I am woman, hear me explain

In spite of offers I've had to do the work for me - at a price, of course - I still do my own laundry. I've been told many times it's a woman's work, but then that's the reason I won't let a woman do it. Even if I were to pay her.
Women aren't politically or culturally equal to men anywhere, though in Guinea the inequality is more pronounced than in most Western countries. Even though women can be seen riding motorcycles, driving cars (neither very often because of poverty), and holding political office (less than a fraction of one percent), Guinea has a long way to go. I figure at least the children near me will grow up aware that men - even if only white men - are capable of doing their own laundry.
It goes beyond that, however. Between laundry, the tree nursery, washing dishes, and bathing, I haul a lot of water out of a 50-foot well. (When I get home, don't ask me if I've been working out, I haven't. I just take two bucket baths a day.) Getting water, as I'm told at least three times a week, is women's work.
The other day the women and men near the well were ragging on me for wearing a couple bracelets. Men here wear metal bracelets; mine, a gift from a friend and therefore worth wearing, are beads on a string. Très feminin. It didn't help that I was hauling water at the time, either.
My usual retort about the water is that in America, whoever needs water gets it for themself. If Guineans don't know what a faucet is, it's not my fault, but the ease with which Westerners obtain our bath water doesn't mean we still don't get it for ourselves.
I won't change attitudes: when some women were asking me why I'm not married, we got onto the price of marriage. I tried to explain that we don't purchase wives in America (conveniently ignoring engagement rings for the sake of argument), but one of the women told me she was worth five cows and I forget how many bags of rice. For her, the high price was a point of great pride.
The best part is, I can't get away from being called a woman even when I come into the big city. My fellow Americans label me woman for my excessive love of/devotion to chocolate and for wearing a skirt-like panya around the house.
No, I won't change attitudes anywhere, but I'll continue to be an example of the way things could be. It's just as well that I enjoy destroying fabric on a ridged plastic board while harsh soap eats holes in my chocolate-stained skin.