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Published: October 16th 2008
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The Crete
Smells great Don't let the title of this blog confuse you. This is not a review of Cormac McCarthy's latest novel, "The Road." A post apocalyptic story about a man and his son, trying to survive in a harsh lifeless earth. But, I must say that I thoroughly enjoyed the book. It provided a classic example of the descriptively bleak and realistic style of McCarthy. I couldn't put it down and I ended up finishing it, to the amazement of my students, in only a few days.
However, this blog is not about a book. In fact the road I am referring to is right outside my Apartment. Its currently being repaved... Honduran style.
This is a process to make any civil engineer feel... uhh... well... feel something. I don't know about you (Cooper and Dad) but it made me feel great to see these guys repaving the mud strip just North of my dwelling. The first reason is the more obvious, I really wanted to be able to use the old mud hole as way to get to school. The second reason is that I just love the smell of concrete in the morning. Sorry Cooper, but in my book
Re-bar?
We don't need to stinkin re-bar. "hot top" doesn't go well with a cup of coffee. I don't know how they do things in Maine, but if I asked for a "hot top," here in Honduras, I would end up with a Puerto Rican hair cut.
Concrete has this rich and deep earthy smell to it. When it is mixed just right one can smell each separate element on it's own, mixing with the others to create a seamlessly symbiotic relationship. Depending on what type of mixture you use, you can actually feel the chemical change. In most cases this will leave you with very dry skin and at times a minor irritation, but not if your last name is Holmes. Concrete just runs through our blood.
By that I mean I grew up smelling, feeling and hearing Concrete. To most Concrete is just a hard Grey thing that people mistake for cement. But to me it was always so much more. It had a smell, a sound and if I were ever to venture into the other senses I'm sure I would discover it's taste as well. Every morning and afternoon I go out of my way to watch all the Hondurans work
Violation
Civilians in the worksite! on the road. I need to see it and hear it.
Listening to the aggregate scratch and dent against hard metal drums brings back memories of dirty work sites and gigantic Stone Concrete mixers. I can almost start to smell the diesel fuel and hear Bill Joyce razzing my dad about buying me pancakes from McDonnald's on "take your DAUGHTER to work day."
Pancakes.
That's one of the things I think of when I smell Concrete. I think of McDonnalds pancakes, hot chocolate and the big, green leather swivel chair in Dad's old office. The Orchard Park office was always covered in a thin layer of dust brought in by each of the drivers after they had washed their trucks. I would make a clearing on the desk in which to eat my freshly microwaved meal and watch Bill and Dad push green buttons on a faded Grey computer.
Trucks pulled in, made a deafening amount of noise accompanied by shouts from each driver, the radio would scream some sort of code I never understood and then when each truck was loaded they would pull out just as fast as they had pulled in. Sometimes this
Mixer
This is a rich man's mixer. made my dad happy and sometimes this made him angry. I never understood it, but I accepted it as reality.
Things work a bit differently here.
Quality control is run by an old man wearing clothes last washed in the early 1980's. He doesn't make rate so consequently the level and predetermined pitch of the road can't be guaranteed. Often the next morning he arrives to the work site and finds small animal prints littered across the previous day's work. However, this doesn't put him off the slightest bit, seeing as how it now matches the rest of the street. In fact a perfect pour would be unheard of.
The drivers come in the form of young men who just graduated High school. There are also a few veterans who have, most likely, been laying the 'crete for more years than they have teeth in their mouths. I eventually draw the attention of one older gentleman. He says something to me which I cannot understand.
"Ja," I reply. It is standard policy to reply "Ja" when one does not understand a Honduran. If the ill-communication continues it might be necessary to throw in a "diga?" or
Road
Here is where I live. two. This lets them know you didn't catch that last part.
So the "foreman" looks at me, smiles, and repeats himself. I try to make out what he is saying but it sounds like he is trying to mix limestone in his mouth.
"Well... Yeah, I'm checkin out what you guys are doing because my family makes concrete." I tell him in Spanish. He gives me the same toothless smile and then continues to do what sounds like an impression of someone trying to talk with a gag in their mouth. "Am I listening to a Beatles album in reverse," I think to myself. The man points to the concrete.
"Oh," I exclaim, "You want me to roll up me sleeves and have a go?"
The man nods and shows off his gum to tooth ratio.
"Oh shucks," I say in Spanish, "You see... I'd love to, but those classes ain't gonna teach themselves."
You see, the truth is I would love nothing more than to get down and dirty in the Grey mass of stone and dirt, but I really did have a class to teach. Plus I'm not about to work with
The front
This is the entrance to the appartments. a Honduran. They have their own way of doing things. It is like a southerner working with a New Yorker. I've been there and I have seen how the two bump heads.
These Hondurans, for example, were not wearing any gear approved by the Occupational Safety and Health Administration. Honestly, what are they thinking. Now I will admit that they did adhear to section #1926.701(d), which states that no employee shall be permitted to ride concrete buckets. However, they did provide work site access to the general public which is just begging for a lawsuit.
It clearly states in section 1926.20(b)(4) that the employer shall permit only those employees qualified by training or experience to operate equipment and machinery, and I plainly saw an old woman walk onto the site, pick up a hoe and start scavenging left over rocks. What!?
So you see, I just couldn't work in these conditions. It's just not safe. I mean laying concrete in rip-off Chuck Taylor's is a clear violation of OSHA's safety-toe footwear policy. You would think a developing country like this one would know that all footwear must meet the requirements and specifications found in the American National
My view
Outside my appartment. Standard for Men's Safety-Toe Footwear, section Z41.1-1967. After all we are in CENTRAL America, are we not?
Anywho, the road is almost done and it looks absolutely fantastic. It's not United Material's quality but at least the client wont be calling up the supplier to complain that the mixture resulted in cracks. That's not to say there wont be cracks. It is because the client doesn't care.
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Tio Tom
non-member comment
???
I don't think I've ever heard you rhapsodize about concrete before. Is it possible you've gotten homesick? (Or have you run out of money?) *** Great to finally get another post! (Your fans have been waiting impatiently!) Good to hear from you too! *** I've heard about *The Road* before, but haven't read it yet. I'll have to check it out!*** What's the latest about the big day next June? *** Hasta pronto! Don't eat too many donuts! Tom