Some Days You're the Teacher...And Some Days You're the Student

I remember the shock I first received back in elementary school when I ran into one of my teachers outside of school. What? You mean they don’t live in that mysterious room down the hall called the “Staff Lounge”? They wear normal clothes like everyone else? They get their groceries at Stop & Shop? Is that even allowed??

However, in Nepal, if you happen to step outside onto the roof in your pajamas to catch a glimpse of the valley in the early morning light, you will get students raising their hands to ask about your choice of sleepwear during period 1 English class. Sometimes they show up in your living room with their older siblings for tea. And there’s nothing quite like having one of your 6^th graders help wash your socks and underwear at the local tap…

Before coming to Nepal, I thought I had a pretty good grasp of washing clothes by hand. I spent many mosquito-filled mornings in the Solomon Islands scrubbing away at my skirts, knowing that by the time I arrived at school, I’d inevitably be drenched in sweat. To save money, I used the sink in my South African apartment on more than one occasion. But I should’ve known by the disastrous red dye incident back in Kathmandu that washing clothes here in Nepal would be a bit more challenging than I anticipated. 

The problem seems to be that every person has a slightly different way they choose to wash their clothes. Some people rinse under the running water. Others first soak in suds. Then there’s the choice between scrubbing on the ground or on the raised concrete blocks around the tap. And this isn’t even taking into account the personal preference of the red or green bars of soap sold in the market.

I know that if I combine water, soap, and a little elbow grease, my clothes will (hopefully) be cleaner than when I arrive at the sunken stone tap. However, each person has a different opinion on how the confused American should wash her clothes. This morning it was one of my 6^th graders who came to my rescue, grabbing my bundle of kurtas and expertly going to work with the bar of soap. Despite my attempts at lending a hand, she insisted on doing each piece herself, giving me instructions (in Nepali, of course) of the ‘right’ way to do it.

After an hour of dunking and scrubbing, brushing and wringing, I had soaked clothes, pruney hands, and deflated ego. But most importantly, I had clean clothes. Although now looking back, perhaps I should have been taking notes…there might be a pop quiz at the tap next weekend…