I was born aboard a roaring C130 over the airspace of the Caspian Sea. This was pre-9/11, so modern air travel rules on pregnancy didn't apply. My mother, petite and unassuming, escaped scrutiny with her tent-like dress. For some reason, the Air Force allowed her to accompany my father on assignment. Perhaps it was our Italian-sounding surname. Somehow, it was a passport to inaccessible areas.
My mother's screams at childbirth upstaged the din of the C130's engines. This, together with my caterwauling, formed the backdrop of my entry into existence. Perhaps this was why I despised any sound above a certain decibel. Whenever I complained of loudness, regardless of the source, my mother would remind me of how I came into the world: “From noise you came, and to noise you will return.”
Thus did I return. A life-altering event prompted me to revisit the land of my parents. I thought I'd stay a month, just long enough to tie up loose ends. Alas, offshoots materialized, forcing me to stay. Initially, I was happy to be here, having reconnected with friends and extended family. Now that I'm stuck here, I've ceased discovering pleasant things and have instead focused on annoyances.
What I can't understand is the residents' affinity with noise. It's all-encompassing, yet no one seems to notice. Maybe you think I'm inflexible or used to living in fancy, quiet ‘First World' cocoons. But I've visited developing countries. This is, by far, one of the noisiest.
Fortunately, my host lives in the suburbs—where I ensconce myself. I knew what this area was like 20 years ago. But it turned into a city. With this new status came progress—along with shopping malls, people, traffic, crime, and pollution. You would expect the noise to proliferate just in the primary city, not in ‘ex-burbs'. But it seemed the generators of noise got tired of subjugating the capital to its malevolence, and turned its sights instead to the formerly peaceful spot where I'm forced to park my hide.
It starts with roosters crowing in the morning, followed by dogs barking, people talking/arguing, motorcycle engines rumbling. Late morning brings in blasts of music from amplifiers owned by neighbors dissatisfied with ordinary speakers; they MUST have turbo. Equally virulent is the venom of the traveling boombox in a tricycle. The driver, enamored with his favorite ditty, would crank up the volume for everyone to hear.
Thankfully, midday provides a lull in the cacophony. Naptime for noise-mongers. I schedule my most important activities during this period. My rooster friends, however, manage to cackle in. I thought they only crowed at dawn or early mornings. Here, they squawk and scream at all hours. Is there a pattern? Nope. It could be 4 am, noon, or midnight. That blasted crowing would pierce into the darkness or the heat of the sun. Utter disregard for the clock.
Why do the locals love roosters so much? Back home, there are zoning laws. You can't raise farm animals in residential areas. They're confined to the countryside and appropriate businesses. I searched for an explanation. Apparently, cockfighting is legal here. Roosters aren't just pets. They're worth a lot of money if successful in the ring.
In the evening, reverberation from a microphone would signal in the most vexatious noise of all: karaoke time. Most singers are out of tune. Singing would go on until dawn.
Later, the country's leader issued a no-karaoke rule after 10 pm. My sigh of relief was short-lived. People just ignored the law. Friend #1 had a karaoke bar for a neighbor. Singing went beyond curfew. One day, she couldn't take it anymore. Time to see if the law upholds. She called the municipality anonymously, citing the neighbor. The next day, the bar was closed down. Triumph!
After listening to one of my tirades, Friend #2 remarked, “Maybe you should live in a cemetery.” She was being mean, of course, but I actually considered living in a mausoleum—a result of attempts to escape the noise. Alas, during my visit to the country's most prestigious memorial park, my ears were assaulted by sounds from lawnmowers, digging machines, and construction. This is one place you won't rest in peace.
I thought of moving to the countryside. “Huh-uh. More chickens,” Friend #3 advised. “Why not try a monastery?” So I begged a priest-friend to take me in, offering rent. But he said, in order to live with the religious, you have to join them. Permanently. Yikes!
Perhaps it was poverty. Making noise was a way to drive out demons, forget problems. For most of the populace, this was probably true. But these neighbors aren't poor. Theirs is a middle-class enclave. Maybe some people are just inconsiderate.
Silence is golden. I still believe that. But I decided to make the ultimate sacrifice: give up the fight. You see, the event that led me here was the death of my mother and brother. Now alone, Father refuses to budge. His enemy is silence, not noise. For him, I will embrace my adversary.
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