Creole decibels

Por: H. Zumbado

A couple of Sundays ago a report came out, precisely in Juventud Rebelde, signed by Jorge Rodrí-guez Doss, which caught my eye because it was about a much-loved subject close to us: noise. Among the data I remember, he mentioned:

“Noise affects the brain, disrupting mental concentration and generating fatigue, distress and anxiety. To the heart, producing tachycardia, changes in breathing rate, rise in cholesterol index and arteriosclerosis. To the digestive system, causing dyspepsia, gastritis and impaired intestinal mobility. In the eyes, reducing vision. And of course, in the ear, causing medium hearing loss, passing deafness and impaired balance.”

The decibel is the measurement of sound, and the rational tolerance limit is 80 to 90 decibels.
The violent closure of a door reaches 90 decibels and the broken exhaust pipe of a bus, 100.
The encephalogram of a man exposed to 115 decibels is very similar to that of an epileptic.
An experiment in Milan showed that as noise in an office increased, employee errors quadrupled.

What a rested life
the one from the one who flees the worldly noise

If Friar Luis de León wrote that because of the noises of the upper Middle Ages, which did not go beyond the hoots of horses trotting through the cobblestone streets, the hammer of the blacksmith and the bells of the church, what would he not write – riflexone one – if he could spend a weekend, now at the end of the twentieth century, in our capital?
Can you imagine the reaction of the author of The Perfect Married listening under a balcony on Maloja Street to the last discussion of a couple who have taken marriage to extrainnings?
I’m sure he’d exclaim, arching his eyebrows: And what good Spanish they speak!
It would also be convenient to take it to other places to clash with the smile of the worldly noise. For example:
Park it for a couple of hours in a brewery or in a rum, two of the most cache establishments in the capital city, where you talk with a certain tendency to raise your voice.
Invite him to the living room of a house where the radio and TV were set in uniesono, three children playing Enrique de Lagardere, the pickle of the house talking on the phone (long distance with Baracoa) and the lady talking from balcony to balcony with the neighbor.
Place it at the bus stop, in the morning, with the fresh, molote in the corner, at the times when the driver took the stop, leaving it in the hand of a hundred candidates on late arrival.
After those experiences, Friar Luis de León, as possessed by the devil, in the midst of something like an epileptic attack, riflexyonaría: “There is obviously no settlement, evidently, the historical fusion of lucumíes, dahomeyanos, congos, carabalís, mandingas and yoru-bas with Andalusians of Cadiz and Seville, direct heirs of the Arab caliphs of Cordoba and Baghdad, is much for one heart! Ω

Taken from H. Zumbado: Here it is Buzzed!, Havana, Editorial Cuban Letters, 2012.

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