Microwave Panties

So I feel the need to qualify my last post before everyone assumes I am living a life of luxury and can’t really claim to be having an African experience with amenities like satellite TV. Yes, I have satellite, but seeing as the power goes out for extended periods about 3 times a week, I’m not really watching satellite television most of the time. Plus, most of the channels are in Hindi and Afrikaans. As proof of this, I once watched the same Ellen episode three times in two days. Luxury schmluxury.

My first night at the new apartment I was woken up in the middle of the night by the strangest and creepiest wailing sound I had ever heard and as per usual, curled up into a miserable ball wishing whatever it was would stop. Turns out I live near the local mosque and it was the (daily) 5am call to prayer.

And despite the fact that the maid picks up my dirty laundry and brings it back washed and pressed, for some unknown reason, they will not take my underwear. They take men’s boxers, since it is on the laundry list, but when I crossed out men’s and put women’s all I got was a pile of unwashed underwear back on the bed. Considering all of the other amenities I have it doesn’t really bother me to wash my own underwear, so I took it all in stride. I am slightly uncomfortable when all of the neighbours shamelessly watch me hang rows of panties on the clothesline, probably assuming I am some sort of western prostitute, but whatever.

The problem, however, is that apparently, when one hangs clothes to dry in Tanzania, there is some sort of insect that will lay eggs in them. Then, once the clothing comes into contact with the person, the heat from the body causes the eggs to hatch UNDER ONE’S SKIN. This is probably the most disgusting thing I have ever heard. The only solution is thus to expose one’s clothing to high heats which kills the eggs. So once a week or so the neighbours shamelessly watch me take in my underwear off the clothesline and then I stick it all in the microwave. What a place.