Friday, 17 March 2023 // Night Sounds
2:57 AM, 83°
I am awake going to go back to bed. I woke at 2 o’clock in pain, due to my shoulders, which have been sore for two months now. something called frozen shoulder. While awake, and ambulatory, and upright, the pain is lessened and manageable. But once supine, it seems as if the blood rushes to the shoulders, constricting the denseness of the muscle tissue, not allowing needed oxygen to the muscle and connective tissue, and therefore pain. At least that’s what I’ve been told.
At 2:00 AM I lay naked on the short sofa and read more pages from a book sent to me just before I left. It is “The Wayfinders: Why Ancient Wisdom Matters in the Modern World,” by Wade Davis. Published in 2009, Davis is an anthropologist, ethnobotanist, filmmaker, and photographer. As luck would have it, the first chapter is about the marvels of Polynesian navigation, which at the time of European exploration explorers, such as Magellan, surpassed anything the Europeans had devised. It’s a good read.
The position on the sofa lessens the pain. I fall asleep reading, only to wake to the sound of women’s voices.
Two women - teens? - are wide awake in the bwuia [raised platform, open-sided, roofed structure, the epicenter for much Kiribati life] next-door. Earlier I had seen one of the women nursing. During the day, I have heard the most beautiful, soft, singing coming from there. Now I wonder if it was a new mother singing to her baby. Regardless, the sound is ethereal.
I head back to my bed, a 4-inch thick piece of foam, comfortable. The sheet, at my feet, sprinkled with fine sand. Is it just me, the I-Matang, or does everyone have sand in their beds? Probably just me, the I-Matang.
I hear another sound, distant, but repetitive, a sharp contrast to the sea, ever present, or the wind through the palms, the sporadic dog barking. It is a repetitive, three note, declining arpeggio. And I love it. It comes from the east of where I lay.
The windows are always open, louvered glass slats, 4 inches wide, allowing the tradewinds. Of course, they also allow The Sounds from outside, but that’s just fine.
To the east of me, the cinderblock home in which I stay, what I see of the other homes is rough. Ramshackle, corrugated, tin, plywood, poles, and wires, chickens, and trash. They are not the kind of yards I would think anyone would want to play in. And I have never seen anyone in those spaces. I’m guessing, like the house I am in, the people are out front, because there is no one behind this house either. I observe those spaces from my enclosed porch, where I hang my laundry.
I turn on the voice memo utility on my iPhone, and record four minutes of the arpeggio, now silent, replaced by the crick of an insect.
What was that music from? It must have played for close to 10 minutes, the descending arpeggio, repeating for several bars, then, stopping, and then a two or three note, travel back up the scale. And then repeat.
Play back the recording, and I’m surprised by the amount of birds tweets, calls, I hear. Back in New England, or Texas, it is rare to hear birdsong at night. The irony of dictating the words “New England,” for while I am recording this, I see I have an incoming phone call. That alone is a rarity as the phone connection is sparse at best.
It is my pal, Don, who lives in Camden, Maine. I don’t answer. He sends a text message, asking if someone is staying at my place up there, as he just drove by. I respond with a text, telling him yes, and as he is a drummer and musician, among other things, I let him know that it’s 3 AM here and I am actually recording a mysterious and distant arpeggio.
But of course, the text will not go through. One more “message not delivered.” One more “message failure.”
I look out from darkened kitchen, towards the buia, and then look up to see a waxing crescent moon, two hand widths, two hours above the horizon. The moon is rising and it’s 3:45 in the morning and I’m going to try to go back to sleep. The lights are on in the buia and the women are talking.
Wind through the coconut fronds.
The Wayfinders: Why Ancient Wisdom Matters in the Modern World, by Wade Davis. A good read at the end of a long day. Or when you wake up in the middle of the night.
Bwuia next door, in the wee hours. Soft singing comes from within. Or incessant pop music, played LOUD.
Wind thru coconut fronds.