Learning How to Listen Differently
Nearly every day after work, we pull into town, holding onto the back of the pickup, to the sounds of the school to the left in a cacophony of drums, cymbals and lyres, students playing simultaneously and practicing for the upcoming series of street celebrations for Guatemala’s “Mes Pátrio” (Patriotic Month, September 15th being Independence Day) here in San Lucas. Next, after clambering off the pickup in the centre of the town, we find ourselves accosted by the beeps of the tuk-tuks racing to reach their next passengers, crossing guards whistling while directing traffic and the women’s voices on the sides of the small streets selling their beautiful food, heaps of tortillas, dobladas, or an afternoon atol. Navigating the roads here without sidewalks, we use the sounds of motors and honking horns to guide our safe passage home, knowing when and when not to yield to the mini taxis and cargo trucks weaving through the cobblestone-laden streets.
We walk past the park that has erupted with the sounds of children playing in the basketball court, women making tostadas, and the man who always sets up his sound system in the centre, his voice and his friend’s guitar blaring in all directions, reaching the listening ears of the families laughing and men sitting in silence together. This is just one example of the many soundscapes I wanted to capture for this blog post with my set of tiny portable mics, but I kept forgetting them every day. Yet, I was able to attach a recording of some of the street celebrations from this morning that I mentioned above. We saw nearly twenty-five school bands and their massive parade weave through San Lucas, after months of practice, as families and shopkeepers listened from the side of the road. Waves of sound cascade down the street as one band gives way to the next, songs overlapping as the horn section opens up to percussion. Black shiny shoes step to the rhythm while costumes and school flags wave in unison in the wind. The first recording of the parade you’ll hear marks a pause in one band's playing as they wait for the group ahead to advance down the street. A few of the saxophonists huddle together, playing a few basic lullabies as a joke. Their conductor makes a little sigh of frustration, yet a smile creeps onto his face at their little moment of mischief, and the crowd laughs with them as they settle back into formation and wait for the signal to continue. Simón (my co-intern) thankfully reminded me to record that time.
With my ears peeled for more moments such as that one, I sought to create a sort of sonic diary this week - as I believe sometimes that sound can be forgotten or used in the background simply to complement video. I wanted to bring the daily sounds I hear in San Lucas to life, but while at my placement at the Instituto Mesoamericano de Permacultura (IMAP) - which, as a side note, has become one of my favourite places in the world - it was tricky to find time to record, on top of frequently forgetting my mics. Yet, with what I could scavenge, I was able to start the soundscape, with our descent down a short mountain path, as we weave our way back into the city this weekend, with the sounds of tuk-tuks and dramatic church ceremonies rising up around us - I let this slowly bleed into the sounds of the bands’ performance from this morning. I thankfully remembered my mics this Friday, and at the end of my sound diary, I’ve added a short recording of one of the rare thunderstorms I’ve heard at IMAP - even though we’re in the rainy season and there should be a daily downpour.
I wanted to share one memory of sound with you that taught me to listen differently and that stands out clearly from our first month. Simón and I were travelling in the bed of one of the public pickups, standing up and holding on tight as the truck wove through the mountain roads. We oo’d and aw’d in unison with the three women passengers, as the lake opened up in front of us, mountains creeping down to meet the water. You could almost make out the line marking the metre or two that the level of the lake had fallen during the drought (more on this later). We also noticed that the Volcán San Pedro had sprouted more spots of dried-out forest, looking drearier than two weeks before, some patches with a brown so stark it appeared red in the noonday sun.
On the way, a father and his two young sons waved us down, and we stopped and helped them load their firewood, a stack so big I couldn’t imagine how this man had dredged through the forest without a single drop of sweat appearing on his forehead as he held on tight to the back of the truck. Silence lasted briefly, and Simón noticed how the two young boys were speaking one of the Indigenous languages. The father seemed to have caught him listening and commented on the conversation, noting how they were talking in Tz'utujil together, one of three Maya languages spoken on the lake (Kaqchikel and K’iche’ being the other two). We smiled at each other, as it is rare to hear younger children speaking anything other than Spanish, and Simón commented on how special it was to witness. The man continued chatting with the other women, and there I lost track of the conversation. I dipped back in when I heard him mention something about corn. He explained that the price of corn was likely to increase this year, as there has been a disastrously low amount of rain, which hence translates to less yield and a higher markup.
As corn is the currency here, eaten at every meal, in an assortment of different ways, it will be quite a jolt to thousands of families - if not millions - if they have to pay even more for a basic staple. Even simple herbs, like chipilín, have risen in cost, up to three times the normal market price, as my host mom explained to me over breakfast this morning. And just yesterday, as rain trickled down, I walked past a completely yellowed and dried milpa (both the world cornfield and the agricultural system involved in it’s cultivation). The mention of the lack of rain is one of the refrains you’ll hear daily. It seems to have become built into everyday discussions; my compañeros wonder what direction the clouds, descending over the tops of the two volcanoes, have come from (if they creep over the mountains from the coast there won’t be any rain) or for example, “el cielo quiere llover” (the sky wants to rain), when a sudden mist and darkness descends over us, but brings nothing with it. That’s why the rain on Friday afternoon, that fell for just shy of three hours, was such a joy to hear landing on the roof, leaves and stone paths, while we sat in the open-air office, everyone wrapped up in extra layers as a cool breeze wafted in.
Yet those very sounds were also somewhat a reminder of how much we are lacking in loud, dramatic thunderstorms such as Friday’s. It’s a reminder of how so many farmers are seeing their crops die this season; it’s a reminder of how many families are finding it more difficult every year to feed themselves from their land and the encroachment of monocultures that further harm the already destabilized soil system (IMAP’s incredibly ecologically-minded property sits directly next to a horrendously obnoxious export-oriented avocado finca); it’s a reminder of the ever worsening climate crisis and of the importance of IMAP’s work in protecting and promoting ancestral knowledge and permaculture methods that care for the land and shield it from the effects of droughts such as this one. It’s a reminder, finally, of the work we can still do to stop this from getting worse, to do our part to protect the livelihoods of small shareholder farmers globally, to protect food sovereignty from policies such as the Monsanto Law (not yet passed thankfully) that would further wreck havec on the already drastically weakened agricultural system in Guatemala, and a reminder that all of our communities are being affected by rising food costs and shrinking water resources, but that we still have time (albeit a small window) to learn how to listen differently to and engage more responsibly with the land that sustains us.
On a lighter little end note, I wanted to describe a few of the other honourable mentions, soundscape-wise, that I failed to record but that have struck my attention:
The hundreds of dogs that exchange barks and yelps in a game of call and response every night. Their cries come in waves, one dog will start and slowly the barks will cascade through the town, only to die down again.
The sounds of the neighbours drifting into my window; their radios blaring evangelical talk shows (at least that’s what I think it is), hens squawking in the yard, the revving of motorcycles just squeaking past the tightly pressed walls of the alleyway and the kids’ laughter as they get ready for school in the morning.
The heaps of birds I hear while watering the plants at IMAP. Enjoying the moment alone, I look up into the canopy only to see massive birds of prey circling the property, just barely evading the tops of the trees.
Another very endearing honourable mention is a second hand account from Simón. He described witnessing the laughter and banter in Kaqchikel of the women’s group while working side by side with them, tending to their bio-intensive plot at IMAP. Even though he absolutely could not understand what they were saying, he nonetheless joined in when they laughed and they looked back in amusement at his enthusiastic participation.
Finally, it’s quite amusing to hear how my name has been adapted and turned into a million different sobrenombres (nicknames) by my coworkers and my host family. I’ve heard anything from Cheese, to Cheesy to Chasie to Soledad to Sol (an adaptation on my second name, Soleil). It’s very endearing to be working in the fields, weeding or whatnot, only to hear over my shoulder “Soledad, Soledad, comó te vas?” (“Loniless, Loniless how’s it going” or “Solitude, Solitude how’s it going,” depending on how you wish to translate).
