April 17, 2006

African Adventures: Let’s Launder!

In the weeks before I left home, trying to get to Africa was so much damn work that I didn’t have time to think about how it would be once I actually got there. I was planning the boys’ schedules, arranging babysitters, getting my shots and trying to make sure I had enough medicines to combat blisters, hangnails, rashes, diarrhea, constipation, vomiting, migraines, excessive ear wax, the loss of a dental crown, and any other medical mishap I could imagine.

It wasn’t until a couple of days before we left that I could fully concentrate on the clothes I needed to take. I called my mother’s best friend, June, to ask for fashion advice. She was going on the trip, too, and she and her husband had been to Africa with my parents several times in the past.

“They do laundry at these camps in Africa,” June said, “so although you need several days’ worth of clothes, you can plan on having some things washed while you’re there.”

When I heard about this unexpected perk of the safari, I gasped in delight. The laundry at our house never ends, and I’ve pretty much completely given up the folding and putting away part of the process. Having someone else do my laundry would be a huge treat. That was the last thing I had expected on the Dark Continent.

Then I realized that I would be travelling with my dad and his friends and all the money and experience that comes with several extra decades of successful careers and wise investments. I’d heard my mom and June tell stories about their adventures around the world. They always involved ritzy places and lots of staff.

So while it had never occurred to me that you could find luxurious spots in Kenya or Tanzania, the comment about the laundry made me realize that my dad and his friends wouldn’t consider traveling there without the promise of soft beds and gourmet food. My mom couldn’t last more than a couple of days without getting a massage, and she had helped plan the itinerary. Perhaps there’d even be pampering.

I’m sure you’ve already read about the toilet situation on our trip, so you can see that it was a good thing that I had no unrealistic expectations about our accommodations while we were in the bush. I’ll admit, however, that I was extremely excited about the promise of laundering performed by others.

The first camp we visited had no electricity or running water. If you wanted a shower, you told the owners, who had some Masai warriors heat up some water and pour it into a bucket on top of your tent, like so:

There was a string inside the tent that you pulled to release the water so you could soap up and rinse off. It was an exercise in futility, however, as the water smelled just like the fire it had been heated on. It wasn’t the kind of shower that left you feeling invigorated and fresh. When I was done I felt jumpy and I smelled freshly roasted.

This was the same camp where my potty came with my very own shovel and bucket of ash:

Getting myself clean appeared to be impossible here, so I decided against asking for laundering services at this stop.

I fared better at the next camp. We arrived and were delighted to find hot water available for three hours in the morning and three hours at night with no Masai warriors required. Our tents had solar lights, which were dim compared to what we were used to, but a big improvement over the pitch black darkness that we’d been dealing with before.

Best of all, there was a woven laundry hamper and a leaflet with assurances that laundry left out one day would be ready the next.

The furnishings were quite reassuring, so I decided to try out the laundry.

As I was filling out the form for my clothes, I read that ladies’ undergarments would not be accepted. Later I learned that African men feel it is beneath their dignity to wash women’s panties. I concluded that they weren’t that different from most American men that I know, except for their spears and red blankets. (They didn’t have any problem washing my dad’s ratty boxers, but whatever.)

The next day I came back from a game drive and had a fantastic surprise. The undergarments that I had carefully washed in a little Bliss Soapy Sap were dry and lemony.

Even better, my elephanty smelling safari clothes showed up right on schedule:

They smelled clean, although I knew they had been washed in water from a river that was filled with hippos. I still don’t know how they accomplished that.

The Ngorongoro Crater Lodge was the fanciest place we stayed, as you could tell by comparing its toilets with the facilities everywhere else. Unfortunately, we reached the Lodge only after a long day of travel on three different planes and an arduous drive up the rim of the Crater. We were exhausted, and the lights at the Lodge were even dimmer than the ones at the previous camp. I didn’t have the energy or desire to root through my nasty duffle bag to decide which of my clothes were the smelliest.

However, when the folks at the Lodge brought us a tray of warm washcloths covered with rose petals so we could freshen up before dinner, I resolved to locate my dirty clothes as fast as possible and take advantage of the laundry service there. I figured it had to be top-notch.

I sat down with my gin and tonic and carefully sorted my clothes and filled out the cleaning slip.

I was totaling up my garments when I happened to read the fine print on the paper. I realize this picture is fuzzy and dim, but I was tired and buzzy at this point, and the room was poorly lit, so this is actually a very realistic representation of the document I was trying to decipher.

(You can click to enlarge although I did not have that luxury.)

Let me translate the sixth bullet point for you: Occasionally hyena and baboon raid the laundry yard

And at the bottom the paper said: The lodge accepts no responsibility whatsoever for guest clothing damaged during cleaning.

I must admit, these clauses made me pause. We were far enough along on our trip that I was familiar with both baboons and hyena, and I wasn’t going to wrestle one for my cheetah bra if it proved enticing.

Here’s a pack of hyena:

Sadly, they weren’t fighting over someone’s cute Zombymom Tshirt or khaki pants. They were focused on a carcass which is too gory to show.

In the end, of course, I decided to take my chances and send off the clothes. When I came back from dinner the next night, I was glad I had. My clothes were waiting for me in a lovely reed basket, wrapped in velvet and accented with a red rose.