Not the sounds of silence

A neighbourhood child: captured on her way home from school

I've been lying in bed sick for the last few days. When I returned from South Africa a month ago I developed a chest malady, which has just become progressively worse, until it laid me up at the beginning of the week. But then, Madagascar has a reputation, with all of its weird bugs, of being unkind to foreigners.

But it hasn't been a complete waste - I've found some time to read inbetween my bouts of coughing and I've also learnt something - Tana is loud ... and alive. 

With the rising of the sun so the mish-mash of sound grows. It comes in waves - the sound of water being poured for washing of clothes; the drone of my nextdoor neighbour's voice punctuated by the harsh shriek of his sister's strident laugh; the man in the street, sounding like a Mongolian throat singer, calling for people to bring out their rubbish or recyclable bottles; a persistent person tirelessly knocking on a metal gate, with no response from within, for what seems like hours; the chickens clucking, rooster crowing and neighbour's children loudly (and irritatingly) copying its call; the sirens from the main road as a politician passes by; the thump thump thump bass of an unrecognisable song emanating from deep within the mess of homes; the happy sounds of children playing loudly outside my front gate; said ill-fitted gate being slammed open and closed ad nauseum; babies crying; ladies gossiping at the little shop next door; dogs barking; a scooter being coaxed back to life, then spluttering down our walkway ... 

And so it goes on until dusk casts a blanket on our little community. I could say more. I could speak about the fact that we can't afford to cut ourselves off from others, can't afford to get too comfortable in our safe little bubbles; that we should never be quiet, that we are called to proclaim the truth and love and salvation that we know, that gives us hope; that we are here to make a difference in real people's lives ... But I won't. That subject can wait for another day ...

Some more neighbourhood children, at the end of my little road