Laundry Day
April 18th, 2010
Dana Hibbard

Three weeks into our time in Ciriboya Jen and I are slowly beginning to get to know our neighbours.  There`s Jesse and her family who live across the path who have the keys to the community water tank where we fill our water jugs and catch up on local happenings.  Nelly, our nearest neighbour, has a new baby in her house who is an endless source of entertainment with her wobbly legs and curly hair that refuses to be tamed.  Marsilla, a feisty senora I met last week, is our supplier of huevos de amor (eggs of love, ie: local eggs) with which we make romantic omelettes.  And, of course, there is Carlitos our beloved neighbourhood jovencito (youth,in an endearing way)  who is always eager to partake in a food exchange: tortillas for spaghetti, fruit smoothie for tuna salad.  Carlitos asks us daily when we are going to teach him to swim as we pass his porch on the way to the beach.  And, without fail, he always politely declines our invitation to come to the beach and try out the dead man`s float.  Maybe that swimming position just doesn`t translate well and for that reason he is a bit put off by our invitations.

Daily we meet someone new as we greet and are greeted by each person who passes by our back porch where we spend most of our down time.  People are beginning to be accustomed to seeing two white girls with their feet up and a book in their lap passing the last hours of daylight on the porch of the big green house in the middle of town.  I however, am not yet accustomed to the acute sense of discomfort I feel each time an elderly woman passes by with guineos (platanos) or lena (firewood) piled high on her hunched back and strapped around her greying head.  While these women, when not short of breath, shower us with the expected greetings I can not help but cringe at how comfortable our lives must appear to them.  For that reason Jen and I have adamantly refused to hire out our laundry, cooking and cleaning. I feel that these activities are an invaluable aspect of not only our experience here but for the entire community.  There is a discernible difference in the eyes of the women when they see us scrubbing our sheets and towels and hanging a week`s worth of laundry out to dry.  For this reason Jen and I rise early on Saturday morning, fill bucket after bucket of water, scrub, scrub, scrub and join the neighbourhood women in at least one form of household labour.
 
I am still a hand washing rookie and perhaps for this reason my v-necks are becoming u-necks. Each passer-by pauses, watches me splash as much water over myself as my laundry and then remarks "estas lavando" (ah, you`re washing).  In response I joke "no, estoy banando" (no, I`m bathing) gesturing to my inevitably soaked shorts and t-shirt.  They chuckle and I attempt to engage them further by looking towards the cloudless sky and speculating about whether it will rain in the afternoon.  Sometimes they continue on their way and I am left with an hour more of laundry to do but every now and then this small talk leads to a longer conversation, allows me to glean new insight into local life, or plants seeds for a future friendship. 

So today I sit on the back porch, feet up, book in hand, my laundry floating in the afternoon breeze.  And as I wave to my new neighbours and in some cases new friends we exchange greetings as women who are not so different from one another.  We exchange greetings as women who have completed their daily chores and can now stop to rest and enjoy a moment in the shade.