Torn Trousers: A True Story of Courage and Adventure: How a Couple Sacrificed Everything to Escape to Paradise

by Andrew St. Pierre White

  “Excuse me,” I said, pointing at my bags riding on his khaki-clad shoulder. “But I think those are mine.”

  The luggage handler looked me over. “You? Tau Camp?” I nodded. A clipped bow later, he added, “My name is Karomona, Rra. I’m guide. I carry bags.”

  “Rra”, I knew meant “sir” in Setswana.

  Despite his deference, Karomona turned back to the cash-wielding German. They spoke loudly in pidgin English, and the cash vanished into Karomona’s pocket. Fifty dollars richer, he gave me a brown-toothed smile.

  It was my move, so I introduced myself. He offered his hand, and I couldn’t help noticing that all his fingers were deformed.

  “We wait,” Karomona commanded, standing at attention next to our bags, as if someone might sneak up and filch them.

  I watched the busyness. Smiling staff, dressed in kikoys and Tau Camp t-shirts emblazoned with palm trees and a garish sunset, picked up the stock and food items. People boarded the aircraft, engaging in intense conversations and brief good-byes. Then I came back to Earth and looked around. Who were these people? Surely not the camp managers we’d come to replace?

  An out-of-breath voice called from across the strip, answering my unspoken question. “Hello, I’m Barbara. Sorry I wasn’t here to see you off the plane. I left the camp a bit late. Anyway, welcome, welcome.” A sixty-something woman bounded over to join me. Rudely cheerful was how I would describe her face.

  “How far is the camp?” Gwynn asked.

  I expected a long hike given Barbara’s breathless excuses.

  “Just through the trees,” she said, gesturing to the heavily-shaded grove behind her. She pivoted around, headed to said trees.

  The crowd, portering the stock, followed her amid cheerful laughter and banter, none of which I understood. Learning Setswana was rapidly becoming a priority. I grabbed Gwynn’s hand, and we joined the procession. We had not gone more than five paces when we entered the camp.

  From what I could see, the entire place had been built using reeds and poles gleaned from the very spot upon which the buildings stood. Living tree trunks, bent and twisted like old men, propped up faded gold reed walls. The leafy canopy, jutting out of roofs, cast a soft green glow over everything. A multitude of birds chirped, filling the warm air with song.

  In that instant, I fell in love with Tau Camp.

  The wonder of the scenery, however, seemed lost on Barbara, who led us at a fast trot along a freshly swept path between the trees.

  Too soon, we arrived at a spacious reed building at the opposite end of the camp. A portly man dressed in a blue stiff-collared shirt, red cravat, beige linen trousers, and brown flannel slippers, awaited us. His top half looked like a bank manager, and his bottom half like an English out-of-work stock clerk at home watching the football.

  “I’m Rodney, the camp manager,” he said, contradicting me with a stiff upper lip. “I have some forms for you.” He flipped opened a huge ledger on the counter and handed us each a sheet of paper, black with type. “You can use this pen.”

  “They’re indemnities,” Barbara explained, probably seeing our startled expressions.

  “In case you get eaten by a crocodile. Ha-ha.” No guessing that Rodney had used that joke a thousand times before. Even he sounded bored with it. “Do you have travel vouchers?”

  “No, we’re guests of Sean,” Gwynn said, fanning herself with her indemnity against the late afternoon heat.

  “I see.” Rodney slammed his big file shut and exchanged a grimace with Barbara. “Yet another bunch of bloody free-loaders.”

  Barbara nodded in agreement and then said sharply to us, “Number two is yours. Karomona will carry your bags.” She marched off towards a reed cottage a little to the left of reception.

  I looked at Gwynn, who shrugged her shoulders, her face perplexed. With no explanation for this strange welcome—how would Sean’s and Sandy’s friends visiting the camp affect Barbara and Rodney?—we followed her and Karomona along another swept path to our cottage.

  I took a moment to study the camp. Four reed cottages huddled discreetly in a rough semi-circle under the shady trees and bushes. A large reed-fenced enclosure in the centre of the camp blocked the view of the far end. From it, I heard snatches of Setswana interspersed with laughter and surmised that the off-duty staff hung out there. I longed to ditch Barbara to go exploring, but I curtailed the urge.

  From the runway, I had spotted another couple of reed huts, hidden now by the staff area. Sean had mentioned eight guest cottages, housing seventeen people when the camp was full. I stopped on the pathway outside an intriguing cottage. Different than the others, it had a staircase leading to a private lookout post.

  “What’s that?” I asked Barbara with some envy, wishing we were camped there.

  “Number one. The honeymoon suite,” came the cold reply as Barbara powered down the path to the next cottage. Number two, I guessed.

  Not willing to be rushed, I took a moment to admire the clear water in the channel in front of number one. A lanky-legged bird, an Africa jacana, strode across the lily pads, oblivious of me and my frosty welcome to its world. When it disappeared into the reeds towards its nest, I headed for my new home.

  By the time I got inside, a lecture about camp routine had begun. I hardly heard a word because the room blew me away.

  In the centre of the polished ochre-coloured floor stood a king-sized bed, draped in a colourful African-print bedspread. A mosquito net, hung from a frame suspended from the reed roof, surrounded the bed, turning it into a sparkling white cocoon.

  With no glass, the front expanse was open to the elements, with just a low reed wall dividing it from a small garden of cut grass and the reed-lined riverbank. I caught a glimpse of the river as it swallowed and reflected light. As odd as Sean and Sandy were, they really had something special in this camp.

  Tired of Barbara’s monologue, I said, “I want a drink. I assume the tap water comes out of—”

  “The river? Yes,” Barbara said, looking somewhat offended at having her prepared speech interrupted. “Pumped straight out into a tank and then to the tap. Try some.”

  Thanks to thousands of miles of filtering reeds and sand, the waters of the Okavango were amongst the purest in the world and I had no hesitation in drinking it straight from the source.

  I pushed through a curtain of reed beads screening the bathroom. The word “bathroom” in this context is a bit of a misnomer, for there was no bath, merely a shower sans curtain, a basin, and a toilet. Undeterred, I turned on a creaky tap above the stained porcelain basin and poked my face under the gushing water.

  Ever so slightly green tasting, it took me straight back to my youth when, as boy of twelve, I had first sampled this water. Back then, I had been made a promise, which, time proved, had come true. I stuck my head through the reeds and said to Gwynn, “Have you ever heard the Okavango promise?”

  She shook her mass of dark curls. “Nope. I’ve had tons of other people promise me things, but never the Okavango. What can I look forward to?”

  Even Barbara leaned in to listen to my reply.

  “Those who partake of the waters of the Okavango are destined to return.”

  With a giddy laugh, Gwynn joined me in the bathroom.

  It was a tight squeeze.

  Gwynn manoeuvred herself around me and the toilet, and then plunged her hand under the stream of water. I watched her take a deep gulp. Lips smacking—probably for Barbara’s benefit—she declared, “Best water I’ve ever had. I’ll definitely be back.” She took my hand, dragging me into the bedroom to face Barbara.

  Tongue clicking her disgust—probably at our goofing around during her speech—Barbara turned to leave. I shot Gwynn a look, getting her silent approval to let our hostess know the real reason for us being here. Barbara was already at the door when I said, “We’re your replacements, come to look at the camp before we take over.”

  “Typical,” Barbara spat, vying with Sandy for the tit
le of Venom Queen. “Just like them not to let us know. What? Were you supposed to spy on us? Let them know how much we talk about them and their horrible children?”

  “I’m not sure that’s quite what they had in mind,” Gwynn said with a deadpan face.

  Barbara wasn’t fooled. “Huh. You don’t know them like I do.” Head shaking, she flounced off, leaving me feeling like an unwelcome intruder. Again.

  I shrugged off my dismay as Gwynn gave me a quick hug. She flopped onto the bed. “Why should I care about their petty squabbles?” she asked, rolling back and forth across the covers.

  She was right, I hoped.

  I lay down next to her, letting my hand trail playfully across her stomach. “I’m here on a desert island with a beautiful woman. Isn’t that every bloke’s dream?”

  “And you’re going to get paid to stick around,” Gwynn answered, clearly ignoring the suggestion in my tone. “It doesn’t get better than that.” She leapt up, tangled into the mosquito net, swore, clawed free, and raced to the door before I’d even registered she’d moved.

  “Where are you going?” I demanded.

  “The kitchen. Time to find out if my culinary skills are up to the task of running Tau Camp.”

  Chapter 5

  Andrew and I had not gone far down the path when Barbara intercepted us.

  “We’re tracking down the place you make the grub,” I said, embarrassed that we had been caught snooping.

  “Oh, I don’t lift a spoon. That’s the chefs’ job,” Barbara said, with a marked softening of tone. Perhaps she had gotten over her fit of pique. “Come meet them.”

  Rodney grabbed Andrew’s arm as we passed reception. “You don’t want to join the ladies, do you? Come, have a G&T.”

  Gin and tonic was the last drink on Earth that would tempt Andrew, so I wasn’t surprised when his eyes darted after Barbara and me. We were headed towards a reed-and-chicken-mesh building. Cheerful chatter and laughter spilled forth, presumably coming from the staff.

  “Um…maybe later,” Andrew said, edging away from Rodney.

  “Don’t say I didn’t offer.” With a loud harumph, Rodney went back to doing whatever it was he had been doing.

  “The staff sound happy,” Andrew said, catching up as Barbara and I crossed an area of swept sand between the kitchen and reception.

  “It’s New Year’s Eve. They’re anticipating a big bash in the staff village tonight. We’re having a bit of a party as well. Special meal. Champagne. Maybe we’ll even get you and the other guests singing Auld Lang Syne.”

  Champagne or not, I would sing, no problem. Andrew, not so much. Still, it seemed appropriate to be in Tau Camp on New Year’s Eve, with all the changes we were anticipating in our lives.

  We reached the kitchen. Barbara stepped through the door into the dimly lit room.

  The staff’s cheerful banter froze into silence.

  “I told them you’re the new managers,” Barbara said, pointing to the six pairs of watching eyes. “So now they have gone all shy on us.”

  Shyness wasn’t how I described the intense scrutiny with which we were greeted.

  No one said a word.

  I blasted them with my friendliest smile and stole a look around. A gas oven gaped at me from a corner of the room. I knew I was being evil, but I couldn’t resist pointing at it. “I believe you had a disaster on Christmas day. Sandy told us the door fell off.”

  Barbara jerked back as if I had hit her. “That silly cow! Did she also tell you she and her dreadful family are the main reasons Rodney and I are leaving?”

  I shrank, regretting opening my mouth.

  It didn’t deter Barbara, who, now in full diatribe, shouted, “Sandy is a spoilt brat. Stand on your head. Do backflips. Makes no difference. Nothing satisfies her. She’ll send notice that she and her horrible children are coming, and we’ll spend two days scrubbing the camp. Then, the first thing she does is to walk into the kitchen and announce it’s filthy.” Six heads nodded sagely, as if the kitchen staff agreed with every word. “Then we have to start cleaning again.”

  “How often does she visit?” I asked, the first signs of nervousness creeping into my voice.

  “Too damn often. Even the guests don’t like her—and I can prove that.” Barbara opened her arms and, brooking no argument, swept Andrew and me out of the kitchen before her. “Take a seat in the lounge behind reception, and I’ll be right with you.”

  Like scolded children, Andrew and I obeyed.

  I entered the open-air lounge and stopped short, enthralled by a bay of sparkling water in front of the camp. The size of a large swimming pool, it was partially protected from the swirling river by a diminutive island of reeds. Half a dozen mekoro, wooden dugout canoes, lay like giant toothpicks on the grassy bank that rolled down to the crystal water. In the shallows, a pair of Jacana scurried over lily pads.

  On the bank, the harsh, grating call of a black crake sounded from a clump of papyrus that bobbed in the gentle breeze. A small, black water bird with an insanely luminous yellow beak and bright red legs, the crake was elusive and shy. I had always wanted to see one but had never gotten that lucky. Now, it seemed, one lived on my future doorstep.

  “Tau Camp promises to be a bird paradise,” I said to Andrew in awe.

  “Wish I brought my binos out with me.” Andrew glared playfully at me. “But someone was in a bit of a rush to leave the cottage.”

  I grinned. “Sex isn’t everything, you know. Have some self-control.”

  “Why on Earth would I want to do that?”

  Laughing, I changed the subject. “Apart from the war going on between owners and minions, this place is idyllic.”

  Andrew nodded. “But nothing is ever perfect, is it?”

  “Wouldn’t be my life if it was.”

  “You must be the new managers.”

  I turned to see a middle-aged couple standing behind us. The woman waved her hand to encompass herself and the earthy-looking man standing next to her. “Bonnie, and this is Chuck. We’re potato farmers from Idaho, come for a safari in Africa.”

  “How nice for you,” I murmured, turning back to enjoy the view. Then a thought struck. I was supposed to be a camp manger in training. My guests would expect me to be interested in sharing banalities with them. I turned back and smiled. “Andrew and I are admiring the real estate that comes with our new home and office.”

  Bonnie and Chuck settled in a wicker sofa in the lounge, and she beckoned us over to join them. Again, like lambs, Andrew and I obeyed, sitting opposite them.

  “I heard Barbara say something about the owner’s wife.” When I nodded, Bonnie added, “She hasn’t stopped talking about her since we got here two days ago.”

  “Getting mighty tiresome, too,” Chuck drawled, filling his pipe with tobacco.

  “But we grin and bear it,” Bonnie said, just as Barbara strode into the lounge, holding a sheet of paper.

  “Bonnie. Chuck. Welcome,” Barbara said. “I’ve been filling Gwynn and Andrew in on how terrible Sandy and Sean are.”

  “Please, no.” Chuck moaned, looking pained. “We’re not going to read the guest report again, are we?” He’d obviously had enough.

  Barbara ignored him. “I have it here. Okavango Safaris sends each guest who visits the camp an assessment sheet to complete once they’re home. When Rodney and I took our break in September, Sandy came to manage the camp. Of course, she brought her two young sons with her.” With nary a pause for breath, she gushed, “Now, we all know children can be difficult, but these two are, without question, the most obnoxious monsters in Africa. The baboons make less mess.” She waved around the well-thumbed sheet of paper. “And the guests agreed, because this is what one wrote: ‘My stay at Camp Delta was severely marred by the noise and general bad behaviour of the owner’s children. To make matters worse, the advanced stage of his wife’s pregnancy clearly affected her disposition. She was rude, ungracious, and most unpleasant to be with.’” Barbara turned to Andre
w and me in triumph. “So you see, it isn’t just us who think she’s terrible. And when you take over, you’ll have her baby to contend with, as well.”

  “I’m surprised they sent it to you.” I reached for the sheet to check its authenticity.

  Barbara clutched it tighter to her chest. “Those clots in the Maun office sent it here by mistake. But I’m hanging on to it, and when we leave, I’m going to rub Sean’s nose in it.”

  I shot another glance at Andrew to see how he was taking this avalanche of bad news. He was leaning back in his chair, tugging on his beard, a sure sign of serious rumination. It was time for us to talk before he let his rational side derail this for us.

  I stood. “Well, Barbara, you’ve certainly given us something to think about.” My eyebrow raised in Andrew’s direction was enough to get him on his feet.

  We padded silently along the sandy path towards our cottage. I resisted the urge to stop and watch a flock of white-rumped babblers cackling in the thorny scrub near our front door. There would be plenty of time for bird-watching in the future—if I managed to placate Andrew.

  Once in our cottage, I asked, “Do you want to take the job and run the risk of having problems with Sandy?” My stomach clenched with anxiety.

  Despite Andrew’s usual, infuriating caution, his answer was quick in coming. “What’s life, if one doesn’t take a few risks?”

  Heart chirping, I dragged my boy into the bathroom—the only room without a view—and made love to him on three-square-feet of ochre-coloured concrete floor.

  * * *

  It was nearing six o’clock, the perfect time for a sundowner. With a glow any honeymooner would envy, Andrew and I headed for the lounge—and, hopefully, something to eat. My stomach growled like a lion whose last meal had been a predawn bowl of cereal. Lions don’t fancy cereal.

  A vivid pink and orange sunset competed for oohs and aahs with a crackling campfire, blazing in a hollow in the middle of a sandy sitting area in front of the lounge. A circle of director-style wooden chairs invited us in to enjoy the show.