4 buckets--2 to wash, one to carry, one to sit

If you have never washed your clothes in a bucket and then hung them by moonlight on the roof looking out over the village, then perhaps you have never lived.
I hadn't.

In some ways, I feel I've waited my whole life to do that.
Washing machines make me lazy, allowing me to throw my clothes on the floor whether or not they are particularly dirty, knowing that I can throw them in the wash in my wasteful and western way.
In other ways, it feels awkward hanging my big city panties emblazoned with their materialistic designs--hearts, stars, stripes, hand-painted skull and cross bones--on the roof next to the monastary where they are banging drums and playing prayer games.
Perhaps the pink string bikinis will embarrass the young monks.
I vow to collect them as early in the morning as possible to hopefully avoid affecting their early morning prayers.
I somehow feel that vows of compassion and devout Buddhism don't cover pink panty curiosity.
But what do I know, I've only been here for a few days.