Sounds of Life

Judy. Every city or neighborhood, I suppose, has its own unique sounds. When we lived in the suburbs, it was easy to identify the sounds of the school buses early in the morning, then again in the afternoon. When we moved to the city, the sounds of sirens eventually settled into our consciousness and stopped waking us up at night.

Oaxaca has a set of sounds all its own, unlike any I’ve ever known, starting at about six in the morning.

First, and faintly, is the sound of a rooster crowing. This sets off the dogs, who begin barking. Just as you think you’ll fall asleep again, the garbage man rings his schoolteacher bell, for about thirty seconds, then again thirty seconds later. The doves begin to coo, and some unnamed bird welcomes the sun with his own song.

The airport is about five miles away and starting at about 7:30 AM, the flights to the US and Mexico City take off, three of them, about twenty minutes apart.

We live on a quiet street, but one block away is a major road, and the sounds of buses and trucks in the rush hour add to the cacophony. Not to be outdone, the church bell at the nearby Basilica of Soledad starts in, with no rhyme or reason for its duration. Other churches decide they need to wake their parishioners as well, so they join in.

By eight o’clock, things have settled, and you might consider going back to sleep, but it’s time for the roving street vendors.

The baked potato man has a whistle that sounds like the whistle your dad made with his fingers in his mouth. The elotes, or corn vendor has a triangle he dings. (These, of course, set the dogs off again.) The knife sharpener blows his penny whistle and the churro vendor plays a little melody by Mozart on an electric horn.

Propane gas, the primary local fuel, is sold here in canisters, and the truck wanders the streets with a cow horn mooing followed by a short recording, the only words of which I can understand are Gas de Oaxaca.

My absolute favorite, though, is less common. Water from the taps is non-potable, so drinking water is sold by the 5-gallon jug. The water guy wanders the street calling “Awah. Awah.”  Fifteen seconds go by. “Awah. Awah,” and sometimes, just “AAAAA-wa!”

On big holidays, brass and drum bands practice near the Basilica, and around the corner a small group of men sometimes play bongos and sing folkloric songs. One Saturday night there was a huge rock concert a few blocks away featuring five different bands. They were really good—but they went on till one AM—a bit late for us old folks.

Down the hill in town, the wedding parades (sometimes several per Saturday) march down Calle Alcala with music and dancing. As you walk by certain bar restaurants, the music is turned up so high you get dueling DJ's. 

About 7:30 at night, the flights to other parts of Mexico fly overhead, two of them, filled with passengers hating to leave this place.

Our little house is located on a hill, and there are banana trees in our patio. At night, when the wind blows, they send us to sleep with a gentle rustle.

We find ourselves absolutely delighted. We know we’re in Oaxaca.

Chile on Fire

Judy. Right now, the media in the United States is wrapped up in impeachment hearings—and that’s as it should be. It’s an important issue for our country. Still, I can’t recall many times when North American news channels covered problems in other countries, unless it affected the US.

In the six weeks we lived in Santiago, we developed many friendships with lovely and caring people. At the moment, we are deeply concerned for their safety.

Some weeks ago the government imposed a small increase in subway fares. Very small, in fact, and only during rush hour. When students and workers complained, the response was, “Leave an hour earlier.” Enraged, the students and workers began a violent protest, burning metro stations and other buildings. This, you may have seen. You may not have seen photos of citizens of Santiago cleaning up afterwards.

Burning Church

And you may not know that the subway fare rise was only the spark that exposed the lack of health care, pensions, and other issues. Soon more than just students were protesting, some silently or in nonviolent marches, and others violently. The President responded by having the army treat them all the same, firing rubber bullets, using teargas, etc. Hundreds of people have been partially or completely blinded by the rubber bullets.

Silent protesters

Our friends tell us it is mass confusion; that curfews are in place, that stores are open for only a few hours, and that they often have to wait hours in line for a grocery store to open, only to find there is nothing there.

Stores boarded on Avenida Apoquinto 

One dear friend responded to me, “I don’t see how this will end.”

The pastor of Santiago Community Church (our church home in Chile), after seeing graffiti on the church wall, decided to do something. Realizing that protesters would be marching by the church, followed by the army, he bought up all the bottles of water and plastic cups he could get, and handed them out to protesters and army alike. When the bottles were gone, he filled cups with water and handed those out.

Medics washing their hands at Santiago Community Church

The President has promised a referendum in April to draft a new Constitution, the old one being a holdover from the Pinochet era. For some of my friends, this is not enough. New laws need to be enacted.

As I said, it’s a confusing and difficult time. Some say that the fires were not started by students, but by a special-interest group with a different agenda. We don’t understand all of it, and our friends, who see the problems from different sides, give us conflicting answers. The fact is that unrest is spreading over South America, and around the world.

All we know is that Chile is on fire, and we love and pray for our friends.

Roma

Ted. Alfonso Cuarón’s film Roma, which came out about a year ago is, in part, a remembrance of the director’s childhood in the Colonia Roma neighborhood of Mexico City. As with Lucas’ American Graffiti and Fellini’s Amacord, one’s memories are often clouded with love. The few folks we know who saw the film didn’t care for it. A black and white movie with subtitles is not everyone’s cup of tea. Even worse, Cuarón set a slow pace and used long, lazy shots. There was not a lot of action. 

Still from the film Roma

Judy and I loved the film though, so it was only natural that we chose to stay in Roma while visiting the Mexican capital. Strolling around the neighborhood, we dropped down a gear to match the slow pace of this beautiful, tree dappled residential neighborhood.

Sure, there were some tourists and digital nomads but mostly, we saw locals lingering in the parks and sidewalk cafes.  We heard the sounds advertising the different street vendors roaming the streets, just like in Cuarón's film; the steam whistle of the corn and potato cart and the penny whistle of the knife sharpener.  

To an extent, Roma was a commentary on the complex relationship between servants and the served that was once common in the US and still exists in developing countries. Might that be one of the irritants leading to the current troubles in Chile and other places? 

Personally, I was struck by how calm we became in this quiet corner of a city of 21 million people. Asheville, NC, with less than a quarter of a million residents, seemed far more hectic with wealthy new age boomers racings to their yoga classes to relax.

While sipping fresh squeezed fruit juice at a café (grapefruit for Judy and guanabana for me), Judy flashed one of her winning smiles at a passing transvestite who promptly spun around and sat down at our table to chat a bit. The waiters were shocked but we waved them away and listened to the stories of our new friend. It seemed to be the most natural thing in the world. Neighborhoods where people actually make time to talk to each other still exist but sometimes we just need to overcome our fears.