|
Under the Sun
Cynthia Oi
|
Finding harmony in a cacophony of progress
IN the early hours of a recent morning, when the neighborhood's array of burglar lights were dark and the blue-glow dance of television luminosity no longer played behind blinds and shades, a meteor glanced through the atmosphere, its shimmer competing with a waning moon for a second or two.
Moments before, a hint of plumeria had been teasing the air -- the fragrance perhaps loosed from blossoms by a thin rain shower. Just as the meteor appeared in the northeast, a fierce wind blew through, bouncing low-hanging winter mangoes against a wooden fence. Branches scraped against eaves, shuffling leaves wildly, and in the distance, a metallic clatter suggested a can's erratic journey over concrete.
Sounds, sights and scents in that short interval were conspicuous because they could be distinguished one by one instead of in general conglomerations that usually swirl about.
Honolulu is one noisy, smelly, visually unruly city.
There aren't many spells free of racket. Seldom do I have need for an alarm clock to rouse me from sleep in the morning. That matter is taken care of by the "brap-bah-brap-brap-brap" of the newspaper delivery guy's moped echoing through the valley.
Should he be late or absent, a nearby resident whose daily commute starts before dawn will do the deed through a mysterious series of electronic chirps and cheeps that unlock his car. Unnerving, they are immensely preferable to a blocks-away neighbor's less hi-techie blats of a car horn.
On Mondays and Thursdays, I can count on the trash truck's grumble down the street, its progress marked by neighing, whining and clunking as it heaves, empties, then drops those lovely gray bins on makai sidewalks. Later in the day, it will return to repeat its percussive performance on the mauka.
At least in the coolness of winter, the trash cans don't stink nearly as badly as they do in summer. Experienced early-morning walkers give wide berth to the line-up of garbage cans on collection days or take small sips of air until they've safely passed the pile of plastic bags outside the take-out joints and restaurants. Trucks, buses and cars also assault noses while contributing generously to the broad din of the city.
Noise, it seems, is difficult to regulate, though we continue to try.
Cell phone rings have been banned on TheBus along with their irritating speaker functions. There's no way, however, to adjust the volume of conversations, except by giving loud talkers the eye -- if you dare.
Motorcycles and other vehicles are supposed to be muffled, and while there's no shortage of engine enhancements, there is a severe scarcity of enforcement.
There's also no shortage of barking dogs, screeching cockatiels, crowing roosters and, my favorite, the wild peacocks that roam indiscriminately through several rural and suburban neighborhoods.
Creatures aside, ever-present mechanical devices grate on the ears. Weed-whackers, bulldozers, excavators, jack-hammers, assorted power tools and leaf blowers (extremely offensive contraptions) smack audition.
The human habitat is ceaselessly adjusted for improved comfort, increasingly complex uses and consumption. In turn, beings adapt and their lives re-fitted. The transformations, amazing in speed and spontaneity, support the idea that through shrewdness -- or maybe luck -- we've managed an even distribution of change and constancy.
This is not to say that we cannot or will not wreck the rudiments of our world through inadequate reasoning or plain stupidity, that there will be fewer and fewer moments when a brief confluence of wind, celestial light and earthy perfume brings an unexpected thrill.
Still, if optimism has any place in time, it is in the new year. In this bit of space, there is room for harmony.
Cynthia Oi has been on the staff of the Star-Bulletin since 1976. She can be reached at
coi@starbulletin.com.