We dump detergent into water in tubs. Then we dump our clothes in, and start to scrub.
The detergent makes your hands red and sore. The wash water in the bucket turns disgustingly brown, and the rinsing water is frustratingly sudsy.
We shrug, because we don’t care. Because our hands are tired, and there’s no one around to ask right now. And even if there was, there’s no more available water.
So we hang the clothes up on the clothesline anyways.
Rows of khaki capris, knee-length skirts, bandanas, and colorful shirts from J.C. Penney’s flapping in the wind. They look distinctly American but remarkably natural, a la vez.
We take our clothes down at the end of the day, and if they’re still damp, we drape them all over our room.
These clothes, they smell like detergent and Africa and sunshine, and the entire experience is oddly more satisfying than using a washing machine and dryer.
It is the first or second time you do it anyways.
The fourth or fifth time, maybe not so much.
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