You experience everything in Thailand (229)

Noise disturbance

The only Dutch word of which (I'm pretty sure) no Thai translation exists. The real culture shock for this farang.
My serious suspicion, namely that the Thais are terrified of silence, only gets stronger the more often and longer I stay here.
Because wherever I went, saw, and suffered hearing damage, nowhere was there any sign of normal handling of the volume knob.

Even with my mother-in-law, in the once wonderfully quiet Isan countryside, with its tinkling temple bells and peacefully grazing cows. There I am startled at half past one by an extremely hoarse but no less loud rooster. Who thinks he should serenade right under the bedroom window. And quietly enthusiastically sharpens the burr on his vocal cords for five minutes.
To do that again at any other unwanted moment of the Thai day or night, with another outburst of something that should look like 'kukeleku'.
Today, our feathered foe has the realm alone, since the competition was recently crushed by the mother-in-law and ended up in the soup pot. My only hope now is that this combed rioter's biological clock will soon also be recalibrated by her rusty kitchen axe.

RADIO NOISE

Once the rooster has calmed down, sister-in-law's radio next door starts the morning program with a lot of tumult. Which is not surprising, because she has her own broadcasting station that blares all kinds of music and nonsense into the ether all day long. And cheerfully participates in it as a house DJ. The endless drivel, interspersed every ten minutes with advertising messages for the local neighborhood supermarket. The latter brought to maximum volume. If there are sometimes renegade villagers who want to hide with their fingers in their ears from the latest price blast.

Result: a constant radio noise with Thai dissonances. For me as a farang about as interesting as a repeat of the Thai eight o'clock news. In sign language. Add to that the chance that sister-in-law will sing along while playing records, and you can have fun. A chance that has increased considerably since a neighbor recently told her that she does have a nice voice. My advice to neighbour: drink less.

SCREAMING BASSES AND PUNCHING BASSES

Then another ominous sound rolls across the prairie. Is the long-awaited Apocalypse Day finally here? Did Putin accidentally drop his dictator finger on the red button? Is a horrific thunderstorm from the Donar category approaching? Is it time to go pray, look for the shelters or take the laundry off the line? No do not bother.
It's the cremation disco.

Because just about everyone who goes to heaven in this village does not do so in silence. Definitely not even. As soon as I hear a pounding bass, I already know what time it is. For three to four days (sometimes longer, if the heartbroken family needs more time to bite each other's throats about legacy), songs from Carabao, Loso, as well as more appropriate gamelan music will be played. Where deafening can be seen as the bottom rung of the sound ladder, and neighbors rumor as non-existent.

Woe to the person who lives right next door, because the children shout that dinner is ready only by megaphone. I wouldn't be surprised if many a house here was declared uninhabitable after a cremation ceremony, because the supporting beams could no longer handle it. Beaten down by the days-long and concrete-crushing cacophony with which the deceased was paid their last respects.

The monks present, apparently a week left over from an institute for the deaf, often sit right under the trunks that are used as loudspeakers during this pandemonium.

What also surprises me is that to this day no dear and dear family member has ever climbed out of the coffin. To ask if, in Buddha's name, it may be a little quieter. Because the deceased had imagined eternal rest a little differently.
To my sincere question to Mrs. Oy why on earth it all has to be so blisteringly loud, I received the answer that everyone in the village knew that there was a death.
Whereupon they could join the family for a fitting tribute. Preferably loaded with frankincense, myrrh and pots of noodle soup.
The Thai variant of the mourning letter.
The only black edge I could detect was my perforated eardrums.

DECIBELS

Bus trips here in the country are not complete without an hour-long action movie or talent show on the onboard TV. Often turned to skull-splitting volume, because imagine if the passengers in the back couldn't hear it. Or worse, the driver sitting right under it.
If you look around to see if anyone else also thinks that a little less decibels would be nice, you will only find Thais sleeping or simply enjoying themselves. The first delightful in morpheus arms. Rocked by the sounds of a song-moaning singer and the screeching of a frenzied audience.

The latter does not give any guarantee that the talent will be present among the candidates, as I have noticed to my great sadness. If I ever have to choose between root canal treatment and having to listen to this kind of TV again, I will be on the line with my dentist within two seconds. If I can't sit in the chair a little earlier.

PIZZA PANDEMONIUM

After that mental torture by bus, walking on sidewalks is not always without danger either. Because a pick-up converted for advertising purposes could just drive next to you. Walking pace, because of that other Thai problem, the traffic. The advertising message, this time from Pizza Hut, is then blasted directly, incessantly and loudly into your brain from about three meters away. Which means that I can now cough up all the rates of the aforementioned cookie bakers backwards and without repeating themselves. While I don't even speak Thai. And that is why I firmly and ferociously resolve to avoid their pizzas like the plague in the future.

It should be noted that the drivers of these driving horns must come from another planet. Otherwise, there's no explanation for being able to sit with the equivalent of an afterburning f-16 for so long without becoming suicidal.

When I enter a 7/11, even well past midnight, there's always that loud "ping-pong" of the sliding doors. And the 'sawatdee khrap', whether friendly or not, from the young people behind the cash register. During my search for doughnuts, iced coffee and the location of the air conditioner to cool my boiled brain again, I will hear that nerve ping at least three hundred and sixty-eight times. And just as many times the 'sawadee khrap' after it. For me a good reason to also look for earplugs and Valium.

MISUNDERSTANDING

But the worst? That is that people here in the country have the idea that everyone likes hellish noise.
Recently. In the morning I calmly wait my turn at the local barber. Relaxed looking at some pictures in a Thai newspaper, and listening to the chatter between the two other customers present. Which were neatly finished, after which the hairdresser apologized to me. He rubs his stomach and gestures that he wants to have breakfast across the street first.
Fine, I gesture. Plenty of time.

The hairdresser walks out the door, but not after turning on the fossil color TV as a kind gesture to the waiting farang. At full strength.
As soon as he's out the door I groan and look for the remote control.