Blue Monday

We sat in the shade of a frayed umbrella at a corner café called The Rusty Keyhole.  Our lunch of pork ribs was doing a slow burn on a grill just off the sidewalk, the cook dipping an old paintbrush into a vat of sweet red barbeque sauce every two or three minutes as the smell of sizzling pork fat filled our nostrils.

                Overhead, the sky was varied only in its shades of blue.  “Maybe we should stay here an extra day.”

                “We could.  Viet Nam will be there whenever we show up.”

                We were in that place of contentment which comes with all of one’s basic needs met (and then some) coupled with a happy sense of discovery in a new place, the knowledge, further, that it’s ours for a couple of days, and the expectation of a whole new set of experiences as we looked down the barrel at Viet Nam.  That, plus the smell of meat, a cold beer, the blue sky, and my lovely wife made me think of nothing so much as getting back to our room and doing a bit of laundry.

                I know, right?  Our hotel sits on the wide, sweeping, oh-so-picturesque Kampot River.  Our room has two views, one of Red tile roofs and swaying palms, the other of crumbling (in a good way) French architecture, including pillared balconies and heavy, shuttered windows. And, if I stand on the bed, I can see the river! Into this scenario (one which I am sure to channel next January as I chip away at the ice mound on the end of the driveway) I willfully insert the act of standing over our small bathroom sink as I knead, rinse, wring, and hang my few articles of clothing.  Yep.

                Of course, it doesn’t need to be this way.  There are services.  Locals are quick to see the possibilities this influx of western travelers and ex-pats brings to their world, and the signage for laundry services (one buck per kilo, typically) line the roads.  I could fill a duffel full of clothes and have it back the next day in a neat, folded, pressed stack.  But something would be missing, and I don’t mean a sock.

                I started this little post after just finishing my laundry routine.  The reality is that I wear the same pair of shorts all the time.  It’s just too damn hot for long pants, and I like the fact that I can zip up the side pockets on these bad boys.  Plus, they’re made by Kuhl, and are reasonably bullet-proof.  They’re dark-ish green and hide the dirt nicely, but I can feel the dirt after a couple of weeks.  They hang a bit differently on my hips, as though the weight of the road they’ve endured is actually pulling them down.  Being a one-pant guy simplifies things in terms of the volume of wash, but complicates in terms of opportunity.  I don’t want my shorts out of service for more than one night, and certainly not for a day, but drying time is dependent on heat and humidity.   There were times in Central America when my shirts were never really dry.  But here in Kampot, the sky is hard and blue.  And hot.

                Which brings me to the afore-mentioned sink.  Laundry detergent can be had anywhere for a quarter a bag.  I typically do my clothes one article at a time by filling the sink with water, submerging an item, and sprinkling on a bit of soap.  I then work the pants, or shirt, or underwear with vigorous rubbing, twisting, and scrubbing.  And it’s during this process that the sink water goes from white and bubbly to a dark, brownish grey.  It almost seems to increase in viscosity.  And that feels inexpressibly good.  My mind spools out over the previous weeks, touching on the various bus/tuk-tuk/pick-up truck beds my ass has rested on.  The rice and noodles and fish sauce and peppers that somehow found their way from my plate/fork/chopsticks onto my lap.  The amount of sweat my ass pounds out when the temp tops ninety-five.  Invariably, my pants take it, well…in the shorts. Freeing all of that filth, and reflecting on its ways and means, is like having a chance to savor the same steak twice.  To have my cake and to eat it, too.  But there’s more.

                Everyone can relate to the joy of donning a clean shirt.  The smell and feel of possibility, of newness, as it finds purchase on one’s shoulders.  We grow accustomed to the scent of our laundry, and notice when it’s different.  Or if the towels were hung to dry rather than tumbled.  The crispy quality, the smell of the sun.  Our clothes, our daily fabrics, are woven into—and are a part of—our psyches.  They are an integral piece of our projection to the world.

                By taking part in the process of cleaning our clothes, of actually reaching in and pulling the dirt from their fabrics, we strengthen the connection between what we know we are and how we present what we know.  I’m not calling for an end to washing machines.  Or dishwashers.  They are good and noble tools which certainly have their place in the modern world.  I’m no Luddite.  But small, willful acts of maintaining oneself; cooking a meal from all fresh ingredients; catching, gutting, and frying a fish; changing a child’s diaper, all come with strings: strings which better bind us to our world. 

                Years ago a movie was made of the book City of Joy. (It was a fair effort, though I’d argue Patrick Swayze was miscast.)  It took place in Kolkata, and suggested a means of happiness outside of one’s life station.  One scene stuck with me, in which the western protagonist (Swayze) steps onto the deck of a boat he’s staying on and spies a man he understood to be a great mystic and teacher squatting over the river scrubbing dishes.  He seems incredulous that a man of such great wisdom and stature would be doing so menial a task, and asks what he’s doing.  “Praying,” the man says, and resumes his task.

                I think about that scene often, especially when doing the little jobs that need to be done.  And I can’t help but feel a sense of thanks for my ability to work.  To care for myself in little ways. 

                OK.  That’s enough.  Time to go out and explore further the streets of Kampot.  Suck in some dust and live a bit in my nice, clean duds.