How Do You Say ‘Albañilería’ in English?

Or more to the point, where and when would you want to say it at all?

Now that is some seriously shoddy workmanship (Pieter Brueghel the Elder, public domain, via Wikimedia Commons)

Albañilería is a wonderfully Spanish word. We kick off with the ‘al-’prefix, the amalgamated definite article indicating Arabic roots from the seven long centuries that much of the Iberian peninsula spent under Moorish rule.

Often found in terms associated with sectors where the far more technologically advanced Moors dragged the south-western corner of Europe out of the Dark Ages, such as agriculture, or in this case, architecture.

Then we have that eñe right in the middle. Such a symbol of the Spanish language and Spain’s cultural identity that the national pavilion at the 2010 Shanghai Expo was made up of over 8,000 wickerwork panels with the wavy form of the distinctive tilde accent.

And to round it off, the suffix ‘-ería’, a feature of so many quintessential elements of the nation’s culture: romería, bulería, charcutería…

So what does it mean, and how would you express it in English?

A dictionary will tell you it’s ‘masonry’, and that’s the basic, most reliable equivalent for the word a secas, on its own. If it crops up in isolation in a contractual translation, I’d tend to go for ‘masonry’, though often if there is more context — or, miracle of miracles, a client who can actually offer some explanation of what they really mean — it would tend to be ‘bricklaying’.

These days, an albañil is unlikely to be dressing stone for the monumental erection of a cathedral, especially now Barcelona’s Sagrada Família is pretty much finished. They will instead be slopping mortar and slapping down bricks to build a garage wall or backyard extension.

In fact, they probably won’t even refer to themselves as an albañil at all, except in official paperwork. To their colleagues and customers, they are, in Spanish slang, paletas. Literally ‘trowels’, a metonym similar to the British usage of ‘sparkie’ for electrician, or ‘chippie’ for carpenter.

But paleta is also synonymous with uncouth, uncultured conduct. Burping, farting, scratching your arse. A paleta is rough and ready. Not exactly the ideal term for a professional calling card. Or the side of your trade van.

And that is where this whole exploratory essay actually begins.

I’m stuck in traffic in Benidorm, on Spain’s Costa Blanca, a region where as many homeowners — and hence potential customers — are English-speaking as Spanish. And in front of me is the scratched arse end of a builder’s van.

ALBAÑILERÍA, FONTANERÍA, ALICATADO, it proclaims, in cheery Comic Sans. And just below, for the anglophone expats: MASONRY, PLUMBING, TILING.

Hmmm... One of these words is not like the others. The last two, with their humdrum ‘-ing’ gerund suffix, are as typically everyday English as albañilería is Spanish. But masonry? It feels out of place.

“The attic roof’s leaking again, Bill. We’re gonna have to call a masonry firm!” Said no one, ever.

The term does indeed accurately convey the formal, bookish flavour of the original — but that is precisely what makes it an odd choice in this communicative context: a builder advertising their services to random passers-by from the side of their van.

Why is that? Why does a particular register of language make perfect sense in one culture, but feel out of place in another living within its midst?

The Spanish language and people have a tendency to prioritise formal learning and qualifications. Pieces of paper embossed with institutional stamps, countersigned by deans and vice-chancellors, and topped with the imprimatur of ‘Juan Carlos, King of Spain’.

Walk into any estate agent’s office, or even a nail bar, and you will expect to see framed diplomas hanging from the wall, proclaiming the owner’s and employees’ entitlement to go about their business. This matters, to them and to their customers. It affords a sense of legitimacy and trust.

I am a qualified mason! You can therefore rely on me to get the job done.

The English-speaking world — or at least the parts of it I am culturally familiar with — doesn’t tend to work that way. Sure, at more academically professional levels, people want to know that the lawyer defending them in court, or the surgeon performing their heart bypass, has the required qualifications.

But even then — and much more so in more practical trades — it’s about experience and results, about getting the job done*, and marketing yourself as proactive and confident in your own abilities.

Got a problem needs fixing? Give us a go! Hundreds of satisfied customers!

That’s more the punchy sales pitch that would chime with an English-speaking audience.

Best brickies on the Costa Blanca — and that’s no bull!

The question that clients put to me as a translator is essentially: “Can you translate this into English for me?”

The answer is “Yes.” But also, in many cases, “To be honest, though, I wouldn’t put it that way in the first place.”

The art of adapting messages to achieve a better cultural fit in the mind of the reader in another language is known as transcreation, and is a very hard sell. Clients are reluctant to see their chosen words remoulded, or even rewritten altogether.

They have thought long and hard about what they want to say (one would hope!) and know the concept they aim to convey. The problem is that they don’t know the minds of their readers, because they don’t inhabit both language cultures. My job is to do just that.

If a van drives by with the word ‘masonry’ on the side, a monolingual English-speaking brain is unlikely to file that nugget of textual information under ‘builders I might want to call for that wall I need fixing’, but rather ‘cathedral restoration’, a service they are rather less likely to have a pressing need for.

Sure, it’s just a word. But unless it’s the right word, then it might be close to meaningless.

Or to put it another way: if you use the wrong bricks, the whole wall can come tumbling down.

Footnote

*Illustratively enough, the formal diploma I have as a translator comes from the Chartered Institute of Linguists in London. It is considered equivalent in the hierarchy of academic qualifications to a master’s, but involves no set course or syllabus.

If you believe you can do the job, you register and turn up for the exam, and are judged purely on your capacity to translate, not theoretical studies of the history of translation, or the best way to render a 17th-century Quevedo sonnet in English.