The River near Our House

Of Laundry…

 It seems every year washing machines get bigger.  And fancier. 

Our Brazilian washing machine was small and white.  Our dryer was our patio where we would hang out our clothes to dry in the sun.  It worked well, except for the days when humidity was so thick even the clean clothes were sweating.

After moving to the northern part of Brazil, we were often faced with no electricity.  No power meant no washing machine, and wearing clothes more than once without washing, might just result in asphyxiation.

We were left to do it the old-fashioned way.

And I mean the very old-fashioned way, since when the power was out, we couldn’t afford to use water to wash laundry.

Instead, we headed for the river that ran about fifty yards from our house.

There were several things to keep in mind while washing in the river.  The piranhas and who knew what else lurking beneath the surface.  The strong current that threatened to carry your clothes away if you should lose your grip.  And then there were the pinkish-orange cast left on all the clothes from the mud in the river, and the funky smell that weaseled its way out of the scent of the laundry soap.

On the plus side, our clothes no longer reeked.  We had gotten a bit of a workout.  Cooled off.  Had a little fun.

And developed a deep and abiding appreciation for washing machines.