Icelandic Soundscapes

“If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?” – Anon

One of the most persistent indicators of life is sound. Everything from the rustling of trees to the wailing of children or the barking of street animals. Like a fingerprint of existence itself, for most creatures, sound plays an important role. Even reptiles, bereft of ears, interpret vibrations in the air. Apart from vision, hearing is the sense most under assault by the modern world. In cities far from here, which never sleep, the endless roar of traffic and the many voices of humanity drive millions of thousands of people to live immersed in a perpetual well of aural assault. To evade the noise pollution of the 21st century, droves of people “rediscover” the charms of the outdoors, still surrounded by the soft sounds of nature, many find peace and release. That there may be an absence of the sounds of macroscopic life in a populated region seems incredible.

Iceland is different. Here in Iceland, one hears only the phantom chirps of crickets. The soundscape of every part of the planet is about as unique as fingerprints are for people. No two are ever exactly the same at any given point in time.

Across India the soundscape varies, from a dull roar in the cities of Bombay and Delhi, to the serene buzz of insects. In parts of India, where I grew up, come morning there would be the calls of peacocks and throughout the night the quiet chirping of crickets and other insects. Bats, too shrill for the ears of most adults and softly hooting owls round out the aural experience. Occasionally, there would be the shrill whistle of a night watchman chasing a deer away from the gardens. Here in Iceland, such sounds of life might be alien, but there are still night sounds. Most days, the lapping of the ocean waves, the wind through the streets, rising to a howl between apartment buildings. At times it might seem inhospitable, knowing under the (surprisingly) visible stars in the sky, that there are not many other living things around. The free-roaming cats provide an elegant counterpoint to such a sense of disquiet; often in times of need one can find a friendly cat staring inquisitively through a window, peering around a door, or just out on the prowl. This lends a special kind of magic, unique and unparalleled, one of quiet humanity, domesticity, and a naturally dampened soundscape.

A lot of ink has been spilt so far on the conceptual single sample experience of a person. City noises are intrusive, the crush of humanity being more or less an anxiety-inducing experience much along the lines of the behaviour of sheep out in a forest of wolves. What value can be ascribed to these night sounds? What effects are caused by their lack? Clearly pretty much detrimental from a cursory analysis of the literature.[1] The silence of the Icelandic aural experience can evidently yield many dividends after an initial adjustment period. Indeed, contemplation of the manifold effects of silence and varying auditory experiences on the kaleidoscopic milieu of people can only be the mark of a truly open mind.

“The trouble with having an open mind, of course, is that people will insist on coming along and trying to put things in it.” ― Terry Pratchett, Diggers

References

[1]: https://journals.plos.org/plosone/article?id=10.1371/journal.pone.0123835

Image concatenated from a Google Image of the Mumbai Cityscape and a private image of the Reykjavik coastline.