On the lit­tle road lead­ing to Kari­wak Ho­tel, where I teach yo­ga on Fri­day evenings, there is a man I once no­ticed wash­ing a car."Six­ty dol­lars," he had told me when I asked how much.So, on this par­tic­u­lar Fri­day as I am dri­ving to Kari­wak, I see him stand­ing out­side do­ing noth­ing and ask if he will wash my ve­hi­cle as I wait for yo­ga to be­gin at six. That gives him forty-five min­utes.

He goes in­side and re­turns with the tools of his trade: a high pow­er vac­u­um clean­er, buck­et and a large cham­my cloth. I leave the keys with him and go to Kari­wak to bide time and look over what I will be teach­ing lat­er.Af­ter about half an hour I re­turn. The car is look­ing much clean­er but he is nowhere near fin­ished."This car re­al need a wash," he tells me. I agree. That's why I brought it to him.

His hands move the cham­my cloth in strong, large cir­cles on the area where mud kicks up from the wheels. The grit comes off with sur­pris­ing ease."Liv­ing by the sea it needs a fre­quent wash," I tell him. I know it is sup­posed to be washed as of­ten as pos­si­ble to avoid salt build-up and rust. I can do it my­self, and I usu­al­ly do, but cur­rent­ly not as of­ten as is nec­es­sary. This is where peo­ple like him re­al­ly come in handy.

http://www.guardian.co.tt/dig­i­tal/new-mem­bers