The eternal, infernal racket

PERHAPS THE most jarring cultural aspect that hits people in the face and ears on moving to Mexico from a calmer country is the stunning amount of noise.

Mexicans, to a great degree, are like six-year-olds. They are constantly screaming in one fashion or another. It is noise for noise’s sake. You often want to slap their backsides and tell them to shush! Or no dessert.

I found this video that highlights the issue well. It was shot by a vacationing Gringo who rented an upstairs apartment in the State of Jalisco.

Where we live isn’t quite so bad. The Hacienda property extends one block from our hardscrabble barrio’s main street out front to a dead-end street out back. The actual house abuts the back street where traffic is virtually nonexistent.

So the noise-making is usually a block away. However, as I write this just after 7 a.m., I hear the loudspeaker of a propane truck, and someone is blowing into a tuba somewhere. I am not making this up.

For my first few years here, the noise drove me nuts, but I’ve become accustomed to it. When fireworks blast before dawn or a band blares on the nearby plaza, if I wake up, I just turn over and go back to sleep.