Today I’ve been pretending to be African again.
The reason: Our washing machine has died. The lack of two things constitute Africa in my mind: Washing macines and hot showers. Washing clothes by hand makes me feel like almost being home again. Scrub til your knuckles are sore – then rinse and rinse again. After rinsing four times, you give up to the fact that you’re never going to get all the soap out, and anyway, your’re gonna have to wash that t-shirt again in a few days anyway. Back aching from bending over too long. Washing clothes is hard work. But it makes me feel that all I need to do is open the door and step outside, and there will be red dirt underneath my feet, the sun will beat against my head, and the air will resound with cockrows and distant radios and children laughing and singing. I get so homesick sometimes. Today, Africa is mercilessly far away.