Domesticating Debbie

My washing wound from wringing my jeans too ferociously.
My only concern was getting the thing healed up quickly,
which I accomplished with some persistence
and an über-bandaid Robin had from Australia.

I’ve mentioned that I didn’t want to spend my time washing my clothes when it cost me a paltry sum to have it washed. During my last week in Ethiopia, I wanted to get my laundry done again in preparation for travel and informed Magadee of my wish.

     “Give to me,” she said severely. “I will wash for you.”

     “Oh, no,” I retreated. “Absolutely not, that’s not my intention. I may as well do it if you’re going to do it.” I had actually done a “load” once in the traditional manner—the only manner I had seen or knew of in Ethiopia—by hand in a plastic tub of water and detergent. I wanted to get a pair of jeans cleaned, de-flea-ed and dried before working at the feeding center the previous week. In my enthusiasm to do a good job or my desperation to terrorize any varmints living in the seams of the garment, I’d wrung them to exhaustion, causing a blister to form and burst. I’d become a showpiece for my wound, which I understood branded me more as a soft American than a valiant clothes washer. 

     “Give to me,” she repeated with the same firmness. “I like to wash. I wash my clothes and my brother’s clothes every Saturday.” I eyed her suspiciously. “Give to me,” she said with finality.

     Magadee supervised my clothes separating as stood in my bedroom doorway: “All. Give me all of them,” she demanded, noting that I pulled out undies and bothersome items like a sweater, and the wound-inflicting denim jeans.

     I followed her and her armload of my dirty clothes down the stone stairs and into the courtyard, where she piled my clothes on the stairs to the home and mechanically grabbed three plastic tubs from an outside room and threw them on the ground. She splashed water into each from the yellow water jugs that always stood in the courtyard on the ready; and in a metal basin balanced on top of a set of tires she did the same, mixing it with soap powder we’d absconded from Robin. She choose a few items from the pile of clothes and threw them into the metal basin, immediately pushing and pulling the fabric in a rhythmic dance with deft hands and a keen glare into the suds. She pulled out the victim article, wrung it deftly, then threw it unceremoniously into the blue plastic tub of clear water, wrung again, then dipped it into the green tub for a final rinse.  More twisting to extract the water and she threw it over the line to dry and looked at me.

     “Ta da!” I offered in praise. I interpreted her look along the lines of: “There, you American idiot—clean clothes … what every woman knows here from birth and can perform quickly and without complaint or injury.”

     I paid Magadee 50 birr ($2.84) to wash my clothes or make her point, I’m still not sure which, but I’ve hand washed my own clothes ever since.