Posts
07:18 on a Tuesday.
Most of the traffic took the B8 up Long Hill Road to Anchovy and to the citrus plantations and Savannah La Mar beyond. The road is mostly empty now, and it opens up past Reading, and Don Topping starts another “Doo Wop Shopping” show on Radio Two (“your music and sports lifestyle station”). For the balance of the commute, as the tinny sounds of my underpowered radio blare the best of the Doo Woppers from decades past, I find it too easy to imagine that the music comes to me as new releases.
And the Dell-Vikings continue with their “...dum bee doo bee dum, wah wah wah waah”.
In the country, there is little to remind you of the year. Most rural buildings are of a typical zinc roofed construct, as they have been forever. Building materials have been recycled so much, I doubt if anyone really knows when that rusted roof or pitted wooden siding was first used. I suppose after the hurricane hits, you just rebuild with whatever has been blown onto your yard. Paint runs JA $250 a liter, so you do not see much of it being used. There are still a number of buildings with damage left over from Gilbert, the last hurricane. Unoccupied, they are like relics in a ghost town, or a town soon to be ghosted.
The people that I pass along the roadside, waiting for a lift or just waiting, are without period. A khaki schoolboy uniform (standard white blouse and school colored skirt for the girls) looks as modern today as it did in 1930. Even the working folks seem to be dressed out of time. The style is not quite now or then. The vendor’s pushcart has not seen a redesign in seventy years. Rasta hair is Rasta hair, whenever – dreads be dreads (or, more locally, “locks be locks”).
The road is still empty on Thursday morning, as it opens up again past Reading, and Don Topping starts another “Strike Up the Band” show on Radio Two (still “your music and sports lifestyle station”).
The Dogwagon spews thick, black, diesel fumes as it churns up the grade from Great River, and the view back across and towards Montego Bay looks exactly as it did when Ellington wrote the tune that is playing right now. From this distance, I cannot make out the individual buildings. I can only see a mass of structures trying their best to hold onto the steep slopes of the hills above town.
The road is without time. Generally constructed prior to the departure of the British and inadequately maintained, it reflects a standard long ago deemed inappropriate in the United States. No doubt, the time of construction was before the advent of excessive liability settlements, when you really did not need to have substantial clear zones, appropriate stopping sight distances, adequate guardrail, pavement marking or signage.
I share the road with the Ladas. Singularly, a car out of time. They are as abundant as the goats. Developed shortly after the development of the box, a design which appears unchanged over eons, Ladas somehow keep on going, despite the ravages of time and this highway. Old cars, old trucks, old bicycles are all cobbled together, and their owners try to get one more day out of them. Anything that looks new is an anomaly.
On this road, there is no regulatory information in the way of road furniture, and no traffic enforcement either. As such, there is a level of indiscipline and lawlessness on the highway that is reminiscent of some of the old biker flicks.
And it is not just the biker flicks, I suppose, but the total feel of this drive is like most any road film made in the fifties or sixties, and probably lots of war movies set in the Asian and Pacific theatres. With the right background music, Jamaica is a land without time. Sometimes, the high levels of dust during this current drought make the place look like it was filmed in black and white, or perhaps the Technicolor has just faded.
And I continue my commute, and try to tweak a little more thunder out of the Woody Herman tune.
A few weeks ago, I borrowed a friend's copy of the first 007 movie, Dr. No. The major part of it was filmed on the island in 19-long ago, as were many of the early Bonds. It seems that it could have been filmed here yesterday; so much looks and feels the same.
Jamaica has only been independent since 1962, and there is a strong colonial influence which remains here. As the wealthy foreigners, we are easily isolated from the daily life and scrapping existence of everyday Jamaicans. We spend our money at places too posh for the vast majority of the people who live here, and then we lock ourselves into our gated compounds at night, secure in the fact that the guards at the gate will keep the undesirables at bay..... just like it has always been.
Saturday morning, and Radio Two plays a mix of Motown and Disco. I can tell that today is going to be one of those get down boogie fever kind of days.
We play tennis on most weekends now, in a round robin format that, reduced of competition, is much more civilized. An ideal sport for the expatriate crowd. Tennis whites, gin and tonics, huzzahs all around, sophisticated humours with the embassy crowd. Well, not quite, but there is that air about the activity. Expatriates have been playing tennis here forever.
Despite the civility, it is still tennis in the Tropics, and the final game stalled on deuce for a quarter hour it seems, and I am hot and tired and leave a trail of sweat all the way home, where I crank the most recent Filter, brought back from the States the last time I was there.
And I look at my watch in that brief instance when the second hand is between ticks, and time has stopped altogether.
Read More......
2000-05-19
2000-04-27
Bun and Cheese
“Don miss mi a bun an cheese”, was the reminder from the woman who sells me a newspaper each morning.
With a nod and a wave and a Gleaner, I eased the Dogwagon back into my own lane and continued the drive to work, adding this new task to the scores of others that fill my to-do spreadsheet. This was a short week and I had enough on my plate as it is.
Easter weekend was fast approaching, and you could sense that special something in the air, that special kind of chocolate rabbit, plastic egg, stale peeps, and bun and cheese something. It moved towards me like a sheet of chocolate glaze on a frosting line in a doughnut factory. Unavoidable, saturating, sugar coated and made with real lard.
The Jamaicans love this holiday.
The Jamaicans love the religious aspect, although the predominantly Christian population never appears more than dutifully pious. There are more churches per capita here than anywhere else on the planet. If I was out in the church districts that Sunday morning, I may have seen them packed to overflowing with believers, anxious to renew their faith on their holiest of days.
I was instead worshiping the gods of fish and coral, rejoicing in the miracle of the sponge. I was witnessing the annual rebirth of the tens of thousands of thimble jellyfish which cover the reef this time of year as I contemplated another Earth Day past.
The Jamaicans love Carnival, which begins on Easter. This is an annual festival liberated from the Trinidadians. It is one big Socapalooza, with parades and bands, skimpy costumes and wriggling dancers, steel drums and lawlessness for an entire week. We do not see much of Carnival on the north side of the island, as most of the celebrations are in the urban areas around Kingston, where it provides a week of release from the dictates and traditions of Lent.
The Jamaicans love the fact that Easter is a four day weekend, with Good Friday and Easter Monday designated National Holidays. It also heralds the start of spring break for the schoolchildren, who will spend the next week doing what school kids always do when given time off from school – they forget everything they were to have retained since the term began.
And, for reasons unexplained, Jamaicans love the bun and cheese, the national Easter dish.
Bun is the Jamaican equivalent of fruitcake. It is a quick bread, barely leaven with either baking powder or baking soda, made with flour and fruits, flavored with allspice, molasses and sugar. This time of year, the Easter Bun appears in the bakery aisle, augmenting the everyday styles of bun that usually reside there. The Easter variety bun usually has more fruit, but otherwise tastes exactly the same as the pedestrian bun.
At other times of the year, bun and cheese is a poor man’s lunch. At about the same cost as a meat patty, you can get a little protein and some carbohydrates at any bakery and at many of the snack vendors. The wealthy Jamaicans never eat bun and cheese for lunch though, as it is a poor man’s food, not suitable for the working man fully able to afford the noontime purchase of curried goat, chicken foot soup, ox tail, or cow skin.
Of course, this changes at Easter, when everyone will eat the bun and the cheese. Mostly because it is free, provided by your employer by tradition. On Wednesday evening, my grateful and generous boss provided me with the largest of the Easter buns, weighing in at some kilo and a half, having the density of wet laundry. With the bun came a quarter wheel of mystery cheese. “Now, what am I to do with a kilo of cheese and a lead brick of a bun”, I said to no one in particular.
Then I heard a voice in my head. “Don miss mi a bun an cheese”, it said. Was it a memory of the newspaper woman, or was it just a convenient and well timed literary vehicle? Regardless, I gave my bun and cheese to the newspaper woman at first light the next day. Not unlike how I may treat a gifted fruitcake, should I ever be so fortunate as to receive one.
Working in my own space later in the day, I missed the day-before-the-holiday bun and cheese spectacular in the Contractor’s office. Apparently, they had for distribution ample buns and cheeses for each of their two hundred fifty staff and employees, packaged with their glad tidings, good will and redundancy payments.
For those with little time spent in the Commonwealth, you get redundancy payments when you are made redundant, and being made redundant is the British equivalent of being laid off,... all two hundred fifty of them,... effective immediately. Have a happy Easter.
The weekend was exceptionally quiet. Driving to work on Tuesday was unbelievably quiet, with none of the Contractor’s vehicles on the road, and none of the usual throngs of children standing on the verge, waiting for rides or for school to start. I had the feeling that, when the Contractor had abandoned the project, they sucked all life out of the project limits. I could already see the cobwebs collect on their materials and machinery. Failure appeared across the wide expanses of uncompleted highway.
“Anywhere but Muscatine”, I wailed to no one in particular.
There is never much snow here, as Jamaica is an island in the Tropics, yet there were flurries on Tuesday. Flurries of phone calls, a flurry or two of activity, and flurries of mood swings amongst the local staff. The Ministry needed answers, as did the press. We listened to the Ministry. We ignored the press, barring their entrance to the camp. We tried to be supportively non-committal to our local staff, who each saw their jobs going the way of the Contractor. We found some finalization tasks to keep them working for a week or two, but then our staff may be unavoidably unemployed.
Redundant.
There is a possibility that the Contractor will be able to successfully renegotiate the balance of the work on the project, in an effort to not lose any more money and to stay on the job, but this possibility is slim. A more likely possibility is that what remains of the contract will be retendered, in which case our expatriate staff will need to process the new and revised Contract Documents and ultimately manage the new Contract. This could stretch into months or years of work. Another possibility is that the entire project will be abandoned in place, and we will all be sent packing. The next few weeks will be a challenge.
In the early 1980's, there did exist a somewhat entertaining Midwestern punk band. With Joey Destroi on guitar, Bif Blammo on bass, Retch Gurgle on throat, and some character named Joel as the percussionist. I believe that their name was No Future For Me. I was just thinking about them, humming a few of the old tunes, wondering why they never recorded anything called “Effigy Jello Head”. Anyway,...
Pops once told me that international work was never assured until you actually stepped off of the plane and onto the tarmac at your destination.
Hmm. Almost. Only change is assured.
BA often tells me that challenge equals opportunity.
Yeah, mon. Read More......
With a nod and a wave and a Gleaner, I eased the Dogwagon back into my own lane and continued the drive to work, adding this new task to the scores of others that fill my to-do spreadsheet. This was a short week and I had enough on my plate as it is.
Easter weekend was fast approaching, and you could sense that special something in the air, that special kind of chocolate rabbit, plastic egg, stale peeps, and bun and cheese something. It moved towards me like a sheet of chocolate glaze on a frosting line in a doughnut factory. Unavoidable, saturating, sugar coated and made with real lard.
The Jamaicans love this holiday.
The Jamaicans love the religious aspect, although the predominantly Christian population never appears more than dutifully pious. There are more churches per capita here than anywhere else on the planet. If I was out in the church districts that Sunday morning, I may have seen them packed to overflowing with believers, anxious to renew their faith on their holiest of days.
I was instead worshiping the gods of fish and coral, rejoicing in the miracle of the sponge. I was witnessing the annual rebirth of the tens of thousands of thimble jellyfish which cover the reef this time of year as I contemplated another Earth Day past.
The Jamaicans love Carnival, which begins on Easter. This is an annual festival liberated from the Trinidadians. It is one big Socapalooza, with parades and bands, skimpy costumes and wriggling dancers, steel drums and lawlessness for an entire week. We do not see much of Carnival on the north side of the island, as most of the celebrations are in the urban areas around Kingston, where it provides a week of release from the dictates and traditions of Lent.
The Jamaicans love the fact that Easter is a four day weekend, with Good Friday and Easter Monday designated National Holidays. It also heralds the start of spring break for the schoolchildren, who will spend the next week doing what school kids always do when given time off from school – they forget everything they were to have retained since the term began.
And, for reasons unexplained, Jamaicans love the bun and cheese, the national Easter dish.
Bun is the Jamaican equivalent of fruitcake. It is a quick bread, barely leaven with either baking powder or baking soda, made with flour and fruits, flavored with allspice, molasses and sugar. This time of year, the Easter Bun appears in the bakery aisle, augmenting the everyday styles of bun that usually reside there. The Easter variety bun usually has more fruit, but otherwise tastes exactly the same as the pedestrian bun.
At other times of the year, bun and cheese is a poor man’s lunch. At about the same cost as a meat patty, you can get a little protein and some carbohydrates at any bakery and at many of the snack vendors. The wealthy Jamaicans never eat bun and cheese for lunch though, as it is a poor man’s food, not suitable for the working man fully able to afford the noontime purchase of curried goat, chicken foot soup, ox tail, or cow skin.
Of course, this changes at Easter, when everyone will eat the bun and the cheese. Mostly because it is free, provided by your employer by tradition. On Wednesday evening, my grateful and generous boss provided me with the largest of the Easter buns, weighing in at some kilo and a half, having the density of wet laundry. With the bun came a quarter wheel of mystery cheese. “Now, what am I to do with a kilo of cheese and a lead brick of a bun”, I said to no one in particular.
Then I heard a voice in my head. “Don miss mi a bun an cheese”, it said. Was it a memory of the newspaper woman, or was it just a convenient and well timed literary vehicle? Regardless, I gave my bun and cheese to the newspaper woman at first light the next day. Not unlike how I may treat a gifted fruitcake, should I ever be so fortunate as to receive one.
Working in my own space later in the day, I missed the day-before-the-holiday bun and cheese spectacular in the Contractor’s office. Apparently, they had for distribution ample buns and cheeses for each of their two hundred fifty staff and employees, packaged with their glad tidings, good will and redundancy payments.
For those with little time spent in the Commonwealth, you get redundancy payments when you are made redundant, and being made redundant is the British equivalent of being laid off,... all two hundred fifty of them,... effective immediately. Have a happy Easter.
The weekend was exceptionally quiet. Driving to work on Tuesday was unbelievably quiet, with none of the Contractor’s vehicles on the road, and none of the usual throngs of children standing on the verge, waiting for rides or for school to start. I had the feeling that, when the Contractor had abandoned the project, they sucked all life out of the project limits. I could already see the cobwebs collect on their materials and machinery. Failure appeared across the wide expanses of uncompleted highway.
“Anywhere but Muscatine”, I wailed to no one in particular.
There is never much snow here, as Jamaica is an island in the Tropics, yet there were flurries on Tuesday. Flurries of phone calls, a flurry or two of activity, and flurries of mood swings amongst the local staff. The Ministry needed answers, as did the press. We listened to the Ministry. We ignored the press, barring their entrance to the camp. We tried to be supportively non-committal to our local staff, who each saw their jobs going the way of the Contractor. We found some finalization tasks to keep them working for a week or two, but then our staff may be unavoidably unemployed.
Redundant.
There is a possibility that the Contractor will be able to successfully renegotiate the balance of the work on the project, in an effort to not lose any more money and to stay on the job, but this possibility is slim. A more likely possibility is that what remains of the contract will be retendered, in which case our expatriate staff will need to process the new and revised Contract Documents and ultimately manage the new Contract. This could stretch into months or years of work. Another possibility is that the entire project will be abandoned in place, and we will all be sent packing. The next few weeks will be a challenge.
In the early 1980's, there did exist a somewhat entertaining Midwestern punk band. With Joey Destroi on guitar, Bif Blammo on bass, Retch Gurgle on throat, and some character named Joel as the percussionist. I believe that their name was No Future For Me. I was just thinking about them, humming a few of the old tunes, wondering why they never recorded anything called “Effigy Jello Head”. Anyway,...
Pops once told me that international work was never assured until you actually stepped off of the plane and onto the tarmac at your destination.
Hmm. Almost. Only change is assured.
BA often tells me that challenge equals opportunity.
Yeah, mon. Read More......
2000-04-09
Face
The arguable fact that our Contractor is the worst contractor in the world is a mixed blessing. Had they been any good, this project would have been completed at the end of the original contract period, and I would not have had the opportunity to bear witness to their dismal performances. Nor would you, gentle reader, have had the opportunity to be amused, bemused, confused, or simply annoyed by these occasional reports.
I know little of The Contractor as a Korean corporation, except that they had intentions of charging their way into the Caribbean construction market in 1996/1997, only to be decimated by the Asian financial crises in 1997/1998. Unfortunately, by the time the fiscal crisis hit, the Contract was signed. There would be much looking back, but no going back.
The engineer’s estimate for this project, as it went to tender late in 1996, was for a total construction cost of a bit over forty million dollars. Improvements of like ilk in the States could cost 50-100% more, in large part due to the almost incredibly low labor cost in the Third World.
A unionized laborer on this project is currently rewarded with the princely sum of JA $450.51 per eight hour day. Add to this JA $30.00 per day as a laundry allowance and the basic laborer earns about US $1.43 an hour. Once Income Tax (25%), National Insurance (5%), National Housing Trust Contribution (2%), and Education Tax (2%) are deducted, our laborer takes home less than a dollar an hour (of which he is expected to pay an additional 15% General Consumption Tax on whatever he buys in an honest retail store). By comparison, the most highly compensated worker, the Crane Operator, brings home about US $1.85 an hour. Of course, there are additional monies for overtime, height, depth, in water, over water, away from home or at night, yada, yada, yada, but these emoluments are paid in similarly low quantities.
In disbelief, you may now be asking, “Who in their right mind would labor for less than one Yankee dollar each hour?” With a little bit more than a trace of sarcasm, I would reply, “No one on this project. At least, not the 250 local workers currently employed here.”
I believe that the reason for this is directly related to the fact that there is a great supply of marginally skilled labor on the island, but there is little in the way of demand for marginally skilled labor. As a result, jobs are scarce and wages are low. To secure their jobs, the labor tends towards the slack side of the production scale. As hourly wage slaves with few to zero future employment prospects, it is in labors best interest to stretch this project out for as long as possible. This is the real skill, probably imported and imparted by vacationing Department of Transportation employees.
Gary calls Jamaica a “worker’s paradise”.
Opposite the labor is a score of field supervisors. Typically, this man is a Korean national, between thirty and thirty-five, college educated, detail oriented, a day and a half from home, without family, frustrated at the lack of measurable progress, and unable to communicate effectively in the English language.
These factors, combined with a tragic lack of people skills, leads to a clash of cultures not unlike the slow motion part of the film right before the train wreck - you know it is going to be loud and destructive, but there is nothing you can do about it except watch in horror,... or anticipation.
Over the last couple of years, some of the field supervisors have developed a workable rapport with the locals, (more often than not) communicating through grunts, whistles, and hand signals. If it were not so sad, it would be more amusing.
To augment the Korean staff, the Contractor has imported a dozen Indian nationals. Generally, these are the surveyors, skilled operators, maintenance dudes, and lab guys. Their English skills are superior to that of the Koreans, and they seem dedicated, as they should be. Why, many of them earn almost US $1,200 a month (plus room and board) so, after a two year (or longer) stint here, they can return to their homeland as wealthy men.
Unfortunately, there is little support for an expatriate Indian at the camp. They live in the same trailers as the Koreans, and eat the same Korean food prepared by the Jamaican cooks. Not at all surprising is that there are no Indian women, or Indian radio stations and theaters, or Hindu, Buddhist, or Muslim temples nearby (I suppose the Christian, agnostic, and atheist elements are served well enough). There is a large Indian population maintaining their historic presence on the island, as shopkeepers and business people mostly, but I think societal factors keep them from fraternizing with the Contractors personnel.
The final member of the Contractor’s dysfunctional family is their planning and office staff. This is another group of a dozen or so lonely engineers, who profess to specialize in project management, scheduling, procurement, claims, payments, accounting, and the various and sundry administrative tasks associated with the project. They are supported by a small team of Jamaican women as accountants, clerks and secretaries.
Some of the Koreans are probably not so lonely, as a select few of them have been privileged to bring their families along. This privilege is currently granted to only the project manager, planning manager, and procurement manager. These families live at the camp with the rest of the personnel, only they get to live in super-deluxe metal roofed, concrete block “homes”, located no more than ten meters from my office window. Their children commute into Montego Bay to attend one of the private schools. I have no idea what the wives do all day. Perhaps they pine for their homeland as they watch the sea in the distance through the dust kicked up by the equipment running through the camp. I rarely see them.
Of course, and just like in the States, no field office would be complete without a mess of goats, a couple of cows, a bunch of chickens, and a cat or two to liven things up. I think the chickens and maybe the cats are intentional, but the balance of the livestock wanders through the always open east gate and proceeds to browse amongst the buildings, offices, and sheds which make up the camp, crapping everywhere.
The camp site is located on a steepening hill, rising up from the highway, and provides a good view of the sea (except from my office, which faces the other way). At the top are the water storage tanks, residences and dormitories, the latter of which are constructed of large shipping containers with a few windows and doors added. Next down the hill are the kitchen, the mess hall, and the recreation rooms (table tennis, television, and a weight room). Below that, the block office of The Contractor adjacent to the triple-sized mobile home which is our office. Further below, the asphalt and Portland cement concrete plants, the precast yard, septic tanks, stockpiles, equipment yard, storeroom, steel bending yards, vehicle shop, parts warehouse, generator shack, materials lab, and guardhouse. This dense collection of structures and such is located on a fenced parcel of some twenty to thirty hectares.
The site gets fairly busy at times, but fair just do not cut it.
As above, the project was estimated to cost over forty million dollars. The Contractor’s bid was twenty five. He loses money on every thing he does. This would have been fine, and was actually the plan, back when he had the funds and the desire to construct a project at a deficit in order to establish a foothold in this region of the world. There is no more money, though. The corporate gods in Seoul appear to have left this project to fend for itself, a task to which it is ill suited.
Every month, there are a few less Jamaicans on the payroll, and a little less gets accomplished. It appears as if the Contractor feels he can cut his losses by doing less money-losing work. What he fails to include in his calculations is his US $10,000 daily overhead costs required to maintain his people and site plus the US $5,000 daily liquidated damages, accumulating since the original completion date last September.
It is obvious that the Contractor is in serious trouble, and rumor and speculation runs rampant. The latest is that the Contractor has drafted a letter whereby he quits the project, loses face, and returns to his own peninsula, never to work internationally again. Should that occur, there would still be months of study and documentation on our part to determine final payments, plus someone would need to stick around to either re-tender the project, or to coordinate the completion of the portions of the work that are close to completion.
My money is on the need for the Contractor to save face. If he sticks it out, and maintains his current rate of progress, he will be working at this project and accumulating losses for another three years. He just needs to squeeze the operating funds out of the corporate turnip.
The saving face scenario is best for me too, as a project of long duration means more time to live in Jamaica, and enjoy its sun, sand, and Red Stripes. Read More......
I know little of The Contractor as a Korean corporation, except that they had intentions of charging their way into the Caribbean construction market in 1996/1997, only to be decimated by the Asian financial crises in 1997/1998. Unfortunately, by the time the fiscal crisis hit, the Contract was signed. There would be much looking back, but no going back.
The engineer’s estimate for this project, as it went to tender late in 1996, was for a total construction cost of a bit over forty million dollars. Improvements of like ilk in the States could cost 50-100% more, in large part due to the almost incredibly low labor cost in the Third World.
A unionized laborer on this project is currently rewarded with the princely sum of JA $450.51 per eight hour day. Add to this JA $30.00 per day as a laundry allowance and the basic laborer earns about US $1.43 an hour. Once Income Tax (25%), National Insurance (5%), National Housing Trust Contribution (2%), and Education Tax (2%) are deducted, our laborer takes home less than a dollar an hour (of which he is expected to pay an additional 15% General Consumption Tax on whatever he buys in an honest retail store). By comparison, the most highly compensated worker, the Crane Operator, brings home about US $1.85 an hour. Of course, there are additional monies for overtime, height, depth, in water, over water, away from home or at night, yada, yada, yada, but these emoluments are paid in similarly low quantities.
In disbelief, you may now be asking, “Who in their right mind would labor for less than one Yankee dollar each hour?” With a little bit more than a trace of sarcasm, I would reply, “No one on this project. At least, not the 250 local workers currently employed here.”
I believe that the reason for this is directly related to the fact that there is a great supply of marginally skilled labor on the island, but there is little in the way of demand for marginally skilled labor. As a result, jobs are scarce and wages are low. To secure their jobs, the labor tends towards the slack side of the production scale. As hourly wage slaves with few to zero future employment prospects, it is in labors best interest to stretch this project out for as long as possible. This is the real skill, probably imported and imparted by vacationing Department of Transportation employees.
Gary calls Jamaica a “worker’s paradise”.
Opposite the labor is a score of field supervisors. Typically, this man is a Korean national, between thirty and thirty-five, college educated, detail oriented, a day and a half from home, without family, frustrated at the lack of measurable progress, and unable to communicate effectively in the English language.
These factors, combined with a tragic lack of people skills, leads to a clash of cultures not unlike the slow motion part of the film right before the train wreck - you know it is going to be loud and destructive, but there is nothing you can do about it except watch in horror,... or anticipation.
Over the last couple of years, some of the field supervisors have developed a workable rapport with the locals, (more often than not) communicating through grunts, whistles, and hand signals. If it were not so sad, it would be more amusing.
To augment the Korean staff, the Contractor has imported a dozen Indian nationals. Generally, these are the surveyors, skilled operators, maintenance dudes, and lab guys. Their English skills are superior to that of the Koreans, and they seem dedicated, as they should be. Why, many of them earn almost US $1,200 a month (plus room and board) so, after a two year (or longer) stint here, they can return to their homeland as wealthy men.
Unfortunately, there is little support for an expatriate Indian at the camp. They live in the same trailers as the Koreans, and eat the same Korean food prepared by the Jamaican cooks. Not at all surprising is that there are no Indian women, or Indian radio stations and theaters, or Hindu, Buddhist, or Muslim temples nearby (I suppose the Christian, agnostic, and atheist elements are served well enough). There is a large Indian population maintaining their historic presence on the island, as shopkeepers and business people mostly, but I think societal factors keep them from fraternizing with the Contractors personnel.
The final member of the Contractor’s dysfunctional family is their planning and office staff. This is another group of a dozen or so lonely engineers, who profess to specialize in project management, scheduling, procurement, claims, payments, accounting, and the various and sundry administrative tasks associated with the project. They are supported by a small team of Jamaican women as accountants, clerks and secretaries.
Some of the Koreans are probably not so lonely, as a select few of them have been privileged to bring their families along. This privilege is currently granted to only the project manager, planning manager, and procurement manager. These families live at the camp with the rest of the personnel, only they get to live in super-deluxe metal roofed, concrete block “homes”, located no more than ten meters from my office window. Their children commute into Montego Bay to attend one of the private schools. I have no idea what the wives do all day. Perhaps they pine for their homeland as they watch the sea in the distance through the dust kicked up by the equipment running through the camp. I rarely see them.
Of course, and just like in the States, no field office would be complete without a mess of goats, a couple of cows, a bunch of chickens, and a cat or two to liven things up. I think the chickens and maybe the cats are intentional, but the balance of the livestock wanders through the always open east gate and proceeds to browse amongst the buildings, offices, and sheds which make up the camp, crapping everywhere.
The camp site is located on a steepening hill, rising up from the highway, and provides a good view of the sea (except from my office, which faces the other way). At the top are the water storage tanks, residences and dormitories, the latter of which are constructed of large shipping containers with a few windows and doors added. Next down the hill are the kitchen, the mess hall, and the recreation rooms (table tennis, television, and a weight room). Below that, the block office of The Contractor adjacent to the triple-sized mobile home which is our office. Further below, the asphalt and Portland cement concrete plants, the precast yard, septic tanks, stockpiles, equipment yard, storeroom, steel bending yards, vehicle shop, parts warehouse, generator shack, materials lab, and guardhouse. This dense collection of structures and such is located on a fenced parcel of some twenty to thirty hectares.
The site gets fairly busy at times, but fair just do not cut it.
As above, the project was estimated to cost over forty million dollars. The Contractor’s bid was twenty five. He loses money on every thing he does. This would have been fine, and was actually the plan, back when he had the funds and the desire to construct a project at a deficit in order to establish a foothold in this region of the world. There is no more money, though. The corporate gods in Seoul appear to have left this project to fend for itself, a task to which it is ill suited.
Every month, there are a few less Jamaicans on the payroll, and a little less gets accomplished. It appears as if the Contractor feels he can cut his losses by doing less money-losing work. What he fails to include in his calculations is his US $10,000 daily overhead costs required to maintain his people and site plus the US $5,000 daily liquidated damages, accumulating since the original completion date last September.
It is obvious that the Contractor is in serious trouble, and rumor and speculation runs rampant. The latest is that the Contractor has drafted a letter whereby he quits the project, loses face, and returns to his own peninsula, never to work internationally again. Should that occur, there would still be months of study and documentation on our part to determine final payments, plus someone would need to stick around to either re-tender the project, or to coordinate the completion of the portions of the work that are close to completion.
My money is on the need for the Contractor to save face. If he sticks it out, and maintains his current rate of progress, he will be working at this project and accumulating losses for another three years. He just needs to squeeze the operating funds out of the corporate turnip.
The saving face scenario is best for me too, as a project of long duration means more time to live in Jamaica, and enjoy its sun, sand, and Red Stripes. Read More......
2000-02-08
Fishy Fishy Fishy Fish
Occasionally, we will interact with the tourists. Most often, this is because the tourists end up going to a place that we are already at. This is tough to avoid, as the nice restaurants are frequented by both visitor and local alike. The same is true with the beaches. Negril has a beach of fine sand twelve kilometers long, lined with restaurants, beer shacks, and resorts. It is very popular with both sets, and we cannot help but be inundated by folks on holiday.
We were in Negril over the weekend, mostly behaving like tourists. From my limited experience, it appears that diving is not a sport popular with young, hip Jamaicans. As such, we have no choice but to act as tourists. Anyway, we were looking for a different dive location, so we packed up the gear and headed west. It was raining as we left the compound but, typically, the rain was a very localized event, and we were dry again before we got as far as Reading. It was sure to be another beautiful day in the Tropics.
When we got to Negril (shaken, not stirred), we had yet to decide where to go to dive. On Kris’s advice, we went to one of the huge bars and asked the random attendees for the location of a good dive shop. Based upon the answer to this query, we headed a couple of chains down the road to the Negril Beach Club, where we negotiated for tanks and passage to the reef.
As simple as this may seem, it was more complicated than my normal dive routine. Usually, I will call Peter in Montego Bay, and tell him that I want to dive. I will drive across town to Jack Tar, leave my van with Whiskey, the parking lot attendant, and greet Wilbert, the Rastafari Captain, as I hop on the boat. The simple, stable routine is nice, as it tends to unclutter the mind, and frees it for the underwater experience.
The boat usually is nowhere near capacity. Two weeks ago, I dove with just Dive Master Dwayne and some Brit, who tries to dive on his yearly holiday, and whose last dives were off of Sri Lanka. We dove what they call Sergeant Major Reef, half a klick offshore in 10-15 meters of water. The reef is named after the abundance of sergeant major fish which reside thereabouts.
Some 15-20 centimeter long, the bright yellow and black striped fish have little fear of man here, as they are rarely the targets of fishermen, and usually are the target of tourists trying to feed them. When the dive master located the school, he produced a small package of water crackers, which he proceeded to feed to the fish. They are relatively tame, and will eat out of your hand.
When one comes to feed, though, the rest follow. Within moments, the entire school was on top of us, hoping to snag a bit of a snack. The swarm was intense. For minutes, I was completely encompassed by the fish. Hundreds of them, maybe thousands of them, swimming within centimeters. Nibbling on my outstretched fingers. I could not see through the mass of fish in any direction, and was enveloped by the shadow of the school, as they blocked the light of the sun. It was like nothing else.
I went diving the next day.
Drove across town, left the van with Whiskey, greeted the Rasta captain as I got on board, and was joined this time by Dive Master David, an experienced German, and a couple of cheeseheads. The cheeseheads had little experience, but worse was the fact that they had not been in the water for over a year. The mouthpiece fell off of his regulator as he hit the water. Mis-weighted, he had buoyancy troubles the entire time we were down. She had a panic attack on the surface, which delayed our decent, then another towards the end of the dive, which accelerated our accent.
Despite that, we spent some 33 minutes on the Arches portion of the Airport Reef. Here, the reef is a wall, a vertical reef extending from a plateau at 15 meters, to another flat area some 40 meters below. While on this wall, you cannot see the sea floor, so I hold the impression that, should something go terribly wrong, the body will just sink slowly and forever, giving the fish plenty of time to consume it prior to it reaching the bottom of the Cayman Trench.
Of course, that did not happen. Things went wrong for the Wisconsonians, but not terribly wrong. As is the norm, everyone made it back to the boat alive.
I went diving the next week, too.
This time with just Hank and Rita and Dive Master David, who suffers from an intense chill even in the 27 degree water. We dove the Widowmaker Wall portion of the reef. Rita had a new camera, so she took some pictures, including a few of a large green Moray eel, with large gnashing teeth. We all gave her a wide berth (the fish with the teeth, not Rita). There was a strong current once we got to the wall, which tended to simultaneously push us into the wall and up towards the surface. We all needed quite a bit of effort to control our relative positions, both to the wall and to each other.
The second to last thing you want to do while diving is to damage the reef. Damage comes easily, through something as simple as light touch with a flipper or any other part of a wayward diver, knocking off coral that took years to construct. Of course, the last thing you want to do while diving is fail to surface. With the strong current, we were working hard to maintain separation, but I still took a couple of flippers in the face which, had I not been aware, could have knocked loose my mask or regulator. Again, nothing terribly wrong.
In Negril, conditions were a little different. As expected, there were few participants (the captain, his mermaid, we, the Dive Master, and a university employee from Chicago’s South Side). Since there was a beach instead of a pier, we had to wade out to the boat with our equipment. Once on board, we motored a couple of kilometers out to sea to the dive site du jour. The waves were barely lapping the beach when we left, but were rolling at a height close to two meters once we were at sea, which rocked the seven meter craft to the point where it’s propeller would leave the water and breakfast considered jumping ship.
Once tied to the buoy, we performed my favorite, the back roll entry, and floated 20 meters to the sea floor. I love the decent. Like a slow motion free fall, I drop spread eagle, watching the fish and the reef approach.
The particular section of reef was called Tugboat, as there is a tugboat (duh) sunk in 30 meters of water. It is not quite a pirate ship, but it is a start. I never was told the history of the boat, but it could have been down there twenty years, maybe fifty years, maybe a hundred. My skill in recognizing growth rates of the various corals is limited.
An optional part of the adventure was to swim through the boat, in through a hole in the stern deck, and out through another at the bow. The wife took this option, but I opted instead to examine the hull and perimeter. As I was rounding the bow of the tug, I found myself nose to nose, not four meters distant, with a Cubera snapper, almost two meters long. I immediately let a few expletives make their way out the exhaust ports of my regulator.
This huge grey fish had a mouth into which my head would have easily fit. I stopped quite rapidly, remaining motionless and making some adjustments to my breathing while the fish slowly swam away. I might be tempted to describe the sight as breathtaking but, when you are sucking air out of a tank strapped to your back in order to live, the entire sport is breathtaking.
The wife missed the fish entirely. The others just saw its departure. I saw the beast size me up.
Once we were back on land, there were many Red Stripes to be consumed. We spent the rest of the day on the beach in Negril, sunning our way from beer shack to beer shack, speculating as to why the Jamaican Constabulary has no laws regulating the abuse of thong bikinis. Read More......
We were in Negril over the weekend, mostly behaving like tourists. From my limited experience, it appears that diving is not a sport popular with young, hip Jamaicans. As such, we have no choice but to act as tourists. Anyway, we were looking for a different dive location, so we packed up the gear and headed west. It was raining as we left the compound but, typically, the rain was a very localized event, and we were dry again before we got as far as Reading. It was sure to be another beautiful day in the Tropics.
When we got to Negril (shaken, not stirred), we had yet to decide where to go to dive. On Kris’s advice, we went to one of the huge bars and asked the random attendees for the location of a good dive shop. Based upon the answer to this query, we headed a couple of chains down the road to the Negril Beach Club, where we negotiated for tanks and passage to the reef.
As simple as this may seem, it was more complicated than my normal dive routine. Usually, I will call Peter in Montego Bay, and tell him that I want to dive. I will drive across town to Jack Tar, leave my van with Whiskey, the parking lot attendant, and greet Wilbert, the Rastafari Captain, as I hop on the boat. The simple, stable routine is nice, as it tends to unclutter the mind, and frees it for the underwater experience.
The boat usually is nowhere near capacity. Two weeks ago, I dove with just Dive Master Dwayne and some Brit, who tries to dive on his yearly holiday, and whose last dives were off of Sri Lanka. We dove what they call Sergeant Major Reef, half a klick offshore in 10-15 meters of water. The reef is named after the abundance of sergeant major fish which reside thereabouts.
Some 15-20 centimeter long, the bright yellow and black striped fish have little fear of man here, as they are rarely the targets of fishermen, and usually are the target of tourists trying to feed them. When the dive master located the school, he produced a small package of water crackers, which he proceeded to feed to the fish. They are relatively tame, and will eat out of your hand.
When one comes to feed, though, the rest follow. Within moments, the entire school was on top of us, hoping to snag a bit of a snack. The swarm was intense. For minutes, I was completely encompassed by the fish. Hundreds of them, maybe thousands of them, swimming within centimeters. Nibbling on my outstretched fingers. I could not see through the mass of fish in any direction, and was enveloped by the shadow of the school, as they blocked the light of the sun. It was like nothing else.
I went diving the next day.
Drove across town, left the van with Whiskey, greeted the Rasta captain as I got on board, and was joined this time by Dive Master David, an experienced German, and a couple of cheeseheads. The cheeseheads had little experience, but worse was the fact that they had not been in the water for over a year. The mouthpiece fell off of his regulator as he hit the water. Mis-weighted, he had buoyancy troubles the entire time we were down. She had a panic attack on the surface, which delayed our decent, then another towards the end of the dive, which accelerated our accent.
Despite that, we spent some 33 minutes on the Arches portion of the Airport Reef. Here, the reef is a wall, a vertical reef extending from a plateau at 15 meters, to another flat area some 40 meters below. While on this wall, you cannot see the sea floor, so I hold the impression that, should something go terribly wrong, the body will just sink slowly and forever, giving the fish plenty of time to consume it prior to it reaching the bottom of the Cayman Trench.
Of course, that did not happen. Things went wrong for the Wisconsonians, but not terribly wrong. As is the norm, everyone made it back to the boat alive.
I went diving the next week, too.
This time with just Hank and Rita and Dive Master David, who suffers from an intense chill even in the 27 degree water. We dove the Widowmaker Wall portion of the reef. Rita had a new camera, so she took some pictures, including a few of a large green Moray eel, with large gnashing teeth. We all gave her a wide berth (the fish with the teeth, not Rita). There was a strong current once we got to the wall, which tended to simultaneously push us into the wall and up towards the surface. We all needed quite a bit of effort to control our relative positions, both to the wall and to each other.
The second to last thing you want to do while diving is to damage the reef. Damage comes easily, through something as simple as light touch with a flipper or any other part of a wayward diver, knocking off coral that took years to construct. Of course, the last thing you want to do while diving is fail to surface. With the strong current, we were working hard to maintain separation, but I still took a couple of flippers in the face which, had I not been aware, could have knocked loose my mask or regulator. Again, nothing terribly wrong.
In Negril, conditions were a little different. As expected, there were few participants (the captain, his mermaid, we, the Dive Master, and a university employee from Chicago’s South Side). Since there was a beach instead of a pier, we had to wade out to the boat with our equipment. Once on board, we motored a couple of kilometers out to sea to the dive site du jour. The waves were barely lapping the beach when we left, but were rolling at a height close to two meters once we were at sea, which rocked the seven meter craft to the point where it’s propeller would leave the water and breakfast considered jumping ship.
Once tied to the buoy, we performed my favorite, the back roll entry, and floated 20 meters to the sea floor. I love the decent. Like a slow motion free fall, I drop spread eagle, watching the fish and the reef approach.
The particular section of reef was called Tugboat, as there is a tugboat (duh) sunk in 30 meters of water. It is not quite a pirate ship, but it is a start. I never was told the history of the boat, but it could have been down there twenty years, maybe fifty years, maybe a hundred. My skill in recognizing growth rates of the various corals is limited.
An optional part of the adventure was to swim through the boat, in through a hole in the stern deck, and out through another at the bow. The wife took this option, but I opted instead to examine the hull and perimeter. As I was rounding the bow of the tug, I found myself nose to nose, not four meters distant, with a Cubera snapper, almost two meters long. I immediately let a few expletives make their way out the exhaust ports of my regulator.
This huge grey fish had a mouth into which my head would have easily fit. I stopped quite rapidly, remaining motionless and making some adjustments to my breathing while the fish slowly swam away. I might be tempted to describe the sight as breathtaking but, when you are sucking air out of a tank strapped to your back in order to live, the entire sport is breathtaking.
The wife missed the fish entirely. The others just saw its departure. I saw the beast size me up.
Once we were back on land, there were many Red Stripes to be consumed. We spent the rest of the day on the beach in Negril, sunning our way from beer shack to beer shack, speculating as to why the Jamaican Constabulary has no laws regulating the abuse of thong bikinis. Read More......
2000-01-19
Miss Liberty
===============================
WARNING - Beware the champagne flights on Air Jamaica.
===============================
We are all tourists.
Who is not from somewhere else? We share a space for a time, as we move from locale to locale. We may set for quite a spell at one particular location, but are we really a resident? Really a native? What makes us so?
I left “The Rock” for the holidays, anticipating a few weeks of Italian Beef and Doctor Jeremiah Weed. Tastes I know and love (at least the beef) from another time zone - a place not the same as when I left it months ago. Presumably, I was going home.
But what makes Chicagoland any more our home than Montego Freeport? What draws us to either place? Is it the food? Perhaps that, and the other comfortable surroundings which help us to paint the picture of a place, so that we can look back upon it with a sense of longing. It is the feeling that makes us glad to be home in the evening, happy to be surrounded by familiar stuff, faces, sounds, smells and tastes.
Montego Bay is fast becoming that place for me,... the smell of jerk as I drive hither and yon,... the look of the sunrise across the harbor in the morning, as Ra appears above the hills of town.
I watched him arrive the morning we departed, chasing the clouds over the horizon. Later we went to the beach, where our newly coded response to the smell and taste of the veg patties drew us to the stand where we always get our veg patties. When we left, traffic was as sucky as normal, yet beckoned me to join the fray. There was nowhere to park at the grocery, and they had not the food item which I was sure they would have. It was all so typical, so expected, so comforting.
A few hours later and I was in Chicagoland. Home of the cheesy beef and sausage combo, with fries and a large Coke (“you wanna tamale wit dat?”). Home to a different style of traffic snarl. Home to our folks and many friends. The place where I became aware. In a few days we would trek north to the cabin, or Taj Mahal, if you will, where we would consume Leinienkugels to excess, and sing songs of drunken mice around the wood burning stove. “Have a pull on the Weed”, Two-J will yell,... and we will be home yet again.
Home is where I am, it seems. It is a mobile home.
Is this just a facet of life overseas, a calling to numerous locations, each with their own familiar faces and familiar confines? I suppose that these comfortable and familiar surroundings do not become that way all at once, nor do they come to everyone, expatriates or not. There are those I have met who never acclimate to new surroundings. Their home must be a tiny place.
I wander, but I am not a wanderer. My desire to travel is a need to get somewhere else, to discover some new destination, to position myself in it and make the most it. To arrive however, I need to be going. I am going now, while writing the draft for this missive, sitting in a plane over who knows where, flying back and forth between homes.
Later, in Chicagoland, I read a familiar plaque in my ma’s kitchen, “No matter where I serve my guests, it seems they like my kitchen best”. Sure, “Home is where the hearth is”.
There is another which reads, “The time to be happy is now. The place to be happy is here.” This is a fine sentiment, unless you are about to broadside a wayward bovine.
Enter the third,... “Some people come into our lives - leave footprints on our hearts, and we are never, ever the same”. Ouch! Wish I had not read that one.
Perhaps the next treatise will be on the quality and variations in locally available cane based sweeteners, instead of this campy, misty-eyed, happy post-holiday variety.
Peace and Love. Read More......
WARNING - Beware the champagne flights on Air Jamaica.
===============================
We are all tourists.
Who is not from somewhere else? We share a space for a time, as we move from locale to locale. We may set for quite a spell at one particular location, but are we really a resident? Really a native? What makes us so?
I left “The Rock” for the holidays, anticipating a few weeks of Italian Beef and Doctor Jeremiah Weed. Tastes I know and love (at least the beef) from another time zone - a place not the same as when I left it months ago. Presumably, I was going home.
But what makes Chicagoland any more our home than Montego Freeport? What draws us to either place? Is it the food? Perhaps that, and the other comfortable surroundings which help us to paint the picture of a place, so that we can look back upon it with a sense of longing. It is the feeling that makes us glad to be home in the evening, happy to be surrounded by familiar stuff, faces, sounds, smells and tastes.
Montego Bay is fast becoming that place for me,... the smell of jerk as I drive hither and yon,... the look of the sunrise across the harbor in the morning, as Ra appears above the hills of town.
I watched him arrive the morning we departed, chasing the clouds over the horizon. Later we went to the beach, where our newly coded response to the smell and taste of the veg patties drew us to the stand where we always get our veg patties. When we left, traffic was as sucky as normal, yet beckoned me to join the fray. There was nowhere to park at the grocery, and they had not the food item which I was sure they would have. It was all so typical, so expected, so comforting.
A few hours later and I was in Chicagoland. Home of the cheesy beef and sausage combo, with fries and a large Coke (“you wanna tamale wit dat?”). Home to a different style of traffic snarl. Home to our folks and many friends. The place where I became aware. In a few days we would trek north to the cabin, or Taj Mahal, if you will, where we would consume Leinienkugels to excess, and sing songs of drunken mice around the wood burning stove. “Have a pull on the Weed”, Two-J will yell,... and we will be home yet again.
Home is where I am, it seems. It is a mobile home.
Is this just a facet of life overseas, a calling to numerous locations, each with their own familiar faces and familiar confines? I suppose that these comfortable and familiar surroundings do not become that way all at once, nor do they come to everyone, expatriates or not. There are those I have met who never acclimate to new surroundings. Their home must be a tiny place.
I wander, but I am not a wanderer. My desire to travel is a need to get somewhere else, to discover some new destination, to position myself in it and make the most it. To arrive however, I need to be going. I am going now, while writing the draft for this missive, sitting in a plane over who knows where, flying back and forth between homes.
Later, in Chicagoland, I read a familiar plaque in my ma’s kitchen, “No matter where I serve my guests, it seems they like my kitchen best”. Sure, “Home is where the hearth is”.
There is another which reads, “The time to be happy is now. The place to be happy is here.” This is a fine sentiment, unless you are about to broadside a wayward bovine.
Enter the third,... “Some people come into our lives - leave footprints on our hearts, and we are never, ever the same”. Ouch! Wish I had not read that one.
Perhaps the next treatise will be on the quality and variations in locally available cane based sweeteners, instead of this campy, misty-eyed, happy post-holiday variety.
Peace and Love. Read More......
1999-12-14
Vector
With most endeavors, there are setbacks. Without motion backwards, we would never really know which way is forward now, would we. Sure we would. Who wants to be a tiny vector? It is those long, colorful vectors that get all the press. Triumph over adversity builds character,... and adds interest. That said, the rant continues....
Adversity implies an adversary, and this project has three; the Contractor, the Client, and the utilities. Every couple of months, AMC will dust off the most excellent World War II drama, “Young Lions”? The Job has a few similarities. Take the cast,... please.
As Americans, the Company staff gets to play Dean Martin’s character, Michael Whiteacre. Rich, smooth, and all-powerful, he is a lover, not a fighter, and can croon with the best of them. The contractor is like Montgomery Clift’s Jewish character, Noah Ackerman. Out of principal, he lets himself get beat to a pulp again and again and again. He and Dean are fighting for the same cause, but for wildly different reasons. The Client shall be cast as Lieutenant Christian Diestl, the Nazi officer played by Marlon Brando. Idealistic to a fault and, shot dead face down in a drainage ditch, he is the loser in the end, the obvious demise of a flawed ideology. The Utilities,.... hmmm,... let us say the utilities are the Bavarian Alps in the first scene. The immovable object.
There are three major utilities that we have to work with, around, and through. Jamaica Public Services Company (JPSCo.), a recently divested, quasi-governmental organization, provides electricity to the island. The vast majority of their distribution facilities are on power poles adjacent to the roadway. As we widen and realign the highway, we force the relocation of these poles. In the States, most utilities occupy the right-of-way under the condition that, if public work in the right-of-way requires is in conflict, they will be immediately relocated. Sure, there are conditions where major facilities require modification to the roadway design. However, it is usually no big deal to plant a few more poles and swapping the lines. Unless you are here.
In Jamaica, most of the holes for power poles are dug by hand by a couple of guys using long iron bars with a flattened tip. Once the holes are dug, the poles are erected, but there is usually no crane, so this takes a while using only A-frames, blocks and tackles. Then, the poles are climbed by the linesmen who, armed with a hand augers and open ended wrenches, affix the cross members and accouterments. The cables are unreeled by hand, then dragged and scratched across hill and dale by gangs of men to positions under the poles, from whence they are hoisted up to their final location. This slow and steady method might win this race, except when the going gets too tough, the crew may just get going, give up and move on to an easier task for a while.
Once JPSCo. has energized the new lines, they are not out of the way, because the telephone cables are still hanging on the old power poles. The telephone utility is Cable and Wireless, Jamaica, Limited (CWJL). For years, their concession agreement included a guaranteed of profit. They are totally uncooperative, and demand four weeks once the power lines are moved to relocate their lines to the new poles. Once four weeks are up, they will demand four weeks to relocate their lines to the new poles. Once four weeks are up, they will demand four weeks to relocate their lines to the new poles (continue ad nauseam). Only then can the old poles be retired by JPSCo. and the work proceed.
Neither JPSCo. nor CWJL will temporarily relocate their facilities, which further slows the process. They want the contractor to complete excavation before they will act, yet the contractor expects the utilities to be out of his way before he takes possession of the site. If the contractor was smart, he would be charging for additional time and overhead as his project is being delayed. Well he’s not and he isn’t,... a victim of his own inefficiencies.
The third utility is the National Water Commission (NWC). The NWC is a cabinet level agency, yet cut from the same cloth as the power and phone companies. Sadly, while we can see exactly where aerial cables are located, the water mains are (usually) buried. More sad is the fact that the NWC has no accurate idea as to where their facilities are, and exerts no control over those who would make illegal taps and steal its water.
There is no service providing joint utility locating information for excavators here. Fortunately, there is no natural gas, because most buried utilities are located with heavy equipment. When a water service is yanked, someone will hack off a tree limb with their machete, and then whittle a point on the end, so that it can be crammed into the gushing pipe to stop the flow. If reported, the NWC may be back to restore service in a few days. If it is a leak in a main and it is not too bad, it may runs for weeks or months before repairs occur.
An 800 millimeter water main runs between the treatment plant at Great River (Chainage 162+650) and the end of the project at Bogue (Chainage 171+200), just outside of Montego Bay. This main is the primary supply line for Montego Bay and cannot be disrupted. The cover over the pipe varies between 1.2 meters and 0.0 meters, depending on the material to be excavated during its installation. In rocky or swampy areas, the pipe is hardly buried. It is completely exposed and vulnerable as it spans creeks and gullies at numerous locations. In this section of the project, the old 250 millimeter distribution and supply line is still alive and buried just below the right edge of pavement. Then, there is a way old 100 millimeter asbestos distribution line, the location of which is unknown until we break it again. Unfortunately, as our project flattens both horizontal and vertical curves, conflicts develop between our proposed improvements and the existing facilities.
Recently, I have been trying to get the NWC and the contractor to determine the exact locations of these lines, so that I can better determine the actual level of conflict (and limits of redesign, eventually). As always, it is the contractor’s responsibility to determine the actual location of all utilities and to inform the Engineer of any conflicts therewith. So, after numerous beatings and admonitions, I accompanied both contractor and utility to scores of locations where we would dig potholes and survey the pipes in place. Eventually, the work got too hard for them, so the effort was abandoned with a dozen holes to go.
Shortly thereafter, the NWC presented me with a detailed bill for the two and a half days that they assisted the effort with labor and the scariest backhoe that I have every seen. The bill, quite detailed, including rental receipts for the hoe, was for four and a half days of effort. Straight faced was the criminal who presented it to me. [Certain earthmovers may want to consider this place once their time is up.] Straight faced was I as the bill was rejected. [But not on this project.]
Over two years have passed since the start of the Works, and utility conflicts are delaying the progress on almost 40% of the length of the project.
To cop a Jamaican attitude - this means job security. Read More......
Adversity implies an adversary, and this project has three; the Contractor, the Client, and the utilities. Every couple of months, AMC will dust off the most excellent World War II drama, “Young Lions”? The Job has a few similarities. Take the cast,... please.
As Americans, the Company staff gets to play Dean Martin’s character, Michael Whiteacre. Rich, smooth, and all-powerful, he is a lover, not a fighter, and can croon with the best of them. The contractor is like Montgomery Clift’s Jewish character, Noah Ackerman. Out of principal, he lets himself get beat to a pulp again and again and again. He and Dean are fighting for the same cause, but for wildly different reasons. The Client shall be cast as Lieutenant Christian Diestl, the Nazi officer played by Marlon Brando. Idealistic to a fault and, shot dead face down in a drainage ditch, he is the loser in the end, the obvious demise of a flawed ideology. The Utilities,.... hmmm,... let us say the utilities are the Bavarian Alps in the first scene. The immovable object.
There are three major utilities that we have to work with, around, and through. Jamaica Public Services Company (JPSCo.), a recently divested, quasi-governmental organization, provides electricity to the island. The vast majority of their distribution facilities are on power poles adjacent to the roadway. As we widen and realign the highway, we force the relocation of these poles. In the States, most utilities occupy the right-of-way under the condition that, if public work in the right-of-way requires is in conflict, they will be immediately relocated. Sure, there are conditions where major facilities require modification to the roadway design. However, it is usually no big deal to plant a few more poles and swapping the lines. Unless you are here.
In Jamaica, most of the holes for power poles are dug by hand by a couple of guys using long iron bars with a flattened tip. Once the holes are dug, the poles are erected, but there is usually no crane, so this takes a while using only A-frames, blocks and tackles. Then, the poles are climbed by the linesmen who, armed with a hand augers and open ended wrenches, affix the cross members and accouterments. The cables are unreeled by hand, then dragged and scratched across hill and dale by gangs of men to positions under the poles, from whence they are hoisted up to their final location. This slow and steady method might win this race, except when the going gets too tough, the crew may just get going, give up and move on to an easier task for a while.
Once JPSCo. has energized the new lines, they are not out of the way, because the telephone cables are still hanging on the old power poles. The telephone utility is Cable and Wireless, Jamaica, Limited (CWJL). For years, their concession agreement included a guaranteed of profit. They are totally uncooperative, and demand four weeks once the power lines are moved to relocate their lines to the new poles. Once four weeks are up, they will demand four weeks to relocate their lines to the new poles. Once four weeks are up, they will demand four weeks to relocate their lines to the new poles (continue ad nauseam). Only then can the old poles be retired by JPSCo. and the work proceed.
Neither JPSCo. nor CWJL will temporarily relocate their facilities, which further slows the process. They want the contractor to complete excavation before they will act, yet the contractor expects the utilities to be out of his way before he takes possession of the site. If the contractor was smart, he would be charging for additional time and overhead as his project is being delayed. Well he’s not and he isn’t,... a victim of his own inefficiencies.
The third utility is the National Water Commission (NWC). The NWC is a cabinet level agency, yet cut from the same cloth as the power and phone companies. Sadly, while we can see exactly where aerial cables are located, the water mains are (usually) buried. More sad is the fact that the NWC has no accurate idea as to where their facilities are, and exerts no control over those who would make illegal taps and steal its water.
There is no service providing joint utility locating information for excavators here. Fortunately, there is no natural gas, because most buried utilities are located with heavy equipment. When a water service is yanked, someone will hack off a tree limb with their machete, and then whittle a point on the end, so that it can be crammed into the gushing pipe to stop the flow. If reported, the NWC may be back to restore service in a few days. If it is a leak in a main and it is not too bad, it may runs for weeks or months before repairs occur.
An 800 millimeter water main runs between the treatment plant at Great River (Chainage 162+650) and the end of the project at Bogue (Chainage 171+200), just outside of Montego Bay. This main is the primary supply line for Montego Bay and cannot be disrupted. The cover over the pipe varies between 1.2 meters and 0.0 meters, depending on the material to be excavated during its installation. In rocky or swampy areas, the pipe is hardly buried. It is completely exposed and vulnerable as it spans creeks and gullies at numerous locations. In this section of the project, the old 250 millimeter distribution and supply line is still alive and buried just below the right edge of pavement. Then, there is a way old 100 millimeter asbestos distribution line, the location of which is unknown until we break it again. Unfortunately, as our project flattens both horizontal and vertical curves, conflicts develop between our proposed improvements and the existing facilities.
Recently, I have been trying to get the NWC and the contractor to determine the exact locations of these lines, so that I can better determine the actual level of conflict (and limits of redesign, eventually). As always, it is the contractor’s responsibility to determine the actual location of all utilities and to inform the Engineer of any conflicts therewith. So, after numerous beatings and admonitions, I accompanied both contractor and utility to scores of locations where we would dig potholes and survey the pipes in place. Eventually, the work got too hard for them, so the effort was abandoned with a dozen holes to go.
Shortly thereafter, the NWC presented me with a detailed bill for the two and a half days that they assisted the effort with labor and the scariest backhoe that I have every seen. The bill, quite detailed, including rental receipts for the hoe, was for four and a half days of effort. Straight faced was the criminal who presented it to me. [Certain earthmovers may want to consider this place once their time is up.] Straight faced was I as the bill was rejected. [But not on this project.]
Over two years have passed since the start of the Works, and utility conflicts are delaying the progress on almost 40% of the length of the project.
To cop a Jamaican attitude - this means job security. Read More......
1999-11-25
Food (Tis the Season)
Should you ever visit us in the land of wood and water, you will probably be subjected to our import shopping list. This is more than just a ploy to scam some free food,...
Despite the pervasive poverty here, there is little obvious malnutrition. If you live in the country, are hungry and have no dollars, you can always steal a breadfruit, banana, or ackee off of the neighbor’s tree (what you may call “praedial larceny”). If you need some protein, there are fish in the sea. Even if you earn very little, you can still raise a chicken or two. Many rural people have small vegetable gardens adjacent to their zinc shacks, so there appears to be an adequate supply of food. This is fine if you like a diet of breadfruit, banana, ackee and chicken with a couple of vegetables. However, we prefer a little more variety, so we go grocery shopping.
We buy most of our fruit from Jason, a Rastafarian vendor at Mosquito Cove, who I pass on my commute. Along with the banana, plantain, pineapple, lime, and pear (what you may call an “avocado”), I get vague and occasionally confusing infusions of the Rasta way. If I have time, there are Red Stripes in his cooler which I consume during the lecture. He is a self-proclaimed herbalist, healer, musician, drum maker, farmer, and politically astute commentator. As such, I am never in a real hurry to leave. Plus, he speaks more Patois than English, so I use the opportunity to train my ear, little by little, to understand the local speech.
Hopewell is a little village also on my commute. I buy my Gleaner every morning from Beverly, an elderly woman who sells them there. I swerve across the oncoming traffic, stop in the opposing lane, and she brings me my paper,.... all for just JA $14.
Every Friday is market day in Hopewell, when I actually get out of the van (what you may call a “truck”) and scour the market in search of vegetables. The market is crowded along both sides of the road and spills onto the pavement. There is a market building, but most of the vendors stick to the high exposure areas adjacent to the roadway. Wares are sold out of the backs of trucks and vans, from pushcarts, or from displays laid out on tarps and blankets.
I buy most of what I need from two guys who sell their produce from the back of a pick up truck. I buy from them primarily because they are located next to the newspaper lady, and have a relatively consistent selection and quality. Early in the day, their truck is full to overflowing with onions, potatoes, scallions, coconuts, beets, and cabbage. I will spend a couple hundred dollars here, then walk down the road fifty meters or so to the ladies who sell yam and, if I am there at the right time, callaloo.
Most times, though, I cannot get all that I need at the Hopewell market, so I try to stop in Lucea later in the day. Lucea, the parish seat of Hanover, has a substantially larger market than at Hopewell. There are carts and bins of attractive produce, crammed into too small a space, packed with shoppers.
Hustling. Bustling. Noisy. Here, I am more often able to find good green peppers, green beans, callaloo, and tomatoes, as well as other vegetables which look tasty at the time. My business goes to whoever has the best looking tomatoes. I try to hit this market at lunchtime, so I can stop for patties or Ital on the way back to work.
For dry goods, we visit the grocery store, located in a strip mall in Montego Bay. We regularly spend JA $3,000 here - on rice, peas (what you may call “beans”), soda, bread, pasta, dry goods and cupboard fare. It is not dissimilar from any Ma and Pa grocery store in Smallville. There are a dozen aisles, dairy to the left, produce in the back, house wares to the right. It has got a peculiar smell, but you get used to it.
There is a large portion of shelf space given to syrups. Not the maple flavored pancake variety, but mango, guava, strawberry, passion fruit, and pineapple flavored syrups. What these are used for, we have no idea, but they sure stock a lot of them. One of the local brands of everything is Grace, which amuses me, as Grace Brothers was the haberdashery, subject of much confusion, tomfoolery and entendre, featured in that old Brit comedy, “Are You Being Served”.
One word of tropical shopping advice; NEVER buy from the freezer case. The food probably was not continuously frozen. More likely, it was frozen at the plant, thawed during transport, refrozen, then rethawed and refrozen in the freezer case. Another word of advice; stay away from the chicken feet. Those bright yellow appendages may look tasty in their twenty count bags, and the price cannot be beat, but do not forget that they are the feet of chicken. Eat at your own risk.
We usually go down every aisle. The selection changes often, so new items may be available at any time. Sometimes, items will be stocked where there is space for them, instead of where it makes sense to stock them, so you need to be alert. If we are lucky and find rare food, we will buy more than we need, continuing the shortage cycle. There is never a shortage of boxed milk, it seems, nor pepper sauces.
Undoubtedly, the shopping list is still incomplete, so we may go to the Farm and Fresh, a specialty grocery next door, for high priced, yet desirable items that we cannot find elsewhere.
Next to the Farm and Fresh is the beer and rum retailer. Here we purchase from their selection of Red Stripe, Ting (a locally produced, less carbonated, sweeter Squirt), tonic, and scores of varieties of rums, rum creams, and rum liqueurs. They get a lot of our money. Ask Jackie about Banana Rum Cream and Chocolate Syrup on the rocks.
We were purchasing meat, mostly chicken, at the grocery store, but we may get a better selection at a butcher who just opened near the hacienda. At the grocery, the beef is never that tasty, there is little pork, and turkey runs over JA $500/kg, so we do not eat a lot of those. When the grocery has beef, you see every cut on the cow. The same with pork. Apparently, they butcher the entire animal at once, and fill the case with every thing from T-bones to tongue to tripe. If we get there at the right time, cheap T-bones. If we are late.... cheap tripe.
There is also a small grocery outside of Hopewell, where you might get lucky and find sour or cream cheeses, so it is worth a stop on occasion. In addition, Tony stops by the apartment two or three times a week with fresh orange, grapefruit, ortanique, and passion fruit juices.
We shop at each of these locations most every week and still cannot find all of the food that we like, yet take for granted in the States. Our list is always incomplete. So, when you visit, remember the Rice-a-roni, Kraft Parmesan Cheese, and Little Debbie Oatmeal Creme Pies.
There is more that we need. We will send you a list. Read More......
Despite the pervasive poverty here, there is little obvious malnutrition. If you live in the country, are hungry and have no dollars, you can always steal a breadfruit, banana, or ackee off of the neighbor’s tree (what you may call “praedial larceny”). If you need some protein, there are fish in the sea. Even if you earn very little, you can still raise a chicken or two. Many rural people have small vegetable gardens adjacent to their zinc shacks, so there appears to be an adequate supply of food. This is fine if you like a diet of breadfruit, banana, ackee and chicken with a couple of vegetables. However, we prefer a little more variety, so we go grocery shopping.
We buy most of our fruit from Jason, a Rastafarian vendor at Mosquito Cove, who I pass on my commute. Along with the banana, plantain, pineapple, lime, and pear (what you may call an “avocado”), I get vague and occasionally confusing infusions of the Rasta way. If I have time, there are Red Stripes in his cooler which I consume during the lecture. He is a self-proclaimed herbalist, healer, musician, drum maker, farmer, and politically astute commentator. As such, I am never in a real hurry to leave. Plus, he speaks more Patois than English, so I use the opportunity to train my ear, little by little, to understand the local speech.
Hopewell is a little village also on my commute. I buy my Gleaner every morning from Beverly, an elderly woman who sells them there. I swerve across the oncoming traffic, stop in the opposing lane, and she brings me my paper,.... all for just JA $14.
Every Friday is market day in Hopewell, when I actually get out of the van (what you may call a “truck”) and scour the market in search of vegetables. The market is crowded along both sides of the road and spills onto the pavement. There is a market building, but most of the vendors stick to the high exposure areas adjacent to the roadway. Wares are sold out of the backs of trucks and vans, from pushcarts, or from displays laid out on tarps and blankets.
I buy most of what I need from two guys who sell their produce from the back of a pick up truck. I buy from them primarily because they are located next to the newspaper lady, and have a relatively consistent selection and quality. Early in the day, their truck is full to overflowing with onions, potatoes, scallions, coconuts, beets, and cabbage. I will spend a couple hundred dollars here, then walk down the road fifty meters or so to the ladies who sell yam and, if I am there at the right time, callaloo.
Most times, though, I cannot get all that I need at the Hopewell market, so I try to stop in Lucea later in the day. Lucea, the parish seat of Hanover, has a substantially larger market than at Hopewell. There are carts and bins of attractive produce, crammed into too small a space, packed with shoppers.
Hustling. Bustling. Noisy. Here, I am more often able to find good green peppers, green beans, callaloo, and tomatoes, as well as other vegetables which look tasty at the time. My business goes to whoever has the best looking tomatoes. I try to hit this market at lunchtime, so I can stop for patties or Ital on the way back to work.
For dry goods, we visit the grocery store, located in a strip mall in Montego Bay. We regularly spend JA $3,000 here - on rice, peas (what you may call “beans”), soda, bread, pasta, dry goods and cupboard fare. It is not dissimilar from any Ma and Pa grocery store in Smallville. There are a dozen aisles, dairy to the left, produce in the back, house wares to the right. It has got a peculiar smell, but you get used to it.
There is a large portion of shelf space given to syrups. Not the maple flavored pancake variety, but mango, guava, strawberry, passion fruit, and pineapple flavored syrups. What these are used for, we have no idea, but they sure stock a lot of them. One of the local brands of everything is Grace, which amuses me, as Grace Brothers was the haberdashery, subject of much confusion, tomfoolery and entendre, featured in that old Brit comedy, “Are You Being Served”.
One word of tropical shopping advice; NEVER buy from the freezer case. The food probably was not continuously frozen. More likely, it was frozen at the plant, thawed during transport, refrozen, then rethawed and refrozen in the freezer case. Another word of advice; stay away from the chicken feet. Those bright yellow appendages may look tasty in their twenty count bags, and the price cannot be beat, but do not forget that they are the feet of chicken. Eat at your own risk.
We usually go down every aisle. The selection changes often, so new items may be available at any time. Sometimes, items will be stocked where there is space for them, instead of where it makes sense to stock them, so you need to be alert. If we are lucky and find rare food, we will buy more than we need, continuing the shortage cycle. There is never a shortage of boxed milk, it seems, nor pepper sauces.
Undoubtedly, the shopping list is still incomplete, so we may go to the Farm and Fresh, a specialty grocery next door, for high priced, yet desirable items that we cannot find elsewhere.
Next to the Farm and Fresh is the beer and rum retailer. Here we purchase from their selection of Red Stripe, Ting (a locally produced, less carbonated, sweeter Squirt), tonic, and scores of varieties of rums, rum creams, and rum liqueurs. They get a lot of our money. Ask Jackie about Banana Rum Cream and Chocolate Syrup on the rocks.
We were purchasing meat, mostly chicken, at the grocery store, but we may get a better selection at a butcher who just opened near the hacienda. At the grocery, the beef is never that tasty, there is little pork, and turkey runs over JA $500/kg, so we do not eat a lot of those. When the grocery has beef, you see every cut on the cow. The same with pork. Apparently, they butcher the entire animal at once, and fill the case with every thing from T-bones to tongue to tripe. If we get there at the right time, cheap T-bones. If we are late.... cheap tripe.
There is also a small grocery outside of Hopewell, where you might get lucky and find sour or cream cheeses, so it is worth a stop on occasion. In addition, Tony stops by the apartment two or three times a week with fresh orange, grapefruit, ortanique, and passion fruit juices.
We shop at each of these locations most every week and still cannot find all of the food that we like, yet take for granted in the States. Our list is always incomplete. So, when you visit, remember the Rice-a-roni, Kraft Parmesan Cheese, and Little Debbie Oatmeal Creme Pies.
There is more that we need. We will send you a list. Read More......
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