Free More Ketchup Than Salsa - Confessions of a Tenerife Barman by Joe Cawley Page A

maintenance people. Owners of property on that complex pay community fees, which includes the wages for these technico s, as they’re referred to. They’re responsible for the communal garden areas, swimming pools, garages and general tidying duties. Like most of the Canarians, their workday is divided between a 9.30-till-1.30 stint in the morning followed by a 4-till-7 shift in the afternoon. Outside of these hours, most are happy to forsake their siesta and lunchtime for the chance to earn a bit extra on private jobs for the owners. This can be anything from installing a new water heater to tending a private garden. Or in this case, renting out one of the community machines for a small backhander.
    I found Miguel, El Beril’s technico , perched atop a ladder by the side of the swimming pool. The pool was split in two by a line of smooth grey boulders separating the larger adult area from the toddlers’ pool.
    There was nobody around and the temptation to break the glassy blue surface was immense. My baggy, cotton T-shirt clung like Lycra, I was covered in dust and I smelled of bleach. Full submersion in the cool, clean water was only a step away but I resisted.
    Miguel was sawing through the branches of a young palm tree that was beginning to extend over the shallow children’s end.
    ‘ Hola ,’ I shouted, shielding my eyes from the sun. He looked down, nodded indifferently, and continued chewing his gum. ‘Have you got a machine for cleaning floors?’ I asked.
    Miguel shrugged his shoulders. ‘ Como ?’
    ‘Machine… for floors?’ I mimed holding onto the handles and pulling back and forth rapidly. Miguel turned his head slightly and raised an eyebrow. I continued the impression with renewed vigour until I realised that this looked somewhat lewd.
    ‘No, no, no, no,’ I said dismissing the notion with a flurry of hand waving. Miguel had settled himself comfortably against the tree with his arms folded, awaiting the next act.
    I crouched down and began to pat the rust-coloured tiles that surrounded the pool. ‘The floor… floor… clean, here.’ I smiled, though evidently I was not making things better. Miguel had stopped chewing. Both eyebrows were raised and I could see his grip on the saw had tightened.
    An ageing German couple, each dressed in a white bathrobe, emerged from one of the poolside apartments and began to clamber over their garden fence, revealing more wrinkled anatomy than I would have preferred to see at this time in the morning. They obviously knew Miguel and waved a cheery greeting. Miguel seemed genuinely pleased to see somebody he knew. He garbled something in Spanish and the Germans nodded and smiled politely. Their lack of response suggested they hadn’t the full grasp of what he said.
    ‘Hello,’ they said in unison, nodding as Miguel pointed towards me. ‘ Ja , ja , ja .’ The man leaned towards me, his face so close to mine that I was engulfed in garlic with every exhalation. ‘ Guten morgen . I help, ja ?’ He shouted as though volume would compensate for any disparity in our respective languages.
    ‘I’m trying to ask Miguel for the floor cleaner.’
    ‘ Ja .’ The man continued to share his breath.
    ‘Floor cleaner? Cleaner de floor?’ I continued.
    ‘ Ja .’ He blinked and cocked his head to one side.
    ‘Cleaner. Machine. Vroom vroom.’
    ‘Ah so. Maquina .’ He raised an index finger as a declaration of understanding then turned back to Miguel and curled his fingers round an imaginary steering wheel. ‘ Auto , auto ,’ he barked, turning the wheel from left to right.
    ‘No, no, not auto ,’ I intervened, grabbing the invisible steering wheel.
    He stopped. ‘ Nein , nein , nicht auto ,’ he said, wagging a finger at Miguel as if it was completely his misunderstanding.
    I decided to bypass the un-hired help. ‘I have the bar,’ I said slowly, raising an imaginary drink to my mouth to help with the explanation. ‘I want you…’ I continued, pointing a