Speaking of sounds.
This summer I was in Comalapa, Guatemala doing some voluntourism. When I wasn't busy noticing the rampant third-world poverty or choking back vomit during hairpin turns over mountain roads, one of the greatest differences was the immersion in a whole new environment of sounds.
Night sounds, in particular, were the scariest. You wouldn't believe how blood-curdlingly loud a rooster is at 5 a.m. Fireworks exploded at all hours of the night; Comalapans were always celebrating something. Then there were market days, where rows of tiendas lined the streets and vendors shouted out at we white -- and thus obviously rich -- tourists wandering about.
Sounds were integral to sustaining the difference of the environment. Sounds notched up the intensity of the foreign-factor. Sounds were constant reminders that we were far away from the shady boulevards back home, quiet at all hours.
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