocar el agua, salió rebotado hasta el borde, como si el agua y sus patas hubieran hecho un cortocircuito eléctrico. Desde entonces, Arnold me ladra cada vez que llego a casa, porque me considera un intruso indeseable en su territorio, y todas las noches, antes de que yo vuelva a entrar en casa, tiene buen cuidado de orinar allí donde yo lo he hecho, para que, a ser posible, no quede el menor rastro de mi existencia. Una de mis aficiones favoritas es mi gran maqueta de tren, y una de las aficiones favoritas de Arnold es pasearse por encima de mi maqueta y dar toquecitos con la pata a los árboles y los semáforos y al tren que sale en ese momento de uno de los innumerables lútenes, o sea, túneles. Ver a Arnold encima de la maqueta es como ver a un oso polar encima de la maqueta. Me saca de quicio, pero he aprendido que es mejor no perder los nervios y dejar que sea él mismo, el oso, quien escoja el momento de desaparecer.	Translation - English Psychiatrists, Psychologists and Other Ill People (Rodrigo Muñoz Avia), Chapter 1 Hi. My name's Rodrigo. Rodrigo Montalvo Letellier. Before going to the psychiatrist I was a happy person. Now I'm dyslexic, obsessive, depressive and have a fear of thead. That is, of death. In the psychiatrist I've learnt that the word happiness is just a convention which lacks true meaning. I've learnt that being happy again someday is something which is not only impossible, but totally impossible. Now I question more things than I would like to: things about death and things about life. I live in a semi-detached house in a housing development known as Parque Conde de Orgaz, near to a street by the name of Arturo Soria, in Madrid. I'm married. My wife's name is Patricia but everyone calls her Pati. I have two children, Marcos and Belén. Marcos is ten and Belén is six. At night, when Pati is already snug in bed waiting for me and the children have already been sleeping for two hours, I like to go out in the garden to urinate on some tree or in a flowerbed. Generally, when this happens, my children's cat (which still displays a few basic instincts despite being schizophrenic) urinates in exactly the same place as I just did. My children's cat is a Himalayan Persian cat of colossal size, and its main peculiarity is that instead of miaowing, it barks. I'm totally serious when I say this, even though no-one ever believes me. Everyday when I arrive home in my lunch hour and I open the garage with the remote control, this cat penetrates me with its stare from high upon its gatepost (one of the brick ones that we have on the outside of the gate) and lets out strange wind-like emissions from its mouth; and were it not for the fact that these short, dry, guttural sounds are being produced by a cat, nobody would hesitate in classifying them as barking. My children's cat, or dog, or whatever it is, is called Arnold. I guess this is because they thought it looked like their hero, Arnold Szenchwaseger... or Schwasnezeger... or Schnegerwasze... or however you say it; some names are just impossible, especially for a dyslexic like me. Arnold has a flattened snout, as if he'd collided head-on with another cat of similar guise; and when he looks at you it seems as though he's not looking, as if his left eye could only look at his right eye and his right eye could only look at his left eye, and as if only his teeth, peeping out like stones encrusted into his flattened snout, were alert to your every movement. Arnold has it in for me. As a pup, when it was just a few weeks old, it urinated on an old engraving that my wife had given to me and so I threw it in the swimming pool (the cat, not the engraving) from where, without hardly touching the water's surface, it sprung straight back out as if its feet had produced a short-circuit upon making contact with the water. Since then, Arnold barks at me every time I get home because he considers me to be an undesirable intruder to his territory, and every night, before I go back into the building, he makes certain to urinate wherever I did, so that, if possible, not the slightest trace of my existence remains. One of my favourite pastimes is working on my model railway, and one of Arnold's favourite pastimes is walking on my model railway, using his paw to nudge trees and traffic lights and whichever train happens to be emerging from one of the innumerable nuttels. That is, tunnels. Seeing Arnold on top of the mock-up is like seeing a polar bear on top of the mock-up. It drives me insane, but I've learnt that its best not to lose one's temper and to let the bear himself be the one to choose the right moment to disappear.
English to Spanish: Selection from “Port, Starboard and other lists”, Chris Morgan, published by Morganstern 2009, 663 words. Source: paperback book (a complilation of poems by the 13th Poet Laureate for Birmingham, from English to Spanish) General field: Art/Literary Detailed field: Poetry & Literature
Source text - English Selection from “Port, Starboard and other lists”, Chris Morgan, published by Morganstern 2009, 663 words. Source: paperback book (a complilation of poems by the 13th Poet Laureate for Birmingham, from English to Spanish) POTENTIAL The wrinkles of my smiles and frowns disappear completely between expression. My carpet is still fibres on the backs of a herd of tiny nylons. This paper is as yet rags and pines. My white beard hides darkly beneath the skin, beaten down by daily hoeing. This house is owned by a twentieth century family who will never fill it with books. My chair is no more than a seedling. The garden is fenced in by a lonely girdle of conifers awaiting the axe. My AppleMac is not even a brainchild. You are a young free agent in glasses and a skirt too short to suit. Our marriage is not to be contemplated. This poem is a single cell of an idea lurking among memories of time travel stories I still read. And the world is a less terrified place. AS SEEN ON TV Small china figurines of Beatrix Potter's talking animals, each one perfect in its awfulness; a brass carriage clock from 1720; the current Radio Times in an ornate Victorian folder; photos of dead relatives and younger selves; a matching pair of Valentine cards which say all the things their givers can't; the Turin Shroud surmounted by a dried flower arrangement, all life and colour gone; an ashtray of moulded glass stolen from a Banks's pub, full of heaped, lipsticked butts, one of them (like its owner) still smoking; a rubber housebrick for throwing at the screen; coffee-ringed beermats; scratches left by generations of ring-tailed lemurs; “to be done” notes trapped under a stone painted like a hedgehog (or is it a hedgehog painted like a stone?); an art deco lamp held up by a male nude, always switched on; a set-top box; dust. HANDBAGGED In my leopard-skin handbag: a tortoiseshell comb, an ivory compact, a mahogany pencil, a pair of snakeskin gloves, shards of dodo eggshell, and the spirit of nature, weeping. IN A LIFT YOU SHOULD NEVER Talk, unless you're with a friend, alone or not British. Expect control buttons to say what they mean or mean what they say. Have breakfast unless you're a martyr to indigestion. Travel with your whole choir or rugby club. Insult your fellow passsengers and try to run away. Treat the muzak as if it's karaoke. Take your pet unless it's tiny. Try to swing a cat. Strip off, even if you're amazingly, disappointingly lightning-fast. Make love, ditto. Smoke, for fear of setting off the fire alarm and the ire of other passengers. Get married or paint pictures, unless you're a minimalist in all things. Take a shower: there's nowhere for the soap. Start World War III even if you are George W Bush. THE REAL MEANING I am everything you never wanted I am much more than you can take I am flatulence, I am drunkenness I am the prey enveloped by the snake I am three months of shopping excess I am as plain and honest as tinsel, true I am false lights, false bonhomie, so I can't be me, you can't be you I am the cause of your mountains of debt I made your credit card glow red hot I'm as seductive as a fantasy lover I'm your master/mistress, like it or not I am the plastic tree, baubles and glitter I am the wrapping paper, a pound a sheet I am the trappings disguising the meaning I am the beggars in the street I am the spirit of Christmas TODAY Today I am not going to buy a Picasso at auction. Today I am not going to eat an apple, because this isn't an apple, just a picture of an apple. Today I am not going outside Birmingham. Today I am not young any more. Today I am not as handsome as I used to think I was. Today I am not playing the piano. Today I am not writing a poem, because this list is not a poem and today I am not René Magritte.	Translation - Spanish Selección de “Babor, Estribor y Otras Listas” por Chris Morgan POTENCIAL Las arrugas de mis sonrisas y ceños fruncidos desaparecen completamente entre expresión. Mi moqueta es aún fibras sobre los lomos de una manada de hebras diminutas Este papel es todavía de trapo y pino Mi barba blanca se esconde oscuramente bajo la piel, aplastada por el paso diario del azadón Esta casa pertenece a una familia del siglo veinte que nunca la llenará de libros. Mi silla apenas ha brotado del semillero. El jardín está cercado por un cinturón solitario de coníferas a la espera del hacha. Mi AppleMac no es siquiera una propuesta inspiradora. Eres una joven de espíritu libre con gafas y una falda que te sienta corta demás. Nuestro matrimonio no es para contemplarse. Este poema es una célula sencilla de una idea que acecha entre recuerdos de relatos sobre viajes a través del tiempo que aún leo. Y el mundo es un lugar menos temeroso. COMO EN LA TELE Pequeñas figuras de porcelana de los animales hablantes de nuestra Beatrix Potter, cada una perfecta en su fealdad; un reloj de carruaje de latón de 1720; la actual Radio Times en una embellecida carpeta victoriana; fotos de parientes muertos y versiones más jóvenes de nosotros mismos; dos tarjetas de San Valentín correspondidas que dicen todo lo que sus autores no pueden; el Sudario de Turín coronado por un resecado arreglo floral, carente de vida y de color; un cenicero de vidrio moldeado robado de una taberna de Banks, lleno de colillas amontonadas, manchadas de carmín, una de ellas (como su dueña) todavía echando humo; un ladrillo de goma para lanzar contra la pantalla; unos posavasos mancillados con aros de café; rasguños dejados por generaciones de lémures de cola anillada; notas de tareas pendientes atrapadas por debajo de una piedra pintada de erizo (¿o es un erizo pintado de piedra?); una lámpara de Art Decó sostenida por un desnudo masculino, siempre encendida; un decodificador digital; polvo. EMBOLSADOS En mi bolso de piel de leopardo: un peine de carey, una polvera de marfil, un lapicero de caoba, unos guantes de piel de serpiente, fragmentos de cáscara de dodó, y el espíritu de la naturaleza, llorando. EN UN ASCENSOR NUNCA DEBERÍAS Hablar, a menos que estés con un amigo, solo o no seas británico. Esperar que los botones de mando digan lo que quieren o que quieran lo que dicen. Desayunar a menos que la indigestión te tenga martirizado. Viajar con tu coro entero o tu club de rugby. Insultar a los demás pasajeros e intentar escaparse de prisa. Hacer de la musiquilla un karaoke. Llevar a tu mascota a menos que sea diminuta. Intentar meter a más de cuatro gatos. Desnudarse, incluso si eres, para asombro y decepción, endiabladamente rápido. Hacer el amor, ídem. Fumar, por temor a que suene la alarma anti-incendios y que estalle la ira de los demás pasajeros. Casarse o pintar cuadros, a menos que seas minimalista en todo. Ducharse: no hay sitio para el jabón. Empezar la Tercera Guerra Mundial incluso si eres un tal George Bush. EL VERDADERO SIGNIFICADO Yo soy todo lo que nunca quisiste Yo soy mucho más de lo que puedes aguantar Yo soy la flatulencia, soy la embriaguez Yo soy la presa envuelta por la víbora Yo soy tres meses de compras excesivas Yo soy sencillo y honesto como el espumillón, es cierto Yo soy falsas luces y falsa bonhomía, así que Yo no puedo ser yo, mi tú puedes ser tú Yo soy la fuente de tus montañas de deuda Yo hice que tu tarjeta de crédito se pusiera al rojo vivo Yo soy seductor como un amante de fantasía Yo soy el dueño de tu corazón, lo quieras o no Yo soy el árbol de plástico, adornos y purpurina Yo soy el papel de regalo, un euro por hoja Yo soy la ceremonia que esconde el significado Yo soy los mendigos en la calle Yo soy el espíritu navideño HOY Hoy no voy a comprar un Picasso en una subasta. Hoy no voy a comer una manzana, porque esto no es una manzana, solo la foto de una manzana. Hoy no voy a salir de la ciudad. Hoy ya no soy tan joven. Hoy no soy tan guapo como antes pensaba. Hoy no toco el piano. Hoy no escribo poesía, porque esto no es una poesía y hoy no soy René Magritte.
Galician to English: Initial extract (“Galicia Contada a un Extraterrestre” from Unha Espía No Reino de Galicia by Manuel O' Rivas (Manuel Rivas Barrós) (Edicións Xerais de Galicia, S.A., 2004) General field: Art/Literary Detailed field: Poetry & Literature
Source text - Galician Initial extract (“Galicia Contada a un Extraterrestre” from Unha Espía No Reino de Galicia by Manuel O' Rivas (Manuel Rivas Barrós) (Edicións Xerais de Galicia, S.A., 2004) GALICIA CONTADA A UN EXTRATERRESTRE Querido Golf Oscar Delta: Alégrame que existas. Confórtame que se confirme a ecuación visionaria de Frank Drake verbo do cálculo de civilizacións na Vía Láctea. Un brinde por Drake e polos días do futuro! Moito me prestou ter coñecido un paisano que traballou de limpador no xigantesco radar da Universidade de Cornell e que me adestrou nas chaves da radioastronomía. Alégrame que teñas sentido do humor, como demostras por esa despedida na túa mensaxe: “Se o teléfono non soa, son eu.” O planeta non se chama Galicia. O planeta é Terra. Galicia é a miña terra, dentro da Terra. Mais Galicia está é non está en Galicia. É un lugar e tamén un des-lugar ou un Non lugar. Como lugar, Galicia é pequena. Boh, depende. É grande abonda. Galicia está ao oeste da Europa, na península Ibérica. Cun goberno autónomo, está integrada en España e pousada no norte de Portugal. O galego vén sendo español tranquilamente, mais se o amolan moito pode saír moi airoso pola porta da saudade: “Menos mal que nos queda Portugal!” A min xa me gustaría ter tamén pasaporte portugués. Pertencer a unha loxa do Grande Oriente Lusitano, a conspirar no Pavilhão Chinés de Lisboa, mentres soa o fado: “A quem eu quero, nem ás paredes confesso.” Sí, amigo, ter catro ou cinco pasaportes, catro ou cinco identidades no peto. Vós tedes pasaporte sideral? Aos galegos gústalles nomear. Poñer nome ás cousas para que as cousas poidan existir e falar. Ao xeito budista, o galego sabe que as pedras só falan se teñen nome. Os xeógrafos antigos chamaban “belas dormentes” aos territorios incógnitos. Unha bela adormecida esperta cando a chamas por un nome. A terra galega, dende as montañas orientais até os fondos mariños, é un manuscrito miniado que non ten marxe en branco. A toponimia é a nosa obra mestra literaria. A letra dun cósmico hip-hop. Cada nome, un punto de cruz nun infindo lenzo de namorado. Nunha linguaxe estándar utlizamos tres mil ou cinco mil palabras. Soamente en canto a núcleos de poboación hai 250.000 nomes de lugar, a metade no catastro español, e sen incluír bares, adegas, mesóns e tabernas, que iso xa é un mapamundi, unha obra aberta, un gran ronsel da emigración retornada. Iso explica que na rolda de bares por unha vila, digamos Vimianzo, un pase do London ao Montevideo e deste ao Zurich e do Zurich ao Happy Day e de alí podes ir ao Hilton, para rematar no Pola Vía Rápida. O señor Manuel de Ricardo, que atende a barra, foi boxeador en Venezuela. Aos clientes trátaos de intelectuais, sexa cal for o oficio. Se un día apareces por aquí, coas túas orellas puntiagudas e os teus ollos de peixe, de ollada grande angular, e a pel azul turquesa, o señor Manuel de Ricardo dirache con cosmopolita naturalidade, sen se estrañar: “E logo que lle poño, señor intelectual?” Gustaríame enviarche por radioastronomía como agasallo algúns topónimos de aldeas siderais. Temos un Trasmundi. E un Extramundi, ademais dun Aldemunde. E vales que levan o nome de Mar, Amor, Ouro ou Silenzo. E un Pico Sagro e unha Boca do Inferno. Un dos meus preferidos é dunha foresta raiana con Portugal: A Fraga de Escuro Vermello. Miña selva sideral na Galicia. O ser vivo con máis nomes aquí é o vagalume. Para a ciencia, Lampyris nocticula. Cóntanse case cen sinónimos! O vagalume é unha auténtica estrela na memoria luminosa da cultura pop galega. Algunhas denominacións son marabillosas, todas metáforas: vella do caldo, lucencú, verme da noite, corcoño... Por que esta fixación do galego cara a ese feiticeiro ser cativo? En todas as súas formas emite luz, mesmo cando é ovo. Mais a luminosidade é especialmente intensa na femia. Un poeta “da montaña”, Aquilino Iglesia Alvariño, foi quen de enfiar con vagalumes a máis fermosa oración laica, a que di así: Dainos, Señor, un alpendre de sombras e de luar para cantar. E un carreiriño de vagalumes polas hortas vizosas do teu reino. Eis, o estar e o andar. Escoita. Quixera enviarche un vagalume. Galicia, dende o ceo, a medida que minguas a distancia sideral, pode verse como unha congregación de vagalumes. Cidades, vilas, aldeas, lugares, até ese cuarto de millón de núcleos habitados, amosan unha puntillosa intervención humana nunha paisaxe de lousa, pedra, verdor e mar. Moito mar. Galicia ten, así a ollo, 30.000 quilómetros cadrados de superficie e 1.200 de litoral mariño. O mar bravío que gabea os esgrevios cons e o mar que penetra polas veas, terra a dentro. O noso mellor camiño. Case todo chegou e foise polo mar. Ao norte hai unha illa que chaman Irlanda. Na fronte, un gran continente chamado América. Os vagalumes tenden a apagarse no interior. É unha extinción real, causada polos pesticidas, e tamén simbólica. É ben sintomático que na chamada “sociedade do risco” os primeiros en caer sexan os vagalumes. Nos carreiros da terra dentro, esmorecen tamén as lanternas humanas. Van cara ao oeste, van en xunta na orla do mar. A vella Galicia campesiña estase a despoboar. As dúas grandes urbes galegas, Vigo e A Coruña, naceron sendo niños de pescadores. Agora son focos dunha grande cidade difusa. Non é ficción científica. De aquí a nada, veremos emerxer unha cidade, a xeito de Nova Atlándida, por botarlle un pouco de lenda, que se espallará dende Ferrol deica Porto. Estase a tecer unha nova xeo-grafía humana. E non había de chamarse algo así como Porto Galiza? Ese movemento de luces, esa tensión, ese chisca-chisca, reflite unha encrucillada sociolóxica. Máis que un súbito apagar, dáse un murchar, unha insuficiencia respiratoria que vai afogando o antigo cosmos da sociedade agraria. Hai unha sensación de perda, de desafecto, mais esa sensación está aí como un “presente recordado” que podería dar azos en lugar de lastrar. Propiciar contrastes, fusións, creacións. O espazo portuario como lugar e non lugar. Incubador de odiseas. Un gran porto onde os guindastres xa non cargan tristura. Unha grande aldea que orienta as casas cara ao mar, coa memoria sobre as coroas da cabeza. Atlántico Norte Mediterráneo. Clima variábel, galego variábel, Galicia variábel. Por unha estrada de curvas, un turbodiésel adianta un tractor que adianta un vello carro. Aceleración. Derrapaxe. Buguinas. Tanatorios. Hiper-feiras. Festas. Dj's. Arqueoloxía industrial. Pop-feísmo arquitectónico. Museo etnográfico. Body-art na pel da catastro-fermosura. Ondiñas veñen, ondiñas veñen e van. Encrechar pedras eternas. Recomenzar. Galicia, ironía do destino. Contra o terríbel clásico: “Esquece toda esperanza.” No camposanto vangardista de Fisterra, nichos cósmicos, consagración da pedra, ben podería figurar como lema o retrouso do Cemiterio mariño de Paul Valery: “O mar, o mar, sempre recomenzar!” Podes observar todo iso á vez cos teus ollos de peixe, de grande angular. O antropólogo di: “Galicia é un mundo.” O galego, cando se pon túzaro, di que Galicia é o cu do mundo.” Sería un lindo cu. Calquera parte do mundo pode ser o cu do mundo. Depende. Hai días. Hai séculos bos e malos. Durante moito tempo, para as civilizacións mediterráneas, Galicia foi a fin da terra. Tiña de fronte o Mar Tenebroso, ou sexa, o Atlántico, e aí remata todo, agás para os de Fisterra, que crían que o cabo era o peirao de embarque cara o Alén. Cóntase que Iulius Caesar, o xefe do grande Imperio Romano, se achegou ao Far West galego para ver cómo morría o sol faiscando na forxa do océano, etcétera. Aquel imperio desapareceu, mais Fisterra segue aí. Co seu peirao, o seu facho lendario, unha buguina que brúa na bruma como unha vaca e o cemiterio vangardista no cabo. Agora Galicia é e non é un Far West. Un tal Pedro Fariña cobrou, en 1736, tres mil reais, unha fortuna, por levar unha carta urxente desde Compostela a Madrid. Estaba de volta aos dezaoito días. Ese problema, o do transporte por estrada, resolveuse. Mais continúa pendente o ferroviario. Nos noticiarios e nas gacetas de Galicia fálase do tren como se falaba na California do século XIX. E temos un veterano presidente que admira a Búfalo Bill. Cada vez que se pon en dúbida a súa saúde de buxo, a fauna autóctona treme, porque o presidente sae de caza para acalar rumores e fai de Galicia “terra perigosa”. Ese é tamén un toque de identidade Far West. Cando se explica, parece que o galego ten que loitar contra a idea de Galicia como terra remota. A distancia, ti sábelo moi ben, é algo subxectivo. Oín un labrego describir así o destino de dous de seus fillos, emigrantes: “Un anda pertiño de aquí, por Bos Aires; o outro, lonxe, nun sitio moi raro, Frankfort ou algo así.” El sabía o que quería dicir. Hai periferia e centro no universo? É unha idea que ten que ver co poder. En Galicia vivimos 2,8 millóns de humanos, un millón de vacas, cincocentos lobos, un oso ilocalizábel e cincocentos millóns de árbores. Só de maceiras hai setenta e sete variedades. Quen somos, a onde imos, de onde vimos? É unha boa pregunta e o título dunha canción do grupo musical máis agudo do rock español do século XX, os galegos de Siniestro Total. Sobre todo grazas ao mar, o mellor camiño da antigüidade, a humanidade galega é unha enxurrada de aliens. Unha terra de chegada. As primeiras noticias falan dos Kallaikoi, que significaría algo así como “Os dos pelouros, os que viven entre as pedras”. Os célticos. Os romanos, que disque puxeron o nome: Gallaecia. Os bretóns de Maeloc. Os suevos, que en Galicia, segundo a reconfortante frase do historiador Claudio Sánchez Albornoz, “fundiron a espada e fixeron arados”. Foron derrotados, claro, polos visigodos. Os xudeus. Os mouros. Os xitanos. Os maragatos. No século XVIII, son cataláns os que pulan a industria pesqueira, e os vascos, a de curtidos. Pero, sen dúbida, o alien máis célebre é o apóstolo Santiago, un pescador palestino discípulo de Xesús Cristo (de quen xa che informei na primeira mensaxe). O achado do seu sartego deu lugar, por motivos relixiosos, á primeira grande ruta turística do mundo: o Camiño de Santiago. A descuberta fíxoa un tal Paio, hai mil e pico anos, e non o político conservador Fraga, tal como algúns cren, aínda que a intervención de Santiago tamén foi usada como unha propaganda bélica. Como a cruz de Cristo. Que revirada, que harpía pode ser a historia! Durante séculos, Galicia foi o que agora chamamos un centro cosmopolita. Ademais de peregrinar, aquí fixeron pousada francos, xenoveses, flamengos, provenzais... É curioso. O primeiro texto escrito en galego de que se ten noticia agroma nun poema de autor provenzal: Rimbaud de Vaqueiras. É un poema de amor. A historia enrédase moito, moito. Reinvéntase até o despropósito. O palestino Santiago, decapitado polo poder romano, é convertido polo poder da época en patrón de España e capitán matamouros. Por certo, a curia compostelana, con moi poucas excepcións, será unha “cripta” de poder reaccionario ao longo dos séculos. No XIX, por exemplo, o dereito de acubillo nas igrexas respectábase para os delincuentes mais non para os liberais, a quen chamaban “negros”. Na tradición popular hai un certo desapego pola historia, que o demo a leve, e unha confusión bastante máis divertida que as doutas manipulacións. Esríbese, con asombro, que “os galegos non se recoñecen nos seus antepasados xentís”. Os habitantes dos castros (as citanias prerromanas ou poboados celtas, para entendérmonos) serían os mouros. Digamos que Galicia é celta a partir do século XIX, cando a historiografía romántica creou o mito do fundador Breogán, e máis aínda cando a principios do século XX se funda o Celta de Vigo, club de fútbol. Mais un texto moi antigo, dun tal Estrabón, describe aos Kallaikoi como melenudos e amantes da cervexa (e xa bebían Estrela Galicia?) e da danza. Como os da miña xeración no I Festival de Música Celta de Ortigueira. A min gústame esta visión un pouco cómica da historia. Lembro unha conversa sobre a orixe da ponte nunha vila, recollida por Xurxo Souto. Un dos que rifan afirma, moi aleuto: “A metade da ponte é ghoda e a outra metade visighoda.” Alguén lle acalara que a ponte a fixo a Deputación provincial. Unha vez desenganado, o home sentencia: “Caghar, cagheina, pero manteño a caghada.” Todos somos aliens. A máis fermosa definición do galego deuna un vello emigrante entrevistado na televisión. “Está vostede orgulloso de ser galego?” O home mirou ao público, mirou logo á cámara e dixo: “Estou moi orgulloso de ser galego porque galego, galego, pode selo calquera.” Ou estoutra frase, dun mariñeiro que agora traballa de operario no camiño de ferro en Nova Celandia: “Vin tanto mundo que son máis galego ca ninguén.” Velaí que a historia dos nosos aliens ten unha segunda parte. O país da chegada converteuse no país do Adeus. Houbo fervorosos católicos galegos que esribiron que Galicia tamén era un pobo escollido por Deus. Mágoa que se equivocaran. Galicia foi pobo escollido polo Adeus. A estrela máis popular na tradición galega é Venus. Apráceme que a luz de máis influencia sexa desa deusa. Ten moitos outros nomes: Luceiro, Estrela da mañá, Estrela da claridade, Estrela da abundancia ou Estrela Panadeira. En San Salvador de Baía, no Brasil, había unha panadeira galega que se chamaba Estrela. Ao escritor Jorge Amado gustáballe moito aquel pan. Galicia Venus, Galicia matria. Galicia está e non está en Galicia. A fotografía máis célebre da historia de Galicia é dunha despedida. Un tío e un sobriño choran no porto da Coruña. Choran porque os outros da familia marchan. Ás veces penso que tamén choran porque eles non se van. A palabra clave hoxe no planeta é globalización. Mundialización. A terra como aldea global. Fálase moito de mercadorías e información, pero o trazo máis definitorio desta época son as migracións, os éxodos masivos de xente de países pobres ou en guerra cara as fronteiras da abundancia. Galicia pertence hoxe a ese mundo da abundancia, aínda que sexa como periferia da torta. En cifras oficiais, e en parámetros europeos na Galicia hai medio millón de persoas que viven na pobreza relativa, e un 5% da poboación, na extrema pobreza. Isto explica que a chegada de inmigrantes aínda sexa mínima. É moi escasa a oferta de emprego. E o inmigrante busca, en todas partes, pan e liberdade. Así de sinxelo. Como fixo o galego. É un intre moi contraditorio. Galicia paradoxal. Galicia oxímoro. Galicia está no mesmo lugar xeográfico, mais cambiou de lugar no mundo. Hai cincuenta anos saían transatlánticos da Coruña e Vigo cheos de emigrantes cara a Bos Aires. Na embaixada e nos consulados de España na Arxentina forman agora longas fileiras os descendentes de galegos. Inverteuse, pois, a dirección da frecha cara á Terra Prometida. Ao mesmo tempo miles de mozos galegos liscan nos dous últimos anos a Canarias a traballar na contrucción ou na hostalería. A novidade é que tamén, e ás veces por diante, van algúns axentes inmobiliarios. Galicia é aldea global desde hai tempo. Pola intensa emigración durante dous séculos, e deica onte mesmo. E polo traballo nos mares. A flota pesqueira é en escala a primeira de Europa, e hai barcos galegos, ou de sociedades mixtas, alí onde hai que pescar e algunhas veces onde non hai. Luís Menéndez, que percorreu o mundo seguindo o ronsel da emigración galega, conta a historia bastante alucinante dun xuíz de Nova York. Naceu nunha aldea, en Ourense. Traballou de maleteiro no hotel Lisboa de Vigo. Embarcou e fixo todos os mares, desde Xangai até Róterdam. Tiña un billete de cen dólares no peto cando decidiu ficar en Baltimore e empezar unha nova vida. Traballou de descargador, de limpador, de mozo de estación de gasolina. Polas noites estudou dereito. Exerceu de avogado. Logo fixo a carreira xudicial. Cando o atopou Menéndez era xuíz presidente da corte de Elizabeth. E contoulle un soño: volver a Galicia como navegante solitario. Tras da vida de moitos emigrantes haiche unha novela de dor e ilusión. Ás veces ten a forma dunhas lápidas de mineiros, en West Virxinia, cabo dos Apalaches; outras o rostro fermoso dunha muller, nun obradoiro de Londres, que fai invisible mending (zurcido invisíbel) no cóbado da americana de Dustin Hoffman. A maior cidade de Galicia segue a ser Bos Aires. O maior cemiterio galego, o de Cristobal Colón, na Habana. Máis de dous millóns de galegos emigraron durante o século XX. O éxodo comezara en forma masiva coas fames negras de meados do século anterior, provocadas pola peste da pataca, como na Irlanda. Estase a discutir moito sobre as garantías do voto e o xeito de participaren os emigrantes censados. Os resultados electorais dependen, en boa forma, da Galicia da diáspora. A oposición xa denunciou que votaron ducias de mortos. Coido que non é xusto. Quen dixo que os mortos eran de dereitas? Habería que dar mitins e colocar urnas no que Rosalía chamou “o inmenso camposanto da Habana”. Deixa que che conte a historia dun edema na pel. A principios dos anos sesenta, unha moza marcha desde unha aldea galega a París. Traballa duramente na limpeza. Vive a soidade. Ao pouco tempo, perante o espello, ve como lle saíu unha mancha na cara. Ningún médico é quen de sacarlla. A primeira vez que torna a Galicia de vacacións, anos despois, váiselle a mancha. Ao voltar a París, a mancha reaparece. Casa cun obreiro metalúrxico. Teñen unha filla. Cando van de vacacións a Galicia, á nai bórraselle a mancha. Cando xa é adolescente, á filla non lle atrae esa viaxe. Ao chegar a Galicia aparécelle unha mancha. Non é ningunha metáfora. Só é unha historia real. Dentro do mundo da emigración europea hai outras en sentido contrario. Son os fillos, educados como ingleses, franceses, alemáns ou suízos, os que queren finalmente volver. Na Rede hai un portal onde contactan fillos e netos de emigrantes galegos con diferentes experiencias (www.fillos.org). Os galegos somos como nos ven os demais, e ao contrario. O que se ve no espello e o reverso. Hai quen adoece cos chistes cando o seu xentilicio non sae ben parado. Mais unha identidade tamén está feita dos chistes que os outros fan dun. Os galegos somos tamén os chistes de galegos. Nos nosos chistes, de pequenos, os galegos eran uns fenómenos. Gustábame moito un dun galego capturado por unha tribo caníbal. Mentres o cocían no gran pote, o galego pedía máis sal e ía comendo as patacas. Ao saír fóra de Galicia descubrín con sorpresa que, nos chistes de galegos, os galegos eran moi torpes. O outro día houbo un atentado contra o Centro Galego. E que pasou? Tiráronlles un libro! Despois sabes que sempre é así. A historia repítese. O pobre sae sempre mal parado. “Mire vostede, eu sonlle pobre pero moi honrado.” E o outro responde: “As desgrazas nunca veñen soas.” Lembro unha lectura de mozo que me impactou moito. Era unha antoloxía recollida polo profesor Xesús Alonso Montero no ano 1974 do que autores españois ou extranxeiros tiñan escrito sobre Galicia. Predominaban apuntamentos tremendos. Eu admiraba, e admiro, algúns dos autores. Por iso a conmoción foi maior. Por exemplo, Mariano José de Larra deixou escrito: “El gallego es un animal muy parecido al hombre, inventado para alivio del asno.” Algúns autores do chamado Século do Ouro, como Góngora, Lope de Vega ou Quevedo, eran especialmente ferintes. Máis lecturas. Máis impresións dunha identidade negativa. Para Paul Lafargue, o xenro de Karl Marx, e autor dunha simpática obra, O dereito á preguiza, o galego é dunha estirpe maldita pola submisión ao traballo. “Non hai terra menos coñecida nin máis calumniada que Galicia”, di no seu Viagem na Espanha (1923) Anselmo de Andrade. Volvín a A Biblia en España, de George Borrow, unha deliciosa obra, e alí recóllese unha interesante conversa nunha fonda de Lugo. Un viaxeiro quéixase amolado: “Ai, meu deus! A bonito país viñemos dar.” Aínda me deixa meditabundo e pesaroso a resposta de Borrow: “Realmente non vexo nada tan malo neste país, que é o máis rico de toda España pola súa natureza e o máis farturento. Verdade é que a xeneralidade dos seus habitantes son miserablemente pobres, mais a culpa téñena eles e non o país.” Gustaríame atopar a Biblia de Borrow, porque has de saber que a verdadeira razón de vir este xenial viaxeiro a Galicia foi a de doar un exemplar traducido das divinas palabras á vila de Fisterra por mor dunha promesa feita cando estivo a piques de naufragar nese cabo do mundo nun vapor inglés e a visión dos fanais pescadores foi o único fío coa esperanza. A descripción que fixo daquela treboada paréceme insuperábel. Tan vivida que fai abalar o libro das súas memorias nas nosas mans. Pois ben. Despois de moitas andainas, atravesando a convulsa España decimonónica, Borrow chegou a Fisterra e estivo a piques de morrer outra vez, en mans humanas, xa que os naturais, moi dados como é honra á imaxinación, confundírono nada máis e nada menos cunha espía carlista. Salvouno o Valentón, mariñeiro que sabía algo de inglés como supervivente da batalla de Traflagar. E a el deulle de chiripa a Biblia o noso cuáquero. Que será dela? Mágoa que non se fundara daquela en Galicia unha sociedade de cuáqueros. A min, amigo Golf Oscar Delta, de facer ucronía, o que máis me prestaría sería ter sido franmasón do café coruñés La Esperanza no tempo de Porlier ou cuáquero co Valentón de Fisterra. As estampas que deixou Borrow resultan xa remotas. O galego, a gran maioría, non vive agora na miseria. Mais teño a sensación de que, en xeral, o galego compartiu sempre esa aguda contradición formulada por aquel curioso cuáquero vendedor de biblias. Galicia nunca foi pobre. A xente, si. Pero, a culpa de quen é? O colmo da máis grande pobreza para un pobo sería aquela pobreza ou aquel pobo a quen lle sobran os recursos. Surrealista e mais contraditorio. Habería que preguntarllo a Arsenio, o adestrador de fútbol que fixo unha traíña de primeira daquel equipo que era un humilde chinchorro. Hai unha cousa moi importante que tamén chegou por mar, nun barco inglés: o primeiro balón de fútbol. É un planeta en miniatura. O fútbol fascina porque é unha guerra simbólica. É o gran deporte mundial. Comprobei que a Galicia se lle coñece moito máis no mundo dende que o Deportivo da Coruña fixo unhas cantas fazañas e xoga, por iso, na Liga de Campións. A vida éche así, meu. Para crear unha identidade hai xente que ten que escribir unha enciclopedia de cincuenta tomos ao longo de cincuenta anos. O fútbol, en troques, crea unha identidade nunha tarde de gloria, nunha patada virtuosa. Arsenio, que agora adestra rapaces, foi un home que inverteu algúns prexuízos en simpatía. O que moitos spin doctors saben sobre Galicia resúmese en dúas ideas: Unha, os percebes saben a Dios, e dúas, se encontras un galego na metade da escaleira non saberás se sobe ou se baixa. Arsenio fixo saber, de xeito entrañábel, que unha cousa é coller os percebes do prato, e outra, moi distinta, do mar, e que, por unha escaleira, ás veces se baixa cando se cre estar a subir. Vaiamos por tópicos. O galego é ciclotímico. Ten momentos de euforia e de disforia. Comparábel co guerreiro celta, do que se dixo que era tan bravo na acometida como propenso ao desalento. Esa é unha conclusión á que chegou Vicente Risco, pioneiro da etnografía, despois de escribir miles de páxinas sobre o carácter galego, e poucas, mágoa, sobre si mesmo. Mais coido que é unha conclusión que vale para todo o mundo, tanto para os celtas como para os ciclistas. Na Galicia houbo bos ciclistas. Por exemplo, Delio Rodríguez ou Álvaro Pino, que chegaron á cima, e Raúl Rey, que sempre chegaba de último, que é complicadísimo. Falábache de Vicente Risco. Era un grande erudito. Un sabio. Sabía máis ca ninguén sobre o Demo. Pero cando se lle presentou diante o Diabo non o soubo ver. Sumouse ao fascismo español e escribiu algúns despropósitos sobre as razas, e maldades verbo dos xudeus que el mesmo despois procurou esquecer. Galicia é morriña. Teño morriña, teño saudade. É unha palabra que exportamos. Que xa aparece noutros dicionarios. No da Real Academia Española. No Collins inglés. É unha verba que che envío como agasallo, para que a difundas no teu planeta, mais adminístraa con prudencia. Morriña significa botar de menos algo, ter nostalxia, sentir melancolía. Está asociada a unha historia de dor, de perda, de emigración. Eu escoitei nalgún centro de emigrantes, na noite invernal de Suíza, algunha balada de morriña que parou nas doce da noite os reloxos de cuco e puña o pelos crechos. Como a saudade no fado portugués ou a morna caboverdiana. O gran baladista galego foi Pucho Boedo, co seu grupo Os Tamara, que percorreu os salóns húmidos dos bailes de emigrantes. Mais ten tino coa morriña. Hai que tomala na dose xusta. Colgou ao galego cun sambenito de pobo tristeiro. E ademais é un comodín que o mesmo serve para un discurso electoral que para unha dor de moas. Intentarei enviar polo emisor radioastronómico Mi tierra gallega cantada por Pucho Boedo. Pucho Boedo é un dos heroes secretos de Galicia, querido como a voz dun pobo. Na guerra española, que comezou en 1936 e que se prolongou nunha interminábel ditadura, a Pucho asasináronlle o pai, fundador do ateneo Resplandor no abismo, e mais un irmán, lúcido e boxeador, dos que termaba do magnífico hebdomadario do anarquismo coruñés Brazo y cerebro. O neno, para saír do naufraxio, botou a cantar coma un paporroibo. No arrabalde coruñés, a xente suspendía os labores cando el pasaba cantando. Nos seus beizos, como unha acusación, un tango de letra estarrecedora, o titulado Chesman. E xa non parou de cantar deica a morte. Hoxe é un tipo venerado. As súas casetes son música barata, da que se vende en gasolineiras e feiras. Mais só polo prezo, a súa voz levanta do chan. Os músico novos levan flores á súa estatua todos os anos na primeira semana de setembro. Agora que o matino, hai moitos heroes na memoria sentimental do pobo que case non figuran nos libros. Déixame que che cite algúns. Está o Foucellas, un cesteiro revolucionario, antifascista, que se botou ao monte ao saír do cárcere onde o meteran despois da guerra do 36, un maquis convertido en lenda, moi lanzal, que asistía aos partidos de Riazor disfrazado de cura. Cazárono barbeándose no espello dun río e condenárono a morrer polo garrote. A prensa destacou, non sei se en honor do reo, que se trouxera para a ocasión ao “mellor verdugo de España”. Está Ramón Sampedro, un mariñeiro que quedou tetrapléxico e que conmoveu o mundo exercendo diante da cámara de vídeo o que os tribunais lle negaran: o dereito á propia morte. Outro heroe é Chichi Campos. Morreu novo. Un despido totalmente improcedente, porque Chichi Campos era o humorista gráfico do noso tempo. Un humor crítico, heterodoxo e sutil. A vangarda irónica. Contra o complexo de inferioridade, Chichi publica unha parodia de anuncio publicitario: “En Suíza existe unha clínica ultramoderna que che opera de galego por dez mil pesos.” A fórmula dun presunto carácter galego sería H M=I (Humor mais Morriña, ou melancolía, igual a Ironía). Melancólicos somos todos, pero o que de verdade ten prestixio en Galicia é o humor. Un exemplo que merecería figurar nas frases célebres, nos intres estelares da historia contemporánea. Eis. En pleno franquismo, hai unha xuntanza na Coruña do mundo do mar e na que unha autoridade obriga a un brinde incondicional: “¡Por el primer pescador de España, el Caudillo!”. Un dos presentes érguese de súpeto, dá a volta e comeza a afastarse. “Onde vas, Ferreiro?”, increpa un mandamáis. E Benito Ferreiro, coruñés, galeguista e republicano, vira con calma e ceiba: “Vou mexar!” Déixame que che conte outra historia. Aparece en Contos da Coruña de Xurxo Souto. Ocorre durante un recital do grupo La Flor de la Poesía. O público escoita con emoción o poema dun vate que ten por tema a desesperación dun amante non correspondido. Adoecido, decide poñer fin á súa vida e estampa no asfalto dende un quinto piso. No límite do patetismo, o rapsodo remata: “Y el reloj en su muñeca / latía todavía.” Entón de entre o público xorde unha voz: “¡Manda carallo! / E de que marca sería?” Era a voz do gran pintor do Surrealismo mariño Urbano Lugrís Freire, quen un día tivo a ousadía de subirse a un barril no porto, en tempos de ditadura, e arengar a multitude que despedía aos emigrantes embarcados no Auriga con destino a Venezuela: “¡Madres y esposas gallegas que me escucháis! No lloréis a vuestros hijos y maridos que se van, pues aún nos queda el Caudillo.” Creo que naquel barco ía o meu pai. Franco, o ditador, nacera en Galicia. No mesmo lugar, en Ferrol, naceu o fundador do socialismo español, Pablo Iglesias. Era de berce tan pobre que cando emigrou foi a andar deica Madrid. E tamén era galego, de Vigo, Ricardo Mella, o chamado apóstolo do anarquismo. Segundo unha enquisa, para os galegos de hoxe o personaxe máis popular do século XX foi Castelao. Hai dúas grandes revolucións na historia da ollada galega. Rosalía de Castro encarna a melancolía activa, rebelde contra o estado de cousas. Denuncia “aos que sen razón nin coñecemento nos desprezan”. O galego é o negro de España. Castelao, o pai fundador da nación galega, aquel home tan popular morto no exilio, era un humorista. E máis cousas. Mais racha o círculo minoritario da cultura galeguista grazas ao humor. Cada viñeta en prensa, cada estampa do álbum Nós, equivale a un estrelampo de verdade e ironía que aínda emite luz, tantos anos despois, por entre os nubeiros. Cando a historia xea e o mundo arde, no exilio de Nova York, Castelao conxura o desacougo internándose en Harlem e fai as súas Estampas de negros, esoutro nós. Péchase un círculo. O anticaciquismo e o galeguismo ilustrado como escola de internacionalismo. A ollada dun humorismo que desvela o drama. O caciquismo non é un produto típico de Galicia, como algúns pensan, mais asentou por culpa do xamón e das centolas. É un caciquismo moi depredador, o galego. Agora fálase moito dos líderes de opinión. O cacique era líder de opinión e do xamón. Un poderoso parasito do home e do porco, que respondía nos seus actos ao principio formulado por Leck nos seus Pensamentos sen peitear: “O descoñecemento das leis non exime do seu cumprimento; o seu coñecemento, si.” A cabana porcina aumentou moito en Galicia, mais o caciquismo tivo que facer unha metamorfose para conservar o poder. Hai un pos-caciquismo no que o valor do voto desprazou o xamón. Cómpre gañalo. Galicia xa non é abstencionista. En xeral, o comportamento político dos galegos non difire moito do resto de Europa. O xeito en que se exerce o poder, si. O veterano presidente foi ministro radiactivo da ditadura, e iso nótase. Coceu un menú populista con moitos produtos típicos. A elección é democrática, pero a realidade, intimidatoria. Galicia envellece. Castelao dicía: “O galego non protesta, emigra.” Agora diría: “O galego non protesta, non nace.” O índice de natalidade figura entre os máis baixos do mundo. O trazo electoral máis específico é que a tendencia aparece moi vencellada á idade. Non é a pertenza ao mundo rural ou urbano. A maioría dos maiores son conservadores. E os máis dos mozos son reformadores. No campo e na cidade. Ocorre que a maioría son maiores. A un alcalde conservador fixéronlle notar que perdera votos no seu municipio. E el respondeu con naturalidade: “Non perdín votos, que se me morreron.” Haber hai, polo menos, dous hemisferios na Galicia. Para entendérmonos, deixa que esaxere un pouco. Hai unha Galicia do partido conformista, ancorada na arañeira do pensamento reaccionario, mesmo con trazos transilvánicos, da Transilvania (que significa alén da selva) do conde Drácula, que era un que lle zugaba o sangue á xente. Esta parte da sociedade xa semella retratada nun libro moi vello chamado Loanza da servidume. Hai outra Galicia, a que emerxeu na exemplar “revolución do mar” do 1 de decembro de 2002, a do país do Nunca Máis, a resposta cívica e ecolóxica á incompetencia dos gobernantes no caso Prestige. Co movemento de Nunca Máis, Galicia deixou de ser exportadora de tristura e de silenzo para ser exportadora de fardeis de dignidade, de solidariedade e de cultura creativa e liberadora. Hai un antigo ritual da fecundidade que aínda se mantén en Galicia. Para vencer a esterilidade, cómpre bañarse de noite nun areal (o de máis sona é o da praia da Lanzada) e deixarse abrazar por nove ondas. Pois nove ondas foron as do Nunca Máis e fixeron abalar o despotismo que pretendía apreixar de novo o Estado español. Pregúntasme canto vale Galicia. Vexo que sodes unha civilización moi avanzada tecnicamente. A catedral de Santiago de Compostela, que é a grande xoia de Galicia, foi taxada polo catastro en seis mil millóns de pesetas. Considerouse unha ofensa. E non me estraña. Vale o Pórtico da Gloria menos que o contrato anual dun futbolista? Amodo ho! Alá vai o burro coas noces! E ademais, sen contar o Botafumeiro. Os economistas distinguen entre rendemento e riqueza, entre conta de resultados e activos. E afirman que o rendemento, a produción, en Galicia non se corresponde coa riqueza, cos activos. Que Galicia vale máis do que parece, como lle ocorre á catedral cos do catastro. Comparándoa con situacións semellantes en Europa, Galicia está estancada. A poesía exprésao mellor ca moitos informes: “Un paso adiante e outro atrás, Galicia.” Mírase cun ollo a Irlanda e con outro o norte de Portugal. Desenvolvéronse máis. Como nos pasos de danza tradicional, Galicia móvese en progresión retardada. Mais cómpre ser optimista. Hai abundante auga, o ben máis escaso do planeta. E hai bo viño. Gustaríame mandarche unha botella de viño. A colleita deste ano será excelente. Os viños galegos melloraron moito. Os brancos albariño das Rías Baixas, godello de Valdeorras, ou Ribeiro, figuran entre os mellores amigos do ser humano. Son imaxinativos. E Álvaro Cunqueiro aconsellaba que, ademais de catalos, había que oílos: nuns escóitase o mar, e noutros, o brincar das troitas no solpor do río. Hai máis milagres onde Galicia racha o estigma de periferia. Das dúas empresas que máis facturan en Galicia, unha fabrica coches (Citröen, en Vigo) e a outra fabrica roupa (Zara-Inditex, na Coruña). Amancio Ortega, un dos fundadores da téxtil, que aparece na lista de homes máis ricos do mundo, comezou a súa carreira dándolle ao pedal dunha bicicleta como repartidor da camisería coruñesa Gala. Todo naceu nun pequeno obradoiro de costura. O seu caso estúdase nas universidades de todo o mundo. Mais o milagre de Inditex ten outro segredo, que non sei se o explican nos máster para executivos, pero que é fundamental. As costureiras. Zara, como o resto da nova heráldica do vestiario, encontrou a base en miles de mulleres cualificadas. As campesiñas e as mozas das vilas sabían coser. De marabilla. Estou a ver a foto da miña tía Manola, coa súa máquina de coser portátil enriba da cabeza. Semella unha figura do pop-art, unha princesa da clase obreira. Os milagres económicos, cando se basean no enxeño e no traballo, non son milagres. Hai outros casos que refliten que o problema do atraso de Galicia foi culpa do mal goberno. Pescanova e Zeltia. Pescanova foi pioneira na venda de peixe conxelado. Pero ademais puxo en marcha o seu propio sistema de diplomacia internacional, ante a inoperancia da Administración. Por exemplo, adiantouse a recoñecer os independentistas de Mozambique e Namibia, e en construír formas de cooperación que non pasaran pola simple rapina de recursos. Zeltia, hoxe unha empresa punteira farmacéutica no mundo, empezou a súa andaina na posguerra cun grupo de investigación integrado por republicanos desprazados da docencia. En quen sempre creu o galego foi na vaca. As trabes que sosteñen o mundo non virían abaixo se a vaca estaba sa. A vaca, coa súa ollada pacifista, foi a que conquistou todas as vagas de aliens que formaron Galicia. Ese tótem protector abaneou por unha peste causada pola cobiza. E pola loucura. A vaca carnívora. Tamén niso Galicia está no mundo. Se salva ese tótem será, de novo, grazas á “invencíbel resignación da herba”. Hai outras tres cousas, tres fetiches que me gustaría mandarche. Son moi antigos e futuristas á vez. Daríasme a razón se os viras. Un amuleto de Santo André de Teixido, unha gaita e un polbo (do grego polypous). Ben, o polbo non é unha cousa. É unha criatura do mar, con toda a pinta de proceder doutro planeta e que o galego converteu en delicatessen. O marisco, emblema de gastronomía galega, nace dun principio: todo ser estraño é susceptíbel de ser comestíbel. Canto máis raro, máis saboroso. Non hai nada no mundo que anoxe máis á xente galega que pasar fame. Goza comendo, e sobre todo invitando a comer. Se o Banco Mundial e o Fondo Monetario Internacional estivesen en mans de galegas seguirían a mandar as multinacionais, mais ten por seguro que ninguén morrería de fame no mundo. Cando as fames doentes de 1850, acanda as de Irlanda, polo peste da pataca, e o longo período de fame da posguerra española, que impulsaron grandes migracións, a galega xurou, como Escarlata O'Hara en Foise co vento, que nunca, nunca máis ela e os seus pasarían fame. Endexamais. E cumpriuno. Un soño galego é criar nas rías a maioría dos peixes que consome. Pronto sería posíbel se se evitase a contaminación. Nos últimos anos multiplicáronse as granxas mariñas. E sería bo que os pescadores encontrasen un futuro en terra sen apostar a cabeza, ás veces en semi-escravitude, onde xa ninguén anda a xogala. O amuleto de Santo André de Teixido, figuriñas de pan reseso tintadas con cores vivísimas, é un símbolo do animismo latente no cristianismo galego. A maioría de Galicia confésase católica. As institucións autonómicas, como parte do estado español, son aconfesionais, é dicir, máis católicas. Se o veterano presidente imprimise papel moeda, rezaría como nos billetes de dólar: “We trust in God. E punto.” O primeiro sermón dirixido especialmente á parroquia galega, De corretione rusticorum, foi para amoestalos por crer en que as fontes, as árbores e as pedras falaban. Séculos despois veu Rosalía de Castro cos seus poemas, e volveron falar as fontes, as árbores e as pedras. En cada lugar de culto pagán ergueron unha ermida, un templo, un cruceiro ou un peto de ánimas. Eu creo que o galego se fixo cristián polo gusto de facer igrexas. Tense dito que os canteiros galegos labraron románico co granito como facían fíos de seda os vermes das moreiras. A máis fermosa arquitectura de Galicia. Miles de templos que foron de pedra policromada e hoxe teñen o verde e ouro que pinta a chuvia. De Galicia podemos dicir o que un personaxe dun relato de Marcial Suárez sobre Allariz: “Non hai no mundo un lugar con máis igrexas por católico cadrado.” Os protagonistas da relixiosidade galega son os santos. E os santos teñen que ser produtivos. Un dos santos máis queridos é o Santo dos Croques da catedral de Santiago: era o mestre Mateo, o arquitecto. Segundo conta Quico Cadaval, un crego, farto de que se confundise a xerarquía, quixo deixar claro que no vértice de todo estaba Deus. E dixo na homilía: “Xa abonda con tanto santo Antón, santo Antoniño! Santo Antón, comparado con Deus, é un minimundi.” Cunha gaita arrasarías no teu planeta, compañeiro. Fíxate na forma. Fáloche da gaita de verdade, a que hai que tocar con todo o corpo. É un instrumento cósmico. O gaiteiro é o verdadeiro heroe popular na tradición galega. Tamén o é na modernidade. Sobre todo se é gaiteira. Como Susana Seivane, Cristina Pato ou Mercedes Peón. Ao gaiteiro de Ventosela, unha das lendas, foron recibilo miles de persoas cando volveu dunha xira por América. Baixou do barco. Nun ombro traía a gaita; no outro, moi pintureiro, un loro. En Galicia hai 50.000 gaiteiros. Cansados de ter medo, no último terremoto, en Triacastela, saíu un gaiteiro e a xente pasou a noite bailando. A gaita soergueuse en todos os escenarios, colleulle o xeito a todos os estilos. É un bo símbolo dunha fecunda reinvención cultural. Milladoiro, Carlos Núñez, Budiño, Luar na Lubre, Os Diplomáticos ou Berrogüeto son fitos na proxección internacional da música feita en Galicia. Para min, a última revolución na canción galega son o Isué e o Ajrú! de Mercedes Peón. Se falo tanto de música é porque teño a secreta esperanza de que chegue como sinal primeiro ao teu belvedere sideral como bris nacida da harpa da herba. Procurarei que che vaian chegando por radioastronomía outros moitos estilos, dende a balada folk d'A Quenlla e Uxía, o agrorap da motoserra do regueifeiro Pinto d'Herbón, o hip-hop de Marisol Manfurada e Cinco Talegos, a música ambulante e malabar de Jarbanzo Negro, e a poética exploración d'A Caricia da Serpe, de Lino Braxe, o vento rachado de Zenzar, o Son de aquí de Leilía e Treixadura. Galicia é música. Dise que os galegos son individualistas, mais o primeiro que fai un galego, sexa de onde for, é intentar montar un grupo, aínda que sexa de flamenco. Por certo, hai magníficos intérpretes en Galicia desa arte. Disque existe unha expresión flamenca para un zapateado insólito: “¡Eso sólo lo puede hacer un gallego!” E logo está a composición contemporánea. Mágoa de xeración perdida, o Macías e o Balboa! O i do alfabeto galego é de ironía, mais tamén de imaxinación. Como referentes fundamentais nos últimos anos, a nación Reixa e o movemento bravú, que deu lugar a un rock indómito, pero que foi filtrándose en todos os ámbitos creativos. Un bo xeito de aterrar no planeta é o portal de Vieiros.com e dende alí con múltiples vínculos. En expresións artísticas, a factoría máis atrevida de Galicia, totalmente autónoma, é a sala Nasa en Santiago. E a tan perseguida Mil Lúas da Coruña. Alí, como noutros sotos da creación, latexa o espírito libre e de antroido que é o logo da cultura e mais da arte galegas desde as gárgolas burlescas dos canteiros e as poesías de escarnio e maldizer dos cancioneiros medievais. Na proxección Galicia 2.010 cífranse moitas esperanzas na chamada industria da cultura e o lecer. As factorías da imaxinación están a conxurar o estigma da periferia e do provincianismo. A literatura galega tivo grandes escritores, mais agora tamén ten un público. Existe unha industria audiovisual, que produce para televisión, pero xa se aventura no cine. A Galicia faille falta cine. Verse no cine, cos seus vaqueiros, os seus gángsteres anfibios e os seus amores portuarios. Galicia non é taurina. No inconsciente galego segue vixente o comentario de Castelao perante un cartel taurino: “Lástima de bois!” Houbo un toureiro galego que era coxo, Celita, e outro un pouco indeciso, Caramés, ao que lle cantaban na Coruña: “Sal a torear, Caramés, / no seas torero de otoño, / mira que te están mirando, / las chavalas de Vioño.” Galicia é televisión, como todo o mundo. O galego bota unha media de tres horas ao día diante da TV. Grazas á televisión hai sofás en case todas as casas. Ten contribuído moito á industria do moble. Ou non? A televisión galega non é peor cas outras, aínda que hai demasiadas interrupcións publicitarias do veterano presidente coa súa linguaxe apodíptica. Mais tamén saen Bogart e Ingrid falando galego en Casablanca. E iso tamén pode alentar unha lingua. Din que nun prazo curto desaparecerá o 60% das oito mil linguas que se falan no mundo. O galego non estará entre elas. Sobrevivirá ben. Ten tamén “a invencíbel resignación da herba” (Hoxe espertei optimista, que vergoña!). Unha das iniciativas máis importantes dos últimos anos para promocionar o galego non xurdiu da Administración, senón na Rede, de forma independente, sen apoio oficial ningún e coordinada desde Bos Aires por un informático arxentino, Roberto Abalde, descendente de galegos. O Grupo Galego 21 é un modelo fascinante. Unha especie de ONG da lingua galega, con xente colaborando en todo o mundo, desde a casa ou desde os cibercafés. Teñen desenvolvido, entre outros logros, o Proxecto Rianxo (un tradutor castelán-galego para Internet), unha Biblioteca Virtual Galega e un servidor educativo chamado Lapis de cores. E velaí está, en permanente colleita, o Instituto da Lingua Galega, con esa obra aberta que é o Atlas lingüístico. Se mellora a educación, un neno escolarizado en Galicia poderá manexarse ben polo menos en tres linguas: o galego, o castelán e o inglés. E descubrirá que a súa lle permitirá entenderse ben en Portugal, Brasil, Mozambique ou Timor Leste. A historia de Galicia non se pode confundir coa do galeguismo, e menos coa do nacionalismo. Mais sen ese movemento, Galicia continuaría detrás do río do esquecemento. Os ilustrados galeguistas comezaron moi ben. Xa en 1916, as Irmandades da Fala definiron así o país: “Galicia, célula de universalidade.” É fecunda esta idea. Galicia como célula nai. Como matriz. Como almeiro. Xa eles querían loitar contra os condicionantes que fan de Galicia un lugar “periférico”, a desmán, fanado. A condición periférica ten que ver coa trepia do poder (político, económico, cultural), mais tamén é unha convención mental, un prexuízo contra o que cómpre rebelarse. Se re-pensamos o atlas, atoparemos Galicia como un posíbel lugar de encontro continental e transatlántico, un magnífico “meeting point”, un grande espazo portuario da fusión cultural, con peiraos para todas as achegas e partidas, onde os guindastres da imaxinación embarquen e desembarquen tradicións reinventadas, novas heterodoxias, errantes periferias, expresións fronteirizas de espírito “pel roxa”. Un mar de mares. Un porto soñador da Europa fisterraica onde converxer e ecoar vagas culturais hispanas, portuguesas, africanas, americanas... ou mesmo do teu planeta, amigo Golf. Quizais non sexa casualidade de todo que teñen orixe galega dúas das figuras que mellor encarnan unha mundialización alternativa: Ignacio Ramonet, director de Le Monde Diplomatique, e o cantante Manu Chao. En Galicia hai un pouso forte de identidade, pero non exluínte. É un bo lugar para compartir, para sumar identidades. Mais iso require unha estratexia de intelixencia, unha revolución óptica, unha ollada de grande angular para abranguer o que hoxe aínda é área de cegueira. Só nese imaxinar leveda outra realidade. A de Galicia como país de encontro, como unha xeografía a encher de crianza e non a se baleirar nun devalo (aínda que sexa un cómodo devalo de balneario). Unha Galicia de memoria activa e non de souvenir, de memoria andante, aventureira, que exerza o humano dereito fundamental a imaxinar. Por que non? Emocionoume a túa primeira pregunta e deixeina para o final. Que tempo vai por aí? O tempo! O primeiro que fai un galego ao erguerse é buscar unha vista ao ceo. Hai xente que fai vinte flexións, que se preocupa pola cotización do ien, que fai o sinal da cruz ou que toma un prozac. O galego, antes que nada, elabora o seu parte meteorolóxico. Coido que é o único lugar de España onde a transmisión en directo da paisaxe celeste acadaría o máximo nivel de audiencia e competiría daquela no prime time. “Atención, señores. Conectamos cun vendeval en Ortegal! Agora, un ballón en Escairón! Magnífico orballo en Carballo! Cando chove e quenta o sol anda o demo por Ferrol! O val de Fragoso, moi luminoso; o de Miñor, moito mellor, e o do Rosal, non ten igual!” O galego permanecería hipnotizado ante a pantalla, murmurando como Baudelaire: “Ou, as nubes! As marabillosas nubes!” A impresión xeral fóra de Galicia é que Galicia é chuvia. Lamentablemente, só chove unha media de 150 días o ano. “Isto non é Hawai, nin falta que fai”, cantaba Johnny Rotring, de Radio Océano, abandeirado do renacemento atlántico. Fai un sol de carallo foi a memorábel canción de anti verán da Galicia Caníbal de Antón Reixa. “Ao chegar a fin, que a vida nos dea un raio de sol como último sacramento natural”, escribe Antonio Tovar Bobillo, que se define como “ateo solitario” nun asombroso Diario íntimo dun vello revoltado. A ciencia di: “Dentro do dominio atlántico, o clima galego presenta trazos diferenciais que o semellan a climas atlánticos subtropicais.” Iso é. Entre os fiordos e Bora-Bora. O paraugas como antena paranoica. O clima como metáfora. A vida como un fenómeno atmosférico. Un gran pintor, Pablo Picasso, que viviu dous anos da súa infancia na Coruña, levou como recordo o vento. Hai unha psicoloxía dos ventos. Os ventos teñen nome. O máis perigoso é o que os pescadores chaman o vento das viúvas. Victor Omgá, un mozo do Camerún que acaba de publicar en galego a súa odisea de inmigrante, As calexas do medo, estima como a banda de son dunha vida inquieta o repenique da chuvia que o acompañou na soidade de tres anos clandestino. A un compatriota seu, marabillado pola neve, pasoulle pola cabeza mandar un puñado por correo. A néboa, oficialmente, reside en Londres. Mais un londinense de berce, filósofo e tradutor do galego ao inglés, Jonathan Dunne, di que a primeira vez que viu a néboa de verdade foi cando baixou do tren en Lugo. Sentiuse nun planeta estraño até que un día, nunha cafetaría, fixouse nun vello que, á súa vez, contemplaba a chuvia pola ventá. Chovía e chovía desde había un anaco. Nun momento determinado, o vello volveuse e díxolle: “Que? Parece que chove.” Gustaríame moito enviarche un fardel de néboa. Ás veces a néboa serve para ver mellor.	Translation - English Initial extract “Galicia Explained to an Alien” from A Spy in the Kingdom of Galicia by Manuel O' Rivas GALICIA EXPLAINED TO AN ALIEN Dear Golf Oscar Delta: I'm glad you exist. It's comforting to have confirmation of Frank Drake's visionary equation concerning the calculation of the number of civilizations in the Milky Way. Here's to Drake! And here's to the future! It's been pretty useful that I met a guy who was willing to teach me the basics of radio astronomy. He was working as a cleaner in the enormous radar facility in the University of Cornell. I'm glad you have a sense of humour, as you showed at the end of your last message to me: “If the telephone doesn't ring, it's me.” Our planet is not called Galicia. The planet is called Earth. Galicia is my land on Earth. Although Galicia is and at the same time isn't in Galicia. It's a place and also a “displaced place” or a Non-place. As a place, Galicia is small. Well, that depends. It's big enough. I suppose by now you have realised that we Galicians are often known as being somewhat indecisive, arbitrary and vague, something which you will probably notice in the rest of my letter. Galicia is in the western part of Europe, in the Iberian Peninsula. With its own political assembly, it forms part of Spain and is perched on top of Portugal. A Galician is perfectly happy to be a Spaniard, but if given a bad time about this he can always slip gracefully out the back door: “Just as well we're still a little Portuguese!” Personally, I'd really like to have a Portuguese passport too. It could be great to form part of the Great Portuguese Empire, conspiring in Lisbon's Chinese Palace to the sound of a Portuguese fado: “The one I love, not even to the walls do I confess.”1 That's right my friend: one could have four or five passports, four or five identities in one's pocket. Do you guys have intergalactic passports? Galicians like to name things. We like giving things names so that those things can exist and talk. In the same way as Buddhists, Galicians know that stones only speak to us if they are given a name. Ancient geographers used to say that unexplored regions were “sleeping beauties”. A sleeping beauty awakes when one calls her by a name. The land of Galicia, from the mountains in the East to the shores of the deep ocean in the West, is like an illuminated manuscript with no empty gaps in the margins. Our toponyms make up our literary masterpiece. The lyrics of a cosmic hip-hop. Each name is a loving stitch in an infinite piece of patchwork. In standard speech we use three thousand to five thousand words. Only in terms of centres of population there are 250,000 place names in Galicia, which is half of those registered in the whole of Spain. And this doesn't even include the bars, wineries, inns and taverns which constitute a virtual map of the world, an unfinished piece of artistic creation in the wake of returning emigrants. This explains how, when on a pub crawl through a typical Galician town, say Vimianzo, one can go from the London to the Montevideo and from here to the Zurich and from the Zurich to the Happy Day from where you can go to the Hilton before ending up in the Fast Lane.2 The man serving at the bar, Manuel de Ricardo, was a boxer in Venezuela. He treats his clients like intellectuals, regardless of what their professions may be. If you ever turn up there one day with your pointy ears, your turquoise skin and your fish-like eyes with wide-angle lenses, Manuel de Ricardo wouldn't flinch at all. “So, my intellectual friend, what can I get you?”, he'd say, in a very cosmopolitan and natural manner. As a present via radio astronomy, I'd like to send you some of our intergalactic village names translated into English. We've got one called Behind the World3 and one called Out of the World,4 as well as one called Village World.5 There are also valleys with names such as Sea, Love, Gold or Silence.6 And a Holy Peak7 and a place called Hell's Mouth.8 One of my favourites is a forest on the border with Portugal: The Dark Red Woods.9 My intergalactic forest in Galicia. Here, the living being with the most names is the firefly, with the scientific name of Lampyris nocticula. There are nearly one hundred synonyms in Galician! The firefly is a real shining star in Galician pop culture. Some of its names are truly amazing, all of them metaphors. Here are their literal English translations: old lady of the soup, light-in-bum, night worm, fanny-colour...10 Why do Galicians have such an obsession with this tiny beguiling creature? It emits light at all stages of its development, even when just an egg. The luminosity is especially intense in the female though. A poet from “the mountains”, Aquilino Iglesia Alvariño, was able to use fireflies to thread together an especially beautiful secular prayer which can be translated as follows: Give us, Lord, a shed filled with shadows and moonlight in order to sing. And a path paved with fireflies through the fertile gardens of your kingdom. So there you have it. Existence and movement. You know, I would like to send you a firefly. When seen from above, and with a decrease in intergalactic distance, Galicia can seem like a congregation of fireflies. We can see those quarter of a million population centres, cities, towns, villages and hamlets, all showing a meticulous human intervention in a landscape of slate, stone, greenness and sea. A lot of sea. Galicia has, as a crude estimate, a surface area of 30,000 square kilometres and a coastline of 1,200 kilometres. Galicia has an indomitable sea which climbs over steep sea stacks, a sea which seeps inland through veins in the earth. Our finest highway. Almost everything that came to these shores came (and went) by sea. To the north there is an island they call Ireland. Opposite, there is a large continent called America. The fireflies tend to wane as one moves inland. It's an extinction which is caused by pesticides and is very real, but it's also symbolic. It's quite symptomatic that in a so-called “risk society” the first to fall are the fireflies. On the paths which lead inland, man-made illumination also fades away. It is shifting westwards, the lights grouping together on the edge of the ocean. The Galicia of old is losing population. Vigo and A Coruña, the two major cities of Galicia, came into being as nesting grounds for fishermen. Now they are focal points for one giant, scattered city. This is not science fiction. In no time at all we will see the emergence of a city, similar to a New Atlantis (to make it sound somewhat more legendary), which will spread itself from Ferrol to Porto. A new human geography is being laced together. And I ask, should we not call this place something along the lines of “Porto-Galicia”?11 The movement of lights, the flickering, the tension; it all reflects a sociological turning point. More than a sudden power-cut, we observe a kind of withering, a lung failure which is suffocating the ancient cosmos of an agrarian society. There's a sense of loss and indifference, though that sensation is there as a kind of “remembered present”, capable of giving encouragement rather than weighing us down. It can bring about comparisons, fusions and creations, with the harbour area serving as both a place and a non-place, as a breeding ground for new odysseys. One giant port where the cranes are no longer burdened with sadness. One giant village which turns the houses towards the sea, with memories borne upon bare heads. North Atlantic Mediterranean. Changeable climate, changeable Galicia. Along a winding road a turbocharged car overtakes a tractor which overtakes an old cart. Acceleration. Skidding. Horns. Morgues. Macro-fairs. Parties. DJ's. Industrial archaeology. Fashionably unsightly architecture. An ethnographic museum. “Body art” on the skin of an engaging land registrar's list. Waves which come, small waves which come and go.12 The upheaval of imperishable stones. Beginning over again. Galicia. An ironic twist of fate as the region fights against those who tell us that all hope is lost. In the avant-garde cemetery in Fisterra, with its cosmical-styled tombs of consecrated stone, Paul Valery's chorus from The Graveyard by the Sea could be a fitting motto: “The sea, the sea, always beginning over again!”13 You could observe this all at the same time with your fish-like eyes with wide-angle lenses. The anthropologist says: “Galicia is a world.” When feeling a little surly, the Galician says: “Galicia is the world's backside.” Quite an appealing backside, I might add. Any part of the world can be its backside. It just depends. There are days and there are days. There are good centuries and bad centuries. Here I am with my typical Galician indecisiveness again! For a long time, Galicia was considered the end of the world by many Mediterranean civilizations. Galicia was land's end, facing out to the “Gloomy Sea”, the name originally given to the Atlantic Ocean by Portuguese sailors. It was here that everything ended, apart from those who lived in Fisterra, who believed the headland to be the jetty from where one would begin their journey to the Afterworld. It is said that Julius Caesar, the leader of the Great Roman Empire, came to the Galician Far West to see the smouldering sun sinking into the vast ocean furnace, etcetera. That Empire has long since disappeared, but Galicia still remains. Here, with its jetty, its legendary lighthouse, a foghorn which bellows like a cow into the sea mist, and its avant-garde cemetery on the headland. Nowadays, Galicia is and isn't like the Far West. In 1736, a guy named Pedro Fariña was paid ten thousand Reals14 (a small fortune) to take an urgent letter from Santiago de Compostela to Madrid. It took him eighteen days to get there and back. Fortunately, this difficulty with transport by road has now been solved, though the solution to the region's poor rail connections is still pending. On Galician news programmes and in newspapers, the trains are talked about in the same way as they were talked about in 19th century California. And our veteran Head of the Galician Parliament is a known admirer of Buffalo Bill. The native fauna begins to tremble whenever his ox-like health is questioned because our presidente likes to quell rumours by going out hunting, putting Galicia “on deadly ground”. This also aids those who like to compare Galicia to the Far West. When you hear a Galician talk, sometimes it seems that he/she has to fight against the image people have of Galicia as a far off land. Distance though, as you know very well, is very subjective. Once I heard a labourer describing the fate of his two emigrated sons in the following terms: “One lives pretty nearby, in Buenos Aires; the other lives far away, in a really strange place...called Frankfurt or something.” He knew quite well what he was trying to say. Is there a centre and a periphery in the Universe as a whole? I guess that this is an idea based on power relations. There are 2.8 million humans living in Galicia, a million cows, five hundred wolves, an untraceable bear and five hundred million trees. In apple trees alone, we have seventy-seven different varieties. Who are we? Where are we headed? Where did we come from? All good questions, and questions which make up the name of a song by the shrewdest of 20th century Spanish rock groups, the Galician band of Siniestro Total.15 It is mainly thanks to the sea, antiquity's finest highway, that the Galician race is like a torrent of aliens. Their land is one of “arrival”. The first references we have of them speak of the Kallaikoi, which meant something along the lines of “they of the pebbles, those who live among the stones”. The Celts. Then there were the Romans, who were said to have given Galicia its name: Gallaecia. Then the Britons of Maeloc. Then the Suebi, who came to Galicia and “melted down their swords and built ploughs” (in the comforting words of the historian Claudio Sánchez Albornoz). The latter were, of course, defeated by the Visigoths. Then came the Jews. Then the Moors. Then the Gypsies. Then the Maragatos. In the 18th century, it was the Catalans who gave a boost to the fishing industry, and the Basques who did the same for the tanneries. Without a doubt though, the most famous of our aliens is the Apostle of St James, a Palestinian fisherman and disciple of Jesus Christ (who I already told you about in my first message to you). The finding of his sarcophagus brought about (for religious reasons) the world's first grand sightseeing tour, the Way of St James.16 The discovery was made by a fellow named Paio just over a thousand years ago, and not by the conservative politician Manuel Fraga (as some people seem to believe), though it's true that St James' deeds were also used as military propaganda. In the same way as the cross of Christ. History can be so twisted and cruel sometimes! For centuries, Galicia was what we call today a “cosmopolitan” place. In addition to the pilgrims who came, others who made their home here included Franks, the Flemish, and people from Genoa and Provence... It's odd, but the first text written in Galician which can be accounted for actually has its roots in a poem written by a man from Provence, Rimbaud de Vaqueiras. It's a poem about love. History can get incredibly mixed up. Incredibly so. It gets reinvented until it becomes nonsensical. St James, the Palestinian who was decapitated under Roman rule, has been turned into the patron saint of Spain and chief slayer of Muslims by our modern powers that be. And by the way, the Curia of Compostela, with very few exceptions, would always act as a “crypt” of reactionary power throughout the centuries. In the 19th century, for example, a man's right to take refuge in a church was respected for criminals but not for liberals, who they referred to as “Negroes”. Popular tradition regards history (cursed as it is) with some indifference, and is more enjoyably confusing than some erudite manipulations. It's been written, with some astonishment, that “Galicians cannot relate to their kind-mannered forebearers”. The people who dwelled in the castros (old pre-Roman forts or Celtic villages) would actually have been the Moors. In other words, we could say that Galicia only became Celtic in the 19th century, when romantic historiography created the myth of Galicia's founding father, Breogán.17 This became even more pronounced with the founding of Celta de Vigo Football Club in the 20th century. However, a very ancient text (by a guy called Estrabón) does describe the Kallaikoi as long-haired and with a strong passion for dancing and beer (could it be that they already drunk Estrella Galicia?).18 Just like the men and women of my generation in the first Celtic Music Festival in Ortigueira. Personally, I like this fairly comical version of history. I remember a conversation about the origins of a town's bridge which was recorded in writing by Xurxo Souto. One of the participants, who is really on the ball, states that “half of the bridge was made by the Goths and the other half by the Visigoths.” Someone clarifies to him that the bridge was, in fact, made by the local council. Once he'd faced the facts, the first man declared: “Well as far as screwing things up goes, I screwed that one up good and proper, but I'm sticking to my guns.”19 We are all aliens. The most beautiful definition of what it is to be a Galician that I have ever heard was given by an old emigrant being interviewed on the radio. “Are you proud to be Galician?” he was asked. The man looked at the audience, then looked at the camera, and said: “I'm very proud to be Galician because Galician, totally Galician, is something anyone can be.” Or we could use this phrase instead, pronounced by a sailor who now works as a machinist on the railways in New Zealand: “I've seen so much of the world that now I'm more Galician than anybody.” And so it goes that the history of our Galician “aliens” has a second part. The land of “arrival” became a land of “goodbye”. There are fervent Galician Catholics that have written that Galicia was one of God's chosen lands, but unfortunately they were wrong. Galicia was not the land of “GOD” but of “GOoDbye”. The most popular star in Galician tradition is Venus. I'm really glad that the nation's most influential light belongs to this goddess. She has many other names in Galician, which can be translated into English more or less as follows: Shiner, Morning Star, Star of Clarity, Star of Abundance or Star of the Baker Woman.20 In San Salvador de Bahia, in Brazil, there was once a Galician baker woman named Estrela (the Galician word for “star”). The writer Jorge Amado really loved her bread. Galicia Venus, Galicia the Motherland. Galicia is and isn't in Galicia. The most famous photograph in Galician history is one of a farewell. An uncle and nephew are seen crying in the port of A Coruña. They are crying because the other members of their family are leaving. Sometimes though, I think they are crying because they themselves are not the ones leaving. The key word on our planet nowadays is “globalization”. Internationalization. The world as a global village. A lot is often said about goods and information, but the most defining characteristic of our times is mass migration, the great exodus of people from poor or war-torn countries towards more affluent frontiers. Today, Galicia forms part of this more affluent world, even if our slice of the cake is somewhat peripheral. Official figures using European parameters state that in Galicia there are half a million people who live in relative poverty, and 5% of the population live in extreme poverty. This explains why the arrival of immigrants is still quite minimal. Jobs are fairly thin on the ground and what the immigrant is looking for is bread and freedom. Simple as that. Just like Galicians did in the past. This moment in our history is very contradictory. Paradoxical Galicia. Galicia as an oxymoron. Galicia remains in the same place geographically but its place in the world has changed. Fifty years ago, ocean liners full of emigrants would set sail for Buenos Aires from A Coruña and Vigo. Now, in the consulates and the Spanish Embassy in Argentina, one can observe long queues of Galician descendants. The direction of the arrow pointing to the Promised Land has been reversed. At the same time, in the last two years thousands of young Galicians have cleared off to the Canary Islands to work in either the construction industry or in hotels and catering. The novelty factor is that, quite often, some estate agents get there first. Galicia has been a global village for a while already due to the intensity of emigration, which lasted for two centuries and which ended the day before yesterday. And also due to men working at sea. The Galician fishing fleet is the largest in Europe and one can find Galician ships (or with shared ownership) wherever there are fish to be fished (and sometimes where there are not). Luís Menéndez, who travelled the world in the wake of Galician emigration, once told the story of a judge from New York. This judge was born in a village in the Galician province of Ourense. He worked as a porter in the Lisboa Hotel in Vigo. Then he got in a boat and sailed the seven seas from Shanghai to Rotterdam. He had just a ten-dollar note left in his pocket when he decided to stay in Baltimore and begin a new life. He worked as a docker, a cleaner and a petrol station assistant. In the evenings, he would study law. He then started working as a lawyer and later he finished his law degree. When Menéndez bumped into him he was the presiding judge in the Elizabeth Municipal Court. And he told Menéndez of his dream: to sail back to Galicia completely unaided. Behind the lives of many emigrants, we can read a novel filled with pain and hope. Sometimes we can find it on miners' tombstones at the foot of the Appalachians, West Virginia; sometimes we can find it in the face of a beautiful woman carrying out “invisible mending” on Dustin Hoffman's jacket in a London workshop. Galicia's biggest city is still Buenos Aires, and Galicia's biggest cemetery is the Colon Cemetery in Havana. More than two million Galicians emigrated during the 20th century. The exodus had already become considerable halfway through the previous century due to the effect of terrible potato famines, just like in Ireland. There is currently a lot of debate concerning voting rights and the way in which emigrants on the census can participate because Galicia's diaspora has a notable effect on election results. The opposition have already reported the fact that dozens of dead people have often voted. Obviously, I don't believe this is a fair thing to say: who said dead people were conservative voters anyway? Political meetings would have to be held and ballot boxes placed in what Rosalía de Castro21 described as “Havana's immense cemetery”. Let me tell you the story of a cutaneous oedema. In the early seventies, a young girl left her Galician village and moved to Paris. Here, she worked hard as a cleaner. She lived a solitary life. Shortly, when looking in the mirror, she noticed that a mark had appeared on her face. No doctor was able to remove it for her. Years later, she went back to Galicia on holiday for the first time, and the mark disappeared. On returning to Paris, the mark reappeared again. She then got married to a metalworker and they had a daughter. Whenever they went to Galicia together on holiday, the mother's mark disappeared. When their daughter reached adolescence, the journey to Galicia had lost its attraction for her and whenever she went there, a mark would appear on her skin. This is not some kind of metaphor. It's just a true story. Within this world of emigration, there is also a flux in the opposite direction. It is the offspring of expatriates, educated as English, French, German or Swiss children, who finally want to move back to Galicia. On the Internet there is a portal where the children and grandchildren of Galician expatriates get in touch to exchange their different life experiences (www.fillos.org). Us Galicians are just as others see us, and the other way round too. We are what we see in the mirror but also the opposite. Some people are offended by jokes in which the group that they belong to is ridiculed in some way, but one's identity is also sculpted by the jokes that others tell about you. So us Galicians are also the Galicians depicted in jokes about Galicians. In our own jokes which we used to tell at school, “Galician” was synonymous with “genius”. I especially liked one about a Galician man who was captured by a tribe of cannibals: while being cooked in the giant cauldron, the man kept eating the potatoes and asking for more salt. However, when I started to travel outside Galicia it was with great surprise that I discovered that in jokes about Galicians, the Galicians were always rather dim. The other day there was an attack on the Centre for Galician Emigrants? Really? And what happened? Someone threw a book at them. And once the ball is rolling, it's always the same story over and over again. The pauper is always poor. “Look here my good fellow, I might be poor but I'm also very honest.” To which the second man replies that “it never rains but it pours.” When I was younger I remember reading a book which had a strong impact on me. It was an anthology of what Spanish or foreign authors had written about Galicia, put together in 1974 by a professor named Xesús Alsonso. It was dominated by some quite shocking observations. I also admired (and still admire) some of the authors, which just made me even more upset. As an example, Mariano José de Larra had written that “the Galician is an animal similar to the human being, and created to the relief of the donkey.” Some authors pertaining to the so-called “Golden Age” of Spanish literature, such as Góngora, Lope de Vega or Quevedo, were especially hurtful. The more I read the more impressions of a negative identity I found. For Paul Lafargue, Karl Marx's son-in-law and author of the delightful The Right to be Lazy, Galicians are of lineage cursed by their submission to working. In his Journeys Around Spain (1923),22 Anselmo de Andrade states that “there is no land less well-known nor more defamed than Galicia.” I then returned to The Bible in Spain by George Borrow, a splendid work in which an interesting conversation in a guest house in Lugo is recorded. An annoyed traveller complains out loud in the following sarcastic terms: “Oh my god! What a fine country we've ended up in!” Borrow's reply to this still leaves me feeling pensive and downcast: “Actually I can't see anything wrong with this land, which is the richest in the whole of Spain as well as the most splendid and fertile. It's true that most of its inhabitants are miserably poor, but that's their own fault and not the fault of the land.” I'd like to find Borrow's Bible again. I feel you should know that the true reason for this travelling genius making a trip to Galicia was in order to donate a translated copy of God's word to the town of Fisterra due to a promise made when he was on the verge of being shipwrecked in an English steamboat near that headland at the end of the world, when the sight of fishermen's lanterns was the only thing that kept his hopes alive. I regard the description he made of that storm as being utterly outstanding, so vivid that it makes his book of memoires sway back and forth in our very hands. Anyway, after many adventures crossing a violent nineteenth-century Spain, Borrow arrived at Fisterra and was faced with a close encounter with death once again, this time in the hands of humans. The locals, known as being very prone to having an overactive imagination, believed him to be a Carlist spy. He was saved by a sailor called Valentón who, as a survivor of the Battle of Trafalgar, spoke some English. And so it was that, by sheer fluke, our Quaker ended up giving the Bible to Valentón. What could have become of it? It's a shame a society of Quakers wasn't formed back then in Galicia. My friend Golf Oscar Delta, if I were able to reinvent history then I'd most like to have been a freemason of the La Esperanza café in A Coruña in times of Porlier. Either that or a Quaker with Valentón of Fisterra. The scenes left to us by Borrow already seem far off. Nowadays, the vast majority of Galicians do not live in poverty. However, I do have the impression that, in general, Galicians have always shared that sharp contradiction formulated by that inquisitive Bible-selling Quaker. Galicia has never been poor, but Galicians have. But who is to blame? The last straw for a community struck by poverty would be to be poor in spite of the generous resources provided by the land. This would be both surreal and contradictory. Perhaps one should discuss such matters with Arsenio Iglesias,23 the football coach who made a top-class ocean trawler from that humble fishing boat of a team which was Deportivo La Coruña. Another really important thing came to us via the sea, in an English ship: the first football. A football is like a planet in miniature and football is fascinating because it's like a war, symbolically speaking. It's the number one sport on the Earth, and I've seen that Galicia has become better known throughout the world since Deportivo La Coruña achieved some heroic feats and have therefore been able to play in the Champions League. That's life pal. In order to create an identity there are people who have to spend fifty years writing a fifty-volume encyclopaedia, but with football, in contrast, one can create an identity in an afternoon of glory, in one virtuous kick of a ball. Arsenio Iglesias, who now coaches children, was a man who turned prejudices into a type of fondness. What many so-called spin-doctors say about Galicia can be summarised in two ideas: One, that the taste of goose barnacles is quite heavenly, and two, that if you find a Galician on a staircase then you will not know if he is going upstairs or downstairs.24 Arsenio Iglesias made it known, in a rather affectionate kind of way, that picking barnacles off a plate may be one thing, but picking them out of the sea is quite another. And that on a staircase, sometimes one thinks he is headed upstairs when in fact he is headed downstairs. So let's look at more clichés. Galicians are bipolar. They have moments of euphoria and of dysphoria. He can be compared to the Celtic warrior, said to be as fierce in attack as he was prone to despair. At least that is the conclusion reached by Vicente Risco, pioneer in ethnography, after writing thousands of pages on Galician personality (and very few about his own personality). I do believe, however, that it is a conclusion that is as relevant to the Celts as it is to cyclists. Galicia has turned out some good cyclists. Delio Rodríguez and Álvaro Pino rose to the very top, for example, and Raúl Rey always managed to come in last, something really difficult to achieve. Anyway, I was telling you about Vicente Risco... He was a great scholar and a wise, wise man. He knew more than anyone about the Devil, but when the very Devil appeared before him he was unable to recognise him. He joined the ranks of Spanish fascists and wrote his share of nonsense about racial issues and made evil remarks about Jews which he himself then tried to forget. Galicia equates to “morriña”. I have morriña, I'm homesick. This is a term we export to other languages: Morriña. It's already been used in a song by Julio Iglesias and included in other countries' dictionaries: in the Spanish dictionary of the Real Academia Española and in the Collins English dictionary, for example. Please accept my sending you this word as a present, so that you can spread it around on your planet. Handle it with care though, as “morriña” is used when you miss something, or when you are feeling nostalgic or melancholic. It's associated with a painful past, of loss and of emigration. Once, in a centre for emigrants on a cold winter's night in Switzerland, I heard a ballad about morriña which stopped all the cuckoo clocks bang on midnight and made people's hair curl. It's similar to the word saudade, often used in fado music from Portugal or in morna from Cape Verde. The greatest ballad writer from Galicia was probably Pucho Boedo. He had a group named Os Tamara, with which he toured the emigrant watering holes and dance halls. But be careful when you use “morriña”! You mustn't take more than the required dosage, as this has resulted in Galicia being labelled as a nation of perennial sadness. It's also used as a kind of excuse, doing just as nicely in electoral speeches as when complaining about a toothache. I'll try to use the astronomical radio transmitter to send you Mi Tierra Gallega (Spanish for “My Galician Land”), a song sung by Pucho Boedo. Pucho Boedo is one of Galicia's secret heroes, loved as the “voice of the people”. During the Spanish Civil War, which began in 1936 and continued through a seemingly endless dictatorship, both Pucho's father and his brother were killed. His father was founder of the arts and sciences association Resplandor no Abismo25 and his brother was a clear-thinking boxer and one of the writers helping to sustain the magnificent Brazo y Cerebro,26 a weekly magazine of anarchist ideology published in A Coruña. The orphaned child, to save himself from the sinking ship, began to sing like a little robin redbreast. In the poorer areas of A Coruña, people would drop everything to listen as he walked past them in full song, carrying the lyrics of a hair-raising tango27 dedicated to Caryl Chessman upon his lips. And he didn't stop singing till the day he died. Today, he's a guy people like to worship. His music is now usually bought on cheap cassettes in petrol stations and at fairs, but the price is not a good measure of how uplifting his voice can be. Young musicians now leave flowers by a statue of him every year in the first week of September. I've never really stopped to think about it before, but there are actually a lot of people with very little written about them in books but who are affectionately considered as heroes in the collective memory of the people. Allow me now, if I may, to give you some examples. First we have a guy called Foucellas, a revolutionary basket weaver and antifascist who fled to the hills after being released from prison, to where he had been sent after the war in 1936. He was a member of the Spanish Maquis who became a legend, a slender man who used to go to the Riazor football stadium disguised as a priest so that he could watch Deportivo play. They caught him whilst he was using the reflection in a river to have a shave and he was sentenced to die by the garrotte. The press highlighted, almost in recognition of the victim's status, that the “best executioner in Spain” had been employed for the occasion. Then we have Ramón Sampedro, a sailor who ended up tetraplegic and who shocked the whole world by exercising in front of a video camera the right which was denied to him by the tribunals: his right to decide the course of his own death. Another hero of ours is Chichi Campos. He died young, which was a totally inadmissible thing to do as the comic cartoonist of his generation. His humour was critical, heterodox and subtle, the avant-garde of irony. In a dig at the nation's inferiority complex, Chichi once published a parody in the form of a written advertisement: “In Switzerland there is an ultramodern clinic where you can have an operation to get your “galicianness” removed for ten thousand pesos.”28 The formula used to calculate a supposedly Galician personality would be H M=I (Humour plus Morriña (or melancholy) equals Irony). We can all be melancholic, but the thing that really earns you respect in Galicia is humour. Here we have an example. It's one that deserves to be documented as a famous quote that should go down as a very special moment in modern history. Right in the middle of Franco's regime, a group of workers in the fishing industry were having a meeting in A Coruña, at which they were obliged to shout out an unconditional salute in favour of Franco (el Caudillo):29 “Here's to the finest fisherman of all Spain, el Caudillo!” Just then, one of the workers suddenly jumps up, turns around, and begins to walk away, leading to him being rebuked by one of the bigwigs: “Where do you think you're going, Ferreiro?” In response, Benito Ferriero (a Galician nationalist and republican from A Coruña) calmly turns his head and blurts out: “For a piss!” Allow me to tell you another story, one which features in Tales from A Coruña30 by Xurxo Souto. The action occurs during a recital by a poetry group called The Flower of Poetry,31 in which the audience is listening to a bard's poem on the topic of unrequited love. Deeply hurt, the man decides to end his life and embosses himself into the asphalt paving from the height of a fifth-floor flat. In a display, which explores the limits of pathos, the rhapsody concludes: “And the watch on his wrist / was still beating just fine.” Which was when a voice rose up from among the audience to shout: “No fucking way! / What a cracking design!” It was the voice of Urbano Lugrís Freire, the great painter of maritime surrealism. It was also him who once had the bravery to stand on top of a barrel in the port, still during the dictatorship, and harangue the crowds who were waving off the emigrants about to sail to Venezuela on the Auriga: “Mothers and wives of Galicia! Hear me! Do not cry for your sons and husbands who are leaving as el Caudillo is still with us.” I think my father was on that ship. Franco, the dictator, was born in Galicia. In the very same place (Ferrol), Pablo Iglesias, the father of Spanish socialism, was also born. He was of such a poor background that in order to emigrate he had to walk to Madrid. The so-called “apostle of anarchism”, Ricardo Mella, was also Galician, from Vigo. And according to a survey, the most popular personality of the twentieth century for Galicians today is the writer Alfonso Daniel Rodríguez Castelao. There were two great revolutions in the history of the Galician way of looking at things. Rosalía de Castro embodied the concept of “active melancholy” and rebellion against the status quo. She condemned “those who scorn us for no good reason and with no proper knowledge.” The Galician is the “black man” of Spain. Alfonso Castelao (often known as the “founding father” of the Galician nation) died in exile and was a hugely popular comedian, among other things. He was able to break through the cultural barrier formed by a minority of Galician nationalists thanks to his sense of humour. Every comic strip published, every illustration in the Nós32 collection... they all equate to a brief opening of truth and irony which is still able to filter light past the evil spirits lurking in the clouds. When history freezes over, the world will burn. During his exile in New York, Castelao unleashed his unrest by going deep into Harlem and creating another album in the style of Nós, called Estampas de negros (“Drawings of black people”). And so the circle was closed, with anti-tyrannical and Galician nationalist politics drawn out as a school for internationalism through the eyes of a comedian in charge of unravelling the drama. Political tyranny is not a product typical of Galicia, as some people may think, but it settled here due to the negative influences of our delicious spider crabs and our ham. And it's a very predatory type of political tyranny, the Galician one. Nowadays there is a lot of talk about “leaders of opinion”, but the political tyrant was simply a “leader of both opinion and ham”, a powerful parasite of both man and pig. He would act according to the principle formulated by Lec in his Unkempt Thoughts: “Ignorance of the law does not mean exemption from it; but a good knowledge of the law does.” The number of pigs kept as livestock has increased greatly in Galicia, but political tyranny has had to undergo a real transformation in order to cling onto power. Now there is a kind of “post-tyrannical” politics in which the value of one's vote has replaced the ham, a system where a vote actually has to be fought for. And Galicia is no longer a nation of abstainers. In fact, the political behaviour of us Galicians is not so different to that of our fellow Europeans, but the way in which power is exercised . Our veteran Head of the Galician parliament was a venomous minister during the dictatorship, and you can tell. He conjured up a populist menu with many typical ingredients. Our elections may be democratic, but our reality is intimidating. Galicia is growing old. Castelao said that “Galicians don't protest, they just emigrate.” Now he would say that “Galicians don't protest, they just aren't born.” Our birth rate is one of the lowest in the world. A very specific feature of our elections is that political tendencies seem to be inextricably tied to age. It's not to do with whether one lives in a rural or an urban environment: the majority of older citizens are conservative and most young people are reformist. It's the same in both the countryside and the city, and right now it happens that most people in Galicia are old. It was pointed out to a conservative mayor that he had lost votes in his municipality, to which he replied, quite naturally: “I didn't lose votes, they just died on me.” There are, of course, at least two different hemispheres in Galicia. This is easier to explain if you allow me to exaggerate a little... Firstly, there is a Galicia pertaining to the conformists, anchored firmly in a spider's web of reactionary thinking, possibly with influences from Transylvania. Transylvania (which derives from the Latin meaning “beyond the forest”) is the home of Count Dracula, a guy who used to go round sucking people's blood. This section of society seems to have already been depicted in a very old book called Singing the Praises of Servitude. There is another Galicia though, one which surfaced on 1st December 2002 with the exemplary revolution known as the “revolution of the sea”. This was a revolution driven by the popular movement with the famous slogan Nunca Máis,33 the civil response to the incompetence of our political leaders in the handling of the ecological disaster caused by the Prestige, an oil tanker which sunk just off our western shores. With the Nunca Máis movement, Galicia stopped exporting sadness and silence to begin exporting bundles of dignity, solidarity, and of a culture both creative and liberating. There is an ancient fertility ritual, which some people in Galicia still use. To combat infertility women must take a night-time dip on a sandy beach (the most famous is the beach of A Lanzada) and allow nine waves to wash over and embrace them. Nine waves were those of the Nunca Maís movement which shook the despotic foundations laid down and clung to, once again, by the Spanish government of the time. You asked me how much Galicia is worth. I can see by this that you belong to a very technically advanced civilization. The cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, Galicia's greatest treasure, was valued by the land registry at six thousand million pesetas. This was taken as an offence, and I'm not really surprised. Is the Pórtico da Gloria really worth less than a footballer's annual contract? Steady on, I say! I think we're going a little off the rails here! And what's more, the quoted price doesn't even include the botafumeiro, the cathedral's famous swinging thurible for burning incense. Economists distinguish between “yield” and “wealth”, between the financial results obtained and existing assets. And they declare that in Galicia the yield, or production, does not match up to the wealth, or existing assets. In other words, Galicia is worth more than it seems, the same as the cathedral of Santiago in spite of the land registry. In comparison with other similar cases in Europe, Galicia is at a standstill. This is better expressed in poetry than in any kind of study or report: “One step forward and one step back, Galicia.” We seem to have one eye on Ireland and the other on the north of Portugal, both of which are more developed than Galicia. Just like in a progression of traditional dance steps, Galicia moves slower than expected. We must be optimistic though: we have a lot of water here, the scarcest resource on the planet. And we have good wine. I'd like to send you a bottle of wine. It'll be an excellent year for wine, this year. Galician wines have improved a lot. The white albariño wines from the area of the Rías Baixas, and godello from Valdeorras or Ribeiro, are among man's best friends. They're “imaginative”. And Álvaro Cunqueiro34 recommended that, as well as tasting them, these wines should also be listened to: in some, one can hear the sea, and in others, the sound of trout leaping in a river sunset. And there are yet more miracles where Galicia is able to break the stigma of a peripheral nation. The two companies with the highest turnovers in Galicia are a car factory (Citröen, in Vigo) and a clothes factory (Zara-Inditex, in A Coruña). Amancio Ortega, one of the founders of the clothes company and included on the list of the world's richest men, began his career pedalling a bike around as the delivery boy for the Coruña based shirt manufacturer, Gala. It all began in a small sewing workshop, and today his story is given as a case study in universities all over the world. Nevertheless, there is another secret behind the “miracle” of Inditex, one which I'm not sure is explained in master's degrees for business executives but one which I think is quite fundamental: the women who did all the stitching. Zara, just like all the other representatives of the new heraldry for the modern wardrobe, found its foundations in thousands of women qualified for the task. Women from Galician towns, both young and old, knew how to sew. Really really well. Right now I can see the photo I have of my Aunt Manola, carrying her portable sewing machine on her head. She seems like a character from a scene of pop-art, a working-class princess. Financial miracles are not really miracles when they are based on ingenuity. And we could name other cases which also reflect the fact that bad government has been the root cause of Galicia's problem with underdevelopment: Pescanova and Zeltia. Pescanova was a pioneering company in the sales of frozen fish, but was also active in setting up it's very own system for international diplomacy when the government was found lacking. For example, they got ahead of the game by recognising the pro-independence movements in Mozambique and Namibia and building up cooperation policies that didn't just consist in the straightforward pillaging of resources. Zeltia, today a cutting-edge global pharmaceutical company, began its exploits in post-war Spain with a investigation group made up of republican teachers who had been stripped of their posts. The Galician has always had faith in the cow. The pillars which hold up the world will never crumble as long as the cows are OK. The cow, with its peace endowed gaze, was what won the hearts of the many waves of “aliens” which came to form Galicia. This protecting totem of the people was, however, struck by the power of greed. And madness. Some cows have been fed meat, and Galicia forms part of the world in this respect too. If this “totem” is saved then it will be thanks, once again, to the “grass's unbeatable trait of resignation”. Then there are another three things, three fetishes that I'd like to send you. They're both ancient and futuristic at the same time. You'd have to admit I was right if you saw them: a good luck charm from the village of San Andrés de Teixido, a set of bagpipes, and an octopus (from the Greek oktopous, meaning “eight feet”). OK, an octopus isn't really a “thing”. It's a sea creature which really looks as if it could have come from another planet, and which Galicians have converted into an item to be found in a delicatessen. Seafood, symbol of Galician gastronomy, is governed by a simple rule: all strange beings are vulnerable to being edible. And the stranger, the tastier. There is nothing in the world more annoying to a Galician than being hungry. Galicians really enjoy eating and especially enjoy inviting others to eat with them. If the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund were in the hands of Galician women then multinationals would still hold all the power, but you can be sure that nobody in the whole world would die of starvation. After the potato famine of 1850, at the same time as the Irish potato famines, and after the long period of general hunger following the Spanish Civil War (giving rise to mass migrations), Galician women swore (just like Scarlett O'Hara in Gone With the Wind) that never, never again, would they and their families go hungry. Never ever. And so it was. A Galician dream is that of getting most of the fish we consume from our own rivers and estuaries. Soon this could be possible if pollution levels were kept under control. Over the last few years the number of large fish farms has increased substantially, meaning that it would be a good thing if fishermen could find a future for themselves back on land without having to put their heads on the line, at times almost as slaves and in places where nobody should really have to do so any more. The good luck charms from San Andrés de Teixido are small figurines made of dried out bread and dyed in extremely bright colours. They constitute a symbol of the underlying animism in Galician Christianity. The majority of Galicians declare themselves Catholic. As part of the Spanish state system, all our regional institutions are non-confessional, meaning that in practice they are even more Catholic. If our veteran Head of the Galician Parliament were to print bank notes then we would be able to read on them something similar to what we find on American dollar bills: “We trust in God. End of story.” The first sermon delivered especially for Galician parishioners (De Corretione Rusicorum) was designed to reprimand them for believing that springs, trees and stones could speak. Centuries later, Rosalía de Castro came along with her poems and the springs, trees and stones began to speak once again. In every place reserved for pagan worship they constructed a chapel, a temple, a stone cross or a purgatory shrine. If you ask me, I reckon Galicians originally converted to Catholicism because they just loved building churches. It's been said that Galician stonemasons used to sculpt Romanesque architecture out of granite at the same rate as silkworms make threads out of silk. It's the most beautiful architecture there is in Galicia: thousands of temples made of polychrome stone and which are now painted with green and gold by the rain. In Galicia we might use the phrase expressed by one of the characters in a tale written by Marcial Suárez about Allariz: “There is no other place on Earth with as many churches per square Catholic.” The real protagonists of Galician religion are the saints. And they must be productive. One of the most loved saints is the Santo dos Croques35 in the cathedral of Santiago: a self-portrait of the master architect Mateo himself. Quico Cadaval, a priest who became tired of hierarchical confusions, decided he needed to make it clear that God came above everybody else. Addressing his congregation, his sermon was as follows: “That's quite enough about Saint Anthony, oh your so beloved Saint Anthony the Great! Saint Anthony, compared with God, is “insignificant minutia””. With a set of bagpipes, my friend, you'd become an instant hit on your planet. Just look at its shape. I'm talking about true bagpipes of course, the kind you have to play using your whole body. It's a cosmic instrument. The bagpipe player, traditionally, is the true hero of the Galician people. And still is in the present day. And especially so if a woman, like Susana Seivane, Cristina Pato or Mercedes Peón. The bagpipe player of Ventosela is legendary. Thousands of people went to greet him when he returned from his tour of South America. When he stepped off the ship he had his bagpipes on one shoulder and on the other, somewhat quaintly, he had a parrot. There are 50,000 bagpipe players in Galicia. In the last earthquake registered in Triacastela, the people grew tired of their fear and decided to spend the night dancing to the music of a local bagpiper. The bagpipes have come to the fore in all kinds of scenarios and have the knack of being adapted to the whole range of musical styles. They're a symbol of a rather fruitful cultural reinvention. Bands and bagpipers such as Milladoiro, Carlos Núñez, Budiño, Luar na Lubre, Os Diplomáticos or Berrogüeto are landmarks for Galician music on the international stage. Personally, I think the latest revolution in Galician music belongs to Mercedes Peón and her albums “Isué” and “Ajrú!”. If I talk a lot about music it's because I have the secret hope that music will be the first sign of our existence that will reach your chic intergalactic home, like a ship's sextant engendered by the sound of the grass harp. I'll try to ensure that you keep receiving many other musical styles via radio astronomy, including folk ballads by A Quenlla e Uxía, the chainsaw “agro-rap” of the regueifeiro36 Pinto d'Herbón, the hip-hop of Marisol Manfurada and Cinco Talegos, the itinerant and juggled music of Jarbanzo Negro, the poetic explorations of Lino Braxe's A Caricia da Serpe, the free-flowing winds of Zenzar, or Leilía and Treixadura's Son de aquí. Galicia is music. They say that Galicians are individualists, but the first thing a Galician does, whichever part of Galicia he or she is from, is to try to form a group to play music, even if it's flamenco music.37 Incidentally, there are some magnificent flamenco artists in Galicia. Apparently, there is an expression used by flamenco artists for when someone does an unusual move: “Only a Galician could do something like that!” And then, we have modern compositions and the pitifully squandered generation of Enrique Macías and Manuel Balboa! The i of the Galician alphabet is for irony, but also for imagination. Fundamental references for this in recent times could be Antón Reixa (and his group Nación Reixa) or the musical movement known as “bravú”, which gave rise to a style of untamed rock which filtered its way, little by little, through to all kinds of creative spheres. A good way of landing on our planet is through the portal of Vieros.com and from there onwards using several different links. The raciest factory for artistic expression, and completely self-sufficient, is the Sala Nasa in Santiago. And then, there's the much persecuted Mil Lúas in A Coruña. Here, like in other basements of creation, there is a vibrant carnival-like spirit of freedom representing the next step in Galician culture and art, with the sculpting of burlesque gargoyles, derisory poetry and the ridiculing of medieval song writers. In the publicity campaign Galicia 2.010, many hopes were pinned on what we know as the “industry” created by culture and leisure activities. Traders of imagination are beginning to avert the stigmas of “periphery” and “provincialism”. Galician literature has seen great writers, but thanks to all this, they now also have an audience. We have quite a decent television industry, which is now beginning to experiment with cinema as well. Galicia really needs more domestic film production, to see itself reflected on the big screen with its own cowboys, amphibian gangsters and harbour-based love scenes. Galicia is not a bullfighting region. In the Galician subconscious, Castelao's comments when presented with a bullfighting poster still ring true today: “Poor, poor oxen!” There was once a Galician bullfigher, Celita, who was literally lame, and another, Caramés, who was a tad indecisive. In A Coruña, they used to sing the following for Caramés: “Come out to fight, Caramés / come out and bear the brunt, / all the girls will love you, / and want to have a punt.”38 Galicia is television. Just like the rest of the world. The average Galician spends three hours a day in front of the TV, and thanks to television, we now have sofas in nearly all our households. It's meant a big boost for the furniture industry. Do you not think so? Galician television isn't worse than others, although there are too many publicity breaks featuring our veteran Head of the Galician Parliament and his effusive turns of phrase.39 On the plus side, Humphrey and Ingrid can be seen speaking Galician in Casablanca, and this can also have a strengthening effect for a language. It is said that in a short period of time 60% of the world's eight thousand spoken languages will disappear. Galician will not be one of them. It will have no problem surviving. It also has the “grass's unbeatable trait of resignation” (today I'm not behaving like a Galician, I'm being shamefully optimistic!). One of the finest initiatives for the promotion of our language in the last few years has come not from local government, but from an independent scheme launched on the Internet. It had no official backing and was coordinated from Buenos Aires by Roberto Abalde, an Argentine computer specialist and descendent of Galicians. Grupo Galego 21 is a fascinating idea, a kind of NGO for the Galician language with collaborators all over the world working from home or from Internet cafés. Among other achievements, they've developed the Proxecto Rianxo (“Rianxo40 Project”), which is an online Spanish-Galician translation site, a Virtual Galician Library, and an educational server known as Lapis de cores (“Coloured Pencils”). Here we also find the Instituto da Lingua Galega (Galician Language Institute), continually harvesting words for the ongoing project of the Galician Linguistic Atlas. If the education system is improved, a child who goes to school in Galicia will be able to speak at least three languages very well: Galician, Spanish, and English. And this child will later find that this will enable him to make him/herself understood in Portugal, Brazil, Mozambique or East Timor. The history of Galicia should not be confused with the history of the pro-Galician movement, and certainly not with the history of Galician nationalism. However, if it wasn't for these movements, Galicia would remain washed away in the river of neglect. These learned Galician nationalists got us off to a good start. As early as 1916, the Irmandades da Fala41 defined our nation in the following terms: “Galicia, cell of universality.” Galicia as a uniting shoal, a stem cell or master copy. It's a wonderfully fertile idea. The Irmandades da Fala already wanted to fight against the determining factors, which put Galicia on the periphery, out of the way and mutilated. This peripheral condition has to do with the tripod of power (political, economical and cultural), but it's also a psychological convention, a prejudice against which one ought to rebel. If we were to re-think the world atlas, we could view Galicia as a continental and transatlantic crossroads, a fantastic meeting point, a huge port for cultural fusion, with jetties for all kinds of arrivals and departures, where cranes of the imagination would load and unload reinvented traditions, new heterodox beliefs, roaming peripheries and borderland expressions of redskin spirit. A sea of seas. A dreamy port with Fisterra as gateway to Europe, a place for the convergence and emergence of cultural waves, be they Hispanic, Portuguese, African, American... or even from your planet my good friend Golf! Perhaps it's not a complete coincidence that two of the figures that best represent an “alternative globalization” are from Galicia: Ignacio Ramonet, editor-in-chief of Le Monde Diplomatique, and the singer Manu Chao. There is a firm sense of identity in Galicia, but not one which is exclusive. It's a good place to share and contribute other identities. However, this requires a strategy of intelligence, a revolution in perception and eyes with wide-angle lenses to take in the contents of what today still remains a blind-spot. Only in this kind of imaginative outlook can we experience the fermentation of a different reality for Galicia. A reality where Galicia is a country for the union of others, a land to be filled with vintage wine and never emptied as the tide rushes out (even if it's the gentle tide found on a seaside resort). The memory of Galicia should be alive and not held trapped in tacky souvenirs. It should be mobile, adventurous, and able to exercise the basic human right to a productive imagination. And why shouldn't it? I got rather excited by your first question and that's why I've left it till last. “What's the weather like down there?” you asked. The weather! The first thing a Galician does when he gets up in the morning is to go and take a look at the sky. Some people do press-ups, some check up on the value of the Yen, some make the sign of the cross, and others pop some Prozac, but the Galician will not. The first thing he will do, before anything else at all, will be to prepare a meteorological analysis. I do believe that Galicia is the only place in Spain where live coverage of celestial landscapes would capture maximum viewing figures and would be able to compete on prime time television: “Good afternoon folks! Right now we're going live to some high winds in Ortegal! And now, a heavy shower in Escairón! Some fantastic drizzle in Carballo! Sun and rain at the same time in Ferrol; the work of the devil, as they say! Beautifully clear in Fragoso, even better in Miñor, and unbeatable in Rosal!”42 Galicians would become hypnotised by their television screens, murmuring phrases from Baudelaire: “Oh, the clouds! The wonderful clouds!” The general impression that non-Galicians have of Galicia is that Galicia equates to rain. Unfortunately, it only rains an average of 150 days a year. Johnny Rotring, singer for the group Radio Océano and symbol of the Atlantic renaissance, sung that “this is not Hawaii and we don't need it to be either.”43 “Fai un sol de carallo” (in English, “It's so fucking sunny”) was a memorable anti-summer hit sung in Antón Reixa’s musical, Galicia Caníbal. Antonio Tovar Bobillo defines himself as a “lonely atheist” in his surprising Diario íntimo dun vello revoltado (Private diary of a rebellious old man), and he wrote that “when the end is near, let life's final gift be a natural ray of sunlight.” According to scientists: “Within the sphere of influence of the Atlantic, the Galician climate shows differentiating characteristics likening it to subtropical Atlantic climates.” This is spot on: it's right there between the Norwegian fiords and Bora Bora. Our umbrellas are like paranoid antennas, our climate a metaphor. Life is like a meteorological phenomenon. A famous painter called Pablo Picasso lived in A Coruña for two years during his childhood. He took the wind with him as a lasting memory. There is a kind of psychology to different types of wind, many of which have names. The most dangerous is that which fishermen call the “wind of the widows.” Victor Omgá, a young man from Cameroon, has recently published his immigration odyssey in Galician, As calexas do medo (The Backstreets of Fear). He considers the soundtrack of his restless life to be the pattering of the rain which kept him company in his solitary existence as an illegal immigrant. Another man from Cameroon, amazed by the snow here, got into his head the idea of sending a handful of it home by post. Officially, fog is from London. However, Jonathan Dunne (a born-and-bred Londoner, philosopher and Galician to English translator) says that the first time that he saw real fog was when he got off the train in Lugo. He felt like he was on a strange planet until, one day in a café, he noticed an old man who was contemplating the rain falling on the other side of a window. It had been raining a lot for a good while. Just then, then old man turned to him and said: “Well. I think it might be raining.” I'd really love to send you a bundle of fog. Sometimes, the fog can help us see more clearly. Footnotes: 1. Translated lyrics to a Portuguese fado (traditional Portuguese song). In Portuguese in the original text: “A quem eu quero. nem ás paredes confesso.” 2. Approximate translation of the name of a typical after-hours bar. In Galician in the original text: Pola Vía Rápida. 3. The real name of the Galician village is Trasmundi 4. The real name of the Galician village is Extramundi 5. The real name of the Galician village is Aldemunde 6. The Galician names are Mar, Amor, Ouro and Silenzo. 7. The real Galician name is Pico Sagro. 8. The real Galician name is Boca do Inferno. 9. The real Galician name is A Fraga de Escuro Vermello. 10. These names in Galician are: vella do caldo, lucencú, verme da noite and corcoño. 11. In Galician the play on words is more obvious than in English, with the combination of the words Porto and Galiza reminding us of Portugal. 12. An allusion to the chorus of a well-known Galician folk song known as a Rianxeira. In Galician: “Ondiñas veñen, ondiñas veñen e van.” 13. Translator's version of the poem written by Paul Valery in 1922 and originally published in French as Le Cimetière Marin. 14. A Real is an old currency which was used in Spain between the 14th century and the middle of the 19th century. 15. Siniestro Total can be translated as “Total write-off” or “Total Disaster”. 16. Known in Galician as O Camiño de Santiago and in Spanish as El Camino de Santiago. 17. Breogán is referred to in Gaelic mythology as “Breaghan” or “Breachdan”. 18. Estrella Galicia is the most typical, famous and successful of local Galic

Master's degree - University of Stirling

Years of experience: 19. Registered at ProZ.com: Sep 2013.

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Bio

(versión en castellano adjunta a CV)

I am a native speaker of UK English and also hold the DELE C2 in Spanish (100% final exam) and CELGA 4 (C1 in Galician).

My language pairs are English/Spanish/Galician into English/Spanish.

I hold 2 Masters degrees, one in Translation Studies from the University of Stirling and one in Linguistics from the University of Santiago de Compostela.

My degrees are first class degrees with honours.

I have spent 8 years living and working in Spain as a teacher of English and currently I am a freelance translator, mountain guide and tour guide.

I have travelled extensively throughout Europe, South America and Africa.

I wish to obtain translation jobs in the fields of literature, sport, tourism and science above all but also have experience in translating a wide variety of academic texts and would be willing to accept work in any speciality.

I am well respected for my reliability, transparency and efficiency.

I look forward to establishing a healthy working relationship with you.

Keywords: english, spanish, galician, inglés, español, castellano, galego, literature, literatura, tourism. See more.english, spanish, galician, inglés, español, castellano, galego, literature, literatura, tourism, turismo, sport, deporte, science, ciencia, ciencias, translation, traducción, tradución, Gareth Evans, mmmmmountains, tour guide, mountain leader, mountain guide, Galicia, Santiago de Compostela, santiago. See less.

Profile last updated
Jan 4, 2014

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