Never Being Dirty

It occurred to me recently how easy it is to live in America and never actually be dirty.  You may shower every day, maybe every third day if you’re a rebel.  And I can’t blame you, if I had endless hot water at the turn of a knob, I too would bathe on a regular basis.  But really, how dirty do you get going from your house to your car to your office and back? You may workout and get sweaty in your sterilized gym and freshly laundered clothes.  You may play in the dirt a bit on a hot summer day, working in the garden and even mowing your own lawn- but still, it’s pretty easy to go through life never being dirty.

Think about it, all ground is covered by cement, or grass, or at the least pine straw or mulch.  You’re probably now racking your brain for a patch of dirt around your neighborhood.  A single spot that has unfortunately been worn free of the grass that used to cover it—that is what covers a majority of my town.  Even in the rainy season, as the brown fields turn bright green with grass, the roads are dirt, or more than likely, mud.  On a dry morning you are bound to run into a big gust of wind that throws a wall of dirt on you.  On a rainy morning you are bound to come across a section of the road flooded with water up to your ankles, which you hop across using stones sticking out or the muck.

My dirty tennis shoes.

No matter what you do here, you get dirty.

That is a dirt line, not a tan line. Don't judge me.

I’ve been told once by an Ethiopian that my feet were dirty.  I was sitting at a café reading a book and he felt it was necessary, without introduction, to question the cleanliness of my feet.  Being suggested to bathe by an Ethiopian— not my proudest moment.

Another time, one of my PCV friends and I were commenting on how tan our arms were from being in the sun so much.  This was followed by the realization that at least one shade of our “tan” was actually dirt.

I also had to explain to people that my freckles were not specks of dirt and, also not the first stage of me becoming African, despite how much sense that would make.

One more example of the dirty life I’m leading is demonstrated by the rain jacket I brought to Ethiopia, which is mostly yellow and partly white.  Ok, not the smartest choice of colors for Africa, but I was living in glorious America when I bought it, in denial of how dirty life could be.  Since it rains everyday during the summer, I find myself wearing that rain jacket everyday, without a break from the rain to wash and dry it.  After my co-worker mentioned my dirty sleeves (she was polite not to point out the dirty sides and back also) I finally decided to brave the rain for a day without my jacket.  I’m happy to report the jacket now looks brand new—for the time being!

It doesn’t help either that I am living with a dog that comes home in the evenings often covered in mud… or sometimes what I believe is excrement of some type.  When asking the kids in Amharic what Arbay had gotten into, they all giggled and finally said it was poop.  Needless to say, she has earned herself several impromptu baths!