Sporting Portyanki

In January, Russian Defense Minister Sergei Shoygu expressed horror that soldiers were still wrapping their feet with portyanki instead of wearing socks. Vowing that the historic practice must end, he proclaimed that “In 2013, or at least by the end of 2013, we must forget the word портя́нки...”

How odd, I thought to myself… Maybe the portyanka is a bit old-fashioned and not very aesthetic, but why take it out on the word? After all, there is the well-known and rather witty диалекти́зм from Russian student lexicon, whereby the word портя́нка is used in place of шпарга́лка (cheat-sheet). And Russians more generally use the word to describe a дли́нная бума́жка с писани́ной (a long piece of paper with writing on it).

Коро́че, the word is here to stay, even if the actual портя́нка is on its way out. On the other hand, что за пожа́р? (where’s the fire?). As experienced Russian soldiers and officers will tell you, it’s very uncomfortable wearing plain но́ски|носки́ (socks) with those tall army boots – one’s feet quickly get rubbed raw, and socks wear out instantly. Furthermore, портя́нки prevent the blisters (мозо́ли) that come from wearing tall, heavy boots with no laces. How do I know? I learned it the hard way when I stupidly (and secretly) replaced my портя́нки with socks during my own month-long sojourn in the military: I had bloody blisters all over my right foot, while the old-timers wearing портя́нки had none.

Let’s dig deeper: does the English equivalent of портя́нка (foot wrap or foot cloth) adequately render its meaning? What’s the optimal recipe for translating local realities – specifically, clothing? In his translation of Pushkin’s The Captain’s Daughter, the highly respected English translator Robert Chandler has the protagonist Pyotr Grinev expressing his gratitude to a mysterious peasant (the future rebel Pugachev) by giving him a hare-skin coat (за́ячий тулу́п). Yet, is the word “coat” right for тулу́п, which is derived from a Turkish word that meant ко́жаный мешо́к из звери́ной шку́ры (a leather sack made out of animal hide)? And what about the second (vulgar) meaning of тулу́п: о нерасторо́пном, медли́тельном, глупова́том челове́ке, i.e. a rather stupid slow-starter? Sometimes a coat is more than a coat.

How about the famous тельня́шка? The dictionary offers “sailor’s striped vest,” but does that accurately convey the word’s many important connotations? For Russian sailors, the тельня́шка has long been their морска́я душа́ (“sea soul,” as the writer Leonid Sobolev put it). So to translate the idiom “нас ма́ло, но мы в тельня́шках” as simply “there are few of us, but we’re wearing sailors’ striped vests” would be inadequate. The catchphrase was coined by Soviet marines during WWII; they often left their ships to fight on land alongside regular infantrymen. Нас ма́ло, но мы в тельня́шках means “we may be few, but we can’t be beaten.”

Continuing on... What is the poor перево́дчик to do with кафта́н? Just write “caftan” and add a footnote: “A long outer garment worn by Russian men”? But how is one supposed to handle the brilliant headline “Три́шкин кафта́н по-португальски”? To save money, the hero of one of Ivan Krylov’s fables, “Тришка” (a diminutive of Трифон) patches the holes in the elbows of his кафта́н with material from the фа́лды (coat-tails). Russian readers will immediately pick up on the hint that Portugal’s recent austerity measures are patching some holes while creating others, so “Trishkin’s Coat in the Portuguese Manner” loses everything in translation.

The planned replacement of портя́нки and сапоги́ will together reportedly cost the state some R520.4 million ($21.4 million). Не фунт изю́ма (“that’s no pound of raisins,” i.e. nothing to sneeze at), even though our current economy, awash in petro-dollars, is a far cry from Portugal’s Три́шкин кафта́н. But I guess генера́л-а́рмии Shoigu will probably proceed with the “депортянкизация” (no, it’s not a real word) of the ру́сская а́рмия.

Oh, well... If only the costly replacement of портя́нки could help искорени́ть (root out) the vestiges of corruption inherited from Shoygu’s predecessor Serdyukov... But I can already see opportunities for Russian contractors (and middlemen) to прибра́ть к рука́м (lay their hands on) the lucrative state order (from the West?) of new вое́нные носки́. No doubt, our доморо́щенные (home-grown) marketers (the ones who named polo shirts руба́шка-по́ло) will label them ми́литари сокс. After all, we already see ads in “Russian” for оде́жда в сти́ле ми́литари.

The odds may be long, but in blogs, columns and press commentaries, some of us die-hard, Soviet-educated translators are protesting the relentless attempts to brainlessly dress our language in foreign attire, even when adequate Russian equivalents are available. We may be few, but we are sporting telnyashki!