Names, names, names...

Back in the states, I constantly shuffled between two different names. At home, I was St. John, to distinguish from my father, who we call Sinjin (which is arguably the correct pronunciation of the name).

That continued all the way through my second year of college, when I transferred to UPenn, and everyone there started calling me Sinjin. It was less confusing than St. John, apparently.

The fun has continued in Paraguay. When I got here, I took the name “Santo.”  This seemed like a perfectly logical choice – it honored my American name, but it didn’t weigh heavily, and it didn’t sound funny to me like “San Juan” did.

But Santo, without a solidifying second name, lends itself perfectly to Paraguayan improvisation. Over the last two years, I have developed a whole list of “Santo____”isms.

Henrique is Potrero’s plumber and amateur electrician. He’s a shifty looking character with small eyes and his face is all angles but for the mole that pops out of his left jaw. He often pauses at Taito’s house for a few moments, and he’ll spout out “Santo Virgen!” Then I’ll get a lengthy little discourse about my singleness in Potrero Pucu, and how I need to find a girlfriend.

Then, just as it’s winding down, Taito says something like, “Nahaniri, San-Toro!” (Basically, no, he’s St. Bull, or stud, I guess…) There are the jokes “There’s nothing saintly about this saint!,” or “Ugly Saint,” or other examples of Paraguayan ribbing.

Then there’s my host brother, Andres, who calls me Santo Luzardo, after star character in one of the country’s extra melodramatic soap operas. Nestor calls me Santo Torre Alba (St. White Tower), after another soaps star. Hopefully they're good characters - I've never seen the show.

Some people dispense with the name entirely. A civil servant I often see on my bus just calls me “Mister.” (Disconcerting that, reading a book and having someone shout “Mister!” and wave at you… It rolls off the tongue like a bad joke, and doesn’t come close to the poetic ring of “Sir,” or “Señor.”)

To my friend Diego, I am just “Gringo!”, shouted determinedly and enthusiastically. (This was probably the most annoying.) And to the cowboys that pass me by on the road, I am just “Americano.”

The whole situation used to vex me to no end, until I realized that Paraguayans do it amongst themselves too. And their nicknames for each other are sometimes even more interesting, particularly when the names originate from Guarani, which causes so many of the names to be based on animals and nature. Some of the names are startling and perceptive, others just silly. 

For example, my closest neighbor is a man named Ernesto. He’s a powerfully built block of a man, but he has large, lidded eyes with long, full lashes. He has become “Ña Curutú,” which is the Guarani name for a hawk with eyes like his.

I’ve written about my friend Taito before, too. But many people don’t call him Taito, they call him Taito Teju – “Taito the Lizard.” I’ve never understood how he picked that name up, because like Ernesto, he’s a solid, powerful man. Geckos are the last thing he reminds me of.

Ale Gallo “Alex the Rooster,” makes more sense. He’s short, with a small barrel of a belly, and a raspy tenor that carries whenever he explodes with mirth and sound.

Most of these names are harmless, but I would hate to be “Chico Kure,” which means “Boy Pig,” or alternatively, “Small Pig.” That’s Francisco, a handsome, but short man who teaches English and PE in the high school. And his brother Ignacio is “Pajaro Loco,” or “Crazy Parrot.”

And at the very least I escaped Ernesto's old nickname - "Huerova," or "Ox-Face."  Things could be worse.