Slice of Life, Evening of August 12 2017: My new friend, Dorothy

It was nearly 7pm, and the sky was an inky back. I sat inside my living room with the door wide open, the magnetic mosquito net in the doorway creating a barrier between me and the outside.

I sat on the bench inside my house, watching a movie on my computer, as I heard the familiar clack-clack-clack of the magnetic mosquito net closing. I looked up, and inside my house was a little girl named Dorothy. I’d seen her several times this week at the loved and today she’d spent a good part of the late morning watching me reorganize my food bins, water my plants, and wash my dishes. Here she was again, standing in the doorway, watching me sit at my computer.

She walked over, her index finger hanging from her mouth. She grabbed the edge of the bench with both hands and leaned her weight on her arms so her feet dangled above the ground. I asked her why she wasn’t singing with her family next door, and she gave an indistinct grunt. I laughed and closed my laptop. I walked toward the door, but she rushed ahead of me so she could be the one to open the magnetic curtain. She held it open wide, her arm span just barely reaching the width of the door, as I stepped through. She carefully slid on her black flip flops, and I sat on the chair on my veranda.

I sat there and looked over to the loved. It was already over yesterday, but lots of family remained and appeared to be praying before a big meal. I recognized the song they were singing as something I’d heard in church. Dorothy sat on the concrete fence of the veranda and watched me. I smiled at her, then climbed into my hammock beside the chair. She quietly watched me, examining the swing from all sides, and then crouched out of my sight. I pulled aside the hammock’s edge and peeked at her. “Do you want to come inside?” She lightly raised her eyebrows and stepped around to the front.

She stepped out of her flip flops as I turned her to face away from me, then hoisted her onto my lap. I then turned us both to be parallel with the hammock. I scooped her into my arms and used my right hand to lightly push us away from the house’s wall to give us a little swing.

I watched Dorothy as she layed in my arms, sucking on her thumb. I asked her her age, and she told me she was five. I asked her her mother’s name, and she said Mari. I asked her what village she lived in, as many people attending the loved were from other villages or even islands. She seemed to respond positively to Nguna, but I couldn’t determine the village.

Eventually she fell asleep, her hands falling to her lap, and then to her side, as her mouth opened, slightly agape. I sat there and held her, listening to the bustle of the party next door. There was the thumping bass of reggaeton, the hum of a generator, and the low chatter of family gathering to eat. I looked over occasionally, wondering if her mother was somewhere in the crowd, looking for her.

My American mentality had me worried slightly. Did I accidentally kidnap this girl? I am a stranger to this girl’s family, and she just walked into my house and fell asleep in my arms. They’ve never met me. But this is okay here, I kept telling myself. This isn’t a thing as it would be in the states. She is five, but she’s free to roam around in a possibly foreign neighborhood at night. I am a stranger, but all strangers are trustworthy until proven otherwise.

Even so, as I watched her chest gently heave with sleeping breaths, I wanted to be sure her family wasn’t looking for her. I pulled my arm out from under her neck and grabbed her feet with the other hand, sliding them into place in the hammock as I stood up. I walked over to the neighbor’s house and asked some mamas in the dark where Mari was, Dorothy’s mom. A woman led me through the crowd to a short woman carrying a flashlight. I explained that Dorothy wandered into my yard, was sleeping at my house, and that she could retrieve her whenever she was leaving, no rush. She laughed and thanked me, and I returned to my house.

About fifteen minutes later, Dorothy’s teenage sister came by to get her. I scooped up Dorothy’s limp sleeping body and bent down to grab her slippers. I’m always amazed at how sleeping children stay asleep.  I carried her to her father’s arms in the neighboring yard. Her father explained they were actually from a village in northern Efate, and not Nguna as I’d previously assumed. They asked my name and I told them I was a Peace Corps volunteer who’d just moved here. Internally, I concluded that I may never see Dorothy again. Her parents and I exchanged smiles and goodnights, shook hands, and I returned to my house.