Mistaken Identity

I never told you about my trees. Last year I gathered some seeds from some really tasty fruits that grow on beautiful, big, shady, broad-leaved trees. In February, late summer here, I planted 28 seeds. Most of them sprouted immediately. The remainder sprouted within a month. I’m a lazy gardener so I planted 3-4 seeds per pot, and the pots were small. As they grew they needed to be replanted separately. That’s when I noticed that somehow each seed had produced more than one seedling. Each stem had its own root. So I divided and planted them separately until it was clear I’d run out of bags and pots for them. The rest I left together, figuring they’d probably fuse and grow as one, though trees growing from separate seeds were given their own space. Altogether I counted close to 100 stems and went from tending 10 pots and bags to over 30.

I tended these little seedlings faithfully, making sure they didn’t get too much or too little water, too much or too little sun. They even moved with me as I moved around Mbabane house-sitting hither and yon. That was a mission to load, move, and unload all those plants, and try to keep the back of my car relatively clean. But the seedlings did fine. Some of them had a second transplanting in late September into even larger bags and they showed their appreciation by growing 30-50% taller in just six weeks.

Then I got some bad news. “I’m pretty sure those trees you’re growing are not indigenous,” said the Swaziland botany expert. “In fact they might be a species that’s invasive in other subtropical regions of the world.” Oh no! … Oh no! If that’s true then that means I have to kill my “babies.” I researched and researched to make extra, extra sure she was right before I ended these happy little trees’ lives. Unfortunately, she was right. I nearly cried. It was actually heart-wrenching to know that after all the care and nurturing I had provided to these little innocent creatures I now had to kill them. So, after allowing time to come to terms with it, I uprooted them all in late November.

It was a well-intended cultivation project that could’ve gone terribly wrong if I had been alerted later. I thought I was growing Syzigium guineense, an indigenous tree known as water pear. But instead it was Syzigium cumini, or Java Plum, a tree native to South and Southeast Asia and an invasive in Florida. I intended to plant most of them at schools. I thought, “What a great addition to any school! It’s indigenous and provides a lot of shade, plus the fruits are edible.” Some of my friends also wanted a tree or two for their gardens. But I was mistaken. I had the wrong species. And if the trees had been planted out and allowed to reach their full majestic size and reproductive peak, then 20 years down the road I could’ve been infamous for spreading an invasive alien plant species in Swaziland. That completely goes against the mission of my work here. So wouldn’t that have been ironic.

Like Anticipating a Root Canal - Part II

That Tuesday morning we had a community meeting with the chief of the criminal investigation dept (CID) in Mbabane. Then we had a community meeting in Pine Valley that evening. We organized ourselves into clusters and exchanged numbers for rapid response units of sorts. The pattern shows that these thieves avoid confrontation. So just having a loud angry mob show up is enough to foil their efforts. After meeting, one of the ladies was strongly recommending I return to the caravan. But I strongly rejected her suggestion, pointing out that these guys have a pattern of returning. “Besides, they haven’t broken into the 1-bedroom or my caravan yet. They’ll be back. I’m not staying there until these guys are caught.”

Wednesday morning I got a message from one of the women that the 1-bedroom had been broken into Tues night along with the garage of the property owner farther down the drive from us. Oh no (sinking feeling, fret, fret, fret, chewing fingernails). I spent my free moments that day wondering if the caravan had been broken into. If it had, I was afraid of the damage to the door or other parts. If not, I was wondering if I should move it and where to. Or else it would be nice to post a sign on the door stating, or pictogramming, that there was nothing of value in there so as to avert a break-in.

At 6PM that day I got a phone call. “Your caravan door is open.” Great. I was planning to go to a talk that evening by a fellow hiking friend, one I had been waiting for for months. Oh well. I tried reaching the cops several times but the emergency line was busy. Imagine dialing 911 and getting a busy signal. So I called the chief of the CID. I managed to get a hold of the cops before he arrived, but he still arrived first even though he was returning from the other side of the country.

They couldn’t take fingerprints in the dark so when the cops came they took down the report. Up to that point all I could tell was the guy had used a bush knife/machete to pop the door open. He opened several cans of food and ate fish and beans mixed together in one of my containers. He also enjoyed some milk and several pieces of cheese. He pulled most of my clothes out so they were on the bed and the floor. He left the bush knife on the ground behind the caravan. I didn’t touch anything, so that night I had no idea if anything besides food was taken.

The next morning I returned and the fingerprinting guy came with the CID chief. He dusted black powder all over and lifted several prints. Once he was done the clean-up began. After cleaning as much black dust off as I could I inventoried my stuff. As far as I could tell, the only other things he took were 2 grey sweatshirts, both unisex. One was vintage, as my brother politely said. For anyone from my high school days, it was a sweatshirt from the Dadvale regatta in Philadelphia. And yes, I had gotten it in high school.

So upon assessment and reflection I actually felt relieved. The caravan had been broken into and it was still intact. The door wasn’t damaged. It still closed normally and the lock worked, as long as you didn’t use special tricks to open it. I only lost some food and a couple of sweatshirts. Nobody was harmed. I knew there was a strong possibility they would break in to the caravan so I was anticipating it, with a small measure of anxiety thrown in for good measure. Once it was done though I felt lucky, considering many things that could’ve happened and didn’t.

By the way, despite the benign outcome, I am still staying with friends elsewhere.

Like Anticipating a Root Canal - Part I

There’s been a spate of burglaries in my neighborhood since mid-January. The culprits still haven’t been caught after more than 20 incidents. I’ve been living in the caravan, still, but it’s been in an area called Pine Valley for almost a year, so no longer in the park. Granted, there is minimal security there but it has been safe…up until recently. The downside to the caravan is there’s virtually no way to make it more secure. Besides, since it has no plumbing I have to walk between the house and the caravan every night. So if danger is lurking in the darkness I could have an unpleasant run-in with it.

Now that I’ve got you scared or worried…here’s what happened. Where the caravan is, there’s a house with four single women living in it. It’s maybe 40 yards/meters from the caravan. There’s also a 1-bedroom house on the same lot with one single woman living in it who owns a very large and scary-looking but gentle dog. His name is Roscoe. The woman in the 1-bedroom has a boyfriend who lives about 1km away from us. His house was burglarized at the very beginning of Feb. Our lot has a gate, but it just slides open and closed (no motorized remote control) and no way to lock it. After his break-in we put a chain and padlock on the gate. It was better than nothing. The fence is a simple chain-link with no razor wire on it. In contrast, nearly every house in Mbabane has a fence/wall with razor wire at the top, and some have it along the bottom too. A few properties in Pine Valley have this but many don’t, hence the recent crime wave.

The house had no burglar bars or gates on it. It has wooden front and back doors and a sliding patio door. The patio door simply locked by a latch, no additional bars or locks… I know.

Normally, at least one lady is home in the 4-person house every night. One in particular had recently taken to sleeping with her light on at night.

One Saturday night all 4 women were out, plus Roscoe’s owner. The night-light lady had even gone to a friend’s earlier that day and was spending the night. Hence, her light was never turned on (cue doom music). I was the only one home.

After taking a shower around 10:30PM I retired to the caravan to go to bed. I turned the light off around midnight after reading and went to sleep. A little while later, Roscoe’s owner came home. She was playing loud music in her car. Then she was on her porch talking on her phone really loud. I got up and opened the door to see where she was and why she was being so rude at such an hour. I didn’t see her so I closed the door and went back to bed.

That was 12:30. Shortly thereafter, others returned home. The noise level fluctuated but didn’t die down. I was getting really annoyed. Were these people drunk, or what? I lay there trying to ignore it all. Finally after 1:30AM, two women from the house came to the caravan and told me they had been robbed. “You’re joking!” I replied. Not joking. So I got up and they told me how they found the house in a tell-tale state with their belongings all over the floor in a mess.

Close to 3:30AM the cops arrived to take reports. They had broken in through the patio, didn’t even need to do damage to get in. They used candles and matches to see in the dark, which they had also done at other break-ins. They ate and drank alcohol, which they had also done at other break-ins. They stole electronics, jewelry, and cash totaling about $9,000. Chi-ching! They picked a good spot. And they had definitely been watching us and waiting for their opportunity.

Even more eerie was my discovery in the morning of a nearly empty bottle of gin, which belonged to one of the ladies in the house, along with a candle and matchbox right next to the caravan. Someone had been keeping an eye on me while the others stole stuff in the house. So I called friends in Mbabane and made arrangements to stay with them until further notice. I’m not trying to be a hero!

I took my valuables and a few other things to stay for a couple of days to figure things out. One of the women from the house came with me. Another went and stayed with one of her friends. The other two, who had lost the most, stayed in the house. The owner soon started installing burglar bars on the house.

By the way, Roscoe is the hero in all this. He must’ve barked at the guys when they first entered the property. I didn’t take notice because he and other dogs had been barking nearly every night that week. In hindsight they were probably barking at these guys who were watching us and awaiting their opportunity to strike.

Roscoe’s a scaredy-cat and who knows if these guys threatened him, so he took off to find his owner (Lassie!!). He had never been to the boyfriend’s house before, nor had he been walked that far in that direction, but he found her. She knew something was wrong since her dog was there. So she put him in the car and came home. She was purposely being noisy because she suspected trouble. We are certain her arrival disturbed their progress because we found the backpack from one lady who stays in one end of the house in the doorway of the bedroom of another at the other end of the house, and the 2^nd lady’s memory stick was in the backpack. So two women would’ve lost a lot more if the guys had not been interrupted.

And thank goodness I stayed in the caravan, or else who knows what could’ve happened.

To be continued…