For the past two years in Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic, the language and rhythms of the music we heard have been Spanish against a 3+3+2 beat and a bass hum in 4/4. Reggaeton poured from the bars at full and eardrum shattering volume—each establishment vying for auditory space along the road. Kitted out cars transported speakers the size of a water tank with the bass turned up so high that its rhythm overrode that of my own heartbeat. Even deep within the forest at night when we did our surveys, we could often hear the music from the roads or the nearby town. Part of the soundscape in the Dominican Republic was also the roar of motorbikes and the continual communication of vehicle horns (I’m passing you, I’m driving around a blind corner, thank you for letting me merge, don’t you dare change lanes right now, accelerate from the stoplight faster).
Here in Jamaica, we have drifted away from reggaeton and music with Latine roots. Instead, we are more often to hear Soca, or, rarely, reggae. While sharing a similar name to reggaeton, reggae originated in the 60s, has roots in RnB, jazz, and mento, and is characterized by staccato guitar and/or piano played on the offbeats. Reggaeton, however, was popularized and developed in Puerto Rico in the 90s and has roots in dancehall, hip hop, and the Jamaican dancehall dembow riddim.
In general, Jamaica also seems quieter. So far, we haven’t encountered the car-turned-speaker blasting music along the road and only twice have I heard music from town while I survey my plot. There also aren’t as many motorbikes, which makes driving much less stressful. Folks seem to use their car horn judiciously, which I appreciate, as the windy one-lane mountain highways are composed solely of blind corners edging onto cliffs.
This, of course, has no bearing on the natural soundscapes of field work, which are similar in kind, if not in the details, between islands. In Puerto Rico, we were deafened by the sounds of the coqui frog, which combined with the glare from our Magic shine headlamps, induced pounding headaches. Co-qui, co-qui, co-qui! The snoring frogs (Osteopilus crucialis) in Jamaica kept us company on night surveys in Marshall’s Pen, along with the banshee screech of the Potu. Cicadas, owls, pan-species (and genera) choruses of frogs keep us company at night across all three islands. Hummingbirds and mosquitos buzz in our periphery in every forest.
In the dry forests of Hellshire last week, and in Aguirre three years ago, the rustle of hermit crabs in the leaf litter always makes me startle—an issue when jumping too suddenly will put me in the arms of an acacia or cactus. A new sound this year was the crystalline chime of karst limestone pinging off other rocks. Akin to walking on a cheese grater (the soles of my boots bare the witness to this), I was grateful not to trip.
More artificial, but no less present, are the steady chirps of our walkie-talkies as students ask questions or exclaim over a cool natural history find. Less thrillingly, the walkie-talkies beep at regular intervals when they’ve been left on and are about to run out of batteries. The temperature guns (yes, exactly like those used to take temperatures during COVID lockdowns), make a bee--eep when they are in use, or when they are bumped in your bag. I tend to murmur to myself while surveying and often exclaim with surprise every time I see a lizard (yes, even three years and four field seasons later, I am still surprised that I can spot lizards with any regularity).
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