Early morning the raucous roosters calling to one another around the Pueblo wake us up. Barking dogs like percussion add interest to the soft coo of doves. During the day birds chatter, humming birds click as they hover sucking nectar from yellow, red, white, blue and magenta tropical flowers.
Each evening while in Sayulita, flares that sound like gunshot announce the procession celebrating the Virgin of Guadalupe. We think the terrorists are attacking. Each evening a different segment of the town has a procession, led by three young girls in white party dresses. They carry a basket of fruit celebrating the bounty of the earth. They are followed by a brass band of drums, trumpets, trombones, and tuba like instrument that is wound around the player’s body. A truck follows decorated with the lit up statue of the virgin surrounded by roses. Women and children walk behind and carried candles. The procession proceeds to the flower decorated church by the town square for a prolonged service while children and people hang out in the square. The songs from the church interspersed with bangs from firecrackers.
Later in the evening maybe about nine pm – Mexican time – the big band assembles on the stage to make music, noise and song well into the night, as the intergeneration crowd danced and hang out. Meanwhile half a block away up on the rooftop bar reggae band belt out their particular song into the night sky.
On the beach the surf crashes drumming out all other sounds and complaints of the monkey mind. This morning Clive and Shona are lucky and to watch huge whales breaching and crashing back into the ocean. Are they trying to escape the ocean or are they trying to fly?
Today snorkeling I follow white and black polka dot puffer fish, electric blue, yellow striped, and sandy colored pipefish as the water crackles in my ears. Police with machine guns guard us tourists. The deserted beach a police state. Photos forbidden. Later the Internet told us a 20 year property dispute was resolved last August by the riot police. I was unsure if I felt protected or a target.
Across the road for the house we are staying in there is music school or at very least the practice zone for the ra-ta-tat of drums, trumpet and guitar. Now at twilight the nighttime chorus of circadas begins with short staccato tweets from small yellow birds.
Far away in Canmore my choir the Valley Winds lighten the winter night and the silence of the snows with their melodic voices singing "Ye shall have a voice."