Bob is a little shorthanded right now. Jose, his main hombre, has been recently diagnosed with cancer at only 37. He is traveling back and forth to La Paz for treatment. In his absence, the fruit flies have staged a coup in the cocina. After a swatting disaster at breakfast that sent my corn flakes all a flutter, Celia and I decided to lend our idle hands to the effort.
We scoured the cocina to the amusement of the onlooking construction workers. Stereotypes aside, I think we were more productive in our 1-hour cleaning session than that entire construction crew has been in the past week. One of the guys does nothing at all. Another has spent 3 days staining 26 beams. They are however, highly attentive to me. Yesterday, I stood staring blankly at a coconut that defiantly refused to give up its meat. Jose-on-the-spot appeared out of nowhere with a machete. In another venue, it would have been a distressing sceen but in no time I was nibbling on the sweet flesh of the defeated coconut and Jose (whose real name is Enrique) was back to not working.
As I am putting the silverware away, I ask, “Celia, what’s the word for spoon?”
“Cucharra” shouts an eager voice from among the palms.
I’d say the workers are worth every peso.
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