For most of high school, I woke up to music. My alarm was “Good Morning” by Chamillionaire all of freshman and sophomore year, followed by whatever song was my obsession at each respective phase of my life. The morning I left for my trip, I listened to all of Kanye West’s “College Dropout” on the way to the Airport, not knowing what I would encounter musically over the coming 12 weeks.
The first week, the lack of music was palpable, a noticeable barrier in our ability to share ourselves with each other. It wasn’t until we got to El Lagartillo that I found myself arising to a familiar rhythm. PAT-pat-pat-PAT-pat-pat rang out from Doña Daisy’s kitchen as she made tortillas every morning. PAT-pat-pat-PAT-pat-pat. It became my “Good Morning,” a familiar routine to start days so unfamiliar to myself and the group.
In CEN I got up early to bird watch, and though i didnt see a single bird, i could hear them loud and clear. It was a new tune for me, one of toucans and guarda barrancos, but if i closed my eyes it wasn’t difficult to imagine i was back home, hearing robins and woodpeckars.
In matagalpa it was the sound of basketballs bouncing and shoes squeaking around the court i played at every morning with a group of locals. The steady motors humming from the body shop next to our homestay.
I discovered that since i couldn’t bring my own music, i needed to find it. And i have, in the everyday lives that people lead here. i miss my music dearly but every day, i find myself falling a little more into this new rhythm.