Mornings in El Bramadero are quite something to behold - lurching to and fro between a cacophonous nightmare and an awe-inspiring collection of new and interesting sounds. If anyone could survive unroused between the hours of five and seven, then I´d fear there is a corner of some Bramadero house that is forever England.
At his earliest convenience, the first cockerel offers a cock-a-doodle-do to his colleagues in the neighbourhood, who - reckoning that this was a point thoroughly well made - spend the rest of the morning voicing their unanimous agreement.
The local dog population, on the other hand, has an entirely different take on the matter and waste no time in throwing their opinion into the mix. The whole raucous argument continues long into the day.
However, by far the most spectacular contribution to this beautifully nightmarish orchestra is that of the birds that inhabit the surrounding forest areas. Not for them is the dulcet dawn chorus we´re accustomed to in the UK. Rather, they have somehow perfected (and I mean perfected) that terrifying, jarring chord that´s repeated in the shower scene of Psycho. This, to me, must be ranked in the upper echelons of the very greatest of life´s wondrous, unsolvable mysteries. True, birds are often creatures of imitation, but (judging from the blaring of the television in the adjacent room), even that most recognisable of Hitchcock´s oeuvre does not seem to have made it to these parts.
With all this happening around them, it is not difficult to figure out why Nicaraguans are such early risers and suddenly six o´clock renditions of The Venga Boys, Major Lazer or even Simon and Garfunkel ringing through the town is something to which you are thoroughly accustomed.
Who needs an alarm clock?
Written by ICS volunteer John Payne
