Hear and There
I sleep in a bedroom with a view of the mountains that faces a dark, dank alleyway. The juxtaposition of this visual landscape is not lost on me. We keep our window open at night and, through the years, my brain has grown used to the sounds after dark: the pho restaurant employees crashing the dumpster lid to a close at 1 am, the beeping of the traffic light 25 feet from our place when a pedestrian is crossing, and the growls and roars of engines revving from cars and trucks and motorbikes passing by.
Just on the corner, there’s the hiss of the buses opening their doors and dropping other noise-makers into the streets, along with the occasional lost soul screaming about the injustices of the world. The fan in our room whispers its soothing white noise to help filter some of the outside, and a snoring bear lies beside me (oh wait, that’s my husband).
I’ve grown accustomed to these sounds, so I lie awake on my first night in a hotel, the country or the jungle–anywhere I travel where I don’t recognize the creaks behind the darkness. Of all the senses, hearing is our brain’s around-the-clock connection to the world. Our ears are constantly online, even when our eyes are taking a break behind our mulberry silk sleeping masks.
When I was plunked in the middle of a lush jungle in Costa Rica a few years back, near a town five kilometres from San Jeronomo– in a remote, off-the-grid lodge — I had to readjust to a cacophony of new sounds. We had no electricity or cell phone signal, and only open walls for windows. At the beginning of our stay, our guides went through orientation and brushed over which wildlife was native to the area. “Jaguars loooove these jungles. Their roars sound like the sawing of wood — but with the saw only moving in one direction. If you see one, count yourself lucky; they are hard to spot!”
I thought to myself: I love their spotty spots, but I’m ok nixing a cuddle sesh with the third largest cat in the world. I would keep my ears peaked for any saw-like “rrrrrrrr” sounds in case a Jaguar came around us. I didn’t hear the threatening saw despite my vigilance and instead was serenaded to sleep each night by the hisses and unique sounds of the cockroach. I’d had some minor experience with these critters once when I lived in Toronto, and they laid claim to my apartment. Every time I turned on the light to enter a room, their bodies would fall from the ceiling to the floor with a loud clomp. But in Costa Rica, I could hear their little legs scurry and brush up against surfaces with a soft scuffle. Their chirps were a sign of affection. I made peace with one in particular and named him Pedro. He spent most of his days parked by the outside of the mosquito net wrapped around my bed in the room — the light yellow markings on his shell gave him away. When we left for the Osa Peninsula on the southern coast a few days later, I hadn’t discovered he had hitched a ride with us until I unpacked my bag–and there he was–perched on a pile of freshly folded t-shirts at the top of my pack. I didn’t even flinch when I saw him, and instead, let him find his way into the rainforest to play in a new haven of plants and animals. He chirped goodbye.
Early humans also retreated to forests and jungles, as we were a main menu item for large predators like sabertooth cats and man-eating birds of prey. And we probably heard the world a little differently than we do now — hyper-sensitive to close-range sounds and perhaps more keenly aware of our surroundings. The purrs and hisses of the komodo dragon and other scary animal grunts. Did ancient humans have better hearing? I love imagining what sound would feel like in ears that have never put on headphones.
As communication changed, so too did our hearing–I’d argue for the better. I’d bet modern humans are superior across a wider frequency range than our predecessors. Credit is due to the organ that serves as the center of our nervous system–our brains. Not only have our walnuts mastered disregarding a lot of the metropolitan white noise from cities — the rustles and bustles of fellow humans and machines — we stay alert to any unusual sounds — the bumps in the night. We attune to our surroundings. As a city dweller, I’m a pro at managing the sweet sounds of urban life; my continuous exposure to the sonic chaos has made me less sensitive- and less likely to shake my fist at the sky with frustration.
We all have a hidden superpower–the ability to adapt and select which sounds we focus on — and it’s impressive. Think about the last time you had a conversation with a friend in a crowded restaurant. Your brain helps you selectively focus on the friend you are talking to and what the person is saying rather than every single noise present in the background: the rattling of dishes, the jazz music playing, the hysterical hyena laugh from the lady wrapped in fur. Scientists call it the cocktail party effect (the ability to filter out ambient noise works best as a binaural effect, which requires hearing with both ears), and fortunately, our brains are up for the challenge. Our auditory attention deserves a grammy.
Novel alerts like the wail and the two-tone sirens for emergency responding vehicles initially grinded my gears. Now, I can somehow tune them out when I need to. Every September, a yearly traffic cop training runs for a week at a main intersection two blocks from my house. With a hand up in the air and equipped with just a humble whistle, these trainees direct a juggernaut of cars and bikes. At the beginning of each training, my husband and I roll our eyes and wince at the sound of a whistle — like its high-pitched FWEEEEET! is on a mission to jolt our minds out of restfulness. But we can tune them out over a period of days as they blend into the acoustic ecosystem of sounds around us.
Some of the loudest and most familiar sounds such as car and motorcycle engines, may soon be something of the past. The future of mobility is shifting to environmentally friendly, and internal combustion engines are on their way out. Our urban landscapes will resonate differently in our ears. Growls will turn into hums, and cars — one of the largest sources of global noise pollution — will be altered. But having some sound is a necessary safety piece, especially for those hard of sight and hearing, as sound announces a vehicle’s presence, direction and speed. For the distracted walkers fixated and glued to the screens of their mobile devices like most of the world — a sound or prompt may be a blessing. For the man who walks his dog on my block while playing Joe Rogan on his Bluetooth speaker and texting incessantly, a sound of some sort is necessary.
Some major car manufacturers even work with well-known musicians to curate and craft their electric vehicles’ unique (and branded) sounds. The EVs are like a blank canvas, sonically speaking. BMW partnered with Hollywood’s Hans Zimmerman to craft sound experiences for drivers. And while the creative in me likes this idea, it begs the question that if we customize everything to make it quieter, we won’t be able to differentiate what the sounds mean amongst competing buzzes and chirrs and tones. What’s the point of an alert, signal, or announcement if you can’t hear or recognize it? Will it be all chimes, sound bowls, and brushes? As a city dweller living in a house with single pane windows — I’m in–but as a runner, biker, and participator in the outside world who maneuvers around crowded public streets, narrow routes past walkers, skateboarders and cars — I’m on the fence about too much quiet.
We need sounds and noise. And I view noise according to an internal quota system I’ve developed over the years. I can deal with reasonable amounts, and some sounds may even be electrifying — like the loud glitchy music in a bar that makes my heart sing — but when I’ve had enough, I need to return to the pacifying sounds of the ocean before my brain reaches for the get-me-out-of-here button.
My cat purred so loudly yesterday at 5 AM that my hearing perked me wearily awake. Long enough to hear the novel sounds of traffic beginning to roar on the roads, the garbage truck backing up in the alley, and a scooter whizzing up the street. I map these out in my mind, but somehow, can close my eyes and sleep on. It’s 7 AM, and I wake up to birds chirping. They’ve lined up on the telephone pole outside, which has become an avian hang-out spot. This morning, a songbird sings; I smile at the sounds of nature calling.
