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11th ProZ.com translation contest: "Contemporary society" » English to Afrikaans » Entry by Jemima E


Source text in English

Translation by Jemima E (#14113)

We're accustomed to glamour in London SE26: Kelly Brook and Jason Statham used to live above the dentist. But when Anouska Hempel's heels hit the cracked cement of the parking space outside my flat, it's hard not to think of those Picture Post photographs of royalty visiting bombed-out families during the second world war. Her mission in my modest tract of suburbia is, however, about more than offering sympathy. Hempel—the woman who invented the boutique hotel before it bore any such proprietary name—has come to give me information for which, judging by the spreads in interiors magazines and anxious postings on online DIY forums, half the property-owners in the Western world seem desperate: how to give an ordinary home the look and the vibe of a five-star, £750-a-night hotel suite. To Hem­pelise, in this case, a modest conversion flat formed from the middle slice of a three-storey Victorian semi.

"You could do it," she says, casting an eye around my kitchen. "Anyone could do it. Absolutely no reason why not. But there has to be continuity between the rooms. A single idea must be followed through." She looks out wistfully over the fire escape. "And you'd have to buy the house next door, of course." That's a joke. I think.

...

It's worth pausing, though, to consider the oddness of this impulse. The hotel room is an amnesiac space. We would be troubled if it bore any sign of a previous occupant, particularly as many of us go to hotels in order to do things we would not do at home. We expect a hotel room to be cleaned as thoroughly as if a corpse had just been hauled from the bed. (In some cases, this will actually have happened.) The domestic interior embodies the opposite idea: it is a repository of memories. The story of its inhabitants ought to be there in the photos on the mantelpiece, the pictures on the wall, the books on the shelves. If hotel rooms were people, they would be smiling lobotomy patients or plausible psychopaths.
Ons is gewoond aan glans in London SE26: Kelly Brook en Jason Statham het immers bo die tandarts gewoon. Maar toe Anouska Hempel se hakke die gekraakte sement van die parkeerspasie buite my woonstel tref, was dit moeilik om nie te dink aan daardie poskaart foto’s van die koninklikes wat die gebombardeerde families tydens die Tweede Wêreld Oorlog besoek het nie. Haar misie in my beskeie voorstad, het egter oor meer gegaan as om simpatie aan te bied. Hempel – die vrou wat die boutique hotel bedink het voordat dit ‘n gapatenteerde naam gekry het – het vir my informasie kom gee waarvoor, te oordeel aan die dubbelblaaie in binnenshuise versiering tydskrifte en angstige plasings op aanlyn DIY forums, die helfte van eiendom eienaars in die Westerse wêreld desperaat was: hoe om aan ‘n gewone huis die aansien en aura van ‘n vyf-ster, £750-‘n-nag hotel suite te gee. Om in dié geval, ‘n beskeie skakelwoonstel wat die middelste gedeelte van ‘n drie-verdieping Victoriaanse semi uitmaak, te Hempeliseer.

“Jy kan dit doen,” sê sy, terwyl sy my kombuis bekyk. “Enigiemand kan dit doen. Absoluut geen rede waarom nie. Daar moet egter kontinuïteit tussen die kamers wees. ‘n Enkele tema moet dwarsdeur gevolg word.” Sy kyk nadenkend oor die brandtrap uit. “En jy sal natuurlik die huis langsaan moet koop.” Dis ‘n grap. Dink ek.

…

Dit is wel die moeite werd om die vreemdheid van hierdie idee te oorweeg. Die hotelkamer is ‘n ruimte sonder geheue. Ons sal ontsteld wees as dit enige teken van ‘n vorige inwoner vertoon, veral omdat baie van ons na hotelle toe gaan om dinge te doen wat ons nooit tuis sal doen nie. Ons verwag dat ‘n hotelkamer so deeglik skoongemaak moet word asof daar so pas ‘n lyk van die bed afgesleep is. (In sommige gevalle, sou dit wel regtig gebeur het.) Die huislike binneruimte vergestalt die teenoorgestelde idee: dit is ‘n plek van bewaring van herinneringe. Die verhaal van sy inwoners moet gesien kan word in die foto’s bo die kaggel, die prente teen die muur, die boeke op die rakke. As hotelkamers mense was, sou hulle glimlaggende “lobotomy” pasiënte, of moontlike psigopate wees.


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