Everyone sings in Mexico. Some well, others well...you know. I hear the street vendors singing all day long on their rounds through the neighborhoods. I am a gringo living in Mexico, in a small city near the border to San Diego. Many of my friends live in the large condo developments dotting the coastline south to Ensenada, but I chose to live in the real Mexico. Hence my house in a community in town. Not on the beach. Not surrounded by other Norte Americanos.
I live where I can hear
the music. The man who pushes a cart
through the neighborhoods sings about sharpening knives and scissors. Several different men sing about ice cream,
popsicles as I called them as a child, here called paletas—flavors
of fruits, mango, coconut, papaya, kiwi, peach, strawberry and raspberry. The garbage men sing, I can't make out their
words, maybe it's just to let everyone know to bring out the cans please. Or maybe they just sing for the pleasure of
it.
A truck goes by with a
recording singing the gas man is here.
Then another truck, loudspeaker blaring songs of the circus and the
wonders to be seen. This is replaced
almost weekly by circus after circus; each with its own brand of miraculous
things under the various tents I can see the top of from my house if I look out
my bedroom window and crane my neck just so.
And their songs change to match the acts and events. Some sing louder than others, volume jacked
up to the max. I imagine the loud ones desperate
after five really bad money years, troupe not fully paid and complaints on all
sides.
I don't go to the
circus. I don't like to see the animals.
It worries me that they might not have
enough water in the heat, enough food to fill their stomachs. People tend to fill their stomachs first and
the animals are an afterthought. Hard
times are harder on those who stand on four feet, hooves or paws. And they can't sing for their supper.
We have concerts once
again, events with music flood the town with song because tourists are back. Many I can hear from my open window. Parties always have earsplitting music. It's de
rigueur. If the music isn't
loud the people aren't having a good time.
And no one seems to go to bed.
Ever. This past Sunday at 5:30 AM
someone parked their truck under my window and serenaded me with Mexican
ranchero music that blasted my sleep to pieces.
My neighbors occasionally
give parties with karaoke machines on the front porch. All partiers must join in, singing at the top
of their lungs to whatever song is playing.
Until late. Very late. Very loud.
But I don't say
anything. I remember years when no one
made a sound. We all stayed home and
were quiet. Very, very quiet. Fear does
that. Street murders and kidnappings stemming
from drug wars took away the songs. But,
thankfully, the music is back.
When I first moved to
Mexico, eight years ago, I learned to sleep to Mexican rap music exploding in
my window all night long. I was smart
enough to move to a quieter locale, but since then I've also learned an
excellent lesson: loud songs and music are more comforting on the nerves than
the silence of fear—so go ahead Mexico, sing your songs all night long and I'll
be the one applauding!
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