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.