A China notebook

 Xiamen, Beijing, Changchun. Changchun, Beijing, Xiamen. The idea of pairs cropped up while taking photos during the 5th 10+3 Media Cooperation Forum held in Changchun City, Sept. 4, in northeast Jilin province.

Ever since the invention of the daguerreotype camera people have been taking pictures of pairs — couples, friends, twins, objects, animals, one complementing the other or being set off against it, a mirror image or alter ego.

In Changchun during the forum the delegates were seldom without the volunteer student guides, one is to one, from nearby universities majoring in languages or education, who also served as amateur translators though the experience was also a learning process for them.

I had written a note on translation, meant to be delivered during the roundtable discussion, but due to shyness or plain disaffection with the piece, I chose not to read at the last minute. Besides, the others had plenty more to say.

Here it is: A note on translation

Translators on the greenhouse walk

In these days of social media where news is practically instant and can be disseminated with the click of a mouse, a crucial misplaced word may trigger suits and countersuits, an exchange of notes verbale and diplomatic protests.

The work of a translator then cannot be overemphasized, and not just a translator but a bilingual editor, especially in print media, so as to be vigilant that nothing is lost or added in translation that can be misappreciated.

What is the role of media in areas of conflict reporting? At best, the report itself should not be conflicted, or self-contradictory. And even as we rely on facts on the ground, it is prudent to keep the report as sober as possible, and not fall prey to sensationalism just to sell a few more newspapers.

In moving toward a period of rapprochement amid a fast-changing world of technology, media if we are to foster cooperation must not lose touch with the basics: the simple pen and paper, remembering that the news though breaking must be written with patient discernment.

What price the screaming headline when truth itself becomes relative?

Journalism is often described as literature in a hurry, and so not exactly disposable simply because it is still a form of literature.

In the Philippines there are many uses for yesterday’s papers: as dried fish wrapper, to wipe clean the windshields in a car wash, even as protective covering when repainting cars and houses; as material for papier-mâché, as festive little buntings during town fiestas, as confetti.

It is a means to remain grounded, and for journalism to aspire to go beyond the news itself and become functional, out of the box.

Literature cannot exist in a vacuum. Neither can journalism. Or, for that matter, media — social, antisocial, or otherwise.

It was also in Changchun that I began a very short poem influenced by the Chinese impressionists — if there is such a thing — hoping to have the same effect as a delicate scroll or painting.

It was brought on by a dream at the Shangri-La hotel, about driving a jeep in China. Bits also were taken from my guide Luo Junan’s comment that magpies were lucky, which bird we had seen at the Nanhu Hotel grounds where the conference was held.

These were fused with images of a night market, as contained in a postcard given by a delegate who used it as a calling card, and the sumptuous dinner of dumplings we had on the last night in town. The erhu, of course, is the violin-like Chinese instrument whose plaintiveness follows you around, in airports, elevators, hotel lobbies.

‘Erhu’

“And when the magpie said/ to the peasant woman selling/ dumplings in the night market,/ ‘If I drive a jeep in China/ will you marry me?’/ Only the sound of the erhu/ as the magpie’s white breast/ repainted the hillside of autumn.”

Another short poem I had begun in Manila in June only came to light in Beijing during the trip, fleshed out finally after a series of leave-takings, comings and goings, and the thought that the last thing you see of a person is the back, especially if you’re the one being left behind.

There was also a sense of guilt involved, as it was my father’s 96th birthday, and in a foreign land I could neither visit his grave nor light a candle for him, so the least I could do was finish this small verse.

‘The sea of her back’

“And when she turns her back/ at once it is as if I am out/ on the open deck at sea/ the wind a slipstream on the/ tarpaulin overhang/ stringing found verses in its wake/ jetsam, flotsam, the kelp/ at the back of her sea.”

The photos were taken with the basic Canon digital camera A490, after long years of insisting on the manual dinosaur. Still I take comfort in the advice of the classicists, who said that the novel will survive the onslaught of technology.

The picture is never the same, even if it feels like you’re seeing double.

Our last full day in Beijing, we visited the People’s Daily where the only thing reminiscent of a visit three years ago was the basketball court on the grounds, and this time there were puddles on the green surface.

In the afternoon was a meeting of the delegates with a senior communist party official at the Great Hall of the People, during which a number of jaws dropped when he said Chinese media “were the freest in the world”. Then again maybe it was another case of something lost and found in translation.

It was like we were hearing double.