Sounds of San Miguel

In California I only ever met my neighbors after an earthquake. In Georgia it was big snowstorms that brought everyone together. In Massachusetts it took the first Red Sox victory in 86 years for me to meet my upstairs neighbor.

Down here the trash truck brings everyone together every morning.

One of the men hops off the truck at each stop and walks ahead, banging a bell up and down the street. It’s not really a bell, though it sounds like one. It’s a hunk of metal the size of reporter’s notepad, which he beats with a broken bit of pipe that clangs and echoes off the concrete facades. There is no mistaking when the trash man cometh. Assuming you know what the sound means.

That’s how trash is done here, you bring it to the truck yourself. You hear the bell, grab your trash and then stand in line with your neighbors, awaiting the trash truck. Everyone says hello, everyone chats. Some raised an eyebrow at me in the beginning, a gringo bringing out the trash. Unexpected apparently. After a few days people started to say buenos dias to me as well, commenting on the chill of the desert mornings, and then turning to ask after their other neighbors.

San Miguel has a reputation for being a bright and colorful colonial town, with good reason. Still, what I end up noticing when I walk around is the kaleidoscope of sound that bounces around amidst all those colors. Not the random noise of chaos in a city, though there is that, but out of that comes organized sounds — the bells, chimes, whistles, and clangs that mean something. There’s always a melody drifting around the corner, down the alleys, always someone signaling their whereabouts.

Even in our courtyard, sounds drift in and the kids know now, sound has meaning. They always want to open the courtyard doors and discover the source of whatever reaches us. Every morning they yell, Daddy, trash man is here. But the trash man isn’t the only one announcing his arrival.

The knife man comes by in the afternoons. You know him by the piercing whistle he plays. He carries what looks like a miniature pipe organ, similar to indigenous flutes I’ve seen elsewhere. Whatever it is, it’s an unmistakable calling card. Grab your knife and head out the door to get it sharpened.

The propane tank guys aren’t so creative. They blast a musical spiel that I assume is some sort of sales pitch, though I can’t understand it. It’s not the Spanish that’s hard, it’s because it’s played out of what sounds like a New York City subway announcement speaker. It squawks and buzzes in roughly four-four time with a scratchy harmony, and that’s when you know the truck with all the propane tanks is near. Not to be confused with the propane truck, which is one giant tank of propane, and must be summoned by phone.

Bells, softer bells you won’t notice if the windows are closed, are generally pushcart vendors of some kind, helado or elote or pina or who knows.

The honey hawkers shout, miel, miel! The shrimp man, whose son usually carries the bucket of shrimp, cups his hands and yells something that vaguely resembles the word camarones, but we live in a desert and for a long time I thought I must be mishearing him. But no, it is a bucket of camarones on ice.

The water truck is silent. The delivery man holds everything in his head, knows who needs what and delivers it all without any signifying sound. I want to tell him he should leave a few empties on the outside of the truck, they’d drone all down the road, but my Spanish isn’t that good, besides, maybe silence is his calling card.