Tomorrow I will travel up to Belize City, the hub and bub of civilization in this tiny little country. To prepare, I faced a mountain of washing, which doubled when I opened up my second bag to discover that mold had begun to take over all of the “business casual” clothes that I had thoughtfully set aside. So I piled it all into my plastic “pig-tail” bucket, sprinkled it with powdered biodegradable soap and carefully made my way down to the flooded river. I wasn’t thrilled with having to wash my clothes in the brownish waters of last night’s rain, but as the Maytag Ferry Godmother has yet to plop a deluxe washer and dryer onto the steps of my hut, it seemed my only option.
Around the pig-pen and to the muddy trail that leads to the usually clear blue river. One step, no problem, two steps, a little slip, three steps and down I went. Soapy clothes and Shella slide down the muddy embankment. My Mayan mom giggles at my white girl awkwardness as I try my best not to swear. I attempt to regain my composure as I pile the clothes bag into the bucket, grab some more soap, and try it again. Success. I made it to my rock and washing can commence. Balancing in the rivers current up to my waist, grab a garment, sprinkle with more soap, and scrub scrub scrub against nature’s washboard. For particularly tough stains and to relieve some aggression, take a sturdy shirt and wail it against the rock repeatedly. This somehow knocks the dirt senseless or sends it running out of the collar and into the hills. Repeat the process for a good hour or until you are ready to pass out from the heat.
At this point I am rewarded by a quick submersion into the cool waters. Load everything up and brave the hill again, this time being extra careful not to spill my freshly washed wardrobe. Now I ready for my trip to the big city. First stop, Laundromat Land.
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