The black circular plastic tub was a foot deep and the circumference of my arms extended, elbows bent with fingers touching. Portable and light, it was easy to fit between my knees on the motorbike. I drove slowly still trying to get the feel for shift, brake, and accelerate. The front wheel turned the corner past the laundry lady. She would wash a load for a buck or two in the little Asian-style machine and line dry the garments. Neatly folded, she would return them at pick-up with a white scrap of paper. The number was the fee in Thai baht. Dirt cheap for such service. I never used her service though all the ex-pats and many of the locals did.

Driving down the back road through the neighborhood, I swerved into my little driveway to drop my light but awkward load. The sun beat down with mercilessly fury but I sighed with contentment as I entered the cold cement room. Feet shuffled from outdoor flip-flops to indoor ones. Dust travels too fast in these tropical parts of the globe. With keys and a sorry excuse for a motorbike helmet tossed to one side, I took my treasured plastic tub to the back spigot. You’d think with all the rain that the water pressure would be decent but it sputtered out intermittently. Some days nothing would come out at all.

As the tub filled, I sprinkled in powdered laundry soap. It boasted the power to removed green grass stains from soccer shorts or so the picture portrayed. I couldn’t read the Thai writing. My hands swished around in the water trying to coax suds into forming. It worked briefly only to disappear leaving a milky film instead.

Whites first. Three pieces at a time. Two soaking and one got the beat-down. Stress relief. Churn, scrub, wring, dip. Over and over until it at least looked clean. Place in a smaller bucket. Next piece. Move on to colors and last, blacks.

When the small load had enough soap filling the seams, it was time for the rinse cycle. It’s amazing how heavy plastic becomes when laden with water. I waddled carefully to the porch drain – a cement “canal” running the length of the outdoor wall. Its six-inch deep ditch was necessary for the amount of rain that can fall so fast during a sudden storm. With bended knees I poured it slowly to avoid a grimy splash.

Back to the pile for the rinsing. This was my favorite part because it was a workout and had to be done twice or more. It seemed harder to get the soap slime out than it would have been to remove a grass stain. Plunge, dunk, scrunch. Up and down. The motion was therapeutic and releasing.

As my hands moved, my mind wandered. Thousands along this border with Burma would never see a washing machine let alone use one. Why should I? I didn’t come here to rejoice in the cheap labor and live comfortably. I came to try and get a glimpse of what life is like for the majority who live under the oppression of a ruthless military dictatorship.

I’d like to say that I wasn’t tempted to drop my sweaty shirts and mud-splattered pants to the Thai washer lady but I was. But each time I reminded myself of the daytime scene on the banks of the Moei River. Burmese and Karen ladies with their plastic tubs of washing balanced neatly on their heads. Sarongs tucked in with a Western T-shirt overlapping. They squatted and pounded out the specks and splotches of the day’s work and play. Children danced and giggled, teasing each other. Moms with thanaka painted faces glanced up now and then as their conversation flowed back and further, back and further. Stress relief mingled with fellowship.

With my black tub balanced on a hip, I toted it to the clothes line. The cord from the outdoor store I used to work at sure came in handy. A carabineer on each end, looped around the awning poles and stretched into a smile, held the dripping cloth until dry. One piece at a time – up and over, flop and pull.

The Safe House kids who lived next door were just coming home from school. A screen door slammed followed by a bedroom door. Girls beat the boys out of their room and raced for the black tub next to their back porch. Play clothes on, the school uniforms of white shirts and navy blue skirts were thrown into the tub. Water tumbled in and conversations sounded like a waterfall compared to the slow trickle of the spout. The oldest yelled over the concrete wall, “P’Angie, bah-lone-nee-la?” (What are you doing?)

I shouted back, “A-wet-shone-nee-day” (I’m washing clothes). We laughed and I tried to hear her Burmese amidst her scrubbing. And she strained to hear my broken responses. Plastic, prune-y hands and connection or machine, dry hands and disconnect? The choice wasn’t difficult.