Name that tune

Sitting inside my house I'm often distracted by the sounds I hear all around me. In the presence of Caribbean heat and the absence of air conditioning we live most of our home life behind screens rather than sealed glass windows and closed doors. I love the way it makes me feel like I am in the midst of things - even when I am alone at my kitchen table (like I am right now).

In the last few hours I've listened to the constant background hum of ceiling fans; the muffled roar of the diesel generator powering our neighborhood; the loud chirps of insects and tree frogs; the hollow plop of breadfruit falling off trees and hitting the ground below; the yells of my next door neighbor's kids and the splashing of families hanging out by the pool; the echo of tennis balls bouncing off racquets onto cement courts; the cheers and laughter of a group assembled a few houses away. Music is everywhere: in the ice-cream-truck-inspired version of the Titanic theme played over and over by trucks selling water; the singing (sometimes all-night) of youth groups assembled at the Catholic retreat center down the road; the horns and drums of the ra-ra bands which recently started parading through the streets again (they had apparently been on a post-Kanaval season hiatus); konpa and reggaeton coming through the little radio of the guard sitting near the neighborhood gate and my own ipod playlist out of my computer's speakers.

Last Thursday night, I gained a new appreciation for this relatively quiet corner of the city after spending the night at a friend's apartment which is directly on one of the city's busiest commercial streets. I'm usually a pretty solid sleeper but I spent almost 5 sleepless hours looking at the ceiling as I listened to non-stop sounds of people shouting; honking horns; barreling semi trailers; zipping motorcycles; barking dogs; and a rooster or two (which contrary to conventional wisdom do not wait until dawn to start crowing) .

Some of my most distinct memories from this Haiti season are linked to sounds: the hauntingly beautiful voice of a troubadour singer at an outdoor concert I attended during my first week in Port-au-Prince in 2006; our nutrition project team's rhythmic chants about feeding babies manba and the importance of vitamin A; the karaoke version of Livin la Vida Loca sung by drunk Sri Lankan UN troops who were sponsoring a party in my neighborhood (a good story now but the cause of a sleepless night back then); the deafening crash of tropical rains on metal roofs; waves lapping on white-sand beaches; and in some of my lonelier moments, the sound of my cell phone ring.