Hard labor

Oh, my aching bones. Today was a rigorous one. I knew I should have taken up a weight-lifting regimen to prepare for this adventure.But i really didn’t anticipate such grueling work as an English teacher.
The day started fairly easily. I woke up around 9 a.m. It’s the weekend, so I slept in a bit. Then my 12-year-old host sister asked me to help her fetch the water. So we rolled the empty water jug down to the well and waited for it to open, around 10 a.m. We filled up the jug, handed the lady 20 tugriks (about 2 cents) and my sister handed me the cart. So I started pushing the cart, and I would have been fine ... on a straight sidewalk. But unfortunately I had to push it uphill on a dirt road full of rocks, holes and cow patties. My sister, noticing my weakness, grabbed the side of the handle and we pulled the cart up the hill together. She took control when we reached a particularly tricky stretch of path, but she was kind of enough to hand it over to me right before we got in sight of the house ... and my host dad proudly said “Ah, very good work,” when he saw me roll the cart in.
But this was just the warm-up. And I definitely needed it for what came next.
See, I brought about a week’s worth of clothing, but I’ve been away from home for two weeks. And some of those clothes were winter-wear. So really, I had been wearing about 4 day’s worth of clothes for two weeks. So I had been bugging my host family to show me their method of washing. But the rain had gotten in the way. Until today. So I piled all my clothes into the big, green, PC-issued tub and walked out of my room. My host mother gave me a look of surprise, possibly it was a warning, but I thought maybe it was just the smell.
And then the process began. My 16-year-old host sister helped with this task. She filled the tub with soap and water and then asked if I knew what I was doing. I said no. Sure, I’ve cleaned the occasional hand-wash-only clothes in the sink when needed. It’s not that my mother didn’t teach me well. But I’m the kind of person who prefers to keep a permanent layer of these clothes at the bottom of my hamper. Then I always know where to find them.
So my host sister started showing me the Mongol technique. Lots of scrubbing; lifting of water-drenched fabrics in and out of the tub; applying more soap; scrubbing, and finally the wringing. So much wringing. After two loads, my arms were like the yogurt I eat two times a day. And in between loads I had to carry the buckets of dirty water to the dirty water pit. Strenuous, really. After the second load I was done. Out of commission. Luckily I have learned the word for “later.” So before my host sister could fill the tub up again, I casually “daraa” and picked up the remainder of my clothes. Of course, she burst into laughter. And then she went back inside and I heard lots of strange language and the word “daraa” and everyone laughed. But it didn’t matter. I had just spent two hours washing half of a washing-machine load of clothes, and my arms have thanked me for not making three hours.
Now I know you may feel disappointed that this is the end of the story. Maybe you’re sad that I didn’t build a house or carry a lame horse across a river. Perhaps you were hoping for a life-altering epiphany or an exciting Mongol romance. But seriously, it’s only been two weeks. I’m still trying to figure out the outhouse.