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

by Andrew St. Pierre White

  “You are right, Rra,” Karomona said, looking both surprised and pleased at my deduction.

  Gwynn looked puzzled. “But everything looks the same.”

  That’s how it felt in the city for me. “Wanna ask for directions?” I asked, grinning.

  She stuck her tongue out and flounced off after Karomona.

  Longing to see the river again, I was somewhat irritated when Karomona knelt in the grass for what had to be another turd. When I didn’t quicken my pace, he waved furiously at me.

  Gwynn, walking in front of me, stopped for me to catch up. “I’ve done my bit for animal ablutions,” she muttered under her breath.

  Not wanting to dampen Karomona’s enthusiasm, I grabbed her hand and dragged her over to join him.

  Karomona pointed at some fawn-coloured candy floss, also called cotton candy, lying in the grass. I looked at it and then at him. He picked it up and tore it in half, giving a handful to Gwynn and the remainder to me.

  “Lion droppings,” he said in voice brimming with pride. “About two weeks.”

  The shapeless, odourless mass took on a new dimension as I realised I was holding animal fur that had passed undigested through a lion. Lion crap definitely was cool.

  “This lion, he eat impala,” Karomona explained, jabbing at the fur in my hand. “This time I show you the impala, next time we see the lion!”

  Abruptly, Karomona stood, and, with a spring in his step, led us to the mokoro.

  “I guess he considers our outing a success,” Gwynn said with a question mark in her voice.

  I nodded. “It’s a good lesson, I suppose. Not every walk will bring sightings of the Big Five.”

  “No. But it’s being here that makes it so special.” Gwynn frowned. “And do you really want to meet a lion, on foot, with no weapon?”

  Having once been forced to stare-down a pride of lions feeding on a kill without the benefit of a weapon in my hand, I could see her point. It was not an activity I would recommend, especially not if all our guests were like Bonnie and Chuck. Not much in the developed world prepared one for raw Africa.

  Chapter 7

  By the time we reached the camp, I was more than ready for the breakfast Barbara offered us. Sweaty as I was from our hike, I grabbed Andrew’s hand and dragged him to the dining room without even bothering to freshen up. Bonnie and Chuck were already seated. They looked as weather-beaten and famished as I felt. I collapsed, exhausted, into my usual chair, with Andrew, smelling slightly salty, next to me. Barbara and Rodney took their places at the head.

  “Gorgeous day, isn’t it,” I said to Bonnie, between gulps of orange juice. Trudging through the bush in the sun was thirsty work, even though I had scooped up a couple of mouthfuls of water as Karomona poled us back down the river to camp.

  Bonnie wiped her brow with her napkin. “Got a bit hot at the end of our walk.”

  “Summer in the Kalahari,” Barbara said, nodding her head. “The temperature is nasty.”

  “Not as bad as spring,” Andrew added. “That heat is just murderous.”

  “It was worth it, though.” Chuck helped himself to fruit salad and yoghurt. “We saw giraffe, two buffalo, and, of course, loads of birds.”

  Bonnie fanned herself with her hand. “It must be ninety degrees, and it’s only ten in the morning. Spring is worse than this?”

  “Enough with the weather,” Rodney said. He turned to Andrew—I didn’t think Rodney had actually registered my existence yet. “How did you enjoy your session with the Doctor?”

  “The Doctor?” Andrew looked up from his pile of scrambled eggs and toast.

  “You noticed Karomona’s fingers, I presume?” Barbara said.

  “Hard not to.” Andrew rested his knife and fork on his plate. “What happened?”

  Barbara plunked her elbows on the table and leaned forward conspiratorially. “Before I can tell you what happened to Karomona’s hands, I need to go back to his early childhood. As you know, all parents think their children are the most gifted brats ever born, and Karomona’s were no exception.”

  Barbara clearly had an issue with kids. It eased some of my tension about Sandy’s brood. They couldn’t be nearly as awful as Barbara painted them. “But it wasn’t long before Karomona justified his family’s confidence,” Barbara continued, “because he began to experience strange, life-like dreams. They showed him people’s illnesses and the herbs to cure them.”

  Rodney cleared his throat noisily. “More toast. Anyone? Anyone?”

  Everyone ignored him, including Barbara. “His parents sent him to a sangoma—”

  “A what?” Bonnie interrupted, breakfast forgotten, face intent on Barbara.

  “An herbal healer.”

  “Tosh!” Rodney interjected. “Back in the good old days, we used to call them witchdoctors, which, if you ask me, is what they are. Charlatans and blackguards, all.”

  Barbara threw a scowl Rodney’s way. “Witchdoctors dabble in black magic. Sangoma use white magic to heal people or help them solve their problems.”

  “Black magic! White magic! Someone must surely want more toast?” Rodney swooped a breadbasket around the table.

  Barbara pushed it aside. “No, they don’t. They’re more interested in Karomona.” She smiled at the rest of us. “Anyway, the sangoma he went to live with taught him to interpret his dreams. Once the cause of the sickness was diagnosed—usually an enemy had asked an ancestor to curse the sufferer—the sangoma showed Karomona where to find the herbs to drive out the evil spirits and to placate the dead. Only then would the patient recover.”

  “The damn fool boy and his even more stupid parents allowed that charlatan quack to break Karomona’s fingers,” Rodney cut in. “Since then, he’s been unable to bend his knuckles.” A gasp rose from around the table. “There, done. Now, Andrew, how’s your breakfast?”

  Commenting on the bacon must have seemed somewhat facile after Rodney’s revelation, because Andrew slumped in his chair, saying nothing.

  Chuck filled the silence. “That’s positively barbaric. And his parents allowed it to happen? I can’t believe it.”

  “You won’t believe half the things these so-called civilised people do,” Rodney snapped, clearly disappointed he hadn’t scotched the topic. Still, he added, “As part of his training that quack even told Karomona to swim every day in crocodile-infested waters.”

  “And did he get eaten by a crocodile?” Bonnie asked, barely veiled sarcasm in her voice.

  “No,” Rodney said, equally acerbically. “The crocodiles decided there was more intelligent life in the river to eat.”

  “Oh, Rodney!” Barbara pumped her fist on the table. “That sangoma made Karomona into a very powerful man. Everyone is terrified of him, because a man who can drive out evil spirits can just as easily drive them in. And he happens to be the best tracker in the delta.”

  Rodney snorted. “Until a few weeks ago, when he got lost for two days. Top that. The great tracker managed to lose himself and a bunch of guests in a thunderstorm. Took three days and half the planes in Maun to find them.”

  Barbara gasped, and her eyes widened. Rodney sucked in a breath, looking around guiltily. Clearly, no one was supposed to know about that embarrassing incident.

  “Time to feed the fish eagles,” Rodney said, clambering to his feet.

  “Good idea,” Barbara agreed with forced enthusiasm. “Go, fetch your cameras everyone.”

  Barbara and Rodney dashed out of the dining room, leaving me, and everyone else, speechless. There really didn’t seem to be anything to do other than to leave our eggs to congeal while we got our cameras.

  Once we had reassembled at the bay, Rodney appeared, holding a chunk of raw steak. Two fish eagles, perched on a dead tree on the opposite side of the river, screeched frantically. Rodney moved to the water’s edge, cut a section of papyrus stem, and tied the meat and the stem together with two strands of long grass. “Steak doesn’t float, but papyrus does,” he said to Andrew, as if
he had decided Andrew would be the one performing this task. “Important point, because fish eagles feed off the surface.”

  With the avian audience going wild with anticipation, Rodney turned to the rest of us human spectators. “Cameras at the ready.” He gave a piecing whistle, waved his arm above his head, and threw the meat high into the air. It didn’t go far, landing with a plop a few feet away in the water.

  One of the eagles leaped from its perch and winged towards us. It turned a broad arc as it reached the bay, and I gasped at the rush of air blasting my face as it powered past. With perfect control, it swooped low, dropped its talons, and scooped up its breakfast. Steak safely grasped, it flew back to the dead tree, calling a “thank you” before tearing the meat apart.

  Everyone, including me, broke into spontaneous clapping.

  “Feeding the fish eagles is a winner,” Rodney said. “The interesting thing is, though, only the male responds. The female just shouts comments in the background. Sounds familiar doesn’t it, Andrew?”

  Andrew was too smart—or scared—to rise to that one.

  Barbara turned to us. “So, camp managers, do you want the job?”

  I didn’t even have to look at Andrew to know the answer to that question.

  Chapter 8

  December through March: that’s how long it took for Andrew and me to negotiate our way through house sales and estate agents, car salesmen, and pro film equipment dealers. Finally, we found ourselves at a small provincial airport outside Johannesburg, waiting for our flight to Maun. We were surrounded by two suitcases of clothing, a camera in its case, a tripod, an Apple Mac with a twelve volt converter, a steel box full of tools, and a basket containing a very disgruntled Siamese cat. These and our Land Rover were all that remained of our diminutive empire.

  The road we had travelled to get us from the fish eagle to this terminal building had been nothing short of miraculous.

  Once back in Maun, in the balmy afterglow of our camp visit, Sean had seemed pleased with our decision to manage his lodge. We didn’t know it then, but his smile of delight was a rare treat.

  We had filled our two-day drive home from Maun with talk about our future life, coloured with frightened anticipation. Going to the Okavango remained a huge gamble, in which the stakes were everything we owned in exchange for the great unknown.

  It seemed worth the risk.

  The day after we returned to our small thatched cottage, we put our world up for sale. Our two houses, two of our cars, the aeroplane, the top-end film editing equipment, and numerous computers had to go.

  “Nothing worth doing is easy.” I used that phrase daily to whip my flagging spirit when, after a few weeks, nothing had sold.

  Soon, I had to use it on Andrew, too, as the anchors tying us to Johannesburg tightened their grip.

  Before leaving Maun, Sean told us he would apply for our work permits. He seemed positively sanguine about the process. “A piece of cake. I’ll have them in three weeks. Work starts at the end of January. Be ready.”

  January came and went, and the promised work permits did not materialise.

  Sean was cagy when, after days of trying, we finally reached him on the phone. He mumbled, “This is Africa. Can’t rush things.”

  Continuing with our sales efforts required an act of pure faith. Our faith was obviously lacking because, by the end of February, we had sold nothing of importance.

  Then, in just four days, everything, and I do mean everything, changed hands. After ditching a load of debt, we paid off the Land Rover and put a small sum into savings.

  Now we were committed.

  Still, there was no sign of the work permits. Desperation peaking, we moved into the spare room at Andrew’s parents’ house and settled down to wait.

  And wait.

  Woodie was not impressed. Neither were Andrew and I.

  Borderline panic set in. With nothing to do and all day to do it, we spent our time struggling to get Sean on the phone. An almost impossible task, it seemed, until one day Sandy picked up. She gave us our first command as our new boss.

  Through the snaps and crackles on the telephone line, I heard her say, “I want you to meet Morag. She’s been managing the camp in your absence. She’s on her ten days’ leave and is down in Joburg, visiting family. Call on her. Introduce yourselves. She’ll be training you when you get to camp.”

  If we get to camp, I thought morosely. Still, I scribbled down Morag’s phone number and gave her a call.

  It turned out that instead of visiting family, Morag was moonlighting at a small gift shop not far from where we were staying.

  We agreed to meet.

  On the appointed day, Andrew and I sauntered into the gift shop, looking for someone who looked like a Morag. Only one person occupied the tiny space—a stout woman in her early forties with long red hair. She occupied herself by rearranging lavender cushions on a shelf crowded with teddy bears.

  “Morag?” I asked.

  “That’s me.” Her mother must have been able to see into the future when she named her, because Morag definitely resembled a Morag.

  “I’m Gwynn. This is Andrew. We’re the new Tau Camp managers.”

  Morag looked at me. Then she looked at Andrew. Then back at me. Her eyes hardened, if that was possible, given they already looked like quartz. “I’m too busy to talk about the camp now. We’ll handle all that when you arrive.” With a swat of her hand, she puffed up a stuffed-to-bursting cushion, sending the display of teddy bears tumbling to the floor.

  My mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out.

  Andrew broke the silence. “Sandy said to call on you.”

  “And you have. Now you can go, because I’m busy.”

  I looked pointedly around the shop, verifying that we were the only customers.

  Inexplicably, Morag ignored the gesture. A flash of ire hit me.

  Andrew must have noticed, because he grabbed my hand. “See you when we see you.” He dragged me out of the shop.

  Morag and her extraordinary behaviour dominated our conversation over the next few weeks. With nothing more concrete to suggest, we decided frosty welcomes had to be a Tau Camp thing—something we both vowed to change.

  If we ever got our work permits.

  When Sean finally contacted us at the end of March, we said nothing about Morag because his news was too good to spoil. “I’m sending you some air tickets. You’re coming, work permits or not.”

  It seemed insane, but what choice did we have? Tau Camp just had to work out for us.

  Back on the tarmac at the airport, I glanced at my watch again. I had been looking at it every five minutes for the last four hours. Our plane to Maun was delayed, and no one could tell us why. We had cleared customs ages ago and—in the absence of a functioning departure lounge—waited on the apron next to a twin-engine Piper Seneca we had been told would take us to Maun.

  Despite being March—autumn in southern Africa—the sun beating down on us was cruel. Worse, Woodie hadn’t stopped yowling since we left home at first light, and nothing I did pacified her. I was as bad-tempered as she was.

  Another hour passed.

  Then, a uniformed pilot sauntered towards us, clutching a handful of papers. “This is hello and goodbye,” he said. “Screw up with the arrangements. Some genius double-booked me.” He bent down and smiled at Woodie. “A cat, huh? Siamese. Pretty. Got three at home. Anyway, gotta fly. Someone will be along shortly to get you guys to Maun.” He disappeared into our plane, started the engines, and taxied away.

  Andrew pulled me out of the prop wash, and we both slumped down next to Woodie.

  “He can’t be serious,” I moaned. “Even if we make it to Maun today, we’ll miss our connection to Tau Camp.”

  “Great. Homeless in Maun, with an angry Siamese cat.”

  “Excuse me,” another pilot said, looming over me. This one curled his lip at the cat box. “What is that?”

  “A cat,” I replied, in no mood for humour
.

  “I see that. But I’m allergic to the buggers. That thing is not getting on my plane.”

  I leapt to my feet and thrust my jaw out at him. “That thing, as you call it, is getting on your plane. And she’s flying to Maun. With us.”

  “No way, lady. Not unless you want us crashed somewhere in the desert.”

  Back pulled straight, I locked eyes with him. It didn’t help; he still towered over me. But I wasn’t letting a little height difference deter me. “That cat has a ticket to fly to Maun. Today. With us.”

  “It’s not getting on my plane.”

  “Then find another pilot. And plane.”

  “There aren’t any.”

  This was High Noon all over again.

  I knew I was being unreasonable—the man did have an allergy, after all—but it wasn’t Woodie’s fault the company screwed up. And what was I supposed to do? Abandon her at lost luggage until they organised another flight for her? Not a chance.

  Andrew nudged me, and I spun to face him, hoping he had a solution to the impasse. “Maybe if she goes at the back?” he ventured.

  “Not happening. Dump it.” The pilot started towards a plane on the other side of the apron. “There are lots of wild cats around here. It’ll soon settle in.”

  “I’ll cover the box with a wet towel,” I hissed, barely resisting the urge to hit him.

  He must have got the message that he courted a black eye, because he hissed back, “Drench the towel.”

  Within fifteen minutes, we were in the air. We sat in stony silence, listening to the drone of the engines and a faint meowing coming from the back.

  This was not how I’d imagined I’d enter paradise.

  Chapter 9

  Night was closing in over Maun when Gwynn and I landed—safely, despite the pilot’s predictions to the contrary. Once through customs, we heaved Woodie and our luggage into the arrivals hall, hoping someone would be there to meet us. We weren’t left standing long before a smiling woman walked up to us with her hand out in greeting.