What label to you attach to the land area bordering Mexico’s largest lake? Most English-speakers call it “Lakeside,” a simple and fitting description. The waters muddy when it comes to Spanish terminology.
My most erudite Mexican friends say the proper name is Ribera de Chapala and cringe whenever they see it written “Rivera” instead. That’s fine, they insist, if you’re referring to one of Mexico’s most famed muralists and others who share his surname, but not if you mean the Lake Chapala area.
To pin down the distinction, I looked up the two words in various reference sources, including my ten-pound Larousse Spanish-English dictionary. Sure enough rivera with a small “r” translates as brook or creek bed. Ribera means beach, seashore, riverside or in our case, lakeshore.
News flash. Jalisco’s Tourism Ministry (Secturjal) has gone completely off the deep end with a glossy bilingual visitor’s guide to the area that’s hot off the presses. Under the cover title Ribera de Chapala (okay so far), reads the English version: Chapala’s River Bay.
What river? What bay?
But that’s only the first of multiple translation and factual errors contained in texts intermixed with 36 pages of stunning photographs. Makes you wonder if the editorial staff and Einstein contracted to handle the translation have ever come within miles of here.
Page two shows silhouettes of tourist boats against a golden sky-and-water backdrop, with the legend: tu mirada se pierde al atardecer – your sight is lost through the sunset. Oh dear, are they warning tourists that they could be blinded by glancing out at the lake as the sun plunges below the horizon? Even the abominable Google Translate does a better job with its version “your gaze is lost at sunset.”
Then there’s this nugget from the section on Chapala’s Malecón: “The Boardwalk is one of the main attractions in which the Craft Market is found colors, textures and typical craft work from different regions in the country are available.” Huh?
On the double page map, the symbol for a gasoline pump identifies gas stations. The same phrase appears in the key next to the bus stop and airport symbols … oops. And towards the end the description of Ajijic mentions “the Saint Andrew Parish dates from 1901,” a church that is at least 250 years old.
Nacho Sánchez, Secturjal’s bright and bilingual regional office chief, is rightfully miffed that his superiors never bothered to send him a proof of the booklet for pre-press revision. Perhaps they assume that pretty pictures and empty catch phrases are worth more than practical information and intelligible language.
Chapala’s own tourism department fell into exactly the same trap with its new passport-size guide, presumptuously titled Riviera Chapala. As much as I love my adopted home, this is a classic case of putting lipstick on a pig.