call me Scrooge...

13/11/2009

I have a problem with the neighbors. At some point in the last several months, the family living up the hill from us started blasting the radio around 4:30AM, a few mornings a week. I mean, blasting it. Something I don´t think I´ll ever get used to is the the totally whack prioritization of needs around here; how a family that lacks a flushing toilet and cooks over an open fire can possibly afford anything that loud is beyond me. But they´ve managed it.

And it´s not just the volume, it´s the music itself, too. (Yeah, I realize I sound like the grumpy old man next door that you hate when you´re sixteen, but whatever). I can deal with a little huayno or sanjuaneros from time to time, or even multiple times a day, provided it´s sometime after the sun rises. But at the crack of dawn, there´s nothing I want to hear less than a couple screechy, apparently tone-deaf women trying to harmonize to the same melody that is the baseline for 9 out of every 10 songs around here. This is music that I sincerely wonder how any human being can possibly find enjoyable when played on a regular basis. And if the volume and lack of variety aren´t enough, just to add insult to injury, they actually turn it off at about 6AM! Right when a normal person might be starting to think about waking up at some point in the next two hours!

So after a few weeks of internal debate about the pros and cons of the gringo starting a potential family feud, I decided I´d had enough. I had also mentioned the issue to my host family on various occasions, and they all agreed that the music was a giant pain in the ass. But in typical campo fashion, no one seemed to take the next logical step and think “Hey, instead of just whining, maybe we can do something about this problem!” (Don´t get me wrong, I love my family here, but this whole episode is like a giant metaphor for the frustrations of life as a Peace Corps volunteer.) So, one pre-dawn morning, I rolled out of bed in a wife-beater and some too-small soccer shorts, slipped on my tire sandals in the dark, and stepped out into unchartered territory. I brought my dog just in case.

I first went around to the front door, only to find – after several minutes of knocking – that there were actually two families living in what appeared to be one single adobe home: the culprits could be found around back. Thankfully no dogs or machete-wielding campesinos were there to greet me, and after several more minutes of knocking and shouting over the noise, the music emanating from the second story window suddenly came to a halt. “Señor,” I yelled in Spanish, “The music…uh, could you turn it down a little??” A muffled reply came back, sounding vaguely affirmative, and was followed by the re-emergence of the music, though notably softer this time. “Alright, progress,” I thought to myself.

Ten minutes later, I was back in bed and just about to fall back to sleep, when – you guessed it – the volume was cranked back up to its regular loudspeaker volume. I punched the wall, swore, and jumped out of bed. Enough was enough. This time when I hiked up there was a light on in a room off to the side of the back door. I knocked, and a short, round elderly woman peered out, looking bewildered: “Sí?” I voiced my complaint as nicely as I possibly could, given the circumstances. What followed was a typical series of excuses (once again, the Peace Corps metaphor); “It´s my son, he´s drunk” was the kicker. “I see,” I responded. “So he´s drunk three or four mornings a week, but only between the hours of 4:30 and 6:00? Sure is punctual for a drunk!” I realized I should probably remove myself before I said something I would regret later on when the sun came up, so I accepted her half-hearted promise to talk to the guy. I didn´t fall back asleep this time.

I heard the music a few times over the next week or so, and it was hard to tell whether it was actually softer or if I was just getting used to it. One morning the other day it sounded particularly loud at a particularly early juncture in the morning, so I went back for round three. By now the old lady had to know who it was knocking. I sat down on the bench outside the door, rubbed my eyes, and tried to reason with her. This time she told me they had peones (hired workers) waiting, and that was why they had to be up so early. I told her that was all well and good, but that I didn´t happen to have any peones and I´d really love to still be sleeping. She wasn´t sure how to respond to that, so I half-shouted over the music, “I take it your son is awake, then? Think I could talk to him?” “Oh, no,” she replied, “He´s still asleep.” About this time I realized we were operating on two completely different wavelengths, but I kept pushing anyway out of spite. About ten minutes later I gave up for good, having tried to explain to her that they had every right to play music, but when it bothered others then it was impinging on the rights of others to sleep (to which she first tried to convince me that 4:30 was a reasonable time to get up, and then that even if the music wakes you up, you can still lay in bed and recordar.) I wasn´t too sure what “remembering” had to do with any of this, but I decided to once again remove myself before things got ugly. I stormed back down the hill and did pushups till breakfast time.

I´d like to be able to say this story has some deeper meaning other than the fact that some people simply can´t be reasoned with. But I can´t think of any. I´m thinking about blowing a few months-worth of living allowance and investing in some giant speakers myself…I wonder if they like Rage Against the Machine.