The blog posts, the photos, the videos –
sure, they’ll all keep the memories alive. But an audio clip of all the noises
that go on outside our door every day would probably be the thing that would
instantly bring me back to this kitchen table, where the soundtrack of daily
life is the rumble of cars a foot away from our front door, the BROO-broo-broo-broo-broo
barking of the dog next door, the blaring television from the house across the
street where we’re certain a deaf man must live.
It’s the toddler two doors down having one
of his usual tantrums, and the stressed mother down the way bellowing “Callete!” – “Shut up!” – at her worried
looking little two-year-old. It’s the snatches of conversation of people
passing by, mostly talking in animated Spanish but occasionally in that
distinct way that, even when you can’t make the words out, makes both Paul and
I look up and cry, “Gringos!”
It’s an
injured-animal call that the kids do here for fun – the sound of a dog
right after it’s been hit by a car or beaten, a cat trapped on a roof. The kids
fake the animals’ desperate cries so perfectly that it never fails to shake me
up. It’s a vibrating bass line thumping out of the disco two blocks away, and an
enthusiastic evangelical church service that our neighbours sometimes organize
in their garage, replete with much religious rapture. It’s the guy with the bad
starter trying to get his car to turn over, and the neighbour with the
makeshift tin door on his garage dragging it out of the way every morning as he
leaves for work at 4:30 a.m.
In this moment, I am hearing the dog Hegel
tormenting the fuzzy dog behind the fence, a scene that plays out at least twice
a day. Hegel is free and Fuzzy is stuck behind bars, and Hegel never tires of
reminding the poor thing of that fact. In the distance I hear a moto-taxi
labouring to climb the hill near here, and the little boy next door – a
terrible brat a year ago, always howling indignantly – asking in the nicest
possible way if his grandfather would like to play with him.
I had to wear ear plugs every night in our
first weeks here to try to tune out the endless din. (OK, not really endless – most
nights, Copan Ruinas falls deathly still between 1-4 a.m.) And the roosters!
Whoever fed us that story of roosters crowing at dawn has clearly never lived
in a small Latin American town, where the birds crow with gusto at whatever
hour they please. The strangled, discordant sound that emerges from their
straining throats sounds nothing like “cock-a-doodle-doo,” and each one seems
calculated to provoke a chorus of equally hoarse calls from every rooster
within hearing range.
I know I’ll miss the grackles – big, black
shiny birds that emit the most amazing whistles, pops, and complicated lines of
chatter every morning from our roof top, their beaks pointed straight up to the
sky like sentinels. Were I at any risk of sleeping in – as if that would be
possible, when the whole world begins its noisy day here well before 6 a.m., with
mighty throat clearings and the honk of car horns to beckon someone from their
house, the scrape of tin on asphalt as that damn makeshift garage door is
dragged out of the way – the sound of grackles would be sure to rouse me.
The firecrackers and gun shots – well, I
hadn’t expected to get used to them, but I have. Sometimes I think I’m getting
better at telling one from the other, but who knows? There are still mornings
when I curse the Honduran birthday custom of letting off firecrackers at 4 or 5
a.m., I admit, but at least now I fall back to sleep quickly instead of lie
there cursing the early wakeup. And on the rare occasion when a mariachi band
shows up as well to fete the birthday person, I kind of like it.
I still crave silence sometimes, the kind that only insulated windows, doors that go all the way to the floor and a 50-foot setback from the street will get you. But I’ll be back soon enough in the land of noise bylaws and closed windows. I expect I’ll miss the sound of life.
I still crave silence sometimes, the kind that only insulated windows, doors that go all the way to the floor and a 50-foot setback from the street will get you. But I’ll be back soon enough in the land of noise bylaws and closed windows. I expect I’ll miss the sound of life.
3 comments:
After living almost seven years in Honduras, I am in New Orleans for an extended break. I find it disquieting to be in a place where it's quiet, sometimes. Life seems slower, older and quiet here. In Honduras, the streets are vibrant, the towns full of young people, and of course, the air full of noise. In North America, these things are not the norm. Enjoy the sounds of life while you can.
Laurie,
who doesn't miss the gunfire and fireworks
I've often thought of recording the sounds on my various travels. I'd like to hear the tram bells on the street below our room in Grenoble once again, and the thundering surf on Rarotonga that sounded like a 747 taking off.
Once again, Jody you nailed it. The sounds you describe could be identical to our little Mexican town! Thanx for the smiles!
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