I had
been sad - no, no, worse, bordering on morbid - for nearly three
weeks.
I
hadn't been going for my ritualistic tri-weekly long distance runs.
The runs that strengthen my body. The runs that work my heart and
drive blood through my veins. The runs that settle my mind of muddle
and confusion from life on earth. The runs that clear my
conscientiousness to a state pure placidity. The runs that help me
take a good poop the next day.
My
running hiatus was not caused by injury, nor lack of motivation, nor
the ridiculously hot climate. The cause of my cease in running was
much, much, MUCH stupider.
Among
my dog's many remarkably charming attributes, Fuzz also has his
vices. One such vice is his obsessive affinity for removing my
shoes from the house to chew on them in the yard. Now listen, I'm
not much one for aesthetics, especially here in Africa; a few bite
marks are nothin to me!
Dad always said, "B, function over form. Function over form.
No logical human wants a nice, pretty piece of crap that doesn't work
worth a darn." But the nommy-marks weren't the problem.
Usually
he does his chewing right by the shower. 'Where is my shoe?' I would
think. Immediately I'd reply to myself, 'Ah, yes, that dusty patch
nearest the shower.' And always, unfailingly, it would be there.
Easy find.
This
time, however, this time was something different. It wasn't next to
the shower. Nor behind the shower. Nor anywhere near it, for that
matter. It wasn't behind the staff bungalows. It wasn't in the
cement pit of despair (Carolyn, you know what I mean). It wasn't in
the filthy, smelly garbage pile. It wasn't in or around the row of
thick green shrubs in front of my house. Then, suddenly, it hit me.
"Oh,
shit, *more vulgar curse* ....it's somewhere out in the cashew
grove."
Now I
know, that may not sound that bad, but Fuzz roams the several
hectares of cashew groves daily. Not only that, but
since it is dry season, the cashew trees are dropping their leaves.
In other words, my shoe was in the quite cliché
position of being a needle (dirty gray shoe) in a haystack (several
hectares of ankle-deep, light brown leaves).
So, I
looked and I looked. My searches were in vain. The shoe was no
where to be found. I loved
those shoes. They had been with me since the beginning. I mean
really the beginning, April of 2012. I was desperate. Then
miserably hopeless. Then totally dejected. Then just resigned.
Some
two weeks later, long after I had stopped worrying about it, some
little girls were milling around my house - per usual - apparently
waiting for some attention or interaction. They were around 8 or so
in age, thin, very pretty, and obviously sisters. I had an idea,
feeling inordinately brazen for a Tuesday afternoon, I strode into my
room and grabbed the lone left sneaker. I returned to the yard,
pointed to the shoe, then out into the cashew grove, and said, "KƆ
hƆ wƆ
cashew dua no ne hyehyɜ me
shoe no." Literally in English, "Go there in the cashews
trees and look for my shoe." They smiled, nodded, and ran off.
I
parked myself on the porch to catch a breeze and to work on the
following week's science test. Midterm exam to be exact. It had been
about two hours and no sign of the girls. 'Oh well,' I thought,
'They gave up just like I did - can't blame them.' Supposing I might
as well finish up the test while I was at it, I continued typing
away. The topics were (1) Soil Conservation, (2) The Nature the
Water Molecule, and (3) Acids, Bases, and Salts. Somewhere between
the polarity of H2O and hydrogen bonding, I heard distant,
but distinctly gleeful shrieking coming up the eastward path toward
my house. I stood so abruptly and roughly that I nearly threw my
computer to the ground.
"...No
*f-word*ing way..." I said aloud, completely befuddled.
But
there they were. Two adorable, tiny little ladies sprinting down the
path with my shoe held high in the air, like Usaine Bolt with the
Jamaican flag after an Olympic 100m dash.
Upon
their arrival I embraced them vigorously. Which was as much to their
surprise as it was to their great delight. I went quickly inside the
house, and returned with two 20 pesewa pieces (20 pesewas is worth
about a dime in the US). I placed a small tarnished coin in each of
their small dirty palms.
Wide-eyed
and with an open mouth smile, they looked down at the coins in their
hands, then at each other, then at me. "Thank you Madam!!!!!"
they squealed with rejoice as they ran/ skipped/ bounded down the
opposite, westward path homeward.
20
pesewa pieces held with pride, high in the air all the way.
'No,
no. Thank you girls!' I thought, a shoe in each hand. Ahhhh,
finally reunited. I went running that evening for about an hour /
approximately 7 miles. And it was AWESOME.
CASE
CLOSED
One
last note: A bit of profound thinking... Since I am into that kind of
thing these days... Win-win situations are a great deal, right? Well,
I think my interaction with those two little girls was probably the
most genuine and deeply joyful win-win situation I have ever been a
part of.
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