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Working languages: Danish to English
English to Danish
|  PedersenTrl
United States Local time: 07:54 EST (GMT-5)
Native in: Danish  | | |
Freelancer,  Verified site user | | Translation, Editing/proofreading | | Detailed fields not specified. | Danish to English - Rates: 0.07 - 0.10 USD per word / 35 - 45 USD per hour
English to Danish - Rates: 0.07 - 0.10 USD per word / 35 - 45 USD per hour
| | PRO-level points: 4, Questions answered: 1 | Sample translations submitted: 2 | Danish to English: Hidden Massacre | Source text - Danish
1
Djakartas havn, Tanjung Priok. Det var sidst på formiddagen en dag i slutningen af september 1965. Luften var tung. Den lugtede af den kommende regn og kajens hede asfalt. Den blandede sig med de dovne krydrede dufte fra de lave åbne pakhuse. Om en times tid ville middagsstundens mørke skyer trække over himlen og næsten få dagslyset til at forsvinde. Øjeblikke senere ville troperegnen vælte ned og forsøge at gennembløde alt levende som dødt.
Den gamle slæbebåd med den alt for store overbygning og sit mangfoldige brune mandskab udstødte et dybt brøl, pustede en sort røgsky op gennem skorstenen, som tog den sig sammen, og lagde så alle kræfter i for at slæbe Clementine ud fra kajen.
Clementine selv var en stolt gammel dame fra den tid, hvor skibe blev nittet sammen. De to midtskibsbygninger, den høje skorsten med rederiets logo, de mange bomme til at laste og losse med, og alt deres tovværk, understregede hendes værdighed. Hun var en majestæt i rederiets Jorden-rundt-fart. End ikke manglen af maling på hendes skrog kunne ændre på det.
Kasper stod på kajen og fulgte slæbebådens bestræbelser på at bakse hende rundt midt ude i havnebassinet. Han savnede hende allerede. Nu pegede hendes stævn ud mod Javahavet. Han så slæbebådens besætning lade de sidste trosser gå. Endnu et par brøl fra begge skibe brød middagsheden. Det var farvel. Clementines
10.000 hestekræfter blev langsomt sluppet løs. Lyden af de dumpe slag steg mod himlen. Hendes skrue begyndte at rotere. Snart piskede en hvid stribe af kølvand bag hende og hun gled langsomt af sted mod det åbne hav. Agter gjorde en matros klar til at bjærge det store Dannebrog. Et mindre var ved at blive sat på monkey island over broen. Forude under styrbord sallinghorn vajede det indonesiske nationalflag. En hær af måger flaksede skrigende rundt, inden de styrtdykkede i sulten kamp om de fisk, der blev hvirvlet op af Clementines skrue. Deres skrig akkompagnerede den del af Kaspers liv, der sejlede væk.
Han var 19 år og selvom det ikke var første gang han var afmønstret, heller ikke her i Sydøstasien, var det en sær følelse at se sit skib forsvinde i horisonten. Som i Singapore et par år tidligere var der kommet en kort besked, som et fingerknips fra rederiet, at han skulle ommønstre til et nyt skib. Så havde det været om at få pakket habenguttet i vis en fart og få sagt farvel til det der havde været hans hjem. Her havde han levet sammen med mennesker han sikkert aldrig ville se mere. Om nogle år, 15-20 stykker måske, ville skibet blive hugget op og en del af hans liv ville være borte for altid. Hvor et nedrevet hus engang havde stået, ville grunden under huset altid være tilbage. Selv i Hiroshima. Et nyt hus ville måske skyde op, mens dér hvor et skib havde sejlet, ville vandet blot lukke sig, ikke efterlade et eneste spor. Fuldstændigt som ved de kajer hvor hun havde lastet og losset sit gods, med den mulige undtagelse at her kunne der stå det navn en matros for sjov eller i kærlighed til sit skib havde malet på bolværket en dag, hvor han shinede hende op udenbords. Ingen andre spor ville være tilbage. Der ville ikke være noget for ham at vende tilbage til. Højest ville der være nogle optegnelser i et eller andet register, et billede i gamle besætningsmedlemmers gemmer, måske en skibsmodel på et rederikontor. Det var den gravsten der ville overleve de, der havde sejlet med hende. Og så måske en god historie eller to. Måske en skibsskrue eller et navneskilt fra en redningsbåd, der hængende i sine davider var blevet knust af voldsomme søer en hidsig vinternat i Nordatlanten, hvor stormens isslag havde forsøgt at tvinge skibet i dybet med mus og mænd. Eller en redningskrans, som den der var drevet i land på Island tre måneder efter Hans Hedtofts forlis ved Kap Farvel. Sådan var det. Det var prisen for at opleve verden. Og det var det han ville. Derfor kan jeg vel godt savne hende, tænkte han, mærkede savnet, følte sig som en havets vagabond, hankede op i de to lyse svineskindskufferter og gik i retning af den lille flade hvide administrationsbygning for enden af kajen. Her ventede en medarbejder fra rederiets agent på ham, i fuld gang med at forklare en uniformeret mand et eller andet på indonesisk, mens han pegede mod Kasper. Ud fra hans fagter gættede Kasper på, hvad der blev sagt og udbrød med en stemme der ikke efterlod den mindste tvivl om han mente det:
- Jeg går op i byen! - Det kan ikke lade sig gøre, svarede agenten. - Hvorfor ikke? - Du skal bruge et shore-pass! -Jeg har da det her fra Clementine …, Kasper greb til skjortelommen - Det gælder ikke når skibet er sejlet. - Så kan jeg vel få et midlertidigt! -Nej! Du kan vente her til Jessie kommer ind, næsten kommanderede agenten og nikkede hen mod bygningens halvtag. Kasper så derhen. Op ad den hvide mur stod der en bænk i råt tilhuggede brædder. Han vendte sig mod agenten, der fortsatte:
| Translation - English
1
It was late morning in Jakarta’s harbor, Tanjung Priok, near the end of September 1965. The air was heavy, smelling of impending rain and the hot tar of the wharf. It mixed in with the lacy spicy scents from the low open warehouses. In about an hour the dark noon clouds would cover the sky almost obliterating any daylight. Within moments the tropical rain would cascade down attempting to soak everything, dead or alive.
The old tug with its much too large superstructure and plentiful colored crew issued a deep roar, blew a black cloud up through the smokestack, as if pulling itself together, and then with all its effort tugged Clementine away from the pier.
Clementine was a proud old lady from the days when ships were still riveted. The two midship structures, the tall smokestack with the company logo, the many derricks for loading and unloading, and all its ropes and lines, accentuated her dignity. She was royalty in the company’s shipping-around-the-world-service. Not even the lack of paint on her hull could change that.
Kasper stood on the pier watching the efforts of the tug to get her out into the middle of the harbor basin. He already missed her. Now her bow pointed out towards the Jakarta Sea. He saw the tug’s crew dropping the last hawsers. Another couple of roars from the two ships broke the noon heat. It was goodbye. Clementine’s 10,000 horse-power were slowly being let loose. The sound of dull thuds rose to the sky. Her propeller began turning and was soon leaving a white line of wake whipping behind her as she slowly sailed towards the open sea. Aft, a sailor hauled in the huge Danish flag, while a smaller one was being hoisted on the monkey island over the bridge. Forwards, on starboard side of the fore-mast the Indonesian flag flew. An army of seagulls flapped around screeching to then bullet-dive in a hungry fight for the fish that had been flushed up by Clementine’s propeller. Their screeching accompanied the very part of Kasper’s life that was sailing away. Even though it wasn’t the first time he had been discharged, even here in Southeast Asia, it was a strange feeling to see a ship disappear into the horizon. Just like a few years earlier in Singapore, a short message had been received—like the snap of a finger from the shipping company—that he was to change to another ship. So he had better get all his gear packed in a jiffy and say goodbye to what had served as his home. Here he had lived with people he probably would never see again. In some years, perhaps 15-20, the ship would be cut up and that part of his life would be gone forever. Where a torn-down house once stood, the ground beneath forever remains. Even in Hiroshima. Maybe a new house shoots up; but where a ship has sailed, the water simply closes in and not even a trace is left. Just like at the piers where she had loaded and unloaded her cargo, with the possible exception that some sailor who for fun or for the love of his ship had painted the name on the pillars one day while he was shining her up on the outside. No other traces would be left. There would be nothing for him to return to. At best there would be some records in some register, a picture in some old crew’s locker, maybe a model at the shipping agency. And then perhaps a good story or two. Perhaps a ship’s propeller or a nametag from a lifeboat, which hanging on its davits, had been crushed one violent winter night in the North Atlantic by enormous swells, where the icing from the storm attempted to force the ship into the depth—mice, men and rats. Or a life buoy, which had drifted ashore on Iceland three months after the shipwreck of Hans Hedtoft at Cape Farewell. That’s how it was. That was the price you paid to experience the world. And that’s what he wanted. Even so, he thought, he was allowed to miss her; he sensed his loss and felt like a bum of the sea, picked up his two pigskin suitcases and walked in the direction of the small, rather flat white administration building at the end of the pier. An employee from the shipping agent was waiting for him and busily explaining something in Indonesian to a uniformed man while pointing at Kasper. From his gestures Kasper guessed what was being said and broke out in a voice that left no doubt that he meant it:
- I’m going to town!
- That’s not possible, answered the agent.
- Why not?
- You have to have a shore pass!
- Well, I have this from Clementine.... Kasper reached for his shirt pocket.
- It’s not valid once the ship has sailed.
- Then I’ll get a temporary one!
- No! You’ll wait here until Jessie arrives, the agent commanded nodding towards the building porch.
Kasper looked there. Against the white wall was a bench of rough hewn boards. He turned to the agent who continued:
| | Danish to English: Hidden Massacre | Source text - Danish
1
Djakartas havn, Tanjung Priok. Det var sidst på formiddagen en dag i slutningen af september 1965. Luften var tung. Den lugtede af den kommende regn og kajens hede asfalt. Den blandede sig med de dovne krydrede dufte fra de lave åbne pakhuse. Om en times tid ville middagsstundens mørke skyer trække over himlen og næsten få dagslyset til at forsvinde. Øjeblikke senere ville troperegnen vælte ned og forsøge at gennembløde alt levende som dødt.
Den gamle slæbebåd med den alt for store overbygning og sit mangfoldige brune mandskab udstødte et dybt brøl, pustede en sort røgsky op gennem skorstenen, som tog den sig sammen, og lagde så alle kræfter i for at slæbe Clementine ud fra kajen.
Clementine selv var en stolt gammel dame fra den tid, hvor skibe blev nittet sammen. De to midtskibsbygninger, den høje skorsten med rederiets logo, de mange bomme til at laste og losse med, og alt deres tovværk, understregede hendes værdighed. Hun var en majestæt i rederiets Jorden-rundt-fart. End ikke manglen af maling på hendes skrog kunne ændre på det.
Kasper stod på kajen og fulgte slæbebådens bestræbelser på at bakse hende rundt midt ude i havnebassinet. Han savnede hende allerede. Nu pegede hendes stævn ud mod Javahavet. Han så slæbebådens besætning lade de sidste trosser gå. Endnu et par brøl fra begge skibe brød middagsheden. Det var farvel. Clementines
10.000 hestekræfter blev langsomt sluppet løs. Lyden af de dumpe slag steg mod himlen. Hendes skrue begyndte at rotere. Snart piskede en hvid stribe af kølvand bag hende og hun gled langsomt af sted mod det åbne hav. Agter gjorde en matros klar til at bjærge det store Dannebrog. Et mindre var ved at blive sat på monkey island over broen. Forude under styrbord sallinghorn vajede det indonesiske nationalflag. En hær af måger flaksede skrigende rundt, inden de styrtdykkede i sulten kamp om de fisk, der blev hvirvlet op af Clementines skrue. Deres skrig akkompagnerede den del af Kaspers liv, der sejlede væk.
Han var 19 år og selvom det ikke var første gang han var afmønstret, heller ikke her i Sydøstasien, var det en sær følelse at se sit skib forsvinde i horisonten. Som i Singapore et par år tidligere var der kommet en kort besked, som et fingerknips fra rederiet, at han skulle ommønstre til et nyt skib. Så havde det været om at få pakket habenguttet i vis en fart og få sagt farvel til det der havde været hans hjem. Her havde han levet sammen med mennesker han sikkert aldrig ville se mere. Om nogle år, 15-20 stykker måske, ville skibet blive hugget op og en del af hans liv ville være borte for altid. Hvor et nedrevet hus engang havde stået, ville grunden under huset altid være tilbage. Selv i Hiroshima. Et nyt hus ville måske skyde op, mens dér hvor et skib havde sejlet, ville vandet blot lukke sig, ikke efterlade et eneste spor. Fuldstændigt som ved de kajer hvor hun havde lastet og losset sit gods, med den mulige undtagelse at her kunne der stå det navn en matros for sjov eller i kærlighed til sit skib havde malet på bolværket en dag, hvor han shinede hende op udenbords. Ingen andre spor ville være tilbage. Der ville ikke være noget for ham at vende tilbage til. Højest ville der være nogle optegnelser i et eller andet register, et billede i gamle besætningsmedlemmers gemmer, måske en skibsmodel på et rederikontor. Det var den gravsten der ville overleve de, der havde sejlet med hende. Og så måske en god historie eller to. Måske en skibsskrue eller et navneskilt fra en redningsbåd, der hængende i sine davider var blevet knust af voldsomme søer en hidsig vinternat i Nordatlanten, hvor stormens isslag havde forsøgt at tvinge skibet i dybet med mus og mænd. Eller en redningskrans, som den der var drevet i land på Island tre måneder efter Hans Hedtofts forlis ved Kap Farvel. Sådan var det. Det var prisen for at opleve verden. Og det var det han ville. Derfor kan jeg vel godt savne hende, tænkte han, mærkede savnet, følte sig som en havets vagabond, hankede op i de to lyse svineskindskufferter og gik i retning af den lille flade hvide administrationsbygning for enden af kajen. Her ventede en medarbejder fra rederiets agent på ham, i fuld gang med at forklare en uniformeret mand et eller andet på indonesisk, mens han pegede mod Kasper. Ud fra hans fagter gættede Kasper på, hvad der blev sagt og udbrød med en stemme der ikke efterlod den mindste tvivl om han mente det:
- Jeg går op i byen! - Det kan ikke lade sig gøre, svarede agenten. - Hvorfor ikke? - Du skal bruge et shore-pass! -Jeg har da det her fra Clementine …, Kasper greb til skjortelommen - Det gælder ikke når skibet er sejlet. - Så kan jeg vel få et midlertidigt! -Nej! Du kan vente her til Jessie kommer ind, næsten kommanderede agenten og nikkede hen mod bygningens halvtag. Kasper så derhen. Op ad den hvide mur stod der en bænk i råt tilhuggede brædder. Han vendte sig mod agenten, der fortsatte:
| Translation - English
1
It was late morning in Jakarta’s harbor, Tanjung Priok, near the end of September 1965. The air was heavy, smelling of impending rain and the hot tar of the wharf. It mixed in with the lacy spicy scents from the low open warehouses. In about an hour the dark noon clouds would cover the sky almost obliterating any daylight. Within moments the tropical rain would cascade down attempting to soak everything, dead or alive.
The old tug with its much too large superstructure and plentiful colored crew issued a deep roar, blew a black cloud up through the smokestack, as if pulling itself together, and then with all its effort tugged Clementine away from the pier.
Clementine was a proud old lady from the days when ships were still riveted. The two midship structures, the tall smokestack with the company logo, the many derricks for loading and unloading, and all its ropes and lines, accentuated her dignity. She was royalty in the company’s shipping-around-the-world-service. Not even the lack of paint on her hull could change that.
Kasper stood on the pier watching the efforts of the tug to get her out into the middle of the harbor basin. He already missed her. Now her bow pointed out towards the Jakarta Sea. He saw the tug’s crew dropping the last hawsers. Another couple of roars from the two ships broke the noon heat. It was goodbye. Clementine’s 10,000 horse-power were slowly being let loose. The sound of dull thuds rose to the sky. Her propeller began turning and was soon leaving a white line of wake whipping behind her as she slowly sailed towards the open sea. Aft, a sailor hauled in the huge Danish flag, while a smaller one was being hoisted on the monkey island over the bridge. Forwards, on starboard side of the fore-mast the Indonesian flag flew. An army of seagulls flapped around screeching to then bullet-dive in a hungry fight for the fish that had been flushed up by Clementine’s propeller. Their screeching accompanied the very part of Kasper’s life that was sailing away. Even though it wasn’t the first time he had been discharged, even here in Southeast Asia, it was a strange feeling to see a ship disappear into the horizon. Just like a few years earlier in Singapore, a short message had been received—like the snap of a finger from the shipping company—that he was to change to another ship. So he had better get all his gear packed in a jiffy and say goodbye to what had served as his home. Here he had lived with people he probably would never see again. In some years, perhaps 15-20, the ship would be cut up and that part of his life would be gone forever. Where a torn-down house once stood, the ground beneath forever remains. Even in Hiroshima. Maybe a new house shoots up; but where a ship has sailed, the water simply closes in and not even a trace is left. Just like at the piers where she had loaded and unloaded her cargo, with the possible exception that some sailor who for fun or for the love of his ship had painted the name on the pillars one day while he was shining her up on the outside. No other traces would be left. There would be nothing for him to return to. At best there would be some records in some register, a picture in some old crew’s locker, maybe a model at the shipping agency. And then perhaps a good story or two. Perhaps a ship’s propeller or a nametag from a lifeboat, which hanging on its davits, had been crushed one violent winter night in the North Atlantic by enormous swells, where the icing from the storm attempted to force the ship into the depth—mice, men and rats. Or a life buoy, which had drifted ashore on Iceland three months after the shipwreck of Hans Hedtoft at Cape Farewell. That’s how it was. That was the price you paid to experience the world. And that’s what he wanted. Even so, he thought, he was allowed to miss her; he sensed his loss and felt like a bum of the sea, picked up his two pigskin suitcases and walked in the direction of the small, rather flat white administration building at the end of the pier. An employee from the shipping agent was waiting for him and busily explaining something in Indonesian to a uniformed man while pointing at Kasper. From his gestures Kasper guessed what was being said and broke out in a voice that left no doubt that he meant it:
- I’m going to town!
- That’s not possible, answered the agent.
- Why not?
- You have to have a shore pass!
- Well, I have this from Clementine.... Kasper reached for his shirt pocket.
- It’s not valid once the ship has sailed.
- Then I’ll get a temporary one!
- No! You’ll wait here until Jessie arrives, the agent commanded nodding towards the building porch.
Kasper looked there. Against the white wall was a bench of rough hewn boards. He turned to the agent who continued:
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More Less | | Years of translation experience: 15. Registered at ProZ.com: Aug 2008. | | N/A | | N/A | | N/A | | Adobe Acrobat, Microsoft Excel, Microsoft Word, SDL TRADOS, SDLX | | English (PDF), English (PDF) | | About me I am completely fluent in both Danish and English. I have extensive experience translating lectures and books in humanitarian fields; I also have experience managing other languages like Norwegian and Swedish and have experience in subtitling and voice recording.
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Keywords: Reliable, conscientious, all round,
Profile last updated
Nov 8, 2008 |
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