Alima eyes me sideways on the bench.
"So how is it," she asks in Moore, "you wash clothes in America?"
Yesterday she saw me go to the pump with a determined look and a basin full of clothes on my head; three hours later she saw me coming back with red knuckles and a sunburn. She must have kindly surmised I don't do my wash by hand in America.
"We have a machine," I answer simply. Her eyes get big as I pantimime putting clothes in a machine and pushing a button. I don't know what she was expecting to hear, but it clearly wasn't this.
"You add soap; after an hour, it's finished," I continue. I have to mix french and Moore for this, but she seems to understand. I don't have enough langauge skills to explain a dryer, but the washer seems to be enough. She's incredulous. It's as if I told a 6th grader in America that, in Africa, they have machines that do your homework for you.
She probes further, "And if you don't have a machine?"
"There is a 'house' full of machines where you can pay to wash your clothes. No one washes their clothes by hand in America" I reply. (Now, I know this isn't true. Surely someone does, but, brother, I've tried it, and I don't care if you're broke... not worth it.)
I pause, waiting for another question. Instead, Alima looks up from her rice and says dreamily,
"I want to go there."
"To America?" I ask, by now knowing the look.
"Yes."
Everyone here says this to me when they find out I'm American. But Alima knows I'm American and hasn't mentioned anything about going there yet. It occurs to me to ask why now.
"Because of... because of the laundry machines?" I sputter out, a little unbelieving myself.
She nods her head and clucks deep in her throat.
A resounding yes.
I look away for a moment, sad at her sincerity and at the selfish ingratitude I have known. Then we gossip as much as possible in my limited Moore until I go pump water. She laughs as I carry it back on my wobbling head.
