I hope Frances doesn’t find out what happened to his tile saw. At least not soon. I know it’s inevitable, but I need more time to get my explanation together.
It all began when Frances, our seasonal neighbor two doors to the east, was kind enough to lend us his saw for our major remodeling job. It’s one of those big things that sits on a platform and uses water to cool the blade. It’s the kind of saw real professionals use, and it made our tile work far easier and more, dare we say it, ‘professional looking,’ than we ever expected.
Over the course of several months, we had cut a large number of tiles for various floors, walls and countertops, and were about halfway through tiling the beachside veranda when the saw began to make some surprising and discomfiting noises. It sounded like bearing problems, and we suspected that maybe a few other things were going wrong deep in the bowels of the beast. There was also the issue of the floppy blade guard held by a carriage bolt that had worn a groove into the aluminum housing; it now tilted precariously to the right and the nut was rusted solid to the bolt making it impossible to tighten. It leaned over so far that the blade was eating a long arc into it, adding yet another note to the increasing noise level. We finally jammed a small piece of word into it in an effort to keep it more or less level and free of the blade, but the time had come for some basic repairs.
It’s a blistering-hot Friday morning in July when we decide to load it into the van and drive the 110 kilometers to Hermosillo on one of our many hunting-and-gathering trips for construction supplies. We buy as much as we can in the ferreterias (hardware stores) of Kino, but we keep a list of things we need from the big city. With a population over 1 million, Hermosillo has most anything we can imagine we might need, although there are exceptions. And there’s always something we need to add to the list – usually on the way back to Kino after we forgot to get it in Hermosillo.
This particular hot Friday is another in a long string of record-setting days. Outside the windows of our air-conditioned van the daily life of Sonora continues under a broiling desert sun. Vendors stand at major intersections in long pants, long-sleeved shirts and hats, trying to hide from the sun as they sell nopalitos (chopped cactus), duraznos (peaches), abanicos (fans) or whatever else the market will bear. A friend of ours who works for the local gas company told us Hermosillo is the eighth-hottest city in the world, only slightly behind the other seven. It’s the main reason they don’t sell much gas for heating down here. On this Friday, a temperature of 46 degrees C° (about 115 degrees F°) is predicted.
We pull into a tool store to see if they repair large tile saws and are given the name of Juan Carlos at Taller ‘Fimbres.’ He seems to be the “go to guy” for repair work and they recommend him highly. We call his number and find that his shop is at 72 Callejon Nogales, near Avenida Jose S. Healey (named for a prominent person whose family owns the daily newspaper). We head in that general direction while scanning the map to locate this particular callejon, or alley. Although it’s listed in the index, it doesn’t seem to appear on the map. We finally locate a short, un-named alley that runs for two blocks just south of, and parallel to, Avenida Healey, but we arrive to find it named Callejon ‘Healey.’ We drive the entire area with no luck, and I joke, “Oh, everybody knows that Callejon Healey is really Callejon Nogales!” We have actually heard that sort of explanation before.
After more fruitless driving, we stop at a local tienda to ask the whereabouts of this elusive alley. Shopkeepers know their neighborhoods well; they sometimes need to make deliveries, and they know where their credit customers live. Carolyn goes in to ask while I wait in the car with the air conditioner running. Heat waves are shimmering above the street several blocks ahead of us. She emerges a few minutes later smiling wryly. “He said ‘Oh, everybody knows that Callejon Healey is really Callejon Nogales!’” Seems the name was changed a few years back and nobody has put up a new sign. In the scheme of budget priorities here, replacing incorrect or missing street signs ranks near the bottom. Add to that the custom of changing street names at the boundary of each new colonia, or neighborhood, and it makes for some interesting excursions in search of an address. But this is the sort of thing that never seems to strike the local people as unusual. It’s just the way things are.
We finally arrive at 72 Callejon Nogales, which we had actually passed a few times before in our search. Juan Carlos is sitting in a broken chair with a large spool of bright copper wire on the floor beside him, hand-winding an armature out of an electric motor. He’s a young man, sporting a small pony-tail, and there is some very good latin jazz on the stereo. A large fan is blowing hot air across his sweaty body. There are used electrical parts and pieces scattered on the floor and covering several shelves that line one wall. A pair of old couches and a sort of kitchen stand across a large room just beyond several large boxes of old, worn-out drills. To the far left there is a makeshift bedroom. He turns off the music to take a quick look at our saw, saying he’ll need a day to get it apart and give us a price for repairs.
We leave it with him and, after a few more errands, it’s time for lunch. Often we’ll go to one of the little sidewalk taco stands for some delicious fish tacos, but today we’ll splurge. We stop at the ‘Boulevard Café’ on Boulevard Kino near the Zona Hotelera (the Hotel Zone), a nice little place that would stack up against most restaurants in the US, and it’s also well air-conditioned. I order the huitlacoche crepes and Carolyn has the quiche of the day. It doesn’t get much better than this. Outside, a man washes our car for 30 pesos. In this dusty environment, it needs washing. And he needs the money.
We go on about our errands, including the purchase of a pricey new saw blade to replace the old one that wore out and started chipping the edges of the tiles. There are also problems with the water cooling system, but we think we can fix that. The little plastic ‘y’ connector that directs water to both sides of the blade has fallen apart after many years in the sun, and Carolyn duct-taped the 1/4” plastic mangueras (hoses) together to keep the water flowing. It was ugly, it leaked badly, yet it worked – after a fashion. But it was time to look for a replacement. We take the pump and the taped-up hoses into a ferreteria and ask for a replacement ‘y.’ We’re not surprised there’s no such little plastic part available locally. But Mexicanos are very resourceful. The counterman pulls out a 1/4” copper elbow and a copper connector – the kind used on swamp coolers – and suggests we have a soldaduria (welding shop) weld it all together. He laughs and calls it a ‘Mexicanada’ just as a young woman walks by. She reproaches him for using that term, and he looks properly contrite as she walks away frowning. But he smiles and winks as we leave.
We look for a place that might specialize in such connections, and end up at Mangueras Ponce. They have every imaginable kind of hose or tubing and they’ll make up almost any kind of connector we need, but they don’t have any little plastic ‘y’ fittings. Instead, they suggest using an inexpensive 1/4” copper ‘tee,’ and it fits perfectly. We buy one and a few extras for spares, along with a couple meters of 1/4” plastic tubing for further repairs. Frances’ saw has done a lot of hard work for us and we’re ready to repay the favor by putting as many things as possible right again. After a long hot day of assorted other errands, we head for home.
On Saturday, Juan Carlos calls with what he assumes is very bad news. The saw needs new bearings and brushes, and the armature needs cleaning. And yes he can fix the wobbly blade guard that was also causing problems. But the cost will be, he hesitates to say it, 600 pesos (about $US55.00).
We’re relieved at what sounds like a reasonable price for a major reconditioning job, and tell him to proceed. Juan Carlos is pleased that we’ve taken the news so well. The saw will be ready on Monday, and he’ll be at the shop at 4 pm, after finishing various ‘on-site’ jobs around the city. The timing works for us. It will be our last stop before heading due west on the narrow Kino highway well before sunset. All is well.
Over the weekend we find any number of jobs to keep us busy – we work in the early morning and late afternoon to avoid the exhausting heat – but are very much looking forward to getting the saw back so we can continue working on the veranda. The details are coming together very nicely and we’re anxious to see it finished. After eight months of continual construction, we’re anxious to see anything actually finished.
On a very hot Monday we head back to Hermosillo. Besides picking up the saw, we’ll take care of a few left-over errands from the previous Friday. The heat wave continues and we’ve heard that this is the hottest summer since they started keeping records sixty years ago. By early afternoon, the A/C fan is at its highest setting. At four o’clock we pull to the curb in front of Taller Fimbres to pick up the saw. Juan Carlos’ wife is at the stove, trying to fix dinner in the heat as several fans move hot air through the room. With a flip of the switch the motor surges quietly into life. A set of new bearings and brushes and a reconditioned armature have worked wonders. The saw is spray-painted and looking better than we’ve ever seen it. And the blade guard no longer flops to one side. Juan Carlos proudly shows us that it is now welded to the frame to eliminate any further such problems. It’s a very simple solution and I briefly wonder why they hadn’t done that originally, back at the factory. Then I remember that the blade guard is hinged in order to change the blade. Now there’s no way to install our costly new blade. I gently explain this to Juan Carlos, and he is crestfallen.
We realize that somehow cutting the blade guard loose again will mess it up pretty badly and create other problems reattaching it. We study the situation for a better solution, or at least just a workable one. Hacking off the lower part of the guard to allow the blade to tilt and slide outward seems to be the only way to accomplish our goal, but we’ll need to leave the little nipple where the water hose attaches. It suddenly appears likely that instead of returning this tool in better shape than when we got it, we might instead be buying Francies a brand new, and very expensive, tile saw after we get through butchering this one. An old saying goes through my mind, the one about the road to hell being paved with good intentions.
To my surprise, Juan Carlos sets to work with a drill. He drills a number of holes on an arc and attempts to cut sideways to connect them. After he’s created a god-awful mess, and broken two drill bits, the word Mexicanada comes to mind. I suggest we go to the guy who did the welding job in the first place. At least he’ll have some proper metal-working tools. We hope. Juan Carlos calls the welder on his cell phone, then gives us the name and address, and he discounts his price by 50 pesos in an attempt to make amends. There is a palpable look of relief on his face as we drive away on the next leg of our latest adventure.
The welding shop is a small metal shed and a shade structure. The yard is filled with car parts, motorcycle frames, and various other detritus. A huge Freightways semi-tractor sits astride the driveway. Reluctantly, we leave the cool comfort of the van to discuss our problem with Horatio, the welder. The air outside the van hits us like a blast furnace. Horatio agrees the only solution is to continue cutting away the blade guard with a metal grinder. While there is no way the saw is going to look even as good as it did just a few days ago, at least it now has the possibility of not being left with jagged and dangerous edges.
Horatio’s brother José Luis, who owns the semi truck, sits under the shade structure enjoying one ice cold cerveza after another. As the afternoon temperature hovers at well over 100 degrees F°, it looks like a rational way to deal with the shimmering heat of Hermosillo. He offers to share his chilled liquid provenance, but we decline. We still have a long drive back to Kino after this ordeal is over. Over the din of Horatio’s grinding, José Luis tells me that he used to haul loads “en el otro lado,” (on the US side of the border) but now he prefers to drive the Hermosillo to Mexicali route, through Caborca. Other than beer, driving is the love of his life. He also owns the brand new, and very large, Suzuki motorcycle parked beside the truck, and enjoys riding it through the streets of Hermosillo after downing a few cold beers. Horatio, who is sweating over the saw while we talk, is a motorcycle racer, and the trophies on the back wall of the storage shed are his. He’s modifying a motorcycle frame clamped onto the workbench to get ready for the next race season.
Horatio grinds and shapes the edges, but the blade still won’t clear the water nipple. There’s some discussion of shortening the axle that carries the blade but that sounds like a bad idea. Instead, he grinds an angle on one side of the axle to allow the blade to clear. It appears to be a safe solution to the problem, one that still allows plenty of attachment for the blade. We finally load Frances’ now significantly-modified saw into the van, Horatio wipes the sweat from his face, and I pay him 150 pesos (about $14US) for his time, plus another 50 pesos to buy José Luís some more beer. The sun draws near the horizon and we begin our long drive home with the sun in our faces, obscuring the road.
In the morning Miguel, our builder, has a couple of his strong young workers lift the heavy saw onto its platform. He looks at the butchered blade guard and shakes his head. After we tell him the story, he smiles wryly, as he often does, and mutters the word ‘mexicanada’ as he walks away to deal with the morning’s construction-related problems. A couple of his crew took yesterday off, a practice referred to here as ‘San Lunes' (Holy Monday), and there’s much work to do today.
We remove the battered blade that came with the saw and it comes off easily now, thanks to the angled axle. Then we carefully unwrap the pricey new saw blade and fit it to the axle. Well almost. There’s a one-inch diameter hole in the center of the blade but the axle measures only 5/8.” This is not normally a problem as saw blades always come with inserts of various sizes so they fit a variety of tools. But not this one. There are no inserts to be found in the package and there’s nothing around the house or garage that will suffice. There may well have been a little baggie containing inserts in the package at one time, but the package was not sealed and the baggie was probably “liberated” by someone with a similar problem.
At this point, I do the most logical thing. I ask Miguel if he might happen to have something that will fit. Mexicanos generally assume that this is how the world works, that there will be no inserts in the package, and I think I already mentioned they are very resourceful. He replies that he probably has something at the house that will fit, and indeed, when he returns that afternoon he has a suitable insert. With the insert in place the saw works as well as it probably did when new, and the replacement blade makes beautiful cuts. We are ready to finish the veranda.
Except that the heavily modified blade guard now throws out considerably more water than before. Carolyn duct–tapes a piece of heavy plastic along the side to extend the edge down to where it was before the butchery began, and the water again behaves itself. The new water skirt isn’t pretty, but it works just fine.
We call this final ‘improvement’ a “gringanada.” I can’t wait to hear what Frances calls it.
©2005, Perry Robert Wilkes
(This is a sad, but true — if somewhat amusing — tale. You might also want to read Perry’s latest fiction piece, The Palaeontologist, just posted. – CK)