I'll Remember The Way It Sounded

As promised, here's the first of my "Five Sense Friday" posts. With hopes of truly immersing myself in my surroundings while I'm, well, still in them, I've taken on this challenge. I must add a disclaimer, though. You won't really understand unless you hear/see/smell/touch/taste Cape Town yourself.

When I remember Cape Town, I'll remember the way it sounded.

I'll remember the sound of relentless construction just outside my window and the incessant echo of jackhammering and shoveling that, unfortunately, comes with it. I'll remember reading in bed, only to be interrupted by the sound of a taser being pressed into a man's skin by a policeman over and over and over again. I'll remember the I-think-I-can chugging of truck engines as they drag their heavy cargo up the steep incline of the hill.

I'll remember the clicks of the Xhosa language sprinkled throughout the sidewalks, and I'll remember the way the shop assistant rambled in Afrikaans while I mailed my postcards to the other side of the world. I'll remember the impressive English pronunciation showcased by Zimbabweans driving taxis. I'll remember my students' greetings - "Good morning, teacher!" - and their farewells - "Good bye, teacher. Thank you for teaching English. See you next time." I'll remember the sound of the rioting just outside the classroom window.

I'll remember the almost incomprehensible array of South African accents on the other side a phone call. I'll remember the sound of Goldfish, a South African electronic/dance group, squeezing through the speakers in our house, our favorite hangouts, and car radios. I'll remember hearing the exuberant cheers of soccer and rugby fans at Rafiki's... from my bed. I'll remember the shrill ding! ding! of WhatsApp's notifications. I'll remember the series of honking the minibus taxi drivers used to make sure everyone knew they were there. I'll remember listening to the same announcements made in four languages, just to make sure everyone in the township got the memo.

I'll remember the way the refrigerator obnoxiously beeped if you left it open too long. I'll remember the creak of the spiral staircase that led up to my room, and probably the inevitable crash of said staircase, if I had to guess. I'll remember the sound of our landlady's children playing on the terrace because she shared our property. I'll remember overhearing Skype conversations with the whole wide world: Russia, Australia, Philadelphia, New Zealand, Germany, etc. I'll remember the sound of the wind crashing into our walks and shaking our house. I'll remember the sound of the waves crashing on the many shores. I'll remember the sound of the school bell ringing in our neighborhood. I'll remember the solemn warnings: "Winter is coming."

I'll remember the strangers' pleas: "Lady, spare some change for us? For milk and bread?" I'll remember the way my students let phrases like "bungee jump" and "scuba diving" roll off their tongues like verbal toys. I'll remember the sounds of my own mispronunciations of Afrikaans words integrated into everyday conversation: Tamboerskloof, boerewors, vetkoek, koeksisters, naartjie, and mielie, to name a few. I'll remember the brazen accents of American tourists and students abroad, who seemingly shouted every word they said to all corners of Africa. I'll remember the familiarity of my dad's small town Kentucky accent fumbling through my computer speakers.

How could I ever forget the way Cape Town sounded?