Home, in Tanzania

A Story in Which I Get Homesick and Hang Laundry

While traveling, we talked a lot about home. About our favorite movies, books, foods, drinks, places to eat, our siblings, our parents, cars, TV shows, and a plethora of other things. We talked about everything but what we missed most about home. It was a way of handling the homesickness without admitting it or overindulging in it.

            I didn’t really have a place set up as home when I left. I was in transition from dorm life to an apartment with roomies (which fell through), and wasn’t sure where I was going to be when I got back to the States. Being in Tanzania, moving from place to place, and putting up temporary homes was really soothing for me. It became as much of a routine as anything here.

            That’s not to say I wasn’t ever homesick. I missed my brothers and my sisters, my parents, and all my adopted family while I was climbing around and exploring. I would fantasize about bringing my siblings on a grand adventure to Tanzania, to really share with them this intense experience. I spent hours during the hikes thinking about what they might do out here. Every once in a while, I would run into something that reminded me strongly of the homes I’ve had, instead of the people I think of as home. It would hit me while I was doing a stunningly normal task, in the middle of this grandiose adventure.

            I hung my socks on the tree, trying to find the best places where the expensive liners and heavy wool socks wouldn’t go tumbling away or get too dirty. What I wouldn't give for some good clothespins right now. I then carefully hung my underwear between my t-shirts and sweaters, and found places for my water-heavy clothes to dry on the crowded line. Everyone was using it, because our clothes still hadn’t dried from the unfortunate washing experience at Lush Gardens. Last night, when we returned from Mount Kilimanjaro, we had requested our filthy clothes be washed, and had delivered giant bags to the reception desk. Reception didn’t tell us how much it would cost, or how long it would take, and most of our clothes were heat sensitive, so we had to carefully talk them out of ironing them in the morning. That night when I went wandering, I found the tile, ceiling-less room in which they hosed down, scrubbed, and hung up our clothes in the night air. I was shocked, for whatever reason, not expecting them to wash our clothes by hand.

            The next morning, we were handed bags of neatly folded wet, clean-as-new laundry, and huge bills. Joe talked the price down, and we gathered our belongings, grumpy and tired. We were thoroughly upset about the clothing that was not safe to put away, lest it mold or mildew while we traipsed across the bush. While in the bus to Karatu, I hung up some of my clothes, being careful to not hang it over anybody else’s head, or disturb anyone’s vision, as it was a bumpy, dusty road. The clothes would occasionally tumble-slap into my face, and I would fuss them back into a more secure arrangement.

            Eventually, we arrived at our first camp in Ngorongoro Conservation Area, a cultural, environmental, and economic conservation area, the only of its kind. We promptly set up camp in the waning light, and Joe strung up a line. As I carefully hung my clothes before dinner, I was struck by how normal and extraordinary this moment was, I was hanging my clothes in the African plains. I was hanging my clothes, just as I would with my mother, like that time in Watertown, Massachusetts.

            We weren’t on good terms at all, I was basically a know-it-all brat who thought she knew better than her Momma. Mom had just pulled a load of clothes from the washer, and instead of putting them in the dryer, she hauled them up the steep, creaky New England stairs that I tumbled down more than I care to admit. She had strung up a line on our balcony, crossing and recrossing the tiny structure. I was curious why my mom was interrupting my Nice-Day-Outside-On –The-Balcony moment, and watched her hang things up. I think I may have even gotten up and helped her. The breeze was a constant, cool presence on the hot day, and the sky was brilliant blue. We laughed, and I complained about how line-drying made the clothes stiff, and we argued, and then went back to hanging laundry and enjoying the day.

            I was in Tanzania, on an adventure, hanging my clothes. I breathed in the night air, bringing myself back to the present, and scampered back to eat dinner with my companions. We ate off a conglomeration of folding camp tables, dressed up with a red cloth and delicious food made by Mohammed, our chef.