A brief summary of what I did in my first 24 hours at our build site: Met my teammates. Hauled some cement blocks. And thoroughly, totally, and entirely accidentally offended an entire culture.
Twice a week, all of the volunteers pooled their laundry for
washing by a few of the local women. The
women do laundry by hand much more quickly and effectively than us, plus it
gave us another opportunity to inject some money into the community. There was only one restriction given: it
would not be appropriate to give the washing women any women’s underwear. That would be indecent. (As opposed to men’s underwear, which
apparently is perfectly decent and appropriate – but, I digress).
The day after I arrived at site was the first laundry
day. I took my pile of dirty clothes and
separated each item. T-shirt? Okay – “safe” laundry pile. Khakis?
Okay – “safe” laundry pile. A
sports bra? Um, not sure … better place
it in the “self-wash” pile, just to be safe.
I sorted every item like this.
Carried my dozen “safe” clothes to the community laundry pile. Looked at the pile one last time, nodded my
approval. Might have even prided myself,
just a little, on the extra care I’d taken.
Walked away, enjoying feeling that I’d taken an extra minute to show
respect to my adopted community.
Just before dinner, we found our laundry all dried and
neatly folded in a stack on the dinner table.
The women did an amazing job. I
had no idea hand washing could work out all that dust and sweat – they looked
untouched by the previous day’s work. I
said a silent thank-you to the washing women and started scanning the table for
my items. The T-shirts, the khakis, the
socks.
And, in a pile by themselves, one pair of bright, clean, Hanes
six-pack baby-blue women’s underwear.
OH SHIT.
MY pair of Hanes six-pack baby-blue women’s underwear. Completely, unmistakably, full-on girly girl
women’s underwear, right down to the perky little frills around the edges. A brazen violation of the “no women’s
underwear” rule. MY brazen violation of
the “no women’s underwear” rule.
They must have been stuck in the pant leg of my khakis. Or they were rolled up inside the wad that
was my khakis. Did I unfurl my khaki wad
before putting it in the pile? Why
didn’t I think to check the pant legs? DAMMIT. I shoved the offending pair in my pocket,
hoping to muffle the siren I heard when I looked at them. And tried to re-assure myself that it
probably wasn’t such a big deal. Just
one pair. Clearly a mistake. They hadn’t killed anyone. Obviously they did get washed, along with
everything else. Life seemed to be
proceeding as normal.
But, no such luck.
They certainly hadn’t gone unnoticed.
At all. Our evening announcements
started with a very serious talk. About The
Very Serious Cultural Offense that someone (no names were requested) had
committed with their laundry contributions.
It was no laughing matter. Our
trip leader had to get involved. Our
Habitat site liaison had to get involved.
Obviously somebody must have managed to say the right words to someone
to smooth things over, but make no mistake.
It. Was. Serious.
What I wouldn’t have given for the opportunity to go back in
time and snatch the underwear from that counsel. Thrown it away. Burned it.
Buried it in some deep plastic garbage bag and never spoken of it
again. My undies are a dime a dozen, the
opposite of anything fancy or special; they would never be missed. They certainly aren’t worth offending an entire culture.
Instead,
I just sat and listened to the lecture, not caring if anyone noticed or cared
that I had a couple of tear tracks on my cheeks by the end of it. Fabulous start to my trip. Just. Fabulous.
