chopping block

I have memories of growing up, standing in the kitchen next to my mom as she peeled and hacked apart raw meat for family dinners. She would wrinkle her nose and pick away, saying things like "This makes me want to be a vegetarian." and "Anyone who wants to be a meat eater, should have to prepare it too."

Mom taught me that one should know where food really comes from, not just what shelf to find it on in the grocery store. I completely agree. This trip alone has inspired me to go home and raise my own food, in particular chickens...specifically roosters. I dream of the day when I can strangle one of the little buggers w/ my own two hands, or walk out my front door at 3 a.m., and apply a well aimed sling-shot projectile into it's cock-a-doodle-dooing-arse and not be commiting some horrible crime against another person in another country. Then, fry it up and enjoy the hell out of the fruits of my labor. Alas, this dreamy pleasure will have to wait, and I am straying from my point.
Point being: There is a lot to be said for knowing the intricate details of dirtywork. It makes a person greatful for finished products, even simple ones. Mom says it makes a person, "connected to the whole experience." And so it was, that I found myself feeling "connected" to my dirty laundry this morning.

Now, you have to understand, that it's almost rediculous NOT to have your laundry done here. It's not the Princess affair you might think, and I have done plenty of laundry in a variety of ways to prove that very point to myself on this trip. For a mere dollar, 80 cents if you are willing to walk a few blocks, you can have your clothes washed (a helluvalot better than the soapy-rinsing-in-the-shower that passes for "clean" on the road), dried, pressed and returned to you in a few hours. No drippy mess on your slick tile floors. No need to clean up drippy mess w/ single supplied towel that would serve better applied to clean backside. No luxury mosquito breeding ground created from hrs of wet clothes humidifying your concrete-cell-haven of a room...do I actually feel guilty enough to keep defending myself here? It makes sense. Furthermore, I have a deep appreciation for anyone who does my laundry, ever since I went to college, right Ma?

So, like any other day, I stuffed my little pile of laundry (may I say that I pride myself on just how little that pile is, and remains...James), into a plastic bag and brought it down to he "front desk"--in this case, a collapsable card table that indeed looks likely to collapse under any ill-placed weight. I fully intended to drop my little bag off, have it weighed, pay and walk away to retreive it later tonight. Oh no. Not today. Today I am to feel "connected."

"Laundry?" I ask the guy perched in an equally dodgey and likely to collapse, red plastic chair. I recognize him as one of the guest house attendants. He's about my age and speaks a little English. Thank god, because my Lao is useless.
"How many?" He asks me.
"I'm sorry? What?"
"How many?" He repeats, and opens the bag, pulling out my fisherman pants.
Oh god, please don't pull out my dirty laundry right here in the front entry, I'm thinking. And that's exactly what he does.

To my own, somewhat amused horror, I watch a man my own age, who I might share a 20 words of english w/, count my dirty underwear and well worn, inside out, bike shorts, in the g.h. lobby. Me, trying to maintain my composure as he made no delicate show of trying NOT to touch my underwear--we all know the thumb and forefinger "pick", complete w/ pinkie in air and look on face. It was an intimate affair, just the two of us...and a wall of silence as I tried not to run, hide or take over and slap his hands out of my increasingly exposing laundry bag.

Of course someone would eventually have had to do this, otherwise how would they keep all the laundry straight? I've just never had to stand there while someone did it. Nor did it occur to me that a man my age would be doing it. I just didn't think about it! Like having to answer to the trick of piling your dirties on the top of any bag you know will be searched by the airlines. "Bastards," I always giggle to myself when I'm doing it, but hope to god I am well out of sight when they get around to the digging. Much more amused by the fantasy of "sticking it to the man", than I am of answering for my mischief. But I never actually mean any mischief w/ my laundry here!

He got to the end and a sock, which had escaped the first sensus, fell on the floor. He started to pull everything out again and I couldn't bear it. I was actually getting pissed at this point. "I'll go find the sock and bring everything back" I said, grabbing the bag and it's contents.

I went back to my room, found the missing sock, carefully counted EVERY piece of laundry, and brought it back. "Thirteen" I said. "And, thank you." As I sprinted for the door.

Moral of story: Know the in's and out's of your own dirty laundry so someone else doesn't have to tell you.