Boomin’ System
Last night I was startled awake at 3am by music so loud that it shook my windows and I thought: “My goodness, that’s a really good sound system.” The quality of speakers in Africa is always top notch in fact. There’s a quality of sound, say for example when Michael Bolton’s silly songs are blaring, that could not be duplicated even if the man himself was performing at a Six Flags concert. Speakers are the modern expression of the African fondness for loud pulsating rhythms and magnificent, fiery speeches. Speakers are the new drums.
There are many questions that I lay thinking about when the speakers are booming. I’m past angry. That was year 1 until I realized that there ain’t no noise police in Gulu. I wonder, how come the power never goes out at 3am? How come, when everything else is a cheaply made Chinese import, the speakers are clearly Bose of the highest German standard? I wonder and wonder and wonder how people can stand being in the same room as those speakers for hours. Weddings can blare music for a solid 24 hours. Do people ever talk at weddings here?!
It’s not just night time events, but speakers are also well used at day events. When I was budgeting for all of my projects, I always had to include a line for a PA system. Even for a “traditional” fireside chat or “Wang oo,” the chiefs insisted that a PA system be dragged under the mango tree.
There is also the call to prayer, Africa style. Generally it’s the same as anywhere – the guy on the mic has an incredible stamina as we know. But once again, I am amazed that in Africa, where we often don’t have water or power or dairy products, the call echoes across the town with splendid crispness. When I worked at NRC my office was right next to the Mosque and I was often amused at the in-between prayer time mic use. The guy clearly loved his air time and could be heard randomly praising God or sound checking throughout the day.
Tonight is pub quiz night in Gulu which inevitably means big noise at the latest hippest club in town, located only a few hundred meters from my house. I look forward to lying in bed and singing along to Gaga. “Can’t read my, can’t read my. No he can’t read my pokerface, pokerface…”
Dog Capella
Staying with night time themes, I must write about things that go bump in the night in Gulu. When I lived on 8th Avenue and 18th street, I got used to the city traffic. Garbage collection, it turns out, happens around the clock. One perseveres. In the countryside, it’s mostly quiet, but there are some exceptions, usually involving wild life. Frogs, invisible plentiful frogs chirp at an incredible volume. What’s weirder is that they only seem to chirp on rainy nights. (That’s probably not weird to people who know about frogs.) They seem to sprout in water. That’s how I imagine it anyway. Sort of like seahorses I picture them as little African sun-burnt embryos that instantly become adult frogs with a deluge of rain.
By far, the most significant night time noise is dog crooning. Although the initial torrent of dog barking startles the crap out of me and makes me angry, once I’m awake, I’m somehow amused. Usually my dog Issac is the instigator. He’s got a really deep Johnny Cash bass bark. I imagine that a small noise, such as a tree branch rustle, gets him bellowing, which sets off the 4 million other dogs that live in a 100 meter radius of the house. Everyone chimes in. There’s the call and response bark: Issac barks and then the neighbor’s dog barks and then Issac and then neighbor’s dog, etc. There’s the bark down the lane, where you can literally hear the bark transfer from dog to dog to dog all the way down the street to the Acholi Inn a half a mile away. By far, the most impressive midnight dog communication is the 17 part harmony of the dog cappella. A single combined wail from all those dogs thunders through the air in perfect harmony, complete with semi tones, fifths and octaves. A giggle even escapes my mouth when the little guy from the compound next store chimes in. He’s a high soprano and really goes for it – hitting the legendary high F over C no problemo.
The chorus usually stops abruptly once everyone gets a good diaphragm stretch in. Silence returns…until the asshole rooster who can’t tell time, starts cocka doodle doodling at 4:30am. I hate roosters!
Mosqweeto Net
Mosquitoes, as we know, suck. Their malarial venom takes no prisoners. Without a doubt it is the one living organism on this continent, nay planet, which I do not hesitate to extinguish. (Ok, maybe roosters too – KFC anyone?)
Malaria is a terrible illness that is as commonplace as the flu here, except far more deadly. I thought it was an inevitable right of passage to get it until I got it. I loved that the doctor turned to me and asked, “Do you realize how sick you are?” Uh, yeah. Thanks.
It’s terrible and deadly and a cure needs to be found asap, because most people here don’t have the luxury to afford the medical treatment that I had. Although available, treatment is expensive and often means choosing meds over meals. There is nothing worse than seeing a two year old stricken with malaria. The light goes out in their eyes and the agony is so great that they can’t even cry or complain. They just lay limp in their mother’s arms waiting for relief and wondering why mommy hasn’t made it better. Sigh.
So obviously a mosquito net (Ugandans pronounce it “mosqweeto” which always cracks me up) is essential. It keeps the screaming killers at bay. It keeps a lot of things at bay I have learned. There are many, rather significant creepy crawlies here that penetrate the bedroom: geckos (and their plentiful poo), spiders, mothra-sized moths, rodents (although with 5 cats in the house I don’t see those guys anymore) and countless nameless insects that don’t understand boundaries. So when I tuck in at night I feel like I’m wrapping up in a force field and it helps me sleep better knowing there will be no unexpected company in my bed.
Lately, however, the net feels more like an iron curtain, an impenetrable shroud, a yoke I can no longer bear. It reminds me of when I was in Iran and had to wear the veil. I didn’t mind it so much at first. I picked out a really cute green silk one and rocked the eye liner, Angelina Jolie-style. But at the end of the day that thing felt like lead on my head. I used to run from the lift to my hotel room, slam the door and fling it across the room.
The net feels that way now. It’s kind of my fault. I was lazy and didn’t install a less intrusive walk-in net. I opted for the kind you have to let down and tuck in every night and tie up every morning. Every night for over 3 years, I’ve been letting that sucker down and tucking it in. When I stay at the Serena, famous for its fabulous beds, I think my favorite part is reveling in a net free night. (Apparently mosquitoes aren’t allowed into the five star Serena.)
Now that I’m leaving my patience is dwindling. It’s too late for the walk-in net. So I tuck and I untuck and tuck again. I can’t wait to not need a net!
This is great writing.
ReplyDelete