Wish You Were Here

2/1/10

I open my hut door as quietly and slowly as I can, holding on tight to my keys as I lock my door shut behind me. Did she hear that? I wonder. She knows the sound of these dangling keys. I turn and grab my bag and make my way toward our front gate. I struggle to unlock the chain while scraping the biting ants off my legs with my feet. Walking as fast as I can now with a quiet toe ball heel I don’t look back. Locking eyes with her will only encourage her to follow. Deep exhale now, I am sure I am out of sight. I take the back way to town. My morning walk to Siphofaneni is MY time. Less people use this route. Less “How are you’s!” “I want to marry you!” and “Please may you borrow me’s”. More of my thoughts. My daydreams. A rocky terrain, I hear footsteps quickening behind me and a heavy panting. Shit. I turn.

She found me.

She wags her tail hard while looking up at me smiling big. So proud of herself. I do what I can throwing rocks shouting “Hamba!” “Suka!”. She cowers and continues to follow with her head down and tail between her legs. But soon we are walking side by side. Our heads up starring at the bright light streaming between the leaves and that crisp golden wind kissing our faces. She takes in the smells and all the surrounding stories. All the stories I’ll never know. Her secret.

It is our routine every morning. I don’t like her following me to town. Shebali is not good with cars and people are not good with her. But they are starting to get used to her and she is minding the “traffic“. Every person that passes gawks, laughs, or stares. Even to community gatherings she is by my side. I walk into a meeting head down and hands up showing my utmost humility and respect. I sit on a cinder block with her head on my lap as community members ask for help. I stroke her head as she looks up at me smiling. Another chicken project idea another business plan thrown at me. Another one of my, “I’ll see what I can do.” And we leave. So many times she has scared off mentally ill man for me and any other man brave enough to approach me with her by my side. I carry rocks in my pocket as we enter new territories. She knows when we are not on our “grounds” anymore. She lowers her head, slows her pace, and is glued to my side. Dogs begin to bark and chase. I stand my ground as she whimpers and I throw my rocks, chest raised.

We take care of each other.

This is the season of no school and a Peace Corps Volunteer’s loneliness. The loneliness of the bare trees and the bare branches encircles you. You are alone standing in the dead grass. Your eyes close as you walk through it tearing off the browned tips of this tired tall grass. An audience is always starring. You’re public property of Swaziland, what did you expect. School is out and work is scarce. My outlet of being with children and working in schools has been absent since November. But it’s OK. Shebali and I have our small enclosed world. A warmth between us. The dead empty branches in the low veldt become more beautiful to me when I have her by my side . My little hut is our breath and light, the two of us in it and the big hot world outside.

Another long tiring day. Another cancelled meeting. On the way home a group of old women laugh at me for knowing so little Siswati as I allow them to drink out of my nalgene. Shebali and I lie on the cool cement floor of my hut. Tongues draped out of our mouths panting hard and our heads leaned in together. I complain and she listens. She listens as I tell her about this place called America. My plans to bring her home with me. The dog parks. The changing seasons. The color and smells. You know, the things a dog would notice and appreciate.

At night we sit on my stoop starring up at the stars. Her three puppies try hard to suck at her breasts but she is weaning them off now. She looks up at me annoyed. How cute it would be if dogs could roll their eyes. I grab the little buggers and try to distract them so she can rest. She breaks up the food I give her and encourages her little ones to eat solids. She has given them all her milk and is loosing too much of her weight. I try hard to feed her as much as I can. She and the pups.

Today we walk along the narrow bridge to Siphofaneni. Her least favorite part. Only a small edge for people to walk on as large buses pass. A tight rope in a circus and a rushing river below. There have been times I have literally had to carry this large animal across. I tell her if she is going to live with me in The States she has to get used to this. We find a little piece of concrete sticking out over the water. We take a seat and watch the water flow. A gathering of cows are crossing the high sand bar today. We watch them push the little calves on through the deep parts. People walk by laughing and starring. I have never seen anyone stop and sit on this bridge. I have never seen anyone sit admire the beauty here. They rush to Siphofaneni. This bridge only a way to get them from here to there. Siphofaneni is shit. Shouting kombi drivers, cows eating trash because there is no grass, the stench and smell of sweating, that complicated human smell. But this river, she is talking, on the edge of something beautiful, important, and real. Are Shebali and I the only ones seeing this? For now, its ok. We prefer to be alone in our spot in our amazement and awe.

We return home to our shared hut and our shared routine.

But I knew better. I knew this was temporary. The big hot world outside was just waiting to swallow her whole. Waiting to dissipate our hut, our friendship, and our bond. I always knew she’d never make it home with me. She wouldn’t survive the next year and a half. Not here. Not on this homestead. It was all just too good to be true.

I open my hut door as quietly and slowly as I can. I hold on tight to my keys as I lock my door shut behind me. Did she hear that? I wonder. She knows the sound of these dangling keys. I turn and grab my bags and make my way toward our front gate. I struggle to unlock the chain while scraping the biting ants off my legs with my feet. Walking as fast as I can now with a quiet toe ball heel I don’t look back. Walking as fast as I can…

But of course, a few minutes later, quickening steps and a heavy panting. She is behind me. I have given up trying to convince her to stay. She follows me to my bus stop. A pick up truck slows down and pulls over . I jump in the back. She follows for as long as she can smiling the whole way. I wave goodbye. And soon she is out of sight.

Two days later. I return home. Like every time I leave site I cannot wait to return to see her smiling face. My favorite moment rounding that corner right before our homestead. Seeing her look up and howl loud wagging her tail running towards me. Her pups trying hard to keep up. I round that corner and look for her smiling face today. The children get to me first and grab my bags. The three pups bite my ankles as I walk onto the homestead. Sakhile looks at me and says, “Simphiwe Shebali is finished.” She laughs then drags her index finger across her throat and rolls her eyes back with her tongue sticking out. “Unamanga.” I say. “You lie.” I walk to the main house. Nobandile (the eldest on the homestead, 14) walks out to greet me.

“Where is Shebali?” I ask.
“I don’t know.” She replies.

I ask her to ask Sakhile what happened. Nobandile quickly tightens. Grave concern covers her face now. I brace myself.

“She says they beat her to death.”
“WHO. WHO beat her to death?!” I yell.
She looks down, “Tommy.”
Tommy. One of Gogo’s children, in his thirties. The one who hung Shebali’s first born from a tree because he was sick. The one who waited until I left the homestead to kill him. The one who has watched me for months hold Shebali in my arms. Walk side by side with her. Feed her and care for her.

“WHY Nobandile! WHY!” The tears start to collect as I ask these painful questions.
I see Gogo sitting fat on her couch through the open window. The folds of her body shine and sweat. You get lost in her angles. Which of these curves was her breast? TV on in front of her. Like always. She talks to Nobandile.

“She says she and another dog ate some goats.” Nobandile translates.
Tears streaming down my face. I look at Gogo and ask again “Why?” She looks back at me and laughs hard. A flash of real anger pure and unreasonable. My fists tighten. I am being made fun of. Left with a bitter aftertaste I wobble slowly back to my hut trying hard to find the rhythm of my feet again. I close my door, sit on the edge of my bed and weep hard. The tears, sweat, and sunscreen burn my eyes. I look into my broken pieces of mirror. My eyes deep and dark rimmed- injured. My face- sweat and swollen. I am aging. Was this wrinkle here before? This line, this crease? Are these the lines of a 26 year old? Or a volunteer heavy with the little tragedies Swaziland has to offer?

I open my door again. The sky is a faded maroon, bruised like me. I am public property again. I stay quiet with my sorrow. I am stripped and empty with an audience of confused children. The little one runs to me. He wraps his little arms around my leg, “Pee-whey, sorry Pee -whey.” The noon sun is leaning heavy against my head and the puppies complain of thirst. I walk over to the JoJo tank and pour water into a bowl. I sit and stare. Setsabile asks me, “Simphiwe. Why do you always sit like a man?” I turn my head and ignore. Nobandile walks over to me. Her face is heavy with pain also. I am surprised. She hates dogs. I wonder if the pain she is feeling is because of the pain I am feeling. In some way- this comforts me. She slides down next to me and we sit in silence. There weren’t any magic words that were going to make any of this better. We both knew this.

She tells me she’s sorry. She tells me she didn’t know.

Today was her first day back to school and I’m ready for a new subject.
“How was your first day back Nobandile?“ I ask.
“It was fine.“
“Are you happy to be back with all your friends?“
“I am happy to be back. But I don’t have any friends.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because I am number one in my class. They are jealous of my marks. I am the smartest.”
This I believe. Nobandile has always amazed me with her thoughts and questions.
“But I don’t need any friends.” She continues.
“Well. Shebali was my friend. I lost my best friend today.” I extend my arm out towards hers, palm facing upwards. “Would you like to be mine?” I ask.
“Ok.” She smiles back. And grabs my hand.

We sit on the side of the house, the puppies playing, alone in our thoughts. Two friends now. “They” tell me she is my “sisi”. My sister here. But this new family of mine… calling them my “family”. The word is like a blanket. Covering up rather than showing what is really underneath. Two cultures colliding. A family told by their chief they had to take on another volunteer for sake of the community‘s needs. My “family” is a given term and certainly not an earned one. Nobandile has earned her title friend. I am happy to be her friend now.

Tommy returns home. I stare hard as he walks by and does his usual insincere greeting.

“Where is Shabli?” I ask.
He refuses to make eye contact. Like last time I asked where a dog was that he had killed. The fear in his eyes comforts me.
“Ah, she left. She is gone.” He says with a flicker of his hand.
“Gone? Where?” I push.
“We had to kill her. She was eating goats. We put a rat poison in the goat meat she had killed. She died day before yesterday.’

I am familiar with this death. While in Thailand I found a dog that had been poisoned. Foaming out the mouth and sitting in it’s own shit convulsing and panting heavily. I struggled to find someone to help me take him to the nearest vet (the only vet on the island). The Thai laughed at the silly white girl running around throwing money at any taxi driver who would agree to ship this shit covered creature to a clinic ten minutes drive away. “OK…. 200 Bhat!” I yelled. The owner of a pick up truck agrees but refuses to help me lift the large dog into the back. I find some Canadian surfers playing cards. I beg them to help me get the dog in the truck.
They shrug and complain, “We’d rather not.”
“Well I’m not leaving until someone helps me.“ I cross my arms. “I’ll grab the shit end. Come on.” One dread locked gypsy pant wearin hipster finally agrees. Ten minutes and a new white dress covered in feces later and I am helping the vet (British woman) lie him out on the surgery table. We proceed to pump his stomach with a black charcoal substance. She gives him something for the pain. An hour later and he’s going to be ok. She looks up at me and says, “A few hours later and this poor guy would have died. You saved him from what could have been the last and most painful hours of his life.”

I was unable to save her from her last and most painful hours of her life.

Tommy still refusing to make eye contact with me continues on. “But I think she was sick with what the other dog had. She was foaming at the mouth.”
“It wasn’t distemper that killed her Tommy. The poison you fed Shebali had moved to her brain causing her organs to shut down. Her nervous system was shot and therefore causing her to foam out the mouth and seizure. It’s a slow painful way to die. And it can take days.”

The sun is setting and it‘s taking everything in me not to explode. I stand and walk past him.
“Where is the body?” I ask.
He points, “That tree there. The third tree down. She is under that one. I buried her.” Buried her. The most humane thing he has done yet.
The three puppies follow and we make our way towards the third tree down.

It’s clear where her body lies. A shallow grave. The flies are swarming close to the dirt. I take a seat next to her. Her babies walk through the flies and begin to dig. They whine and bury their noses in the fresh soil. They soon tire and take a seat next me.

Right now, I long for live music, a symphony of violins and sad instruments playing my emotions. I long for the company, and a hand to hold. I close my eyes and see a museum full of confusing paintings. I’m eight years old again, with my father, and I find my favorite one at the bottom of the stairs. A painting of Armageddon and soldiered demon pigs dragging the unfortunate ones down down down. God with his arm outstretched and his little baby angles saving all they can. I keep my eyes close to the ones suffering at the bottom of the painting. I like the look of agony. True and real. I close my eyes and see gardens and labyrinths of green. Buddha statues standing in pools of water in Thailand. The sunshine and a cool breeze breathing on the back of my neck and my once short hair . I close my eyes and I think of all the things I’m walking towards. I think of the future.

I feel like I’ve been traveling upside down lately. Lost in this cultural labyrinth. Schools out and this has been a season of dead batteries, never-ending dirt filled fingernails, the same song over and over again, eating handfuls of popcorn on my dirty cement floor, once white t shirts gone brown, long walks going no where, hanging upside down from my bed wondering why why why. A cow’s life, a pig’s life, a dog’s life are they worth more than my own? Than a person’s? Shouldn’t they be the little things that don’t matter? I’m here for the people not the dogs. I want to feel close to humanity again.

I tell her I’m sorry. I’m sorry I let her down. I left her, she got hungry, and now she’s gone. I promise her I will take care of her babies. Not even two months and six dogs on my homestead have died. A volunteer reminds me, “When Peace Corps asked you what you wanted from site. You didn’t say anything about electricity, location, family, or NGO’s. All you said was you didn’t want to be on a home that hurt dogs.” It’s ironic, but impossible for Peace Corps to predict or prevent.


It’s getting late. We stand to go. I slowly find my pace again. A rhythm to this lonely walk. A kick. A glide. A rest I think I can settle into. My hut, blue depressed and half lit now. My “family” and I, we are OK. We are going to be fine. This is never going to be perfect. Volunteers urge me to talk to Peace Corps and ask for another family. But I can’t leave them.

That night I grab a ball and ask the kids if they’ve ever played the game 500. The sky lights up and a storm is coming. We continue to laugh and play as lightening branches her way up through the black sky. I’ve never seen anything like it. Normally Shebali would be running between us jumping and trying hard to catch the ball. But not today, or ever again. The wind is blowing hard now and I pretend it’s her still trying to run through us and catch that ball.

I lie in bed trying again to stay away from my thoughts. I’ve never been good at it. It reminds me of that scene in Ghostbusters. The Devil wants them to choose their destructor. They try hard to clear their minds, which the Devil can apparently read. But one, Ray, fails. He’s unable to think of nothing. He chooses the sweetest destructor of them all. I am thinking of my destructor. Her last moments. Her last breath. Alone. Suffering. Scared and confused. I jump out of bed. I tell myself. I need to bring myself closer to the people again. I pull out flour, butter, salt, and oil. I mix it all together. With an empty wine bottle I flatten them out. I work out my anger and pain. One after the other I roll and knead roll and knead roll and knead. Tears and sweat. I make 40 tortillas.

The next morning I grab 40 tortillas and make my way to the front gate. I scrape the biting ants off my legs as I struggle to open it. I take a few steps and stop. I turn back and look. No quickened steps. No heavy panting. I am alone.

I continue to walk and try to move on without her by my side. Moments later, however, I hear many footsteps behind me. I hear a whimper and I turn. Three mini Shebali’s follow close behind smiling up at me. No longer alone, we walk together. They weave in and out of my footsteps causing me to nearly crash over and over again. It’s pathetically sweet.

Finally, we are here.

I struggle to open another front gate. The ants biting. The dogs whimper and roll in the grass trying hard to brush the little bastards off. We make our way to the center of the homestead. A gogo is sitting with her maize. She smiles. She remembers me. She stands to shake my hand. Behind her sit’s the woman I had visited weeks and weeks ago. The woman living with AIDS, cancer, two deaf ears, and nine children with no father. Again, I am lost in her eyes. The curiosity has left them though. She smiles at me today. This family only knows Siswati. I speak with the few Siswati words I know. I struggle to find something to say. I hand over the tortillas. They are more than gracious.

I pull out my computer and ask the family if I can show this Mother a movie. She, her children, and her mother gather around my computer shoving tortillas in their mouths. But she is not hungry. Polar bears and penguins birds and waterfalls…..and her children only care about the tortillas. They fight over who gets the last one. I look up at her. Her eyes only on me. She doesn’t care about the penguins and the waterfalls. But I’ve brought you the world I think. I don’t understand. I help her back outside to sit on her mat and see she has urinated all over herself and there is feces on her skirt. I see Gigi in her. I lie her down and ask one of her children to get me a new diaper. She never takes her eyes off me as I struggle to push aside her folds and parts and bring the diaper between her legs. “All better.” I say with a smile. She looks at me with those eyes. Those haunting eyes. An emotion in them I cannot translate. It’s not a look of shame or anger or confusion. She is trying to tell me something. The only way she can. I tell them I’ll be back in a few days. Maybe next time I’ll try music. I am told she can hear a bit.

That night, I celebrate Nobandile’s birthday with her. We eat cake and sit outside on my stoop. Most of the children here don’t know their birthdays. I ask them to make one up. “Pick a day and we’ll celebrate it.” I tell them.

“Kusasa!” They yell. “Tomorrow!”.

I tell them my birthday. “OK. Eleventh of September!” They shout. I’m used to sharing my birthday so I don’t mind. Nobandile asks me about the universe, about God, and the rain. I explain best I can.

“So how do you know teachers and textbooks are telling you the truth?” She asks me.
I laugh. “Well. It makes sense to me I suppose. And I guess I have…..faith.”
She crosses her arms, “But you are not religious. And you have faith?”
“We all have faith in something.” I explain.
“Well not me. I have too many questions and secrets. I can’t go to anyone with. Not even my mother.” “What about Gogo?” I ask, knowing that her mother left her to live with Gogo when she married another man.
Nobandile laughs, “Telling Gogo your secrets is like telling them to a crocodile. She’ll just chew them up and spit them right back out at you.”
“Well, since we’re officially friends now. You can always ask me. Or tell me anything. And if I don’t have the answer, I will find it for you. Best I can.”

We make a deal. Every time I go to town she writes down five questions. I am to research and find her her answers. I hug her and say goodnight. She gets half way to the main house and stops. She turns back, “Thank you. For today. For my birthday.” She lets down her wall, her 14 year old sass, and smiles.



I wish you were here. I don’t want to be here anymore without you. But I have a family that needs my help. School starts tomorrow, and there will be more…so many more.... that need help.