Schedule

Despite bold, Italicized, underlined, and yellow highlighted target completion dates, we failed to actually complete the highway last year. As expected, we have a new target completion date, again established by the Client, who sees more votes and tourist dollars slipping away with each month that we remain unfinished. I imagine that his fear of losing power will tend to drive many more activities as we approach the as-of-yet-unscheduled-but-forthcoming elections.

In the current case, he has commanded that the project be complete by the end of March. This dictation is to satisfy a promise the PM made last year about how the road would be completed in 2001. At the time, he meant “calendar” 2001, but has since decided that he actually meant “fiscal” 2001. No matter, he will be lucky to see substantial completion by the end of calendar 2002, but by then, he should have lost the election.

Who knows, though? Maybe the PNP will win again (I think that the gangs in the PNP garrisons may have more guns than the gangs in the JLP garrisons), but I would prefer they did not. Not that the opposition would treat the people any better, but further entrenchment by the Party ‘N Power is bound to bode even more poorly for the future of the common folk. Best to give the other guy a chance to rifle through what remains in the coffers.

Showing his concern regarding this outcome, the Client has firmly stated that there is nothing beyond the end of March. “Any and all steps must be taken to assure that this schedule is met. If not, heads will roll. Blah, blah, blah. Blah, blah,… blah.”

Coincidentally, this is the same speech they gave last September, when there was nothing beyond the end of December. Ooh, but this time, they are really serious, as indicated by the higher level of bureaucrats delivering the fire and brimstone sermon.

To facilitate this end of the world ultimatum, they have asked that we develop a schedule with which to whack the various contractors and goad them to action. Bear in mind that it has taken fifty-two months to place the first sixty percent of the pavement. And now the Client expects to see the remaining forty percent in the next couple of months.

Tick,… tick,… tick.

The deadline gets closer each day, and although we have seen some increased performance out of some of the contractors, it is nowhere near what they need to do to meet this new schedule.

“Hey”, the Client says to me, as the hovering ten watt bulb delivers a faint and unsteady glow. “Why don’t you redesign more large portions of the project to save money and time?” And I respond, “Uh, won’t that compromise certain established quality and safety aspects of the completed roadway?” And the Client is like, “Huh? But we want to save time and money.” And I am all, “Whatever.” And he is like, “Huh?” And I am all, “It’s your road. Instruct us in writing.”

And my own clock goes, “tictictictictictictic,…..”

Besides his attempts to hack the Job to bits, one other way that the Client has decided to save some time is to provide additional assistance to the most poorly performing contractors. So, at great risk of boring you - the Contract to construct this highway is governed in part by the Fourth Edition of the Conditions of Contract for Works of Civil Engineering Construction (the “General Conditions”) as developed by the Federation Internationale Des Ingenieurs Conseils (FIDIC).

Clause 59 of the aforementioned General Conditions allows the Employer to assign Nominated Subcontractors to the Main Contractor. Presumably, this is to allow the Employer (a.k.a. the Client) some control over certain specialist subcontractors. In our case, it allowed the Client to hire his own cronies to take over once the Koreans defaulted.

In assigning Nominated Subcontractors to complete the Works, instead of taking our advice, sacking The Contractor and finding a new contractor on the international market, the Client got to give the balance of the project to his local friends, because friends always help their friends (nudge, wink). To ease their loss and hold their tongues, the Koreans were promised 7.5% of the value of the works performed by the Nominated Subcontracts as an “Attendance Fee”. This is like setting up a sidewalk superintendent with sandwiches, beer, smokes and a lawn chair so that he can sit on the kerb and kibitz while the real work goes on in front of him.

One of these new contractors, one of the three assigned to the baseworks (anagramatically, Golum), sucks harder than the others. His tendered costs were too low. He has little equipment and fewer qualified operators. In fact, the government contracts committee has said that he has never completed a project successfully. One must wonder why he got the work to begin with,… unless perhaps he was someone’s friend,…

Hmmm.

He should have been sacked long ago, but instead, the Client has recently assigned one of the paving Nominated Subcontractors to be Golum’s Nominated Subcontractor for baseworks and to perform the balance of his work at three times his tendered cost. To ease their loss, Golum has been promised 7.5% of the value of the works performed by this Nominated Subcontractor as an “Attendance Fee”. So (in case you drifted off during the preceding General Conditions explanation, or otherwise failed to pay attention), the Client will again pay the non-performer huge sums because they cannot complete their work, essentially giving him over twenty percent of his contract sum for doing absolutely nothing except sucking.

In this, we all lose.

Except for Golum, and the overpriced paver, and whoever gets kicked back.

Oh, and the completion date is not really in three months,, at the end of March, but the Ides, some seven weeks hence. This stroke of brilliance came from the Client, of course, who probably sets his watch five minutes ahead to avoid being late for appointments, yet always figures that he has an extra five minutes, because he set his watch ahead, and then arrives thirty minutes late anyway.

The Client figures that if he says the Fifteenth, the work will be done by the Thirty-first.

I see it as two missed deadlines in the same month. Read More......

thelaD hun Jingeet

Let us get straight to the point. It has been a very bad year for critters on this highway. So, without any additional ruckus,… and again, not for the squeamish….
“Fresh Kills 2001” or “More Dead Things Sighted Through My Windscreen”.

2000 2001 Change

Dogs 54 69 27.8%
Cats 36 42 16.7%
Mongeese 24 39 62.5%
Goats 18 19 5.6%
Cows 16 9 -56.3%
Pigs 5 0 -100.0%
Chickens 5 3 -60.0%
John Crows 3 5 66.7%
Other Birds 1 10* 1000.0%
Rodents 1 1 0%
Snakes 1 0 -100.0%
B.F. Frogs 0 1 n/a
Sheep 0 1 n/a
Sharks 0 1 n/a
Humans 0 1 n/a
Donkeys 0 0 0%

Total Dead Things 164 201 22.6%

Finally! Trends in mortality! [Graph not included]

Still, without a few more years of data, I can only make slightly better generalizations regarding these trends than I did last year. Clearly, I can see that mongeese deaths have increased at a faster rate than those of dogs. Does this mean that the total population of mongeese is up, or are they just getting stupid?
However, if changes in intelligence are what accounts for changes in the rates of terminal whacks, then what could have possibly gotten into the cows? Fifty six percent smarter? Cows? Not hardly, but it is the only theory I have today.

There are a few newcomers to the list this year. The BF Frogs are not at all surprising in their inclusion, but slightly surprising in their small numbers. Most Jamaicans hate frogs, big and small, with both passion and zeal, and would prefer them all dead. There is probably an old folk reason for this dislike, stretching back to Africa, where and when monstrous amphibians ruled the countryside. Although I am not a big fan of giant-sized marauding humongo-toads myself, I do like the song of the way smaller tree frog, whose cricket-like chirping accompanies the night.

The sheep was just a matter of time. Not that there is a large sheep population here (“mutton” at the very excellent local Indian restaurant means goat), but there is a small flock immediately adjacent to a portion of the realigned roadway between White Gut and Sandy Bay. Since sheep resistant fences have yet to be installed here, there is nothing to shackle the sheep, and they flock about the roadway, where high speed doom awaits.

Many moons ago, I had predicted that this road was going to be on the unfortunate side of hazardous. Sadly, there is no precedent on the north coast for the type of facility which we are trying to construct. As such, both four wheeled and four legged users do not yet grasp the changes in attitudes and actions required to survive an encounter with it.

Even on the more populated south coast, where sometimes the roads have four lanes (ooooh!), there is unbelievable carnage. A few weeks ago, amidst great fanfare, the Prime Minister opened the new Old Harbour Bypass, which has cut travel times around that town from well over an hour to much less than fifteen minutes.

But at what cost?

So far, the cost is reported to be at least one cow and a few goats each night. So it would seem that our local country cows have a much better chance of survival than their more sophisticated city cousins. To the detriment of the southern cows are the considerably larger traffic volumes, and more manic taxi drivers.

By this, I mean more manic and more of them.

Sharks are a very unexpected newcomer to the list this season, although I imagine that this particular occurrence will end up as an asterisk over time. An anomaly of a fluke, perhaps, but not a figment. The shark felt real enough through my boot as I kicked it upright for measurements and a couple of photos.

It was a reef shark, common locally, quite dead, and just less than a meter and a half in length. It appeared one morning on the shoulder on a part of the completed roadway near Maggotty. I doubt that it swam there, but I suppose some bizarre water spout or freakish wave could have lifted the creature from its home waters and plopped it down 150 meters from the sea. My favorite speculation is that the shark was caught by one lucky angler and, while being transported to market in the back of a pickup, it put forth one last attempt to regain its freedom, scaring the snot out of the local who had bummed a ride in the bed, who ejected the fish immediately for fear that it would take his arm off.

I hate to think that the shark was killed simply for being a shark, with no regard for the ten kilos of tasty flesh it would have supplied. But worse and stranger things have happened, do happen, and will happen. This is Jamaica, after all.

The Other Birds column gets an asterisk due to the fact that I bonked one of them with the Magadogomatic. Better bird than goat, methinks.

Human was on last years list, but had a count of zero. Although this sort of death is common, I only include personally witnessed data. In this case, an arm hanging out from under a sheet, covering the laborer who had been run over by a motor grader a few hours prior. The contractor claims that the reverse horns on his equipment were working properly at the time, but I have my doubts. Safe work practices are not the first item on any of our contractors to-do lists. Rollers, backhoes, and dump bodies are common crew conveyances, as the employers’ acceptance of worker safety and associated liabilities is quite limited.

This former laborer (and former assistant grader operator) was the third project related fatality in as many months, and the fifth since the project began. In one instance, a trench cave-in crushed a laborer, who succumbed to his injuries once transferred to the regional hospital in Montego Bay. In another, a violation of a flagman’s clear instruction to stop resulted in a head on collision which killed only the violator. And, a couple of years ago, two cops were killed at the very end of a high speed pursuit when they failed to yield the right-of-way to a stationary pneumatic tired roller.

Prior to this, my projects have had spotless safety records. Maybe I can give this particular job an asterisk later on.

Anyway, for lack of a better theory, intelligence will be the determining factor. As such, donkeys are still the dominant species. Go figure.

Despite the preceding speculation, what I know for sure is that the 22.6% change in total slaughter equates roughly to the increase in violent homicides across the island (up about twenty-five percent to over eleven hundred in the past year). Is this the pattern? Is it an island wide growth of violence against both man and beast? Must I conclude that tougher times will yield a tougher existence?

Eat and be eaten?

Death in the jungle. Read More......

Thurston

For those of you considering an extended stint out of country, a few words of advice – join the local yacht club. It is not like the Montego Bay Yacht Club is anything as high fallutin’ as the ones in Palm Beach, but joining can give the same type of benefits. Primarily, branded merchandise and close contact with people who own boats.

There comes a time in every man’s life when he must ask himself, “how many times can I go to the beach and laze around all afternoon while snarfing meat patties and frosty malt libations and simultaneously getting sand in my shorts?” Maybe you have yet to achieve this acme. Maybe you are well past it. Maybe you do not yet know the tactile pleasures of sandy shorts. Maybe you are a woman.

Regardless, I have reached this pinnacle and found the answer to be “as many times as you can get away with.”

Sadly, the damned Job keeps getting in the way. What, with having to spend five sevenths of all of the available daylight hours within sight of the sea, yet unable to merrily splash about (a vast improvement over previous failed attempts at more melancholy splashing about). Alas, even on the unencumbered weekends, there are times when the Fates have reasoned that driving to the beach is not in my tapestry. Clouds are probably their biggest reason, and laziness their second.

Anyway, since it is just next door, the beers are cheap, and the dues are small, we joined the yacht club. Of course, just providing them with a handful of Jamaican currency was not all there was to it. We also needed the necessary and required referrals from a current club member and a sitting board member so that the full board, at a regularly scheduled meeting, could better judge our adequacy for membership and subsequent association with the other members.

Once the referrals were in place, the board met, took a good long look at our handful of Jamaican currency and, “ping ph’tang!”, we find ourselves hobnobbing with the hardly hoi polloi.

Hoo bah.

Once the dues are paid, the membership requirements are rather light. Unlike a book club where you may have to read the occasional set of Cliff Notes, there are absolutely no reading requirements, except perhaps for the sign which prohibits bare chests in the bar. I have read that sign, good club member that I am, and wonder about the cause of its display, back in a time when half naked tars from around the globe frolicked and cursed at the yacht club bar, embarrassing the more genteel members and goading them to action, late one cloudy and moonless night in the dank and smoky boardroom, demanding that controls be enacted to eliminate such decadence, demanding that a forcefully composed sign be hung at the bar entrance. “No bare chests or swim suits in the bar or club rooms, matey”, it will read.

Things are much more reserved now, and the “matey” has long since faded from the sign, almost as if it was never there at the first. In place of the cursed cursing tars, there is some card playing on Tuesday nights, the ladies play Mahjongg for most of Thursday, and Friday is Happy Hour from four bells until quarter to five bells. These activities are fine and all, but our participation in them really pays if we get invited to go sailing on a Saturday or Sunday. Recent Saturdays have been good, as the club sponsors what they call a “Captain’s Sail”, whereby any able bodied member can cruise about Montego Bay for three or four hours on a participating ten to fifteen meter sailing yacht, captained by the owner and whoever else wants to give instructions at the time, as there are sometimes a half dozen boat owners (“captains”) on board.

The rum punch served on these jaunts is the best on the island.

The first time we did this voyage, the jib thingy connecting the mast to the deck sheared off at the bow thingy, while we ran with the wind back to the boat parking place. Fortunately, crisis was averted when all five captains started shouting orders at one another.

When all was said and done, the mast stayed put, the sails were dropped, and we motored back to the harbor, amidst the self-congratulations of our many captains, who averted certain catastrophe through their courage and conflicting leadership and dumb luck that we were heading downwind at the time.

A few weeks ago, we were asked to crew for a friend during the Sunday J-22 regatta. This regatta was just one of a series of races held for two thirds of the year between six to ten identical boats which anchor at the yacht club. Every boat is 6.706 meters long at the water line, with a single mast, hoisting mainsail, jib, and spinnaker, each with a crew of three or four. The only difference between the crafts is their general condition, the age of their sails, and the general condition and age of their crew.

My assigned duty was as ballast, commensurate with my age and general condition. Once we were at sea I learned that this assignment would also include hoisting sails, rigging the spinnaker and its boom, and performing a little dance with the mast, so as not to get knocked overboard by the front sail during a turn through the wind [Doin’ the Jib Jibe Jig, if you had to give the motion a name suitable for American Bandstand]. Regardless, it was great fun. As well, a nice view of the city and the other sailing boats, and lies and beers afterwards while we wore our shirts in the yacht club bar.

The feeling there is more like a Ty Webb club than a Judge Smails club, but less slapstick overall…. And best of all, we now know people who own boats, and people we know now know that we know people who own boats, and those people know people who write the society pages for the Gleaner.

Honest, the Gleaner has regular society pages, a fitting accompaniment to the “North Coast Happenings” and “Kingston After Hours” pages, which are like photo journals for the rich and famous. These pages chronicle the local posh events and those who attend them. “Society”, if you please.

We attended a fete for the Montego Bay Marine Park the other night. A few days later, I am instructed to read the aforementioned pages, wherein I find “…blah blah… Marine Park gala… blah blah blah… attended by a long list of who’s who including… blah blah blah… Mr. and Mrs. Alan Palmer….”

So.

Who’s who, huh?

We be who.

Dat’s who.

Gotta go out and buy me one of those silly captain’s hats. Read More......

Pedocidal Tendencies

And what do they do? They reshuffle the Cabinet and give us a new Minister.
Oh, I doubt that the change in Cabinet is the direct result or sole fault of problems on the North Coast Highway, but it certainly seems a little too convenient to reshuffle the top cards at this particular time.

Politics as usual.

One of the friendly parting gifts that the Brits bestowed upon this fair land in 1962 is their system of government. As were many of their colonies immediately after independence, Jamaica became a Constitutional God Saveth the Queen Parliamentarianismisticallicious form of government. As such, national policy is generally no further sighted than the next election and revolves more around the granting of political favors than it does the uplifting of the People. [So it really don’t matter what we calls it, does it?]

Jamaica has a parliament, with a couple of houses, both of reportedly ill repute. A representing Jamaican who finds him or herself in either location, and as a Member of Parliament, or MP, and happens to be the President of the party in power, will find him or herself as the Prime Minister, or PM. Other Jamaicans who find themselves in such similar positions, as a Member of Parliament and a member of the party in power, may find him or herself appointed to the Cabinet.

Unlike the States, and to the best of my knowledge, Cabinet appointments are not subject to the whims of any Senate approval process. As such, the PM can get any MP he (or she, although that has yet to happen) wants to fill the positions. These specially selected MP’s are now given additional duties and responsibilities as the Ministers of Finance, Tourism, Transportation, Mining, Justice, Defense, Education, Agriculture or, among others, one of my favorites, “Without Portfolio”.

This use of the term “portfolio” to describe government departments reminds me of grade school, where a portfolio was the three ringed binder which held my schoolwork. At the end of the term, these portfolios would be in a shambles, covers mangled and missing, and pages scrawled with neigh unto illegible references towards whatever we were supposed to have been learning over the past nine months. It was a pleasure to toss them out at the end of the year, knowing full well that there would be brand, shiny, and spanking new portfolios when we came back in the fall. In fact, a good reason to mistreat them was so that there would be no excuse to keep them. It was an anticipated ritual of autumn - new school supplies and a trip to Main Street in Ames for a fresh pair of sneakers and a foot x-ray.

In the local government, the ministerial portfolios are never new, just handed over to different people who make up a new cover for the thing out of an old grocery sack. At the end of the term, the contents are still the same, blurred a bit by attempts at keeping notes, but passed on, like a used college textbook, highlighted by the moron who took the course before you, underlining all of the wrong passages and then selling the thing for beer money before midterms.... or something like that.

Every once in a while, usually in response to shifts in the winds of political fortune (or is it intestinal fortitude), the PM will reshuffle the cabinet. This rarely involves bringing new people into the mix. Usually, the same cabinet flunkies are given different portfolios, these same folks who have cabinet level positions to begin with mostly because they are skilled political hacks and sing well the Party songs.

So a few weeks back, among a few other changes, the Deputy PM became the Jamaican Ambassador to the United States, the Evil Minister of Corrupt Police and Justice became the Evil Minister of Imports and Justice, the Minister of Transport and Works became the Minister of Corrupt Police, and the Minister of Mining became the Minister of Transport and Works, a position he ineffectively held two or three shuffles ago.

The former Minister of Transport and Works, ultimately responsible for the condition of the road today, will be safely away before the project collapses in flames, secure in the laurels of his intentionally and highly publicized successes with the Kingston bus system, expanding the port, and bringing in the Indians to fix the railroad. The new Minister can rightly claim that our problems all happened before he took office, which it did, although nobody will dare name who had the office beforehand.

Scooby sez: “It wasn’t me.”

In Running Away, Marley relates an old proverb, singing, “Every man t’ink dat ‘is burden is de heaviest.”

Perhaps I place too much importance to my own work, to think that the difficulties in constructing my one little highway have forced a change upon the national political structure. But still, it seems that a heap of our project burdens could be relieved if only one would t’ink a little more.

“Who feels it, knows it, lawd.”

As it is, the Client’s project management team have turned off the thought process altogether, in favor of either absolutely no action or frantic and unplanned immediate action. It looks like a deranged foot shooting exercise. They do not really promote self mutilation, but they do have a gun and a foot, and they are under such pressure to perform that they feel they must pull the trigger or nothing at all will happen.

It is nice that they have a plan,… of sorts.

Except, they keep missing the mark. Even their poorly laid plans go astray.

Oft,... Quite oft.

But really, how can you miss your own foot? It be right at the end of your leg. Just point and shoot,... unless your eyes are closed, and your hand is shaking, and you feel compelled to pull the trigger, pull the trigger, pull the trigger.
The result is that, by the time you finally blow off your toes, you have put a lot of holes in the walls and the floor, you blasted to bits your one table lamp that you never really liked to begin with, you woke the neighbors, and you have that stupid “oops” look on your face when the cops bust down the door.

“It wasn’t me.”

So who do you turn to when the project is in flames, fueled and fanned by the owner? The coworkers, of course, and each Friday night, at promptly 19:00, we grab the spouses and head out for chow and as many beers as we can manage and still have someone standing who can drive us home. We have few rules for this gathering. The main one is for the wives’ benefit - no shop talk. The compliance with this rule lasts a couple of minutes, generally. But if we catch ourselves, we do better for the next few minutes.

The work is all encompassing and all consuming, though, and generally one heck of as good time, despite what I may infer to the contrary. So we talk about what we have in common. Engineers talk engineering, and we talk it so much that the wives could now do a better job than the government, and would if they could, just to shut us up for a while.

Recently, we have been meeting prior to our Friday dinner at the yacht club for their happy hour (three for two beverages and stamp and go and smoked marlin for appetizers). What oftentimes results is that the yacht club beers are well cold and free flowing, and the food is usually tasty, so we stay there for supper instead of finding a vehicle and going into town. This saves us from actually driving anywhere as the yacht club shares a fence and gate with our complex. To our spouse’s detriment is that the other club members know why we are on the island, and they tend to quiz us about our work and we quickly lose sight of “the rule”.

Ah well, the bitching is half the fun, and it is usually over well before breakfast. In addition, having it out with the locals is our way of affecting public opinion with regards to the real reasons the road is in the shape it is.

“It wasn’t me.” Read More......

Roadblocks

We had a few more roadblocks last week, although locally, roadblock is really not the right term.

On Jamaica, the term “roadblock” is used to describe a police action, whereby two to four police will find a nice, shady spot by the side of the road, and then pull over anyone they choose. Sometimes they will have a huge, stationary radar unit and give out speeding tickets to the unworthy. Other times they will stage spot safety checks, or try to isolate and persecute the robot taxis, or just shake down the motorists. The best thing about driving a government van is that I very rarely get stopped at these travesties of justice. If they do wave you down though, by all means, stop. Those prominently displayed assault rifles are probably loaded.

Instead, what we had more of last week is what is locally called a “demonstration”. The worst of these demonstrations could better be called a riot.

The most severe in recent memory occurred just prior to our arrival, when there were demonstrations islandwide to protest an increase in the fuel tax. In every parish, junked cars, old tires, and debris were used to block the road. Shops and vehicles were torched. People beat on other people.

Eventually, the Jamaica Defense Force was deployed to keep the peace, clear the roads of junked cars and debris, put out the fires, and beat on other people. This demonstration went on for about three days, and losses were huge to businesses, individuals, and the island’s fragile image as a pleasant and safe tourist destination. As a result, the government repealed the proposed taxes, giving the people what they wanted.

Of course, over the next year, the government inched up the taxes in less noticeable ways, back to the level of the original increase, so the government got what they wanted too.

These nationwide demonstrations are uncommon, to be sure. The only other instance that comes to mind is when the national football squad (i.e. soccer team) won a place in the World Cup, and happy demonstrations shut down the island for a couple of days. More often, the demonstrations are local, and involve single issue protestors. Unfortunately, the highway is a very large single issue.

The poor condition of the roads is a commonly demonstrable offence. When the folks living next to the project get overtired of the dust and construction debris, they drag out the Lada shells and a couple of downed trees and seal off the transportation corridor. Recently, this has been happening somewhere along the project about once a week.

Jamaicans are great for their demonstration preparedness, bringing placards, scrawled on scrap cardboard and waved in front of the news cameras. That is, if the news cameras bother to attend. Demonstrations over poor road conditions occur so commonly across the island that it is no longer news.

The demonstrations do get some degree of attention though, especially when the road being blocked is this one. Johnsontown is noted for their demonstrations, and many a stick of water main has been buried recently bearing the spray painted tag “we want our road”, having been previously used as a large, blue, cylindrical, road blocking placard.

Usually the demonstrations are well planned. As such, we will sometimes hear of one pending, and can work to resolve it prior to the fact. Too often, these are developed and executed under the direct supervision of area dons and/or the local parliamentarian. Once one or the other of these is satisfied, the demonstration will quietly end. The people will then mill around for a while and grumble, until some new activity comes along.

Sometimes the demonstrations will not block the road, but just the work. As the work moves from place to place along the roadway, the locals will demand that they be hired to construct that part of the project which runs through their neighborhood. Too often, large groups will converge upon a job site and demand employment. They will raise a ruckus, get in the way, take over the heavy equipment, and pester the employed until a few get hired as Rastabouts, flagmen, or idle wage earners.

At Probyn Bridge, a large gang of locals (nee mob) accosted the superintendent, demanding work. Their claim was that, since the workers already employed had been at the task for the past five months, it was now their turn to be hired. The Contractor was then instructed by the mob to fire all of his help and hire from the pool of the great unskilled. He chose to retain his current workforce, and has been shut down at this location for the better part of a week. Actually he has been stalled at two locations, as his small tool storage was at this bridge, so he cannot get supplies from this to another site until the demonstration ends.

Last week we had two demonstrations simultaneously, which probably diluted each message overall. One at Riley, just east of Lucea, was to protest the lack of garbage pickup in the community. The community, however, is a few chains from the main road. To demonstrate there would have had no effect at all, so they dragged their junked Lada’s down from home and deposited them where they would get a better response.

On the eastern embankment to the new bridge at Kew, just west of the highway camp, residents amassed to demonstrate a different problem totally unrelated to the road works. They were concerned that, once the highway was completed, the government would completely forget about their little spot on the planet and would never spend another Jamaican dime in their community. They were demonstrating to make known their need for water and power and phones, and now must have seemed a good time to squawk. Since the folks in Riley were demonstrating as well, it must have got them in the mood.

I think part of the simultaneous nature of these two demonstrations is due to the fact that Michelle has been raining on the Land of Wood and Water for two weeks. I imagine that a tropical variant of cabin fever (“zinc shack syndrome”) has gripped the people, forcing some ejaculation.

The Kew-pers went to far, though, and failed to disperse upon command. What followed then is unclear, but it did involve a fair amount of government issued tear gas and some gun fire.

Worst was that there was no way into Lucea for most of the day, so I could not get to my favorite Ital place for stew peas, ackee, tofu and a cold beet root juice. Yum.

Valerie’s, though, the other way in Sandy Bay, has got some good chicken and yams.
Lunch was saved. Read More......

Currency

“The problem with Scotland,… is that there’s too many Scots.”
- Edward Longshanks, Braveheart

“The problem with this project,… is that it is totally fubar.”
- Alan Palmer, NCHiP

It has not always been so, but recently things have taken a bit of a left turn. A turn south, if you like that analogy, or the wrong turn at Albuquerque, if you are more partial to wascally wabbits.

This does not look at all like Pismo Beach.

There ain’t been much of any beach lately, as there has been little time available for extended and sandy shores, the project taking most of my time. When we have beached, our fellow beachers have a new configuration than what we were seeing prior to September. There are few tourists on the road or in Negril and fewer in Montego Bay. Fewer people have taken their carefree vacations recently, and this has had a telling effect on the national economy, and the local psyche.

The Jamaican economy has never performed any better than tenuous since Independence. In recent years, it has become more and more reliant upon tourism to pay the bills. Any reduction in tourism affects the airlines and their workers, the hotels with their staffs and suppliers, the bus and taxi outfits, and the vast trinket sector. Unlike the States, there is no great cash reserve (or the ability to print such a reserve) with which to bail out these sectors, although these sectors do not fail to ask. More often, the Jamaican response is to try to muddle through.

Muddling was the government response when The Contractor bailed on the highway, and it was the same government response that this project received when faced with unrealistic completion expectations. Not surprising is the fact that there are still lands to be acquired and utilities to be relocated. “What can we do?” is a common question.

One of the contractors recently ran out of credit with his local fuel supplier and had to cease his operations. “What can we do?”

Another contractor has finally admitted that his bid was in error and is now claiming that he was some sixty percent low on the supply price of a key roadway component. He has severely curtailed his operations. “What can we do?”

The bridge contractor feels that he must fill the channel of a flood prone river during the rainy season so that he can hoist his girders. Citing the maintenance of hydraulic efficiency and environmental portions of his Contract, he is refused permission. “What can we do?”

You can always muddle.


In my experience, a contractor who runs out of credit, has no clue with regards to estimation, or is not intricately familiar with his contract usually will not return to play ball the next season. Unless, of course, there is some other factor involved - like an unwritten rule book. Apparently, we have not been playing by these unwritten rules and have, as one contractor told us in confidence, “spoiled the party”.

All along our project alignment, we run into water mains. We run into them because they are installed in shallow trenches, with minimal cover, using the worst material around for backfill, placed with no compaction. The result is mains that leak, that burst, that destroy the surrounding pavement, and that cannot be considered a consistent supply for the users who rely upon this service. Certainly, the National Water Commission specification calls for a minimum depth of cover, and must specify the quality and density of backfill. What right minded water commissioner would let it be otherwise?

As I drive around potholes throughout this island, I cannot help but notice (‘cuz I’m a geek, remember) that the pavement surrounding the hole is rarely much thicker than a couple of centimeters. Now, who in their right mind would place two centimeters of asphalt on a road which carries five to ten thousand vehicles per day?

The answer, quite obviously, is the contractor, who traditionally charges the government for ten centimeters. To seal the deal, the contractor may do a small favor or two for the resident engineer and his staff, like take them out to lunch, or give them a nice bottle of rum or an envelop full of cash. Every so often, our staff reports such attempted tipping practices, and thankfully reports that the tip was refused. To both the project and our benefit is the Company’s high level of competence, consistency and commitment to the project, and the fact that we already pay better than anybody else.

Our second government project director, who had little history with us or the Works, hand picked the contractors to fill in for The Contractor. The cream of the crop,... would go into their pockets if all went as usual. And this is exactly why the Japanese dudes providing the initial funding for this job required that a foreign firm be the quality control agents for the work. They knew what I am only beginning to grasp.

What I still fail to understand is the reasoning behind the massive levels of corruption. Easy money, I suppose.

One might argue that, if the work performed this year is a piece of crap, you can come back next year and get paid to fix it. However, would not the country be better served if you did the work right this year, then the budgeted repair moneys could be used for new infrastructure next year? If this went on for a few decades, there would be a reliable network of roads, paralleled with adequate power and water, ready to facilitate economic growth.
Blame it on the invisible evil hand.

And this evil hand needs someone to slap silly. The project is out of money due to some huge government sponsored changes, the contractors hands have been kept from the till (at least as best as we can manage), and there will be an election soon. Somebody gotta be slapped. “What can we do?”

Hey! Why not slap the consultant? They are an outside outfit. They are foreign in many ways. They are not members of the “boys’ club”. They are still owed plenty of wampum. And best of all, it beats resting the blame for this fiasco on the government.

So, I am writing this particular thousand word treatise amidst my efforts to write a twelve to fifteen to twenty thousand word position paper for our corporate attorney, preliminarily entitled, “A History of Project Construction Costs for the North Coast Highway, Segment One” or “If We’re Fucked Up, You’re to Blame” (current apologies to Blink 182).

It gonna be a long couple of nights.

Life in the Tropics. Read More......

Canine Demise

There is no more Dogwagon.

It left me with a loud tick, then silence, then an uncomfortable rattling from that little thingy that controls the heat of the glow plug, then a few well placed epithets, then nothing but the fading echo of the door slamming shut.

No great matter, though, as I had a spare. The spare is a newer version of the same Mitsubishi, with a few less miles, and with a much more powerful (i.e. turbocharged) diesel engine. It does move a bit better, so calling the thing Dogwagon II is probably out of the question. As of this moment, it remains unchristened,... Truckulator?... Mitsutrashheap?... Give me a second,...

Mangycurmobile?

Magadogomatic? Hmm. Promising.

Which reminds me, the other evening, while fjording White Gut to avoid the citizen road block of the existing highway in front of Sonya’s Highway Pub, the driver of a minibus squeezing down the mud track in the opposite direction leaned even further out of his window to exclaim in my general direction, and for no obvious cause, “Mister White Boy!”
Yeah, that be MISTER White Boy, mon.

Actually, I was seriously considering not accepting the other truck, when it was delivered to me earlier in the week. Despite the greater power, lower miles, higher clearance, three cup holders, two speaker cassette stereo and power on two of the four windows, it is bright red. Bright, shiny red, with large chrome tubes for running boards, chrome tubular brush bar and a matching chrome roll bar. This van stands out,... sticks out,... like a tourist on Jamaica. If fact, the red is the same shade as many tourists, and just as painful to the eye.

Some may note that my last car was bright red. To them I say, “nyah, nyah, nyah”. To the rest of you, I will note that, in a land primarily populated by stark white vehicles, I would rather not be the subject of any excess attentions. As it turns out, the Dogwagon made the choice for me. That, and the sizable increase in power apparent with the new one.

Of course, we will not put down the ol’ Dogwagon. We will fix it, but it will not be returned to me. Instead, I will assign it to one of my inspectors as a field vehicle. He can rename it.

Our field guys’ inspection fleet used to consist of three or four ratty old Toyota pickups. Four doors, for sure, but each with around 300,000 klicks on the clock. Their time had long expired prior to them being assigned to us. Few working lights, fewer working window winders, convenient snap off bumpers, springs sticking up through the seats or down through the holes in the floors,... the works. Think back. Remember the worst car you ever owned? Luxury. Remember the worst car you have ever seen? Good for you.

The Ministry recently replaced these awful vans with a couple of four year old Suzuki’s and a newer Toyota. They ain’t real pretty, but they help me forget the massive repair bills I had to process to keep the old green relics on the road.

Yet, even greater than the fleet repair costs are the mileage checks we write to those inspectors who drive their own vehicles for work. Sure, the bad roads are bound to do more damage to a vehicle than smooth ones, but is it worth twenty five Jamaican Dollars (US $0.55) a mile? And, with the physical length of the project as it is, I see some really large mileage checks.

Each fortnight, the largest of these checks invariably goes to one man, who inspects the eastern end of the job. According to the submitted vehicle log, he claims to drive almost 200 kilometers each day, so, at the end of the fortnight, he gets a check for roughly JA $40k. Over the course of a year, this equates to about US $23k. It is all too obvious that this figure is excessive, and most likely a complete work of fiction.

So this inspector will get the Dogwagon, once it gets back from the vet. This will cramp his lifestyle, to be sure, but I am just an evil puke some days, especially when trying to save the Client a buck or two.

But the Client’s pocketbook is just one of his current worries. Time is of the essence as well. The Minister of Transport and Works, the Honorable Doctor Peter Phillips, still holds firm to his promise that the highway will be completed by the year end. Go ahead. Laugh all you want. It really is his promise, though, and apparently his actual intention to get the project at least substantially complete. He is probably delusional.

So... Wednesday I receive a facsimile from the Ministry that my attendance is required at a meeting to be chaired by the Ministry’s Chief Technical Dude on Thursday.

At last”, I thought, “an opportunity to discuss with da man hisself, one on one, our spate of problems and some potential solutions.” Only later did I learn that the meeting would be well attended - all of the subcontractors, The Contractor, the water utility, and assorted Ministry minions. There would be no one on one discussion of the project and potential solutions. Sadly, only after the meeting was over was it clear that the Chief Dude would not even be making an appearance as chairman, two and a half hours being excessively late, even for a Jamaican.

Except for the lack of pom pons, the meeting felt like a pep rally where only the cheerleaders are peppy (reminiscent of the “Pimples Full of Pus” event the fall of 1977, except without J. Bob Walther). The Ministry was trying to sell to the team their plan to complete the Works by their newer, closer, more arbitrary date of some eleven short weeks from now. They would now be enablers, and would do “whatever it takes” to stay the course.

The contractors just wanted to know when the utilities would be relocated, and when they would get paid, as most of their deferred financing was used up performing previously “whatever it takes” tasks. The utility relocations are almost a lost cause, as that money has yet to be found.

In May, the Client asked that we prepare a completion cost estimate, which we did, which he sat on for three months, until he asked us to prepare an updated completion cost estimate, which we did, which he sat on until now. Fearing for his job, the Project Director (recently back from the dead) has delayed presenting Cabinet and the government finance guys with the estimated cost of this debacle. Without this presentation, funding cannot increase beyond existing limits, and the project will stall. I would have no problem doing this, mostly as I would like to see the faces of this group when they hear that their little highway, which The Contractor was to build for US $25M, is now estimated to cost much much more.

As for me, a hundred megabuck highway is a much more impressive project to place on my resume. Read More......