Strings and things

Occasionally, seized by nostalgia for the days when my guitar played a significant role, I blow the dust off, pick a few notes, strum a chord or two and perhaps even attempt a song, after making sure the windows are closed.

So: one Friday evening, guitar perched on knees, I twang a preliminary chord, C major. Needs tuning. Adjust second, third and fourth strings without problem then the fifth parts in two, pyoing! as soon as I pluck it.

Examining the remnants, I can see why. I'm not good at guitar maintenance. The last time I bought a full set of strings was in the UK, many years ago, and the guy in the music shop gazed at my guitar in disbelief. 'When did you last change this lot?' Umm, several years ago. Well, maybe ten. Could be fifteen. He nodded. 'We have a name for strings like these,' he said sadly. 'They're what we call grotty.' His glottal stop on the 'grotty' cleverly imitated the noise made my low-E string, which had a knot in it. He sold me a replacement set of nylon strings and suddenly I had a brand new guitar, warm, mellow and resonant.

But that was then, and already many more years have passed. At least ten. Could be fifteen... This newly-ruptured fifth string clearly signals an encroaching malaise of old age and weariness. I'm talking about the guitar strings.

I decide to start by replacing just the broken string. There is a specialist music shop I know of but it's in Tenerife, requiring a ferry and bus trip. However, after a quarter-century love affair with La Gomera we have uncovered a few of its secrets. We know it's entirely possible to buy guitar strings right here in the capital, San Sebastián. There is no music shop but there is a shop, heavily disguised, that sells guitars.

Here's what you do. Follow that elegant lady with the crisp hairdo, swirling red skirt and matching high heels - let's call her Carmen - as she clickety-clacks purposefully along the pedestrian street. Carmen is on her way to buy a new outfit!

Watch to see which shop she enters. The smartest fashion boutique in town, of course. Follow her in. Make your way past the tailored jackets, the sparkly dresses, the calfskin handbags and red-soled shoes, the discreet display of fortified bodyshapers - and there, right at the back, you will come upon a little cubbyhole where the walls are adorned with beautiful, curvaceous, polished-wood acoustic guitars.

Show the lady assistant your old, grotty string as a sample, explain that it was once a wire-wound nylon fifth, and she will fetch you a replacement. No raised eyebrows or snide remarks, just service with a smile. Any guitar is something to be treasured and nurtured here, where the proprietor's husband is one of the island's best guitarists.

I guess any long-established community is full of useful little secrets like this, the local know-how. It's not a question of excluding the outsider, anyone would be delighted to tell you where to buy a guitar string. It's just how things develop when services are run by the folk who live here rather than global conglomerates. For instance, to renew your driving licence... oh, later, later. I must get back to my guitar practice.

Give us a kiss

We’re on the beach, freshly changed into our swimsuits for the daily dip when a neighbour approaches to introduce her friend Eva, a slim, attractive woman considerably younger than me (that's not difficult) and clad in a minimal bikini.

'Encantado,' I tell her (delighted to meet you) in the proper Spanish manner then, perhaps knocked off balance by the splendid cleavage, I offer her my hand. This is not Spanish at all, it's ridiculously British.

'Un besito!' (a little kiss) admonishes Eva quite rightly, and offers me her right cheek then her left. I happily oblige, having absolutely no problem in sharing little kisses with beautiful women. 'We kiss a lot, we Spanish,' she explains, which of course I've known for the last thirty years, it's one of my favourite characteristics, but somehow the British reserve still pops up when I take my foot off its neck.

Accompanying this pleasant woman is her equally attractive teenage daughter in jeans and teeshirt who has been up all night partying. She collapses onto the sand and falls asleep within moments of arriving so plays no part in the interchange, which is perhaps fortunate because otherwise I might have multiplied my social failure. The other day, another woman we already knew stopped for a chat in the street, also trailing a teenage daughter. This one managed to remain awake during the conversation and, as we hadn’t met before, her mother introduced us. We both failed to greet her with a besito, just said 'Hi', which in Spain is less than you'd offer a tortoise. Why, for goodness' sake?

It's because the instant intimacy of kissing just doesn't come naturally to us creatures of the cooler North. We've even developed the air kiss to avoid actual contact. Yet it's so nice, this Spanish physicality, it feels so right when you get used to it.

Men don't generally kiss other men in Spain but they do touch each other to an extent that would raise eyebrows in Britain. Look, for example, at Antonio and Ramón, two senior citizens, slowly approaching each other in the street. They pause, exchange a word of greeting, then both reach out to hold the other's arm or shoulder while swapping a bit of news, before moving on.

Look at those two younger guys wearing skateboard gear. They do the vertical handclasp favoured by youth and American presidents, then they pat each other on the arm, then one of them punches the other playfully in the chest.

You will never see two people greet each other without some form of physical contact. I've got used to people rubbing my upper arm as though offering comfort - 'Keep your pecker up, things can only get better!' but they're not doing that at all, they're just saying hello, nice to see you. Waiters and waitresses who know you may lean on your shoulder while taking your order.

I love it all and I'm gradually improving my contact skills. I can even rub somebody's arm with convincing fluency.

But here's a health warning: never carry this behaviour back with you to the UK. When you've experienced someone going rigid with alarm at being hispanically hugged you'll realise that, like fresh bananas, goat cheese and Barcelona football shirts, this kind of behaviour just doesn't travel well.

Floating heads

It happened as she was trying to leave the sea. She slipped, staggered, lost her balance and ended up rolling on her back, helpless. Ventura is of generous proportions and no longer young.

It's always a bit up-and-downy where sea meets beach, you expect ripples and ridges in the shallows, but sometimes the tides, winds and breakers sculpt a deeper step. So when wading in you're faced with a sudden plummet up to your chest in cold water - shriek! - and when you're trying to get out it's like scaling a hill of coffee beans.

Both of these can be entertaining to watch, but Ventura's current plight, struggling on her back like a turtle, was alarming. It doesn't take long for someone to drown even in shallow water, or panic and have a heart attack.

Her companions, still in the sea, were splashing towards her and I ran down the beach to lend a hand. By the time I got there a younger woman had pulled Ventura right way up but was now dealing with an escalation of the crisis as the top half of Ventura's bathing costume had treacherously released its contents.

I studied my toes for a few moments while that was sorted out, then helped the young woman lift Ventura to her feet. We guided her up the beach to the shower, which the ladies use as a changing area. She was trying to smile but clearly shaken. 'It's the sand shifting under your feet,' she explained, 'and the water dragging at your legs. I just, you know...' Of course. But you feel daft when you fall over.

The other ladies returned to the sea and we followed. Now, J and I bathe in order to swim - healthy exercise as well as primitive pleasure. These ladies do not swim. They stand motionless in the water up to their necks, a flotilla of heads among the ripples, doing nothing at all except chatting. Why, you might wonder, would anyone go to all this trouble - changing into costumes, struggling in and out of the sea, showering, getting dressed again - if they're just going to stand and chat? They could do that far more easily over a nice cup of coffee.

Okay, let's ask the lady with the green flower-pot sun hat. Why do you bathe in the sea? 'Well, it's good for you,' she replies, 'sea water is good for the body.' If you press further, 'why?' like a toddler trying to drive everyone nuts, she adds 'Well, of course it's good! Good for your skin, good for your muscles, your joints, your circulation...' What a daft question, everyone knows sea water is good for you.

Maybe she's right. Maybe there's something mysterious in sea water other than plastic bags and nitrate run-off that subtly benefits the human body. But I think it's just that people like water. We're all descended originally from the sea sponge. This informal seaborne tertulia, discussion group, is popular because it's enjoyable to natter and gossip while being gently massaged by the waters we came from.

They give up in winter when the sea gets chillier. Ventura has given up altogether because she's scared of falling over again, which is a shame. But there you are, growing old gracefully often requires meek acceptance of the inevitable. Each year some leave the tertulia and others join, while the earth turns and the moon circles and the tides come and go, and that's how things are.

Revenge of the shrimp

Preliminary confession: this story is not really about La Gomera, it's a life-or-death story that could take place anywhere. But it happens to have taken place here, so I'm going to relate it anyway.

It's driving me mad, this tickle. A crumb or something on one of my tonsils. I discover that by arching my tongue upwards at the back I can scrape it against the tonsil but that just makes it worse, the tickle becomes a sharp little stab like a pinprick. Strange and slightly disconcerting.

Peering into the bathroom mirror, mouth wide open as at the dentist's, I can't see anything suspicious. But wait - when I persuade my tongue to lie down flat, maybe there's just a tiny glint of something right at the back?

With the bedside torch I confirm the diagnosis. There is a tiny hair sticking out of my tonsil. A cautious probe with a finger fails to make contact but produces a warning heave.

Pause for thought. How did a bit of hair get stuck in my tonsil? Doesn't take long to work it out. This is a summer weekend and we had indulged in lunch at a local café, sitting outdoors in the sunshine. Persuaded by Toñio the proprietor - 'These are wonderful, fresh this morning, a few hours ago they were swimming in the sea' - we ordered a plateful of shrimps. He was absolutely right, was Toñio, really fresh shrimps are a revelation. Subtle, delicate, a sea breeze captured in a little pink body.

You get in a terrible mess mind you, as the pile of discarded heads, legs, tails and carapaces begins to take over the plate, but that's part of the delight, this is hands-on stuff, real food. But (here we're getting to the core of the story) these creatures also have long, spindly whiskers attached to their heads. Not silky soft like a cat's but stiff and brittle like porcelain needles. Ahah.

So the situation seems to be that I have a fragment of shrimp whisker stuck in my tonsil. It can't be left there because for one thing it tickles and for another it could cause - well, who knows, inflammation, infection, swelling. You can choke to death on a swollen tonsil.

Got to come out, but how? Fingers are never going to do the job, the tonsil is just too far away. I take a small pair of tweezers from the first aid cabinet and have a go with those. Holding the tip of the handle I can just about reach the tonsil with the business end, but in order to tweeze I need to get my finger and thumb in there too... As I struggle it suddenly occurs to me that if the tweezers slipped out of my grip and the swallow reflex kicked in, things could quickly get much worse.

I explain my fears to J, who is watching. I realise I'm sweating. 'Longer tweezers?' she suggests with commendable clarity. She hands me the long, pointy tweezers we use for extracting splinters. Better, I can get closer with those. But still not quite close enough, and I can't see what I'm doing because my fingers are in the way and... I'm beginning to curse, always a bad sign, nerves giving way.

'Let me have a go.' I hand J the tweezers, glad to transfer responsibility and become a patient. I perch on a stool with mouth open like a gargoyle while she fishes with the tweezers, then leaps backwards when I suddenly heave. She's having the same trouble as me - even these longer tweezers are not up to the job.

Pause for thought, again. What we need is even longer tweezers. Inspiration: in my toolbox I have a pair of long-nose pliers. Need a bit of cleaning up first, remove bike oil and grit. I wipe them over with medical alcohol which seems the correct thing to do anyway before sticking them down my throat.

All up to J now, there's no way I can get involved. She gingerly introduces the pointy end of the pliers. All I can see is yellow handles waving around beneath my nose.

A childhood image springs to mind, a river barbel with gaping jaws trying to bite my dad's fingers off as he probed for the fishhook.

I feel a tweak in my tonsil. 'Got it!' She has, she has! Vast relief. She holds up the shard of whisker still gripped by the pliers. Insignificantly small but clearly evil, needle-thin and fragile as fine china.

Just to check I rub the tonsil with the back of my tongue. Uh-oh - a sharp little stab of pain. There's more in there. It must have snapped. This is fast turning into a nightmare.

'You'll have to go to the hospital,' J says, giving up. She's right of course, they'd have something better to fish with than long-nose pliers. But, I dunno. I mean, it's only a little bit of shrimp whisker.

'Let's have one more go.' The thing is, though, this whisker is sticking out sideways. So she will have to try and extract it the same way, sideways, rather than hoping to yank it straight out. This is the kind of thing you learn by experience.

Gamely, J takes up the pliers again. I hold myself rigid as a stuffed barbel while she manoeuvres the pliers between my teeth. She is grunting quietly with concentration. My tonsil reports a tickle. It goes on and on. Is that something sliding I can feel, a slight pull as of a needle withdrawing?

Finally she pulls the pliers out of my mouth and holds them up triumphantly. She's got all of it this time. It's extraordinarily long. How on earth did that much whisker manage to bury itself in my tonsil, without my noticing it at the time? But then you don't really feel a hypodermic syringe either.

This is clearly the shrimp's ultimate weapon. Dead though it may be, it will do its best to wreak a sly and terrible revenge.

Postscript: please don't let this discourage you from ordering fresh shrimps, they're great. Just look carefully before you pop anything into your mouth...

San Juan and a revelation

Feli and Lali were perched on the wall side by side like twin Humpty Dumpties, watching the sea and an oddly murky moon climbing into the twilight. I touched them both on the shoulder. 'A bit dangerous, sitting here!' Their legs were dangling above a sheer drop of several metres to the beach. But Gomerans are good at heights, they've lived with precipitous drops all their lives. Our neighbours shuffled along the wall to make room for us: 'Sit down, sit down,' but we declined. Too high, too much smoke. 'We'll see you later.' They smiled and nodded tolerantly, accustomed to foreign eccentricity.

The smoke that stung the eyes and yellowed the moon came from the beach below, where party revellers were camped around half a dozen crackling bonfires. They were here in honour of San Juan and later there would be dancing, but as always we'd arrived far too early. It's difficult not to arrive early for Spanish festivities because they always start terribly late. Rule of thumb is to add an hour to the published start time before you even think of turning up, and you'll still be early. But Gomerans are good at waiting too, they are patient people, and an hour to wait is an hour to chat and joke and celebrate being Gomeran.

We retreated further from the beach to escape the worst of the smoke. Mixed with the fragrant and carcinogenic aroma of burning timber was the acrid stench of scorched meat from handheld barbecue forks. I'm not a big fan of bonfires but don't ever say that on San Juan's day.

Also down there on the beach was Leandro the loudspeaker man, plugging cables into black boxes and aiming vast black boomboxes menacingly around him, clearly determined to leave no refuge. Of the musicians there was no sign, no doubt because they were sensibly gathered in a distant bar to ease themselves into the mood.

The festival of San Juan Bautista, John the Baptist, is one of the many Catholic festivals that have appropriated a pagan equivalent. The bonfires were originally intended to inspire the sun at the midsummer solstice, its finest moment, to blaze on in glory rather than sinking towards winter. The strategy has never worked all that well but people live in hope, and the bonfires of San Juan still hold mysterious powers. If you jump over one it cleanses you of evil spirits, or something of the sort, and this forms an important part of the San Juan festivities in some towns. Like bull-running, its main function is for young men to demonstrate their fearlessness to other young men and the more naïve of young women. (Brighter ones say no way, José, no father of my children is going to leap over bonfires.) I have no idea how John the Baptist came to be involved with this, and I doubt if the Pope does either. Stop asking questions, just enjoy.

Around ten o'clock I tired of trying to get a good shot of the peek-a-boo moon and began to worry that the smoke might have ruined my camera. (It didn't.) Put away camera. We wandered up and down the track behind the beach wall, greeting people here and there. Most of those now arriving were hauling insulated food boxes the size of treasure chests, their kids following behind with six-packs of beer and cola. Down on the beach a few near-naked youths were still mucking about in the waves then scootling back to their bonfires to warm up. By now I was also worrying that the fog of smoke swirling around us would leave an indelible scent of burnt resin on my fleece jacket. (It did.)

Leandro the loudspeaker man had turned his attention to the microphones, darting around on the podium under a red spotlight like a performance art event. Adjusting the volumes. Hola? Hola, hola! Tap tap tap. Sí! No! Uno dos tres. No sign of any musicians yet.

Heart slowly sinking while the moon escaped into the clearer air above, I realised that not only had we arrived too early, we had arrived far, far too early. The dance was not going to happen until well after midnight. It would continue until six or seven in the morning, when everyone would wobble off to buy hot chocolate and churros.

This is entirely typical, not only in La Gomera but in the whole of Spain. Which leads me to a theory I've just developed. A revelation I attribute to the festivities of San Juan. How is it, do you suppose, that the Spanish in the fifteenth century managed to overrun such vast swathes of territory, including most of southern and central America, in the face of fierce opposition from so many millions of native warriors?

I think I know. Imagine the two opposing bands - invading Conquistadors and defending Indians - camped for the night on opposite sides of the valley. Oil lamps flickering, meat roasting, wine splashing into mugs. As the stars take hold, supper over, the natives settle down under their goatskins for a good night's sleep before tomorrow's bloodshed.

Just nodding off nicely when, over there on the other side, one of the foreign invaders starts twanging some strange white-devil instrument, the others join in singing and before long there's uproar, you can't hear the wind in the palms or the babble of the stream for the stamping and shouting and strumming carried pitilessly on the cool night air. They're still at it as the sun peeps over the hill, finding the Spaniards fired up and ready for anything, the natives bleary-eyed and knackered from sleep deprivation.

This, I now believe, is the secret of Spain's extraordinary success as a colonial adventurer. Its people do not need sleep. They can party all night while others fall senseless around them. San Juan, this year as other years, was honoured and serenaded without our help. Soon after eleven, with the bonfires burning merrily but still no musicians, we gave up and went home, vanquished like the Indians.

What's your favourite?

She approached us with a wide Canary Islands smile, a slim, attractive lady in a summer-bright dress. Much more ominous was the cloud of nine-year-olds swirling around her, each clutching a little piece of paper.

Friday evening. We're seated outside a café on the pedestrian main street, chilled rosado wine catching the last of the sunlight to paint glowing blobs on the table. Couples stroll, toddlers tumble, old folk sit on benches complaining about politicians, Real Madrid and their arthritis. Newly-arrived tourists trundle their suitcases far too fast, still anxious from the journey, they'll take a day or two to relax... We're just sitting here watching it all, nothing really, people doing what people do.

'Excuse me, are you English?' The youthful cloud has arrived, wafted towards us by their smiling leader. She speaks excellent English with only the mildest of accents. She's a teacher. We fear the worst.

We are, we admit, English. 'Ah, I thought so!' The children swirl closer, gathering around our table like pigeons spying peanuts. 'These children want to practise their English. Do you mind if they ask you a few little questions?'

'Err...'

'It won't take long. They're very easy questions!' She's got a lovely smile, and the kids are standing there meekly with their little pieces of paper... Oh okay, fire away then.

'Thank you very much!' She points to the first girl in line, over on our left - 'Yolanda!' The back of Yolanda's paper is decorated with mysterious squiggles in coloured crayon. The front of it holds her list of questions, which she's going to ask in what she believes to be English. We wait for her to select one.

Yolanda plunges in confidently: 'Do you like La Gomera?'

Got it! 'We love La Gomera!' J responds, and everyone smiles. Going well so far.

'What's your favourite colour?'

Tricky. J's favourite colour is not one of the rainbow seven. 'My favourite colour's blue,' I offer boringly, giving time for J to plump for the honest response: 'My favourite colour's turquoise.'

Teacher helps: 'Ah yes, that's turquesa.' See, not difficult. Yolanda nods and consults her paper, getting into her stride, but it's time to move on to Ricardo fidgeting beside her. Ricardo wears scruffy jeans and will undoubtedly want to get his eyebrows pierced someday soon. He wishes to know what we like for breakfast. Prompted by a wink from teacher we give him the works, full English, fried eggs and bacon, sausage, tomatoes and the rest... lots of good vocabulary in there, not that Spanish kids really need to learn 'baked beans'.

Ricardo scribbles something on his paper then goes for the big one. 'Do you like football?'

This is aimed directly at me. I haven't the remotest interest in football. And look, I'm not going to lie about it to these kids, they need to know the sad realities of life. 'Umm, not very much.'

Teacher chuckles nervously but it's okay, Ricardo interprets my response as too ridiculous to take seriously. He carefully articulates his follow-up: 'What's your favourite football team?

I grab a name from the fog: Arsenal. Ricardo looks bemused. Try again: Manchester United. That's more like it! He nods and writes it down. Every boy across the entire planet has heard of Manchester United.

There are about ten of these cheerful little interrogators and soon they know everything there is to know about us - favourite colours, favourite island, which fruit we like best, which pudding. It all reminds me of the long-gone days when, briefly, I taught children of this age in a primary school. Get them involved and they'll plunge into anything up to their armpits, they're very rewarding.

My vino rosado is getting warm and teacher wisely hurries things along so as not to drain our goodwill. After Sandra has rounded things off with only the tiniest hiccup - 'Do you like best... Do you like cats or dogs best?' - we're invited to visit them at school whenever we want. We exchange names, all of us. Not going to remember any of theirs for long but maybe they'll remember ours, greet us in the street one day soon, hello Janine, hello Peter, what's your favourite sandwich?

Arturo, the café proprietor, has been watching from the doorway. He grins as the teacher wafts her students away, waving. 'They gave you a hard time!' No they didn't, we rather enjoyed it. How often do you get the chance to spend ten minutes talking exclusively about yourself, with an attentive audience noting your every word? Short of being Prime Minister, this is as good as it gets.

The whistle

Raising her hands to her face, she stuck both forefingers into her mouth like Dracula fangs. Breathed in, blew out and emitted a shriek that could shatter a kidney stone.

'That's the whistle,' our host Eusebio explained superfluously. 'That's how you make the noise. First you learn how to do that, then you learn how to say things.'

He was talking about the famous whistling language, of course, the silbo gomero, that used to ring across the deep, wrinkled valleys of La Gomera. No wonder the Spanish conquistadors had such a bad time trying to crush these people, the whistle alone would be enough to send any sane soldier scuttling back to his troopship, chainmail ringing.

We were gathered in our neighbour's house in the village to celebrate the arrival of the new year, many years ago, when conversation turned to the silbo. It took a few glasses of wine to get Luzma loosened up enough to perform, being a little shy in front of these two foreigners, although she knew us well enough by then.

'Say something, Luzma,' Eusebio commanded. Luzma was okay now, the first whistle had relaxed her like a steam engine shedding pressure. She poked her fingers into her mouth again. This time her whistling was modulated, a tuneful warble like a blackbird singing into a Rolling Stones amplifier. When it finished our host Eusebio got to his feet, took the wine bottle from the table and topped up her glass. She warbled again, briefly.

'She was asking you to...'

'Refill her glass. Then she said, thank you Eusebio.'

Luzma was whistling again with an oddly mischievous expression. Eusebio listened, said 'Uff!' then sat down, shaking his head and pretending to be shocked. His wife Carmela explained, chuckling: 'She told him to drop his trousers to see what's inside.' Luzma cracked up with laughter. Country humour soon turns earthy.

Many of the earlier-generation Gomerans such as Luzma can still do the silbo and most can understand it. Sadly, you rarely hear it in the streets these days, although sometimes a guy will hail a friend across the town square: 'Juanito! Come and have a beer.'

As a tourist you're most likely to hear the whistle as a demonstration in a restaurant. That's fine, it's genuine enough, no play-acting or deceit, but there's an obvious risk that the silbo could turn into a cabaret act. It could forget its roots and become as false as the Disneyland flamenco dancing you can suffer in any Spanish tourist hotel.

I suppose even that would be better than the alternative, that it should fade and die, supplanted by the mobile phone. But the good news, the really good news, is that the Gomerans and the world in general realised in the nick of time what they'd got here and set about saving it. Schoolchildren now learn the silbo as part of their weekly curriculum. Even better, it has gained global recognition as a UNESCO Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity, which will ensure funding and support although it sounds a bit posh for what Luzma does.

Now and again the council runs a competition for young whistlers from the local schools and colleges. And they are very, very impressive. If you don't believe the silbo is really a language, watching one of these competitions will convince you. The participants compete as teams of two, a whistler and a listener. The whistler is handed a slip of paper with a message typed on it. The messages are pulled at random from a box and the competitors have no idea what they are until they're handed the paper slip. And the messages are not about galleons on the horizon or goats falling into crevices, they're things like:

Romina, we're going to the beach this afternoon, come with us and bring your radio.
Rafael, tell Rubén I met his brother and he wants to borrow his bicycle tomorrow.

The listener can request – by whistling, of course – a repeat of anything they haven't understood, then they have to say aloud what the message was. Mostly they get it right, either completely or nearly. It's astonishing.

How does it work? There are learned books and research papers about this, but basically the silbo is a phonetic representation of the Spanish language. You can hear that in the sound of it, a warble that mimics the words and intonation of the spoken language. A skilled silbador, a whistler, can represent at least four of the spoken vowels individually and perhaps all five. The consonants are mostly doubled up, one sound for two or more consonants, but that's good enough to be perfectly intelligible.

And no, I can't do it. I would love to be able to whistle across the square 'Hey, Antonio, fancy a beer?' but so far I haven't even managed the carrier signal, the raw noise. A local expert who knows everything about Gomeran culture showed me how to whistle by mouth alone, no fingers: 'Roll your tongue into a tube – like this – then put it behind your teeth and...' There it was, the piercing blast.

If you really want an ear-splitter though, to reach across a ravine, you poke one knuckle into your mouth while the other hand cups around it to focus the sound. I've tried everything, one knuckle, two fingers, tongue rolled like a cigar, but all I produce is a damp hiss or a bat squeak. Maybe Gomerans are born with some special gadget behind their teeth.