The old Trojan over the road surprising. More than fifty
months of observation it has taken to notice this part of the routine.
As ever heat off the dial, cloudless, woman sensibly covered in long sleeves and straw sombrero like the Indian laborers often put under their hard-hats.
Baked stiff and hard, the cardboard sheets were unwieldy. One pile stood about half meter high; the second shorter. Neither tied off. On the windless Equator there was no fear of blowing away.
The tying needed to be secure for the transport. One sometimes saw slipped piles over the roadway that resulted in a good deal more work on the push home. This it was concluded must have been the reason for the watering.
A blue bucket and two liter cut-off plastic drink-bottle had been brought over. No light spray involved here, the woman bent to her haunches and squatting proceeded to slap in perhaps two liters into the larger bundle, taking care and some kind of rough measurement. There was less for the lesser pile. Nothing like casual tossing in from the side: the woman lifted sheets at different levels to throw in water center, left and right.
Going off for something else she returned for more of the same, almost certainly the full two liters by the time she was finished on the larger pile and proportionate the lesser.
Off she went behind the boom gate turning onto the delivery road to the market, where an Indian pair pushing a large green industrial bin up the rise was encountered. The bin was loaded, the two young lads in their overalls and yellow hats straining behind.
Unasked, immediately the woman lent a hand, putting her shoulder to the wheel.
Didn't it make an immediate difference too. Up the incline rose the carriage, certainly more smoothly and easily than before. An extra pair of hands, albeit lady’s.
Fifteen minutes disappeared, here she was again with more cardboard, the sheets all flat after the boxes had been cut out of sight. Soon the lesser had become the equal, if not taller pile. More watering to follow no doubt. Water would both flatten the piles, making them more manageable, and with softer edges help in a more secure tying-off. The cardboard was the sole concentration that afternoon; there was no aluminum in her hoard.
In her late sixties, the heat hardly any kind of bother at all. Tough old Chinese Trojan. The Wall, all the former laundries and noodle places over the globe, the current Sweatshops were encompassed in her person.
Through dinner that night the scene returned, slightly nagging. Was there a question remaining?...
When Beefy Mohammed sidled up to the table, the perfect man.
Before Beef could make off to his pal a couple of rows back the question of the watering from the afternoon posed the big fella.
First time observed in almost fifty-one months. There was nothing in it of course; idle curiosity part of the profession.
The big lug was not caught on the back foot: full face of the bat striking in the middle, like a shot the Beef fired back.
— Weight....
Pressing down his large paw that had done bad deeds in the past for which Beefy had done his time. Exemplifying in his person first of all of course. Pressing…. But this was not compaction Beef meant here.
— Aduh! Of course. Oh Shiite! Blimey, blimey me! How could one possibly have been so daft and unthinking?
As ever heat off the dial, cloudless, woman sensibly covered in long sleeves and straw sombrero like the Indian laborers often put under their hard-hats.
Baked stiff and hard, the cardboard sheets were unwieldy. One pile stood about half meter high; the second shorter. Neither tied off. On the windless Equator there was no fear of blowing away.
The tying needed to be secure for the transport. One sometimes saw slipped piles over the roadway that resulted in a good deal more work on the push home. This it was concluded must have been the reason for the watering.
A blue bucket and two liter cut-off plastic drink-bottle had been brought over. No light spray involved here, the woman bent to her haunches and squatting proceeded to slap in perhaps two liters into the larger bundle, taking care and some kind of rough measurement. There was less for the lesser pile. Nothing like casual tossing in from the side: the woman lifted sheets at different levels to throw in water center, left and right.
Going off for something else she returned for more of the same, almost certainly the full two liters by the time she was finished on the larger pile and proportionate the lesser.
Off she went behind the boom gate turning onto the delivery road to the market, where an Indian pair pushing a large green industrial bin up the rise was encountered. The bin was loaded, the two young lads in their overalls and yellow hats straining behind.
Unasked, immediately the woman lent a hand, putting her shoulder to the wheel.
Didn't it make an immediate difference too. Up the incline rose the carriage, certainly more smoothly and easily than before. An extra pair of hands, albeit lady’s.
Fifteen minutes disappeared, here she was again with more cardboard, the sheets all flat after the boxes had been cut out of sight. Soon the lesser had become the equal, if not taller pile. More watering to follow no doubt. Water would both flatten the piles, making them more manageable, and with softer edges help in a more secure tying-off. The cardboard was the sole concentration that afternoon; there was no aluminum in her hoard.
In her late sixties, the heat hardly any kind of bother at all. Tough old Chinese Trojan. The Wall, all the former laundries and noodle places over the globe, the current Sweatshops were encompassed in her person.
Through dinner that night the scene returned, slightly nagging. Was there a question remaining?...
When Beefy Mohammed sidled up to the table, the perfect man.
Before Beef could make off to his pal a couple of rows back the question of the watering from the afternoon posed the big fella.
First time observed in almost fifty-one months. There was nothing in it of course; idle curiosity part of the profession.
The big lug was not caught on the back foot: full face of the bat striking in the middle, like a shot the Beef fired back.
— Weight....
Pressing down his large paw that had done bad deeds in the past for which Beefy had done his time. Exemplifying in his person first of all of course. Pressing…. But this was not compaction Beef meant here.
— Aduh! Of course. Oh Shiite! Blimey, blimey me! How could one possibly have been so daft and unthinking?
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