by Marni Hills

The smell of toast wafts along my quiet street, each evening around sunset. As I head out with my dog Lily for our evening walk, we pass by multiple construction sites, each monitored overnight by a velador, or night watchman, who lives on the property until the house is finished. One of these fellows seems to regularly make toast with his evening meal.

Admittedly, I'm a bit obsessed with what life must be like for these solitary watchmen, who protect the new construction from vandalism or theft of the building materials. I think about them all the time since I see them multiple times a day. I have so many questions:

Do you have a family? How do they feel about you living here?
Do you need to have certain qualifications? Who hires you? How is the pay?
Where do you shower and use the bathroom?
Does it get better as the house becomes more complete, ie, is it nice to stay in the nearly finished house with recessed designer lights, double pane soundproof windows and gorgeous artisan-crafted doors?
What kind of person becomes a velador?

I decided to find out.

When I first moved into my small apartment in the neighborhood of Balcones (near the Charco del Ingenio) in early 2022, there was no construction. Still in the post-COVID slump, it was so quiet and peaceful. But poco a poco, construction is now booming in this hilltop neighborhood of San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. Between the circular saws cutting tile and giant excavators scraping the boulders out and the earth into flat lots, the noise echoing through the neighborhood from these construction sites is distressing day after day - stretching into months and years of a daily assault on the ears. But instead of complaining about that, I thought, let me get my mind off myself, and investigate "a day in the life" of a velador.

First, a little history.

Photo - Alamy
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Guardians of the Night: A Brief History

"Velador" derives from "velar" meaning "to keep vigil" or "to watch over." In Spanish, the word means both the night watchman himself and the nightstand beside the bed—the piece of furniture that once held a candle through the night. "Veladora" is the votive candle used for keeping vigil. This shared etymology connects the person, the furniture, and the flame—all tools for staying awake through the darkness. But before the modern velador watching over construction sites, Mexico (and other Spanish colonial areas) had El Sereno.

There is a colloquial phrase in Mexico used by the older generations: "Sabe será el sereno" ("Who knows? It'll be the night watchman") it is used to express that something must be done or accepted, regardless of the reasons or the argument against it, similar to saying, "Be that as it may" or "For whatever reason". It implies that while the exact reasons may not be important, or even clear, a certain outcome or action is unavoidable for the moment.

"Sereno" comes from the Latin "serenus" (clear, calm), named for the night watchmen who called out weather conditions as they patrolled—most often shouting "¡sereno!" to announce a clear, peaceful night. The sereno (also called guardafaroles or "lamp guards") patrolled the dark streets of Mexico from the 1700s until as recently as the 1970s with a lantern, whistle, and pike. More than just a guard, he was family. Each night, he lit gas lamps one by one, called out the hour and status report ("midnight and all is serene!"), held keys to every door, woke fishermen who left time-coded rope knots (3 knots meant 3 am) hanging on their doors, gave fire alarms, stopped fights, and helped residents carry heavy loads. He lived on tips and gratitude, receiving no fixed salary, yet night after night, he protected his entire neighborhood with pride, until dawn's first light.

Serenos were highly visible, valued members of their communities. Over time, the sereno gave way to the velador—a narrower role watching over individual construction sites and businesses rather than entire communities. The modern velador inherited the lonely night vigil… but not the sereno's place in the community's heart. In my neighborhood, they are shadowy figures, moving silently in the darkness within cold brick walls and bare cement floors - nameless, faceless - startling those who peer curiously into the slowly forming halls, rooms and doorways. You don't expect anyone to be occupying these dark and mysterious hulking shells that will eventually be top-of-the-line luxury homes.

Monument to Serenos in the Zona Rosa area of Mexico City
Photo - Arnaud Exbalin
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Meeting the Veladores

On a recent evening, I enlisted the help of my friend Pablo, a local jack-of-all-trades (or as they may be called in Mexico - todólogo - "all knowledgeable") who lives on the property of one of my well-to-do neighbors, as he is bilingual AND I've seen him chatting with the veladores now and then. I thought he could help smooth the way for my interviews. I could greet and chat and ask all the questions in Spanish, but if there's a long-winded answer, I may lose some of the meaning and valuable insights. With Pablo's help, I was able to speak to several local veladores - Ruben, Rogelio, and Juan. Their attitudes varied—from quiet contentment to fierce pride—but all shared one thing: they do this work out of simple necessity.

A Difficult Dual Role

For a very tough live/work situation, these men have almost no physical amenities. They are hired by the architect, who is often extremely strict and unlikely to provide basic comforts. They usually have no access to clean water, electricity, beds, or toilets - at least until the construction is further along. They're lucky if they get a porta-potty.

The schedule varies by arrangement. Juan and Ruben work at the sites as construction laborers during the day and then stay on as night watchmen—a grueling 24-hour schedule that can stretch for months. Rogelio works that same 24-hour shift but is able to trade weeks on and off with another velador partner. Some veladores live on site for a year or eighteen months straight; others get a single day off per week. It all depends on the deal they've made and the state of the construction - as walls and gates are erected and the site and materials are more secure, they may be allowed time off now and then.

A Different Kind of Solitude

Ruben, the youngest of the three at 27, told me this is already his third velador job, and unlike the others, he seems genuinely at peace with it. When I asked what he likes most about this job, his answer was simple: "Pues está solo"—being alone. He explained, "It's good, calm, very calm here." For Ruben, the isolation isn't a burden—it's a benefit. His family feels good about his work, unlike Rogelio's family, who don't like it at all. Perhaps it's because Ruben has slightly better conditions: he can go home from the site to shower on his lunch break, and his job allows him to have his alert watchdog Ñoña with him. His site was also the only one with a female architect as the boss. Ruben says he makes his rounds at night, watches over the property, and finds satisfaction in the quiet. When I asked what sounds he hears at night, he thought a moment, "Oh some raccoons, skunks, maybe foxes" - matter-of-fact, unbothered by the wildlife moving through the darkness around him.

Velador Ruben and his dog Ñoña
Photo: Marni Hills
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The Privilege of Company

Rogelio, in his early thirties, has been a velador at five different construction sites. His experiences have ranged from brutal to bearable. In this current job, he rotates one week on, one week off with another velador, which gives him some relief. And he also has the good fortune to be allowed to live there with his sweet young dog Hongo ("mushroom"). He explained with soft eyes turned toward Hongo: "Here I have the privilege of having company. In many jobs, no."

Velador Rogelio and his dog Hongo
Photo: Marni Hills
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When I asked what it's like before the lot has electricity and water, his answer painted a bleak picture: "Imagine at a time like this (cold) and you arrive and there's nothing... There's the foundation trench, there's just construction material to sleep on. You don't have anything, and once I had to sleep there, in the trench."

When I asked Rogelio what qualities make a good velador, his answer was simple: "A man who doesn't sleep. Being alert and active. React quickly. That's it." No special qualifications required—just the ability to stay awake, stay watchful, and respond when needed.

His family doesn't like his work. But he does it anyway. "Por necesidad"—out of necessity.

"I Wouldn't Change Anything"

Of the men I spoke with, Juan's story struck me most deeply. At nearly 60 years old, he's been working as both a construction foreman on the site by day and velador by night—24 hours without reprieve—for eight months, with at least two more to go. When I confirmed with him, "24 hours a day?" his response was a single word: "Difícil." Difficult. No days off. Not even weekends or holidays. "Every night, every Saturday, every Sunday, until I deliver the finished house—no days off." His family doesn't feel great about his absence, but they come to visit him at the site once a week.

Velador Don Juan
Photo: Marni Hills
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He showers with a bucket of water heated with one of those animal stock tank heaters, and cooks over an open fire with whatever he can burn from the construction site. "How do you cook your meals? I asked. "Over an open fire - meats, beans, everything. Mexicano, mexicano. And maybe it offends you. But for me, it's the best." There's no apology in his voice, only certainty.

As the house nears completion, conditions do improve somewhat. "I have bedrooms now, good bedrooms," he told me, "Nice, with a view. The cold doesn't penetrate as much. There are windows, doors, and electricity." It's still not home, but it's no longer sleeping in foundation trenches.

When I asked him, "If you could change anything about this work, what would it be?" his answer was confident. "I wouldn't change anything in my life. Why? Because I'm a professional." Despite sleeping on construction sites for months at a time, despite the bucket showers and the isolation, he declared: "I feel proud."

Juan may not have a "formal education," but he knows the business inside and out and has used his earnings to support his family's schooling and training - sending his children to college, beaming with pride about their success. He has many children, now grown, and they include a nurse, a lawyer, and an accountant. His wife is a professional chef.

I asked if he felt comfortable with me using his real name and photo in this article (as I asked each of my subjects), or if he'd prefer to remain anonymous. His response was immediate and fierce: "No me da vergüenza mi nombre en ninguna parte." My name doesn't shame me anywhere.

Not Alone

Not all veladores live in complete isolation. As I passed by one site on a Sunday evening, I heard the sound of a child laughing inside, and stopped short. I moved closer to the fence, peering in. As his duties required, the velador appeared from the depths of the house, wondering what I was doing.

We had a brief conversation about my article and if he wouldn't mind telling me a little about his work situation. Osmondo, probably in his early 30s, gets one day off per week. Tonight his young son was visiting - as the next day was a school holiday. The kid was treating the construction site as a grand adventure, exploring the unfinished rooms while his father worked. Perhaps Osmondo's lighter demeanor comes from moments like this: his son laughing in the doorway, making the best of the time they have together.

Velador Osmondo and Son
Photo: Marni Hills
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The Economic Reality

All of these men gave me the same answer when I asked why they do this work: "Por necesidad." Out of necessity. For the "extra" money on top of working all day at the site. When Ruben's family heard he'd be a velador again, they felt good because of the additional income. But this isn't a career choice. It's economic survival in a country where, as Juan put it, "We're in Mexico... we need one thing or another and another."

A velador's brutally simple living quarters on a construction site
Photo: Marni Hills
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A Changed Perspective

Now when I walk past the construction sites at dusk with Lily, the toast smell isn't a curiosity anymore—it's someone I know having dinner. When I peer into those dark unfinished rooms, I don't see mysterious shadows; I see Rogelio and Hongo's temporary home, Juan's bedroom with a view, and Ruben's quiet refuge. They have names now. They have faces. Behind the tin walls of their living quarters are people with pride, family, and dignity. Someone who chose to let me see them. They have stories that make my own complaints about construction noise feel small and petty.

I always greeted these men in passing, but now, I wave and feel a friendly kinship, greeting them by name. I'm grateful—not just for the interview, but for the shift in my own perspective.

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Marni Hills is a QHHT Regression Hypnosis Practitioner, writer, photographer, and lover of all things weird and unusual. She is an ancient astronaut theorist, dog foster, DJ, and is obsessed with travel, fashion, the Gaia Channel, never-before-seen footage, and mountaineering disasters. She made San Miguel her home in early 2022.

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