The Lore of Laundry

Nature and wildlife surrounded me in Kenya; laundry did not.

Wide sweeping plains of dry yellowing savannah grass; shoals of angle fish zebra fish and tiny almost colorless fish that darted between the coral clumps; the dusky stillness of sunset at a lakeside — they all formed a part of my childhood.

Laundry did not.

I never ever loaded a washing machine or dryer. I never hung up a load of wet clothing. I never folded a sock. I never ironed a single shirt. The closest I came to dealing with laundry was putting my clothes in the sisal basket outside the bathroom and then packing them away the following evening when my clothing appeared in a neat ironed pile at the end of my bed.

Some days I would watch our houseboy Pascali washing our clothes by hand in the bathtub. He would empty the laundry basket into the tub. Then he would sprinkle in Omo a blue washing powder and then he would turn on the taps. I watched as the water rushed in and pushed the clothes to the surface. Pascali knelt down bent over the tub and methodically punched every item under the swirling mass of water and suds. One by one he scrubbed the clothes the sheets the towels. Our white school socks dyed a rusty red from the dusty murram tracks we often wandered along emerged brilliantly white. The tub was emptied the laundry rinsed and every item wrung out and tossed into a waiting basket.