Today We Are Going to Learn Guaraní

I was a Peace Corps Volunteer in Paraguay, South America. As part of the application process, I was asked what languages I spoke. Having taken four years of high school Spanish and worked in restaurants in college, I checked the "Spanish" box.


When I arrived in Paraguay, I realized that I did not speak Spanish.

To complicate things, almost everyone in Paraguay also speaks Guaraní, the indigenous language. Paraguay is one of the few examples in the continent where the Spanish conquistadors mostly intermarried with the native population instead of bludgeoning them (though they did that, too), and thus, nearly everyone from the poorest of farmer to the President of the Republic usually speaks both languages. So I had to learn that one, too.

I cried a lot.

Guaraní is not an easy language to learn. Its sentence structure is unlike any other language that I had experienced. New words were created by adding words to other words. For example, unlike in English where you add the letter "s" to the end of a word to make it plural, in Guaraní you added the whole new word, "kuera." Dog became a filthy pack of dogkuera. To make something smaller or younger, you added the letter "i." A dog was the mother of a dog'i. But if she had a whole litter she had a bunch of dog'ikuera. I'm mixing English so you get the concept, but now let's try some actual Guaraní.

"Woman" is "kuña." "Child" is "mita'i." "Girl" is "mitakuña'i." And "girls" is "mitakuña'ikuera." You get the idea. And why I cried a lot. 

The Guaraní dictionary has only been around for a few decades since it was primarily an oral language. They needed to invent new words in Guaraní for modern inventions that didn't exist back before everyone also spoke Spanish. Cars for example, weren't around back in the day, so people today speaking in Guaraní would throw in the Spanish word for car, "coche," instead. So not only does everyone speak both languages, but they also often speak both at the same time, much like Spanglish. This was called "Jopará," Guaraní for "mixed up," which summed up how I often felt. 

Like I said, they had to invent new Guaraní words for modern living. These words got crazier and longer and I can't remember any of them at all, because people continued to use the Spanish words which they already knew and were a hell of a lot easier. I think the Guaraní word for "wristwatch" was something that translated to "tiny magical prison on your arm that captures moving space and time," or something. 

My Guaraní sucked. Other Peace Corps Volunteers lived in more remote regions of the country where it was spoken more often and they learned faster. My friend Brian tried to help me learn by using examples that mattered most to me and thus spoke to my soul. By this I mean translating pop songs into Guaraní. Britney Spears' "Hit Me Baby One More Time" became "Punish Me, Small Child, Once Again." DMX singing "Y'all Gon' Make Me Lose My Mind, Up In Here, Up In Here" became "Beloved Friend, I Am Upset Inside of My Stomach and Need to Lay Down Flat, Will You Please Make Me a Tea of Medicinal Herbs?" It kinda helped, but not really.

The worst part about not speaking Guaraní very well was my host mother, Andresa. She had a wicked sense of humor and completely took advantage of my ignorance. Once, our neighbor died and we went to her wake. Sitting in the small house with the deceased woman lying on the kitchen table in front of us was odd enough. But then Andresa told me I needed to go speak to the dead woman's sister and offer my condolences. But the standard "Me pesame," wasn't good enough, she informed me, as the woman did not speak much Spanish. I would have to tell her "I am so sorry for your loss" in Guaraní.

"I have no idea how to say that, Andresa," I said.

"Don't worry, I'll teach you," she whispered, leaning closer. She told me the words and I repeated them back. "Yes, perfect."

I said them a few more times to practice then approached the dead woman's sister. I took her hands, looked her in the eyes and said the words. Her face changed. I knew instantly I did not say the right thing. I looked over at Andresa who was covering her mouth and doubled over in her chair, shaking with laughter. She had done it again! I quickly walked back to her and hissed, "What did you really tell me to say?"

Andresa could hardly get the words out through her convulsions. "You said, 'I am cold, Auntie, can I borrow your husband?'"

"Andresa, this is a funeral!" I said, mortified as the entire room now stared at us.

"Oh don't worry," she said, "The dead won't mind. Do you see her getting up from the table to complain? No? It's fine. Here, drink some more tereré."

There was one time, however, that Andresa helped me greatly with my Guaraní. To say "It's hot!" when talking about the weather, one would say "Haku!" Easy enough. "Hah-KOO." In Paraguay, it was hella hot for about half of the year, so that made weather small talk with neighbors relatively easy. "Haku, right? I mean, damn. Haku so hard right now."

The other half of the year was more complicated. "It's cold" in Guaraní is "Ro'y." The letter "y" is pronounced sort of like you just got punched in the stomach and as a result, a very guttural, animalistic noise has burst from your throat. Perhaps you are mortally wounded, perhaps you will recover, it was a waiting game at this point. I really don't know how else to describe it. Point is, it is not a sound native to the English language and therefore you feel rather embarrassed to even attempt to replicate it. When this happens, people speaking a new language often try to substitute the unnatural sound with one more similar from their native tongue. In this case, a softer "u." So during the cold months, and it did get very cold in Paraguay, I would make pleasant, light conversation with the good men and women of my town as we passed upon the dirt roads. 

"Hello, Mr. Ochipinti! How is your sick cow? Oh very good! Ro'u this morning, no?"

"Hi, massive group of teenaged boys walking to school! Ro'u! Ha ha, yes it is funny how cold it is!"

"Brrrr, brrrrr, I am so very cold. Ro'u! How very ro'u. Brrrr. I could really use a nice hot mate to warm me up, because ro'u. Oh, you have some you say! Back at your house? No, that's ok, you don't have to run back to bring me some... oh, right now? Ok... I'll wait."

This went on for months. I thought I was really doing well in Paraguay and making so many new friends. The people were so friendly here! 

Then Andresa dropped the bomb.

"Lali," she started (that's what they called me). "You are making a mistake. You are saying something wrong and you should not say it."

"I am?" I sat up. "What am I doing wrong?"

"You are saying 'ro'u' instead of 'ro'y.' There is a big difference."

I felt my stomach drop. I could barely hear the difference between the words, but I knew this couldn't be good.

"Tell me, Andresa. Tell me what I have been saying."

"'Ro'y' means 'It's cold out.' 'Ro'u' means... something like... 'I want to have oral sex with you.'"

"What?!" I shrieked. Birds flew from trees, flapping and terrified. "Andresa, I have been saying this for months! Months!! To everyone! At the school! To the Mayor! The priest!"

"It's ok, the priest likes it," she tried to console.

"No, Andresa, this isn't good! Oh my god! Why didn't you tell this me sooner!"

"I didn't want to embarrass you," she said. "And," a mischievous smirk slowly spreading across her face, "I thought it was funny."