Меня зовут Дана Жетеева. В прошлом учитель английского, маркетолог, технический переводчик. Также переводила семьям, которые хотели усыновить детей. Вела онлайн уроки казахского языка для иностранных граждан. У меня трое замечательных детей. Увлекаюсь письменными переводами. Хочу, чтобы больше людей узнавало про Казахстан и нашу богатую культуру.
My name is Dana Zheteyeva. I used to work as a teacher of English, a marketing specialist and a technical interpreter. Was also translating for families, who wanted to adopt children. Gave online lessons on Kazakh to foreigners as well. I have three wonderful children. I like to do written translations. And I want that more people around the world learned about Kazakhstan and our rich culture.
Перевод произведения Павела Шумова “Схватка"
The cedars were huge, one and a half arm spans. They were growing on the slopes of the mountain ranges, impressing us with their might. Although closer to the top of the range they were smaller and more stunted, disappearing altogether at the top, yielding their place to elfin wood and mountain tundra. Here at the bottom of the mountain they were strong and beautiful: wide-branching and coned. It was middle of July after all. It was time to offer something to the chipmunks.
The massive roots bulged out from the moss like octopus' tentacles and anaconda's trunks.
But the size of the cedars was killing them. Even the thickest roots could not hold the weight of the tallest trunks on the steep slope. Besides, the roots were bumping into the cliff slope and unable to grasp the dead granite, were cracking it and pulling out boulders and moss and were falling across the hillside.
The uprooted trunks lay with their tops to the foot and their roots to the top of the hill.
Climbing up the mountain range, every now and then, we would come across one of these giants. To go round? It was thirty meters either up or down. To climb over? It meant climbing with your backpack over an obstacle one meter high.
Swearing and spitting we were playing this leapfrog game. We were dreaming of getting over that range; there was a lake on the other side of it. All we would have to do then was descend to the lake from the range, relax on its beach for two days and wait for the boat that would take us to the shop with beer, “Snickers” and cigarettes. Magic.
But for now it is just up, going round, climbing over. Obliquely traversing the slope, moving upwards.
A little more effort and here it is – the lake – in front of us. Squeezed between the two ranges: Eastern and Western, extending for 70 kilometers North to South, clear and deep. It lay beneath us and we were standing on the peak of the Western range, exultant. One kilometer below us there were pleasure crafts gliding on the glass of the lake. Those who were sitting in them could not even see us. And it seemed to us no distance.
The Eastern range was shining with the bare stony slopes opposite us lit by the setting sun…
There were no traces of our exultation in the morning. We spent the night on half-way to the lake, right on the slope. All our cheerful descending ended abruptly at a mountainous cliff. It was getting dark, so we decided to stay for the night. Maxim wound three trees with ropes and laid up a simple nest, where he “loaded” the girls. The guys laid down all over the place: someone behind a boulder, someone on his backpack still wearing the straps, through which he passed the safety rope and tied it to the “nest”. Roma suffered worst of all, as during one of the rest breaks his backpack briskly rolled down the slope and disappeared over the edge of the cliff. It disappeared together with his sleeping bag, change of clothes, passport and return tickets for the train. So the girls took him to their nest and covered him with a sleeping bag.
Half of the night I was stoking a little fire together with Naum and Natashka. I scared away a bear. I baked under-ripe cedar cones, picked milky nuts out of them, but finally dozed off. I should have given myself a half-hour sleep, letting my heart have a little rest. Slow down the pulse.
It was beginning to get light. I had never waited for the dawn so eagerly. The sun would allow us to escape from this trap on the slope. We hadn't drunk water since the previous night. We just ran out of it and all the springs flow down past that damn spot in front of the cliff. We had already opened the cans with green peas and mackerel in oil and drunk all the pickle juice from them.
The only way out in the morning was to return to the opposite side of the range – back to the cedars. There, at the bottom of the mountain, in the valley, a little spring runs slowly down to the lake. It was our promised land.