the art of handwashing

You’re probably wondering how we do laundry here in ol’ Ethiopia. There is no laundromat to spend countless hours in watching the clothes go round and round. And there are very few people who have washing machines. Generally, people have lovely servant girls to wash the dirty, the semi-clean and the dainties. We take our laundry to T’s dad’s house (they said it was okay). It was a big deal when they got a washing machine recently. It’s an interesting contraption and requires you to switch the clothes to a new twirly compartment when it’s time for the spin cycle.

It was all fine and good until one day my underwear began to be rejected. I took this personally of course. I can’t see my dirty underwear being any different from anyone else’s. I’m not willing to experiment with this theory in the streets though so I began to remove my underwear from the laundry pile. Occasionally the odd pair would be hidden amongst the jeans and I’d go to pick up our clean stuff and there would be an embarrassing little pile of my (yes, dirty) underwear. Needless to say, I’ve become vigilant in the sorting. And very good at handwashing.

I realize there are multiple ways for you to think I’m koshasha. I’m willing to take that risk.