7:00 a.m.
The silence is thick as the sky lights up orange in the east. All of Chapala seems to be asleep. The day begins with the birds. They tweet and chirp like stars blinking to life, sparkling in the palms, the large sheltering trees, the low bushes.
Then it’s the sweeping, the steady hypnotic sweeping with large Harry Potter brooms, as each business, each home, each claimed piece of sidewalk is brushed free of yesterday’s dirt and dust.
I’ve started sweeping too.
People walk by, bags and tools and brooms on shoulders. A man whistles, a radio sputters and snaps to life.
Then, the first garbage truck rumbles by. I see the man sitting in the back trash door, reading his iPhone. Another garbage truck meets the first one. They park at the end of the street, the men talk and laugh.
7:30 a.m.
The church bells do a soft ding-dong ding-dong. It’s the half hour. The man that stands outside my house all day lights a cigarette and waters the trees in the street planters, and then waits, with his bucket and rag for the first car that will want a wash.
Another car rumbles through. A chainsaw starts. The garbage trucks rev and roll down the streets, plucking our daily garbage, like heavy fruit, hung from the trees and off the lamp poles. Mothers walk by with children. Girls in skirts and backpacks. More dogs bark.
The last of the pink/orange of the sunrise fades to the palest of yellows, beginning its transformation to blue. A handful of gringos march to the malecón wearing workout gear and trailing leashed dogs.
The water man drives by, yelling, “Agua! Agua! Agua!” It sounds like, “Wah! Wah! Wah!”
The cabelleros ride by, extra horses in tow, getting ready to set up the horse rides on the lakefront.
Soon there will be more musica. Siempre musica.
Mexico is never without a soundtrack. The VW with a speaker on its roof screaming political messages, the vegetable truck with the megaphone announcing the superiority of his produce, the young man in the jacked up car with his Led Zeppelin at full throttle, the competing mariachis, the bandstand musicians, the taped-together portable radios with speakers that crackle more than sing.
But for just a little bit longer, for just this next hour, it is still just an occasional outburst.
The birds can still be heard in this lovely slice of time before the city is fully engaged, tunes cranked, awake and ready to roll.
Viva México.
I love this post! You put me right there and I can see, hear, smell and taste everything. Mind you, I don’t know how you get any work done…
It’s funny Laurie, it all starts to become background after awhile, though when it suddenly stops, I realize that there’s a gap and wonder what the heck has happened.
And at night, when I’m finished with listening to the non-stop musica outside, and want to sleep, I simply slam in the earplugs and turn on the fan.
Love this post. You made Mexico come to life with its sounds. The VW roof speaker shouting political messages reminded me of our visits to Cabarete in the Domincan Republic. There always seemed to be an election of some sort going on and cars driving down the main street blaring political messages.
Thanks Donna. I think this is why I love the whole Latino culture. It’s bright and alive and loud. As well, no one thinks they can’t sing. Men, boys, girls and women…everyone joins in. No one has told them it’s only for performers.
Likewise, no one has told them, that art is only for ‘special’ people. If a mailbox needs a flower, they paint it on. They don’t need to buy a perfect one. It’s all quite wonderful.
What no roosters? No dogs barking? In Puerto Escondido I love the tortilla vendors in their VW bugs, the gas vendor with the musical “gas de Oaxaca song on loudspeaker” and there’s even a guy selling baked yams who has a whistle that delivers an ear-piercing 90 decibels in case you really need a vegetable in a hurry. You never feel alone when surrounded by so much life. I’ve heard there’s a museum in Mexico City dedicated to preserving Mexico’s sounds as so many of them are disappearing.
Ah yes Michele. I forgot the roosters. Though they don’t seem as close as the lovely ones near your old place in Puerto Escondido. And how could I have forgotten the gas man!? Too, I think it’s only fair the yam guy whistles loudly…who knows when you might desperately need a baked yam? You have to be ever on the alert to yam-deficiencies. I’m glad there is a museum dedicated to this aural soundtrack because it would be a real shame on the day this music dies.