Receding memories

I can’t remember the name of the woman who did my laundry. I can’t remember the name of the town where I changed busses—so much is receding from my time in Africa. Metsimotlha

be—that’s where I changed busses. Mogoditshane, that’s where the combis stopped. But who did my laundry? Gail, yes, it was Gail. From Zimbabwe. I paid her 30 Pula (about 40 cents US) a week to wash my sheets and towels and some clothes by hand, sheer drudgery. I did small things myself, but sheets and towels? Ugh. My landlady raised chickens to sell—6 weeks from chick to slaughter, and sold them 40Pula a bird.

            Gail slaughtered and plucked the chickens as well as cleaned the landlady’s house, did the family laundry, made the meals and babysat the boys--oh, and fed the chickens and cleaned the coop and fed the dogs. Six days a week.  Sundays were the only days she actually left the compound. I always wondered where she slept. My landlady’s house had three bedrooms, one for the parents, one for the daughter and one for the son. In Shannon’s host family the maid slept in the adolescent boy’s room. One bed. Two people in the room. “You do the math,” Shannon said, rolling her eyes.

            In my host family’s home I was given a large room with a double bed. The oldest sister had a room of her own and the three children and younger sister somehow shared a room. Or so I assumed until the morning I had to catch a bus at 4 am and found her sleeping in the dining room. By the time I made the trip to Mozambique, I was perfectly content to share a bunk room with whoever showed up at the hostel that night. Particularly when the bunk across the way was given to a handsome young Spaniard. Sweet dreams that night.

            I miss the adventure, the trek into unknown worlds. Of course I am ignoring the Easter weekend in Kalamare when I stood at the bus rank for 1.5 hours and then was shoved into a tightly packed combi and had to stand for two hours behind a driver who seemed to be in training for the Indie 500. And I’m ignoring another trip to Kalamare when the combi pulled to the side of the road, steam pouring out of the engine. Everyone climbed out and headed for the only tree in sight, sat down on the ground and waited. We three white people in the back pulled out our cell phones and called our friends. “There’s only one combi,” they said. “Hitchhike.” We hadn’t seen another vehicle on the whole trip. By the time we got our legs to unfold and unloaded our stuff, the combi was coughing back to life. Do I really miss all that?