A sonic environment can be a powerful thing. It can take you places, or leave you places; its presences and absences can be more telling than the most articulate guide.
Notable absences from the sonic environment I have enjoyed without interruption for the past three days: the impoverished bleating of sheep and goats; the mournful mooing of cows; the soulful, yet soulless call to prayer; the sprightly chattering of hundreds of little mischief-makers; the vigilant ringing of schoolbells, cell phones and alarm clocks; the guttural exoticism of the Arabic tongue; the overly-welcoming harassment of preying street vendors and slick Don Juans; in short, the persistently present reminders that this Moroccan mayhem is my life.
And in their place? Zamfir interpretations of Celine Dion hits piped through the poolside surround sound system in the morning, and perky American party playlists in the afternoon; the perpetual, muted gurgling of the heated pool’s water filtration system, and the satisfied splashes of swimmers who are neither hot nor cold; canned ocean waves lapping through the massage room speakers, and real ocean waves wooing one beachward; the dignified German, English and French conversations of fat, white Europeans in speedos and bikinis, or their skinny white counterparts, also in speedos and bikinis (I, incidentally, fall squarely in between the two); the distant clattering of silverware being moved from one place to another by hands that exist to satisfy one’s every gastronomical whim; in short, all that is most certainly not Moroccan.
Today is my last day at this beach resort in Agadir, where I have enjoyed two invigorating plunges into the ocean, five blissful dips in the perfectly-acclimatized pool, six specialty beverages, two heaven-inducing massages, seven heartily-stocked buffets, three seaside walks, and more vitamin D than most people absorb in a month. This has been a “capital H” Holiday, interrupted only by a very few marriage proposals, tagines, and snake charmings.
In six hours, my sonic environment will again be characterized by bleating, lowing, chanting, and the all-pervasive, never-ending theme song of Moroccan schoolchildren everywhere: “Miss, Miss! It wasn’t me! I swear!” – alternated only very occasionally with its equally insincere variant: “Miss! I’m sorry! Just one more chance! Please, Miss!”
Yes, tonight it’s back to reality.
Funny, isn’t it, how one might leave one’s placid, predictable homeland in search of novelty, and run (yea, flee) a mere four months later to a false facsimile of the placid, predictable West? Granted, very few Canadians would resist the pull of an all-inclusive, tropical holiday at the end of November, so perhaps the flight south is not so reprehensible after all; but is there nonetheless some element of weakness, or even failure, in leaving so quickly that which I sought so earnestly?
No. Of course not. The weakness would be in not going back – in letting the comforts of pseudo-European slothfulness and excess entice me away from the industriousness, curiosity, creativity and resilience that make up the real landscape of my life. The important thing is not where I am, but who I am, and I am solidly, solidly, me. I am not a quitter. I am here, I am there, I am on the road in between, and I am more me than I’ve ever been before.
My new friend, Paulo, mused last night that some people move to a foreign country hoping to reinvent themselves. They may claim to be pepper when they are, in fact, salt, just because the containers appear the same, and no one can tell the difference until the shaker falls and the true contents spill out.
I am saltier than salty, here in this land of agreeable and not-so-agreeable extremes. I do not need to fall to find out who I am. I do not need to be spilled and scattered to show the world my contents. I have a heart, a mind, a being, that is informed and revealed in equal parts by my surroundings, but never substantially changed from who I have always been.
I am listening now to the highway hum connecting the two sonic realities that have framed this particular week in my life. The sounds of surprisingly sane Sunday traffic remind me of home (whatever that is), and my fingers flutter across this keyboard that so conveniently harnesses my many wayward thoughts. But my real sonic landscape is not in vehicles or technology, nor in the voices of the thousand thousand people and animals that surround these ears of mine. My real sonic landscape (does this sound trite?) is the voice within me that says, “Onward. You can do this. You are an incredible you.”
I needn’t have left placid, predictable Canada to find this salty, savoury selfhood within me; but I am glad I did. I’m glad that the beautiful, brave human being I am here will remain in place when I return, and will remind me every day of the great growing I have done. Bring on the bleating, babbling cries of beasts and men: I am who I am, regardless.
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