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Nicaragua’s noise epidemic: how I hated it, gave into it, and began to love it
April 17, 2009 @ 2:08 PM | Permalink
Today is band day in Granada. Marching bands from across the city and county march into Granada’s stadium to compete for the honor of regional champion, an honor that will catapult them to the national championships in Managua. It seems as though all of Granada pours to the stadium to watch these hearty high schoolers pound on drums and blow into horns.
However, to arrive at this wondrous day of friendly competition, students spent the week practicing at various venues throughout the city, or generally on the street. And today, they march through town creating a general ruckus, a cacophony of toots and bangs.
A marching band of hundreds of uniform-clad students passes by the front door as I type, and I must pause as my brain vibrates with their beats. High school marching bands tend to be very loud and just barely good, and these hourly interruptions are no exception.
Let the teenagers have their fun, you may say. It’s a special day, a competition. They are celebrating. The problem is, however, that today is only a small part in a Nicaraguan noise epidemic.
You see, Nicaraguans love noise. They love to listen to noise, and they love to make noise. Nicas don’t view noise a distraction or annoyance; rather, it is the music of life, la ritmo de vida, and like life, it never stops.
Reggeton pounds outside the pharmacy and American pop blares in the grocery store—is this appropriate, you wonder, standing next to a four year old in line as P’Diddy sings about pimping hoes. That it is 8 a.m. doesn’t deter your neighbor from turning up the volume when “Get Low” comes on the radio.
Drivers may be the biggest perpetuators of this Latin racket. Car horns are used for everything except traffic control. In many countries, it is illegal, although not necessarily enforced, to use a car horn except to insure ‘safe operation of vehicles and proper traffic flow’ (as quoted by one piece of legislation in the United States).
I don’t believe honking at a pretty lady walking down the street falls under ‘safe operation.’ Nor does offering a friendly toot to your friend’s cousin driving by in the opposite direction. Buses honk at bikers along the highway as if to say, ‘swerve left and you’ll be sorry.’ Taxi drivers turn right and honk, alerting pedestrians to move out of the way or else. A lady wearing a dress? She gets two honks.
We just finished the municipal election season, when every patriotic Nicaraguan decides that it is his civic duty to make as much noise as possible. In many countries, lawn signs quietly declare a person’s political affiliation; the more dedicated may adhere a bumper sticker to the back of a car. These mere paper symbols are not enough in Nicaragua, a country with a long tradition of revolution (a loud event by nature).
To declare your undying affiliation to a candidate, first record a track espousing the virtues of your candidate and denouncing the opposition. Be sure to speak so fast that even native Nicaraguans cannot understand you. Find a car and put some gas in it. Weld, glue, or otherwise secure a loudspeaker to the top of said car and drive slowly around the city and blare your recorder track on repeat. Also, please block traffic while you’re at it, creating yet another reason for your fellow drivers to honk their horns.
Cars wielding loud speakers are actually quite versatile, used for many other purposes. A truck full of produce drives by, screaming about carrots and pineapple. Another loud-speaker adorned car lets all us ladies know that the music starts at 8 p.m., something about beer (did I hear the word free?) and that we should come ready to dance. To where we should flock, the speaker neglects to mention before another marching band arrives and drowns it out.
Selling goods or political propaganda is not limited to those with access to a car. A man selling cheese from a basket atop his head passes with a plaintive wail of quessssssssoooo. Peanuts, gum, soda: the sounds blend into one, and soon my noise-wearied ears cannot tells the difference between a man selling food and one selling propaganda.
Perhaps it is Christmas time, or the festival of a town’s patron saint. Bring out the fireworks! Bring them out, and bring them out for hours unending. (Before you ask, the government firework fund is completely different than the textbook fund for students, and also the road-maintenance fund.)
Suddenly, I notice—my head is nodding along with the drummer passing outside and I am pounding my keys in time to the Nicaraguan national anthem. And I realize: you can spend your time and energy fighting the noise, or, you can just let the noise in.
By fighting the noise, seeking quiet shelters away from the racket and nestling into my ipod, as I’ve been tempted to do several times this morning, I am simply drowning out one culture’s racket with another. I could run away from the band competition, shield myself in Granada’s ancient petroglif museum (which is nice and quiet, thank you very much) and contemplate the statues in an eerie quiet. But, this is culture packaged in a way I want to see it—with informational signs and silence. Nicaragua’s noise is messy and expansive, but, ultimately, alive. Blaring car speakers are just another spontaneous street shows—like Argentina’s tangos on shady street corners in Buenos Aires, or Jamaica’s steel drummers on beaches. Shouldn’t I regard ‘Nica noise’ with as much respect and curiosity as I do a three-thousand year old stone statue?
So, I let the noise in, and accept these diverse tones as Nicaragua’s soundtrack, the rhythm that accompanies the pulse of daily life. Nicaraguans truly believe that noise injects a certain amount of alegria, happiness, into life, and that silence is synonymous with sadness. Noise is inclusive, beckoning one and all to join in on the fun while silence is isolating.
So, I embrace. Rather than curse the fireworks that erupt at random intervals, scaring the relaxed evening stroller, I shall relish their enthusiasm. I will thank the propaganda trucks for sharing their point of view with me without having to leave the comfort of my home.
Another produce truck passes, and now that I think of it, I’d like some tomatoes and bananas, as I haven’t yet eaten lunch. I run out, wave my twenty córdoba note, and yell to the truck. Ironically, they cannot hear me before they turn the corner, as another high-school band is passing by.
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