“Just bury it in the dirt,” said a local woman when we asked what to do with a huge, broken piece of glass. People told us the same thing when we asked what to do with spoiled chicken.
At first, I felt confused by responses like these. I’d wonder about them as I hung up each piece of laundry to dry, timing the washer around the power outages, smashing cockroaches and regularly sweeping away armies of ants. We lived in a house—in a city. Not in some remote village. We were business people.
Did our friends at home in the U.S. understand the pep talk it took to jump into a cold shower every day? We sold everything to move overseas, wrestled our four school-aged children away from friends and all that was familiar, and walked away from well-paying jobs. I thought that was the hard part.
Now I laugh. Moving wasn’t the hard part.
Cooking. Cleaning. Living each day in India gave new depth to the ideas of surrender and fortitude—not to mention just good old-fashioned work.
I had to assemble breakfast, lunch, dinner, and snacks for four hungry American children and one very, very American husband using curry, cumin, rice, and eggs. And meat, which I couldn’t get without having to witness the slitting of a chicken’s throat and carrying the bird home in a warm, bloody bag.
No real cheese. No tortilla chips. No ranch dressing. No Go-Gurts, granola bars, or fruit roll-ups. No Costco or Wal-Mart. I soaked everything in vinegar and chopped it all up after a rickshaw ride or a long walk dragging only the bags I could carry in two hands. All while sweating profusely, my hair slicked back in a permanently greased, flathead ponytail.
Fast forward six months later and I found myself posting on Facebook,
A bedtime routine I never dreamed I would have: Draw two buckets of water from the well to heat up for hot bucket showers. Hand-washing dishes and filling the water purifier for drinking. Tie up the food waste plastic bag and trash to put outside for the morning trash ladies (at least we don’t have to burn it anymore), and hang up the laundry on a clothesline for drying under the bedroom fans at night. Then I cuddle with the kids in bed, listening to the monsoon rain and the night jungle noises from our open windows with the cool night air, feeling quite pioneer-like and wholesome and safe.
Yes, my routine did grow into something normal and natural.
But it still required daily perseverance. I’d like my friends in America to recognize the stamina it takes to live overseas. Then I’d want them to take an extra hot shower for me while they prayed for my endurance.
I’d want them to sip a Starbucks beverage and look forward to when we might have a latte together when I came to visit.
I’d want them to smile when they get to throw their laundry in the dryer, knowing that I’m just fine.
Everything’s going to be okay for me over in India. I know where to bury the glass and the spoiled chicken.
Read more about life overseas:
Original article: www.frontiersusa.org/blog/article/my-life-overseas-just-bury-it-in-the-dirt
