Encyclopedia Drew and the Missing Maori Fuck

I may not be taking a break from New Zealand-related posts here, but I’ll at least stop posting photos. I’d hate to make you readers feel like your trapped in my living room, watching an endless slideshow of pictures without people in them, but I do have a bit to say about the experience of spending the first month of the year over there, down there, tucked in the corner of the world.

Many New Zealand cities retain the names given to them by the indigenous Maori people. This is especially the case on the North Island. Being Americans driving from one place to the next, we’ve always had fun trying to accurately pronounce these place names. The short ones are easy. Those beginning with the ng sound, like Ngongotaha and Ngunguru, continue to trip me up. And long ones — Taumatawhakatangihangakoauauotamateapokaiwhenuakitanatahu foremost among them — are really tough, even if Maori is pronounced almost phonetically.

Before this most recent trip, I would have said that Maori was fully phonetic, but it’s not, apparently. Among many Maori, some non-Maori New Zealanders, and basically anyone speaking in an official capacity, there’s now a movement to pronounce the letter combination wh like an English f in order to pronounce it more like Maori would have before the arrival of Europeans. (Attempts to represent this language using the Roman alphabet may have changed the pronunciation, I would assume as a result of Europeans writing down what they thought they heard rather than what was actually being spoken. Wikipedia notes, however, that the pronunciation of wh is variable.) Thus, the town whose name I’ve been pronouncing as Whangarei should actually be Fangerei. Whanganui is Fanganui. And Whakatane is, unfortunately, Fakatane, a fact that I’m sure lots of people have fun with, especially if they don’t care for that particular town.

Yes, this is where I’m going with this: the F-word.

With the wh-f switch in mind, listen to the strange thing that happened to us while we traveled through Rotorua. We stopped at a place I’d never been before: the “thermal village,” Whakarewarewa. It’s a geothermal hotspot, a historic but still-active Maori village, and place where Maori people celebrate their culture. At the beginning of the tour, the guide walked the group through the pronunciation of the site’s full name, Te Whakarewarewatanga O Te Ope Taua A Wahiao but also noted that most people today just call the place Whaka for short. Now, knowing how wh is supposed to be pronounced, Whakarewarewa, Whaka and the long version should seemingly be pronounced with an f sound at the beginning. However, during our tour, it never was. Weird, right? I mean, if any place was going to use the allegedly proper Maori pronunciation, it would be this one, right?

I didn’t realize this strangeness until after the tour and therefore didn’t get to ask about it, so I’m now left to make one of three conclusions.

First, there’s the possibility that the English f sound just isn’t right. Though the letters wh in Maori words sometimes gets pronounced with an f — or, if you want to be technical about it (and why shouldn’t we?) the IPA [f], which is described as a labiodental fricative, literally a noise made by the friction of air between teeth and lips. But the Maori wh can also be a sound represented by the IPA symbol [ɸ] — a bilabial fricative, a sound made by friction between both lips. (Side note: I love when the IPA symbols actually look like a human mouth making the associated noise.) There’s an example of this noise here. (Warning: You may find it kind of hilarious.) But I can’t really hear the difference between it and [f]. At most, it sounds like a cross between someone blowing out birthday candles and a dismissive air puff released by a person who is incredulous or annoyed. (You may be making this noise now.)

Then there’s the possibility that not all Maori people think they should change their pronunciation of wh, which seems possible since this group as a whole may not always agree. Why should they? They’re human and regional differences are things humans seem to love creating.

Finally, there’s a third possibility that I think may be the correct one. If you’re a Maori person, and you’re stoked on your culture and especially stoked on showing off both your culture and your home to foreigners who are curious to learn about it, you might not appreciate snickering every time you speak the name of where you live. With the f pronunciation, Whakarewarewa would sound a lot like Fuckarewarewa. And when it’s truncated to Whaka, it would sound almost exactly like the New Zealand pronunciation of the word fucker. And that would be enough the make people laugh. And that would me awkward. (Believe me: When I was in London, particularly in museums or historical spots, I had to suppress laughter every time someone spoke regina in the British way.) In my head, it doesn’t seem out-of-the-question that the Whakarewarewans would convene and one day resolve to continue with the old w sound, even if f was more accurate, just so they and their guests would never treat the site like a joke. Furthermore, it may also be the case that the Whakarewarewa residents, proud thought they might be, don’t want to sound rude to foreigners, and this politeness may be trumping correctness.

In the end, I don’t know the real answer. Maybe people more Maori-savvy than I am will Google their way here and set me straight. Also, I have sent off an email to the best address I could find in hopes that someone can give me an official answer. I hope whoever reads it sees that I’m genuinely curious and not trying to poke fun, lest they tell me to whuck off.

Felicity Schickfick

As the result of aimless Wikipedia-wandering, I somehow ended up on the page for Heather Graham’s character in Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me. Why she warrants her own Wikipedia page, I couldn’t tell you, but the article includes an interesting section in which it lists the various ways her name — “Felicity Shagwell,” a pun in the classic Bond girl fashion — was translated into other languages. Some good ones:

• In Danish: Felicity Bollergodt, with boller godt literally translating to “fucks nice.”
• In Dutch: Felicity Neuktgoed, with neukt goed meaning “fucks well.”
• In French: Felicity Felicity Bonnebez, with bonne baise meaning “good fuck.”
• In French-speaking parts of Canada: Félicité Chaudolit, with chaud au lit meaning “hot in bed.”
• In German: Felicity Schickfick, meaning “Felicity Fucknice.”
• In Italian: Felicity Ladà, with the last name translating as “(she) gives it.”
• In Portuguese-speaking Brazil: Felicity Façobem, meaning “Felicity (I) Do It Well.”
• In Portuguese-speaking Portugal: Felicidade NaCama, translating in full to “happiness in the bed” and the only one of the translations that uses her first name in the sense of happiness.

There’s a few others that aren’t translated on the Wikipedia page, and I suspect Babelfish would not prove especially useful: Estonian (Õnnelik Kargaja), Finnish (Unelma Panopuu), Latvian (Felisitija Labdrāte), Polish (Felicity Robidobrze), Russian (Фелисити Добротрах), and five different ones in Spanish (Marifé Lación, Felicity Buenfollón, Felicity Revueltas, Felicity Revuelcabién, Felicity Lación).

“It’s tough being a globe-trotting pun,” says Heather Graham.

EDIT: Of course, I meant to say "Bond girl," not "Bong girl," though I suppose a bong girl would think sex puns are hilarious.

Good Dogs Get Biscuits

Okay.

One: Just like the story about that horse who could do math that was totally in all of our elementary school reading books, the dog is clearly just matching his crazed owner's voice, syllable-for-syllable with a corresponding groan. Two: When the dog said "Eric Clapton," I could have sworn he actually said "Someone help me." And three: I don't know what's creepier, the dog's apparently human mimicry or the owner's insane sputterings at the end of the clip.

[ fyi, all the post titles mean something ]

It Gets Ugly

As a forewarning, I'd like to state now that this post features more ugly than a high school colorguard halftime show. Proceed at your own risk.


The rather tragic woman depicted above this text is Beatriz Pinzón Solano, the title character in the former Colombian telenovela, Yo Soy Betty, La Fea. It translates to "I am Betty, the ugly one." I don't watch the show's American incarnation, Ugly Betty, but I have a passing familiarity with it, mostly through poor America Ferrera's connections to terrorism and thievery alleged by faulty image-pulling mechanisms in Google news searches for "Santa Barbara." Looking into the show, I've been thoroughly amused by the literal translations of Ugly Betty's various permutations. That, plus what horrendous features different countries cobble together to make what they think is ugly.

The first nation to rip off the show and make it their own kind of ugly is India, who dubbed it Jassi Jaissi Koi Nahin. The translation: "There's nobody like Jassi." Let's hope not.


In Israel, it's Esti Ha'mechoeret — ir "Ugly Esti." I can't help but to read that long, apostrophed Hebrew word as "hatchet-faced."


In Germany, it's Verliebt in Berlin, which makes no remark about it's protagonist's nuclear disaster of a face but apparently is a pun that can translate to either "In love with Berlin" or "In love in Berlin." Also, she's ugly, though not quite as ugly as her international counterparts.


In the former Soviet Union countries, the show was called Ne Rodis' Krasivoy, or "Be Not Born Beautiful." I'm not clear whether that's a command or just good advice.


The Turkish Sensiz Olmuyor translates to "Won't Work Without You." That's not funny. However, the fact that the lead ugly's name is "Gönül" that makes me laugh. Even more ugly-sounding: the actress's name, Özlem Conker, the sound of which strikes my ears like battering ram.


Not to be outdone by the original Colombian series, a Mexican network made its own version,
La Fea Más Bella, or "The Most Beautiful Ugly Girl."


The real prettiest ugly girl, however, would have to be the woman playing Lotte Pronk, the Dutch version of Ugly Betty. Literally, this character strikes me as not ugly in any manner whatsoever, save for a slightly out-of-date mop of Shirley Temple ringlets. Lotte's show is simply called Lotte — not Ugly Lotte, not Lotte With the Thing on Her Neck, not Lotte Has Orthopedic Shoes. I guess the Dutch are really such a fantastically beautiful people that Lotte is as ugly the best attempt at ugly they can put forth.


Spain too put forth a verion of the show, Yo Soy Bea. According to Wikipedia, the title is a pun. Bea's name sounds like either bella or fea, depending on whether she's wearing those goddamn glasses or not.


And finally the clear winner in the ratty hair and caterpillar eyebrows department, we have
the title character of the Greek series, Maria, i Asximi, or "Maria, the ugly one."


And an honorable mention in the ugly race: the translation of the Japanese name for the original version Betty, Ai to uragiri no hishojitsu, comes out to "Betty, love and betrayal secretarial office," which perhaps gets more to the point than anything any other country has put together on the subject.

The Not-Quite World Warrior

Geek break.

For those who are unfamiliar with video games and never had attended a pizza parlor birthday party in their formative years, the name "Street Fighter II" may sound unfamiliar. This game, a staple of every video arcade ever, was huge in the 90s, so much so that it continued in popularity — that is, various manifestations of the original game, and not prequels or sequels or spin-offs — until 1996 or so. That's a lot of quarters to be fed.

In short, Street Fighter II is generally credited with popularizing the once-ubiquitous fighting game genre. That's the one where two people — usually with both with silly hair and both representing a nation, lifestyle or subculture — kick the living shit out of each other until one keels over the other travels to a new locale to start the process over again. This idea was copied again and again, by countless other series, but it was Street Fighter II that did it right first. (Also, I can't help chuckle at the inherent admission that by virtue of Street Fighter II reinventing the wheel, Street Fighter I must have sucked balls. In truth, I've never even met anyone who has played it.)

That's basically the plot of Street Fighter II, really, though the eight characters who were initially selectable had their own reasons for joining the globe-spanning competition. It's the four boss characters that this post concerns, however. The fact that three of them swapped names between the release of the game in Japan and its translation into English is fairly well known among the now-adults who loved the game as kids, but I realized yesterday that I had never read an explanation of why the name-swamp was necessary or a discussion of the fact that the names worked better having been switched. In any case, that's what this post will be about: the small bit of cultural difference that I'd imagine most people don't notice.

So if you're playing Street Fighter II and your selected character sufficiently pummels the other seven, he or she advances to the four bosses. The first is a boxer, Balrog, whose Las Vegas stage marks the third American setting the game offers. (And while I'm there, is it strange at all that a Japanese -produced game about an international group of martial artists should include three American characters and only two Japanese ones?) Balrog likes to hit things.

And he looks a like an angry Tracy Morgan. Since Balrog is a well-muscled guy whose only apparent mode of social interaction is clobbering people, his name makes sense. The word "Balrog" originated in Lord of the Rings as the name of the behemoth monster that didn't kill the Hobbits when I hoped it would. In the original, Japanese version of Street Fighter II, however, "Balrog" was the name of a different boss. In Japan, this boxer is known as "M. Bison" and is meant to parody that other African-American whirlwind of fists and teeth, Mike Tyson.

The common story for this name switch is that those translating the game worried that Tyson would take offense to the joke — and really, who can blame them? — though I'd imagine that another factor came into play here. Namely, Mike Tyson had become the star of the Nintendo boxing game franchise, Punch-Out!!, a 1987 installment of which was titled Mike Tyson's Punch-Out!! So for all I know, Nintendo may have actually owned the copyrights to the use of Mike Tyson or any Mike Tyson-like character in a video game.

To complicate the matters further, "Balrog" is a tricky name to pronounce for someone who speaks Japanese. The whole confusion with "r" and "l" means that the middle of Balrog's name can easily get slurred into one non-consonant. In fact, the name proved so problematic that later upgrades to the original Street Fighter II engine actually included voice samples from an in-game announcer that pronounced it "Barlog."

Got it?

The second boss, Vega, requires a bit of explanation even when one isn't discussing his name problems. He's from Spain. That only explains a small part why he's a mess.

First off, this character's stage gave my childhood brain the notion that Spanish people have cage fights a lot. Secondly, I actually had to look this character up to remember why he looks like an escaped mental patient. According to his entry on the Wikipedia, Vega is a matador whose narcissism prompts him to fight with a mask. (One would also imagine that a person so concerned about his appearance wouldn't take up fighting with the fiercest martial artists in the world, however.) And the stupid claw? That just seems unfair.

In the original Japanese version, however, Vega's name is "Balrog." This strikes me as odd, given the associations Lord of the Rings readers and other assorted dorks would have with the word. The Wikipedia article supposes that the original name is intentionally ironic. Like in the case of the previous boss, the American name seems to make more sense, since vega is actually a Spanish word — and a fairly common surname in Spanish-speaking countries.

Next we have Sagat.

He's from Thailand. He fights in front of what I believe is a real landmark. Other than the fact that his name is doubly funny, he's not too important to this discussion, as his name remained the same in all versions of the game.

That leaves us with the Big Bad.

That's right — four men. Street Fighter II came out before the days of equal-opportunity street fighting, when the game featured only one female character, who had to be pretty, skinny, proficient at kicking, generally good, and notably feminine.

A cheerful and laid-back fellow, M. Bison is the villain seen depicted above as he kicks a vomiting sumo wrestler. Since he's wearing what looks like a military uniform, I always assumed the "M" initial stood for "Major" or something, even though I must have known how that title is correctly abbreviated. In the Japanese version of the game, however, this character has the name "Vega," for no reason I can understand. Apparently by virtue of giving the boxer the clobberific name and the matador the Spanish name, the grimacing man in the hat became "M. Bison" in America.

In the process of writing this, it occurred to me that Capcom, the company that developed Street Fighter II, could have easily avoided the problem of having three characters trade names in the two different markets they'd be pushing the game by having renamed the boxer character something else — "Leonard" or "Priscillla" or "Captain Fists" or whatever. Why would they bother to move the names around how they did and, in doing so, saddle the game's main villain with a name that references a slow and decidedly un-fearsome American grazing animal?

Then it occurred to me: In the same way the game's announcer voice had marred the pronunciation of "Balrog" in a way that Japanese ears wouldn't detect but American ears did, the person who provided that voice was probably unavailable to re-record any samples for names that would better fit audiences outside Japan. The digits bits that said "Vega wins" and "M. Bison wins" already existed, and Capcom of America had to make do with what they had.

So there — this needlessly confusing difference between the Japanese and American versions of Street Fighter II arose, I'd wager, solely from the technical limitations of the medium. Well, that and the threat of a beating from a man whose fists are registered lethal weapons. This difference ub how two different cultures approach the same bit of popular culture amuses me — not only because the two sides could easily not realize that they've been given a slightly different than the other got, but also because the change happens for a reason.

Thus ends my geek break. And you thought that this was purely a video game-related geek break.