Workers are Your Friends

---

I absolutely hate workers in my house here in CR. And I hate it even more when I don't know them. I have to stay here day after day, watching them and checking the work every fifteen minutes to make sure they don't do something ridiculous with the bathroom tile. They made a major screw up in the first hour - one that had me change my design rather than tear down 45 tiles. He said he measured wrong. At least he took responsibility for it, which is rare.

And who knows what's going on in their savage minds as they wander in my house looking at the butterfly that is hanging from the ceiling and the big wooden iguana that is mounted on the wall. I hid my keyboard the second day. I watch as they move around the house; for where their eyes slow down and focus. I watch their expressions. While I was using my hand vacuum to clean up some of their luncheon mess, the old guy with no teeth said 'electrico something, electrico something,' and he grinned his toothless grin. I said, 'yeah, electrico vacuum.' Don't you have these in the jungle? Shut up and get to work.

And get this. The two workers had a bunch of bondex left over when they were finishing the first day. Of course they weren't surprised when they still had a wheelbarrow full of the tile cement. I'll probably run out now. What are you going to do with that, I asked. They looked at me, perplexed, like I was the idiot (emphasis on 'I'). They both pointed at the walls. It goes on the walls, they said. No, I said, what are you going to do with that wheelbarrow full of Bondex? The toothless dude said, throw it away of course. Where, I asked? He pointed outside. Out there. Ok. I breathed heavily, nodded my head, and tried to keep from shaking it. But I may have.

So I actually trusted him for a minute and a half, or got sidetracked, I don't know. But then I saw he was starting to pour the cement on some round river rocks that encircle my tree hopefuls out in front. What? Stop! What, he asked, I'm pouring this crap right here on these rocks. It looks good to me. Yeah, I can see that. Esta Loco? Are you crazy, I asked. Ponga aqui, you moron. And I pointed out a place on the parking area where he could pour the stuff. I wonder, is he really that stupid, or, excuse me, maybe that's just a cultural difference that I need to be more tolerant of. I'll think about it. But to continue the thought, is he really that stupid or is he messing with me? Like all construction workers I've encountered here, these couldn't care less about the neatness of their work and the mess around them that they don't see. They leave trails of tile cement all over the floor. It's not their problem, I know. Their culture allows them to ignore the mess they make - the same culture that inhibits the ability to plan. Maybe you want to argue nature versus nurture. The result is the same.

When they left today, I found a plastic bag with some crumbs from their cookies jammed into the pocket of one of my beach chairs. What? You tell me. Oh, at least he didn't leave it lying around, right? Man, if they want their $3 an hour, they better shape up. They had better be done today.

By the way, if you are a Tico, I was just kidding about everything. Pura Vida, man.

---