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

by Andrew St. Pierre White

  She whistled for her dog, which was sniffing up a tree. When it ignored her, she called a sharp, “Hazel! Come here. Now.” Vaguely brow-beaten, Hazel ambled off after her.

  I joined Gwynn in our new lounge.

  “There’s a psycho if you’re looking for one,” Gwynn said, still holding the cat box.

  She was right, but I wasn’t adding fuel to this fire. “Help me check the place out for cat safety before you let Woodie out.”

  That sent Gwynn scurrying.

  It took less than a minute to explore our new home. It was all one room, divided into three sections with letaka walls. On one side, stood a king-sized bed draped in a mosquito net, and on the other, a sitting area with two wicker chairs and small table. Behind these, a long, narrow walk-in cupboard, and a shower, basin, and toilet. The front wall, opening onto our garden, was about a meter high. Airy. That’s how best to describe it.

  And that was a problem for Woodie.

  “I see a matata,” Gwynn said.

  Not wanting to deal with this, I grabbed my binoculars—they had at least made it onto the plane. “There’s a bird on that bush I don’t recognise.”

  “Woodie,” Gwynn said, ignoring me, ignoring her. “How are we supposed to lock her up for a few days and put butter on her feet?”

  Butter on her feet? Gwynn really thought that old wives tale about buttering a cat’s paws would work to stop Woodie running away? Laughter bubbled up before I could stop it.

  Then saw I her face.

  I cleared my throat, coughed once, and spluttered, before saying, “Just let her explore. She won’t go far from us.”

  Gwynn’s hands found her hips. “And when we go to Scops Camp?”

  I didn’t have an answer. Neither did she.

  Woodie gave a plaintive whine. I opened the cage and she slunk out, not talking to us. With trepidation, I watched as she smelt every corner of the cottage and every blade of grass in the garden. Her hair rose with each new, unfamiliar scent. By the time Morag arrived to fetch us, she looked like a Siamese toilet brush. She took one gawp at Morag and dashed to her new hiding place amongst our clothes. Gwynn had stashed them on the top shelf of our doorless wardrobe as a refuge for her. It didn’t look like Woodie intended coming out any time soon.

  I doubted I’d get my wife moving, either.

  Chapter 12

  I left my cottage with a prayer in my heart that Woodie would be waiting for us when we got home. If I could have skipped this dinner, I would have. But something suggested that Morag would see that as weakness, which she’d exploit until I bled. As inexplicable as her behaviour was, I couldn’t risk that. Not with my present and future riding on our success at here. Andrew squeezed my hand. I smiled grimly. No one was going to derail this for us.

  Morag set a brisk pace down the runway. At the end of the strip, the path disappeared into a small grove of trees, then onto a shallow floodplain. The ground was dry and firm, given the low water level in autumn.

  The walk melted my anger away. I nudged Andrew and grinned, feeling a kind of ownership of the real estate. The fact that we could run into an elephant or a lion at any moment added to the thrill.

  We had been walking for half an hour when I figured I had calmed down enough to make peace with Morag—striding a few yards ahead of us. “Does this happen often?” I asked. “Empty camp and dinner at Scops?”

  She didn’t reply.

  How mature of her. I rolled my eyes.

  Andrew repeated the question.

  This time, she turned to look at him—and simpered. “No. So we take full advantage of it when it does.” Still addressing Andrew, she added, “It’s Kyle’s birthday. He and Milly manage Scops. So a celebration seemed in order.”

  “Cool,” I said, hoping for a cut of the conversation. “We love celebrations.”

  Morag turned her back on me.

  What had I done to so offend her? I twirled a dark curl around my finger, walking in silence until we reached Scops Camp.

  Morag led us to the bar—the heart of the camp. Andrew and I plunked down onto stools made from palm-trunks and rested our elbows on the counter—an upturned mokoro, holed and scarred from years of sailing on the delta, and now singed by a thousand cigarette butts.

  I was busy identifying the dozens of animal skulls and snake skins mounted on the letaka wall when a man spoke in a cheerful voice.

  “Morag! You’re here.” He slapped us on the shoulders. “And you must be Andrew and Gwynn. Great.” The speaker was younger than me. In his early twenties, he looked like the kind of guy who drifted on the tide of wanderlust, each night ending up at a different backpacker’s hole somewhere in the world. For now, he had washed up onto the shores of Noga Island to manage Scops Camp. Who knew where he would be tomorrow? I liked him. “I’m Kyle,” he said, pointing to a wiry blonde girl wearing a tie-died T-shirt and khaki shorts. “And this is Milly. Welcome to Scops.”

  Milly looked us over, and then burst into a grin. “Well, well. Tau Camp managers propping up the bar at Scops Camp. Now there’s a first.”

  “Huh?” Andrew answered in surprise.

  “Oh yes. We folks at Scops have always been lower than baboon crap in the eyes of the Tau Camp managers. It looks like the tradition may die at last.”

  “But Morag’s here too. And she’s been managing the camp in our absence,” I said, trying to grasp the politics.

  “She’s not a manager, just a teacher. That doesn’t count,” Kyle said.

  Morag frowned and I wondered about that.

  “I think if the two camps work together we’ll have more fun.” Andrew grinned at Kyle—and then said something that had me slumping back on my stool. “I bet you guys have never won a volleyball match. We should have an inter-camp challenge”

  “Andrew, what’s got into you?” I said in a loud whisper, hoping Kyle heard. “You’re hopeless at ball sports.” I wasn’t much better, but this was so out of character for Andrew it was frightening. It had to be all the fresh air. Or something.

  “Beaten at volleyball? No way.” Kyle decided to ignore my comment. He shoved two beer cans at us. “Scops Camp are the Noga world champions. Undisputed for years.”

  “Why? Haven’t you had anybody to play against you before this?”

  “Andrew, shut up!” I said, laughing. “Neither of us can hit a ball straight, and who knows if the staff at Tau have even heard the word ‘volleyball’?”

  A swarthy man hopped over to the business side of the bar, propped his elbows on the mokoro, and beamed at us. He had a staggeringly white row of front teeth. “Rra Andrew. We at Scops, we know what to do with a volleyball. You Tau guys had better watch out because we are cunning and clever! And I’m the new captain of the Scops team,” he clicked his fingers suggestively, “and I take bribes easily.”

  Laughing, Milly punched him on the arm. “Englishman is the world’s worst ball player. That’s why we shove him behind the bar anytime someone mentions the words ‘ball’ and ‘game’ in the same sentence.”

  “Englishman. Is that your name?” I asked.

  “Yes. I don’t even have a Setswana one.” He loped off to help a guest to a drink.

  “It’s like the story of the Bushman,” Andrew said. “A couple of years ago, a group of explorers in the southern Kalahari had a problem with their Land Rover.”

  “Like most people with their Land Rovers,” Kyle interrupted.

  Andrew smiled wryly. “True. Anyway, their gearbox broke and they had to dismantle it. Lucky for them, they had a workshop manual. But when they left, they forgot it. A Bushman family found it. As it happened, they lived in a village that had begun English lessons. One thing led to another, now there’s a kid there called LT Seventy Five Gearbox.”

  We all laughed; then Kyle said, “Masterful defensive tactics, Andrew. Confuse us with stories so we forget to take you up on the volleyball challenge. You running scared?”

  “Scared? Not us,” Andrew declared with confidence that astou
nded me.

  “Done!” Kyle slapped the bar. “One month from today. Here at Scops. The Okavango Delta Volleyball World Challenge. And after the game, we’ll stuff ourselves on Milly’s cooking.” He leaned over and kissed Milly’s neck.

  She swatted him away with a laugh.

  A cold voice spoke from the sidelines. “And how do you intend to fulfil that engagement?” Morag looked directly at me, as if I, not Andrew, had staked out Tau Camp honour. “You can hardly bring Tau guests to Scops Camp, can you?”

  I hadn’t thought of that. But neither had Andrew. Or Kyle. Or Milly.

  “I might only be a teacher, but clearly, I know more about running a lodge than you do.” Morag stood up and stalked off to join a group of Scops Camp guests.

  “The hell with her,” I muttered under my breath. “From this moment on, I’m praying for an empty camp on volleyball night. And that she’s gone by then.”

  It was late when Morag led us back to Tau. A billion stars blazed down at us as only the Kalahari can display them. It was then that I realised what Andrew and I had achieved. We were here, in the Okavango. I felt like running through our old suburb in Johannesburg, into the houses and shopping malls, shouting it out for everyone to hear.

  The stars hummed, listening attentively. I knew they understood.

  Chapter 13

  I awoke to the joyful cackle of a francolin and the manic call of a Heuglin’s robin—not familiar bird calls in a Johannesburg garden. The cool morning breeze rustled our mosquito net. I could feel Woodie lying under the covers between us, like she always did. I reached down to stroke her. Gwynn’s hand was already there.

  “I hope she’ll be okay while we’re working,” was Gwynn’s morning greeting.

  “Regretting bringing her?” I knew asking that was about as bad as saying I thought Gwynn had put on weight, but I had to know.

  “No regrets,” came the prompt answer.

  I didn’t really expect anything else.

  We lay together, savouring the moment before we met our new lives. My stomach churned with excitement and nervousness.

  Gwynn finally broke the silence. “I wonder what our first guests will be like?”

  “I bet it’s a crotchety old German destined to lose his underpants in our laundry.”

  Gwynn had just started chuckling when a crashing of branches overhead, followed by hysterical barking, jolted us out of bed.

  “That’s Hazel, Morag’s dog,” Gwynn said. “It sounds like she’s being attacked.”

  “Baboons!” I shouted, dragging my clothing together. “C’mon, let’s move.”

  Within seconds, we were both dressed. Woodie watched with slit-eyed disapproval as we abandoned her again and raced out of our garden.

  Hazel’s barking led us through the camp to the kitchen. We skidded to a halt at the door, stopped by six baboons. Some were perched on the counters, while others squabbled over the contents of the dustbin. None were shorter than five feet tall, and all weighed in at about ninety pounds. So they weren’t small, especially when adding fearless aggression to the mix.

  Still, filled with zealous determination to defend my new home, I left Gwynn at the front door, grabbed a stick, and dashed around the back, through the scullery, into the kitchen.

  The air was heavy with the smell of baboon poop and the contents of the dustbins strewn over the floor. With Gwynn stationed at the front door, for a brief, heady moment I thought we’d trapped them. Now we could thump them for daring to raid our kitchen. But in a blur of brown they vanished—straight through the scullery roof.

  Now I knew why Morag had ordered the gum poles and chicken-mesh.

  The scullery roof had collapsed. I had a perfect view of the baboons’ bright red backsides as they perched in a sycamore fig tree, barking abuse at us. Refusing to be defeated, I waved my stick menacingly, while Gwynn shouted.

  They ignored us.

  It was positively humiliating.

  Then the pitch of Hazel’s barking changed. She sounded quite frantic, so I shot through the kitchen door and out onto the path to join her. A huge male—the alpha, I guess—strode towards me. With every hair standing erect, Hazel lunged at him, stopping short before the final assault.

  Until that moment, I’d never fully comprehended just how giant five feet could feel, how colossal ninety pounds could seem, or how large a baboon’s incisors could be. The stick I brandished suddenly felt like a matchstick.

  My bravery evaporated.

  The baboon moved towards me, arrogance in every rollicking step.

  I threw a handful of figs at him.

  That surprised him.

  He stopped, watching me with cunning black eyes.

  Hazel growled low in her throat, waiting for a command. I licked the sweat beading in my moustache. From being in control, I was now out of my depth, wishing I had something more substantial than a stick with which to defend myself.

  Then, like me, the baboon seemed to decide that a frontal confrontation would be a very bad start to the day. He barked imperiously at his henchmen. They obeyed, scampering across the leafy canopy. I heaved a sigh of relief. They dashed out of the camp, over the runway, and into the bush on the other side. The alpha followed, sauntering up the path.

  We both knew who’d won that round.

  “Welcome to Tau Camp.” Morag actually laughed as she joined me. “Chasing baboons is a bit of a pointless exercise. They raid the camp as soon as it’s quiet. There’s nothing you can do about it.”

  Surprised by her warm greeting, I replied, “Thanks for the insight. I suppose we should clean up the mayhem in the kitchen.”

  “Don’t bother. The kitchen staff will do that. They’ll be here in about an hour. Got to get the camp ready for the guests.”

  I was about to reply when Gwynn joined us. “So who’s coming today?” she asked, her voice bubbling with enthusiasm.

  The light died in Morag’s eyes.

  Without saying a word, she pointed us in the direction of the reception desk, whistled for Hazel, and headed into the lounge.

  I shook my head in puzzlement, unable to understand why she had taken such an intense dislike to Gwynn. “You didn’t know her before?” I asked. “Maybe someone you ticked off at primary school?”

  Gwynn looked indignant. “Primary school? I bet I was still wearing nappies when that old bag was in primary school!”

  Knowing I was on the brink of saying all the wrong things, I headed for the reception desk to find the magical documents that would tell us what guests we could expect today. A clipboard with a bunch of diary schedules—flight sheets, they were called—caught my eye. As I paged through them looking for today’s date, my eye fell onto a familiar name.

  My heart stuttered.

  Michaelino X2. They had spent three days at the camp, departing the day before we arrived. I had to know if they were the same couple I had thrown out of my editing room. I put on a friendly face and went to Morag. “Michaelino times two. Do you remember them?”

  Morag patted the sofa next to her for me to sit. Too strung out to resist, I obeyed.

  “Remember them! How could I ever forget? They were the guests from hell. Joan, in the office, told me they had a fight on the tarmac at Maun Airport, so he arrived without her. She only got here the next day, all sorry, like a cuddle-bear. But it only took about ten minutes, and they were at it again, going at each other like banshees.”

  “What were their names?” I asked, already guessing the answer. There couldn’t be two terrible Michaelino couples around. The world just wasn’t big enough for that.

  “Jack and Jane,” Morag said. “Do you know them?”

  “They’re the reason I’m here.”

  Chapter 14

  By seven o’clock, the other staff began to trickle into work. I watched them set about their chores, knowing they were scrutinising me as closely as I was eyeing them. In all this activity, Morag seemed riveted to her chair in the lounge, reclining there with the abandon
of a fully paid-up guest. Worse, Andrew, chatting with her, seemed to have caught the same sitting-around-doing-nothing bug. I joined them. “Stuff’s happening out there. Morag, I take it you’re going to show us around?”

  Morag heaved herself to her feet. Andrew and I fell into step behind her.

  Her first stop was the kitchen. It had been cleaned, ready for the day, and now five unnamed staff stood stern-faced and motionless before me. You could have cut the atmosphere with a meat cleaver, like the one hanging from the pot-rack above the dull stainless steel prep table. Only one person—a handsome guy in his mid-twenties—looked directly at us. The rest looked at their feet or averted their eyes. But instead of introducing us, Morag walked to the other side of the room, leaned against a fridge and watched us.

  It was unsettling.

  The handsome guy stepped forward and gave a half-bow. “Dumelang, Rra en Mma,” he said in the vernacular, meaning “hello sir and madam.” “My name is Matanta, and I’m pleased to meet our new managers.”

  I smiled and held out my hand. Matanta grabbed it, giving me a full-on traditional Tswana handshake involving much gripping of hands and wrists. He pointed to a round-faced man with a drooping moustache and, with perfect seriousness, added, “This lump of lard is Robert. You must be careful of him because he isn’t a Motswanan like all of us. He comes from Angola.”

  Beaming as if he’d just been paid the greatest compliment, Robert clasped my hand. “Maybe I’m from Angola, but that shouldn’t scare you. I’m not a terrorist, like Savimbi’s boys.” He referred to the controversial Angolan rebel leader. The civil war in Angola raged at this time.

  “Our other chef, Seatla, is on maternity leave,” Matanta volunteered. “Robert and I will be glad when she’s back because the overtime has been very bad.”

  It dawned on me why Matanta was so eager to help. Sean had mentioned that, not only was Matanta head chef, but he was also the deputy camp manager. It was all window-dressing, though. In Sandy’s words, “European guests didn’t want to be entertained by black people barely out the bush.” I shook my head as I recalled her words. Apparently, European guests preferred moody redheads who said too little and glared too much.