translations and gabby marquez

Fully Booked, at the Mall of Asia, is separated by a road from SM Department Store. When I entered it, there was but one customer at the corner stand, slyly tearing the cellophane that sealed The Buzz magazine.

Me (to the sales assistant): Do you have Dean Alfar's Salamanca?

SA: Sorry, Sir. Wala po.

Me: What about Vicente Groyon's Sky Over Dimas?

SA: Wala rin po, Sir.

Me: Any book then by a Filipino author?

He made me follow him to a shelf that carried, among other things: 100 Years of Solitude; Love in the Time of Cholera; and Memories of My Melancholy Whores.

I scratched my head.

Gabriel.

Garcia.

Marquez.

Oo nga naman!

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Translation is a tricky thing. This is why I don't read translated materials even how celebrated they have become. It's like this: No matter how the translator tries his best to be faithful to the original material, I just feel that something is lost in translation. Take this one, for instance.

Teacher: Juan, give me an example of a tag question.
Juan: Our teacher is beautiful, isn't she?
Teacher: Very good. Now, translate it to Filipino.
Juan: Ang aming guro ay maganda. Hindi naman, di ba?

There.