Washing by hand

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Not having a washing machine is no big deal. I had already 6 months of my life without one, that is, if you were to add up each week I was backpacking, farming, at a soccer tournament or a biking escapade. The difference, I suppose, was that each of those weeks, I either brought enough clothes along so that I never had to wash anything. I would just become progressively grimier and grimier yet would always miss that sordid climax which would have come an hour or so after I dumped my sweaty mess into the magic machine. That climax, dear friends, I reached this morning. My clothes were vile, and thus, I was vile, and all the Chujs in the world could never change that.

This was the moment I had dreaded since January 1st—the washing of the clothes by hand. For the past few weeks, I had seen women scrubbing dusty linens over their sinks, and each time I would avert my eyes. Those lines of dangling cortes made me cringe. Call me a Gringa all you want, but the idea of repeatedly dunking my hands in glacial water then hanging my clothes up to “dry” in 40 degree misty weather seemed as unpleasant as kissing one of the this town’s many rabid dogs.

One of my many New year’s resolutions this year was not to complain. I broke that this morning. After even the nicest of my roommates had begged me to shut up, I headed up to the pila with the scrub bucket, the SparkleCLEAN® brand powdered soap and the festering pile of grunge. The massive sink was divided in three sections—two dry coffin shaped bins lined with ridges for easy scrubbing, which sandwiched a tank of water. The instructions were as follows: Take a bowlful of water from the sink part and mix with the soap. Pour the mixture over clothes. Repeat until all articles are saturated and foamy. Then scrub scrub scrub, marveling coffee colored water seeps eerily down the drain like in the shower scene from Hitchcock’s Psycho. Then the hard part begins: the rinsing. You move the soapy clothes over to the dry side of the pila, pour water over them and press, press, over and over and over until no bubles flow out when you push them against the sink. The process took about an hour.

And I loved it. I got into the scrub zone, then the rinse zone. About halfway through, I came up with the idea of writing a villanelle about the repetitive nature of the Chuj language (coming soon!). As I was finishing my rinsing, Eulalia, the 5 year old girl from upstairs sauntered up to the pila to wash her corte. She may have been chuckling at my incompetence, but I still had a lovely time talking with her about Guatemalan schools, our families, and the always favorite topic of conversation—the Chuj. As I fastened the last clothespin onto my sparkling jeans, I realized that here—washing clothes is social time or meditation hour. No wonder I haven’t seen signs for any yoga classes.

At home, we love efficiently. Machines are great for that. Dump clothes into the abyss, press a button, and voilà, good as new. Go 10 miles from Point A to Point B in 10 minutes flat. And we’re right, right? Performing routine tasks in America using archaic methods seems like a waste of time. Yet is it really? How long does it take us to drive to the gym to work those same muscles that become defined by scouring, and then to the therapist to cry about how alone we feel? But don’t get too jealous. I’d still take my washer and dryer any day.

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