Email: Samantha Sale

Make a joyful noise to the Lord!

That phrase, “joyful noise,” has never rung truer than in Guatemala. In the market, on the streets, in the home­—there is always noise. In the market, there are chickens squawking, dogs barking, and roosters crowing. There are women kneeling, surrounded by their vegetables, yelling out prices: “Un mango, un quetzal” or “Cebollas, cebollas, muy barato.”

In the streets, city micro-buses zoom around corners, blasting their horns to announce their arrivals. The bus ayudantes, or “helpers,” scream out the next stops in that route: “Parque, parque, parque, bolivar, rotunda!” “Terminal, Hiper, hospital.”

At home, multiple radios and TVs are always on simultaneously. The radio in the kitchen plays reggaeton music, for example, Reik’s “Me Duele Amarte,” while the stereo in the living room blasts a CD of salsa dance music. And the TV in that same living room shows a soap opera, while the TV in the mother’s bedroom has on her favorite cooking show. Families open their windows and doors during the wave of mid-day heat and, as you pass by each house on the road, your ears are subject to bombardment by whatever combination of noises coming from inside each particular home. From all directions, Xela explodes into rancorous cacophony.

Even in the churches, although technically music, the sounds can feel harsh and noise-like to the foreign ear. In the Catholic tradition, hymns are sung, but as none of the hymnals have the musical notes in them—­just the words— people tend to make up their own tunes. Also, singing in synch is not  highly valued. Each is welcome to his or her own version and tempo of the song, but, of course, the most important thing is to sing loud. In the evangelical tradition, it is more “contemporary worship” style music. The sounds of guitars, drums, basses, saxophones, xylophones and more are amplified by at least six speakers, all facing the congregation mere feet from the first row. The sheer volume of the music is physically painful to your ears, worse than any rock concert. In the rural communities, such as Palá on the coast, even the prayers are noisy. The leader prays in a blend of Mayan and Spanish, melodiously slurring the words together, and the congregants all hum and moan in the background, like you would imagine a Mayan chant. As the leader’s voice grows louder, during the parts of great praise to God or in great outcries of suffering, the congregation is encouraged to increase their own wails; and then, as the leader gets softer again, the background wails follow suit and quiet as well.

At first, I was overwhelmed with all these sounds of Guatemala. I cursed the roosters and chicken-bus horns for waking me at 5:00 a.m. I prayed for power-outages as I was trying to go to sleep with the family TV on outside my door at midnight. I was frightened by all the yelling on the streets. Because I couldn’t understand what they were saying in Spanish, I just felt assaulted by the screams. And, in my Catholic-tradition church, I was so frustrated, trying to learn the hymns when I couldn’t pick out one clear melody. Seeking respite for my ears, I found this alternative route to work through a quiet neighborhood, where micro-buses don’t pass by, the sounds of the market are cut off, and there are no homes with loud TVs and stereos. I really treasure my five minute of peace every morning.

When I traveled with and translated for the UNC/Duke/ECU group, we visited Palá and worshiped with them. I was struck during the service of how natural the howls seemed during the prayers—audible affirmations for the prayers being offered. Sort of like the African-American church tradition in the States: “Well, well,” and “Amen!” To these Guatemalan people, their cries were, and are, a natural, physical expression of their experience of God. It is God inside God’s people responding to the recognition of God in the world. This ongoing communication is intrinsic in every aspect of their lives, not just during church. The noise that emanates from their daily lives also is carried to God. I suddenly had a sense that their whole lives are to the glory of God. They don’t have the luxury, or hindrance, of compartmentalizing their religious life from the every day. The children running around during the service are a part of life, not a nuisance ruining worship. Likewise, as they sell their fruits and vegetables in the market and ride the microbus around town and listen to the radio while they work, their lives are in worship to God; all that noise is their praise song.

When I first returned from the UNC/Duke group trip, I was actually silent for two whole days, so sick of translating all the time, talking without stop. I longed for silence in a new way, not only in my surroundings, but in myself. But after that initial recovery period, I opened myself to even more sound within me and without. I started to hear the sounds of Xela in a more melodious context. All of the cries in the market and on the buses are lyrics to the hard labor. The multiple TVs and radios are both pieces of the same music of entertainment. The dogs, chickens, and birds all screech songs of life and death, and the sacrifice for food. Life in Xela reverberates with this joyful noise, all in the Name of the Lord.

I had a job change and am now the official “maestra de música” for CEIPA’s básico program, which is to say the middle school music teacher. I know what you’re thinking: I must be nuts! But, I love it. I have a fairly extensive background in music—12 years of piano, 7 years of violin, 4 years of guitar; private teachers, county orchestras, and leading worship—and I happen to love middle school aged kids. The CEIPA kids are great. They are all child laborers, defined by those whose incomes are necessary for their family’s survival, and they are just aching for time just to be a kid. I am trying to give them that chance, especially through music. Some have never seen a written music note or even touched an instrument. Thanks to the donations of many family and friends and churches, 80 recorders were sent to Xela, one for each student. We have started learning notes and playing simple songs. I am barely staying one step ahead of the class, not having played a recorder in over ten years. I make myself practice 30 minutes a day; mom would be so proud of my discipline after all those years of torture, trying to get me to practice. Sometimes as I practice in my bedroom at home, or as the kids play in our classroom at school, all that can be heard is just plain noise! We’re all hoping, though, that one day it will become real music. But until then, I am thoroughly enjoying our joyful noise to the Lord.

Samantha Sale