I load sixteen tonnes
Work is, as always, a bit of a trial.
Long since passed the days of wondering whether I should be staying later than my internal Canadian whistle indicated, circumvented by way of arriving earlier than everyone else in order to justify leaving earlier than everyone else, I nonetheless continue to have issues with this job.
Back when I was worrying about the hours worked:professionalism ratio, I commented to Pavel on how I couldn't believe the hours your average Mexican worker (or at least those I know) considers a normal day: Ana, for example, works from 8am to 7pm, and my own colleague Poncho regularly shows everyone up by arriving at 9am and staying well past 10pm. "Ah," mused Pavel, "yes, Mexican work long hours but they don't necessarily accomplish much."
The other Mexican labour-ism I'm starting to realize the truth of finally is that it pays to be the boss. No, you *think* you know that one already, but you don't. Not to this scale. Even conceding that taking on the personal risk justifies some degree of hedonism when or if you succeed, rarely have I seen such shameless exploitation of a labour force as in this city.
But I'm not going to fill up this blog with a litany of complaints against a boss that seems oblivious to her responsibility for the simmering mutinous ramblings of her underlings or against a labour culture that seems to encourage taking the bread out of a colleague's mouth to feed your own. I made the decision to stay here and in this job, and my prize at the end, hopefully, will be a positive reference and a notch for my resume that will prove cash-able in my next career stop. So no more ranting.
But I'm tired and my blog is suffering for it and I do apologize to the scattered few who check it semi-regularly.
My fondness for Mexico grows despite the solidification of cold, hard, 'how am I going to pay for groceries next week?' reality. I could see myself staying here for some time yet, you know?
Long since passed the days of wondering whether I should be staying later than my internal Canadian whistle indicated, circumvented by way of arriving earlier than everyone else in order to justify leaving earlier than everyone else, I nonetheless continue to have issues with this job.
Back when I was worrying about the hours worked:professionalism ratio, I commented to Pavel on how I couldn't believe the hours your average Mexican worker (or at least those I know) considers a normal day: Ana, for example, works from 8am to 7pm, and my own colleague Poncho regularly shows everyone up by arriving at 9am and staying well past 10pm. "Ah," mused Pavel, "yes, Mexican work long hours but they don't necessarily accomplish much."
The other Mexican labour-ism I'm starting to realize the truth of finally is that it pays to be the boss. No, you *think* you know that one already, but you don't. Not to this scale. Even conceding that taking on the personal risk justifies some degree of hedonism when or if you succeed, rarely have I seen such shameless exploitation of a labour force as in this city.
But I'm not going to fill up this blog with a litany of complaints against a boss that seems oblivious to her responsibility for the simmering mutinous ramblings of her underlings or against a labour culture that seems to encourage taking the bread out of a colleague's mouth to feed your own. I made the decision to stay here and in this job, and my prize at the end, hopefully, will be a positive reference and a notch for my resume that will prove cash-able in my next career stop. So no more ranting.
But I'm tired and my blog is suffering for it and I do apologize to the scattered few who check it semi-regularly.
My fondness for Mexico grows despite the solidification of cold, hard, 'how am I going to pay for groceries next week?' reality. I could see myself staying here for some time yet, you know?
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