Scaffolding
The sound of their voices grates on my sleep filled ears. Marinading fish is not my favourite kitchen chore anyway and now the afternoon peace is broken by these high, hoarse voices. That afternoon cup of coffee, remedy to the crankiness, is far away. I head for the kitchen window, ready to give the loudmouths a piece of my mind.
Looking out beyond my pink Chinese lantern hibiscus, unruly after a growth spurt and cutting off the light to its neighbours, my precious jackfruit and curry patta, I peer upwards at the direction of the voices. The building next door is starting repair work soon. On the stone wall facing my kitchen window, a scaffolding is coming up. The five men are the ones calling out to each other. Their voices are cracked and rough, the instructions and jokes flowing between them seamlessly. Three of them are up between the third and fourth floors already. One is stationed at first floor height and the junior most team member is on the ground, getting supplies of long and short bamboos, bags of rope and cutting implements sorted and ready for the others to pull up.
As I get my fish steaks into the oven and start the water boiling for my coffee, the sunny afternoon disappears behind a bank of clouds. I stand at the window, beginning to worry in a vague (nothing I can do about it) sort of way. This is a convenient and easy way to assuage a jumpy conscience. You can tell yourself afterwards that you did worry, of course you were concerned. No matter if the disaster happened anyway.
The thing is, only one of the three men high above me actually has his waist harness clipped to, well, the scaffold itself. He seems to be the team leader, directing operations in a hoarse shout. He’s working at the corner, where the wall angles away into open space. Maybe that is why he’s being careful with the harness. He doesn’t have the support of the wall behind him like the other two do. His toes grip the bamboo rod beneath him as if he were a gymnast on the high beam. No, he reminds me more of the acrobats in the circuses of my childhood, fixed grimace of a smile in the face, eyes simultaneously glassy and focussed. If he slips, the scaffolding may hold him. If the scaffolding itself collapses, he’s screwed. The other two have harnesses on as well, the clips dangling recklessly between their legs. These might yet prove to be more of a hindrance than any help at all. To compensate for this haphazard nod to safety, these two guys have yellow construction hard hats placed jauntily on their heads, no straps. Local Bob the Builders. The rough stone wall behind them is all the safety they seem to need. They use it for support as they bend down to haul up another bundle of bamboo rods. The fourth guy is as good as on the ground, in his mind at least. He has dispensed with any pretence of safety equipment.
It is raining now. I watch as they continue working, ignoring the wet. Wind is probably a more worrisome development in this line of work. They are skilled at what they do. The long bamboos that form the vertical framework are sent up at the free end to the team leader. He angles each one outwards as it reaches him and then slides it towards the other men waiting to lash it in place to the one below. Or if it’s his turn, he hauls it up vertically into place and throws the rope around it in a loop. The shorter horizontals are sent up in bundles. The middle guy distributes them, one on each side and up they go, one more step in place. The gunny sacks filled with bundles of rope dangle near their toes and are retrieved as they go up another level. One arm looped around a horizontal, toes hooked on another, the men are oblivious to the strangely hypnotic routine they are engaged in. It reminds me of the comic relief the clowns on the trapeze provided – always pretending to fall, disasters narrowly averted, whacks on unsuspecting bottoms as they swung past each other, high above a fascinated and frightened audience. It wasn’t comical at all but we are spared that realisation as children. The adults knew better but kept the secret to themselves.
The man on the middle level keeps an eye out for falling rods from above, and for carelessly tied knots. Twice, I see him point out a weak spot in the scaffolding and the guys above him fix the problem with alacrity. Safety equipment or not, they look out for each other the best they can.
The rain stops. They take a breather, their torn tee shirts and ganjis dripping, the threadbare jeans that have seen much better days. The rain has washed their faces, the yellow hats gleam in the weak sunlight. They fall silent for a brief time. One raises a foot and scratches the calf of the other leg. The muscles flex as he supports his weight on those strong toes gripping the slippery bamboo.
The guy on the ground decides the break has gone on long enough and shouts something rude. The men above shake their heads, laughing and reaching out for more rope as the next bundle of bamboo rods are hauled up.
The next time I look, the scaffolding has reached the sixth and top floor. The men are nowhere to be seen. One helmet and two harnesses swing from the bamboo framework.