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

by Andrew St. Pierre White

  While these thoughts ran through my head, the remaining three staff stood restlessly in line, waiting their turn to be introduced.

  With a disparaging wave of his hand, Matanta said, “And these others. You’ll soon learn who they are. But this is our kitchen!” I followed his gaze around the reed-and-chicken-mesh room. Sans Barbara and the baboons, I saw it clearly for the first time.

  The words “clean” and “sanitary” didn’t spring to mind.

  The stained concrete floor was shot with cracks, the gas range blackened with age, and the once white melamine working surfaces chipped and grey. Two upright fridges—one of which looked as if it had been built in the fifties by Chevrolet—stood next to an equally ancient chest deep-freeze. I couldn’t see the third fridge clearly because Morag’s squat bulk leaned against it. But I didn’t miss the rusty steel storage cabinet—complete with buckled doors—sagging in the opposite corner. It brimmed with everything necessary to prepare a good meal: broken bags of flour and sugar, packets of yeast, opened tins of tomato paste, half-filled bottles of mayonnaise, and spices and herbs.

  I silently took it all in.

  And then I fell in love.

  This kitchen, as old and worn as it was, felt like home.

  A smile spread across my face. Matanta smiled back. Bounding across the room, he eased Morag out the way so I had an uninterrupted view of the upright fridge she’d been hiding.

  It was a brilliant white, brand new piece of kitchen equipment.

  “Meet our Fresh Fridge,” Matanta said as if he were introducing a living-breathing entity. “We keep our fruit and veg in here.” He turned back to the ’50s model and stroked it reverently. “This medala—that means ‘very old’ in our language—is our Everything Fridge.” He smacked the top of the deep-freeze. “And this last one, we call The Cupboard.”

  “I’m sorry, the what?” I asked.

  “The Cupboard. What did you think I said? Freezer?”

  “Well, I was rather hoping you did, after all it looks a bit like one.”

  “Open it, and you’ll see why we call it The Cupboard.”

  I opened the heavy lid, and I put my hand inside. The over-ripe meat said hello. The contents were about half a degree colder than room temperature. I recoiled. “Is that meat okay?”

  “If we eat it today. Rodney didn’t like fixing anything. He liked his slippers too much.” Ignoring Morag’s hiss of disapproval, Matanta added, “So, almost everything is broken, or is about to break, or I have already fixed it a hundred times.” He looked at Andrew. “You can fix things?”

  “I know my way around a toolbox,” Andrew replied. “Show us more.”

  Matanta propelled us into the scullery.

  He allowed the inadequate drainage and collapsing roof timbers to speak for themselves. The floor was awash with oily dishwater, while sycamore figs from the tree above lay trodden and rotting underfoot. The scullery stank like a dirty distillery. Matanta made a show of sniffing the air, then turned to us. “The baboons like this place.”

  I prodded the Swiss Army knife attached to Andrew’s belt. “I think you’re going to need a little more than this, MacGyver.”

  Andrew looked vaguely panicked.

  Next, we found ourselves in a well-stocked larder the size of the average person’s lounge. Rusted shelving strained under the weight of tins and bottles, bags of sugar and flour—and a few broken jam jars. The baboons couldn’t be blamed for those because the pantry door had been locked during their raid. Neither could Barbara and Rodney. Those breakages fell right into Morag’s turf.

  Morag sucked in a breath as if she recognised that, too. She peeled a piece of broken jam-jar off the shelf and, with a flick of her red tresses, tossed it into the dustbin on the other side of the kitchen. She would be a good addition to our volleyball team, if she would just finish scratching the bite from whatever it was that had bitten her.

  That wasn’t happening anytime soon, I realised when she said, “The kitchen may not look wonderful, but every guest who comes here congratulates me on the standard of the food.” She prodded one of the watching staff. “Get in there. Clean it.” Turning to Matanta, she added, “The menu for today is: Lunch: spaghetti Bolognese, tomato and mozzarella salad, and a green salad. For dinner, we will have butternut soup, fillet steak with roast potatoes, cauliflower cheese, and beans with almonds. For pudding, please do a chocolate mousse.” She walked out the kitchen calling over her shoulder, “Gwynn, tomorrow you do the menu.”

  How was I supposed to know what the chefs could prepare? Talk about being thrown into the deep end. My mouth dropped as I wondered, yet again, what Morag was doing here, because helping us learn the ropes was not high on her list of priorities.

  Matanta must have seen my shock, because he gave me a sympathetic smile as he reached for a couple of tatty, grease-stained files. “Our recipes, Mma.”

  “Thank you, Rra.” He grinned at the compliment of being called “sir.” “Hopefully, I’ll get a chance to look at these this afternoon.” I put them back on the shelves. “Andrew, we’d better keep up.”

  We raced out of the kitchen just as Morag disappeared into the large reed-fenced enclosure in the centre of the camp. It turned out to be a laundry, with lots of hanging space for washing lines slung between palm trees.

  Morag pointed to a small room, little more than a reed overhang. Three women waited next to concrete sinks, filled with wet washing. “Impeleng, Tokololo, and Mankana,” Morag said. “The laundry ladies. They’re good workers, but temperamental. And you must keep a special eye on Impeleng, the head of this department.” She gestured to the youngest of the three, a girl of about seventeen, sporting a rebellious face. “Impeleng is very hardworking. But she’s young and difficult to handle.” Impeleng scowled. Morag ignored it. “To compound matters, Impeleng, along with half the other girls on this island, had an affair with Matanta. She recently had his baby. Of course, since Mesho, one of the waitresses, has been living with Matanta for years, no one other than Impeleng admits it ever happened.”

  Impeleng stamped her right foot and shouted, “Lekgoa!”

  I had no idea what that meant, but it sounded as if she was swearing. Morag ignored her, but Mankana, the eldest of the three, put a steadying hand on Impeleng’s shoulder. Impeleng folded her arms, giving Morag a voodoo-stare.

  Morag didn’t seem to notice. “Anyway, Impeleng’s kid’s a spitting image of Matanta. And Mesho, I might add, is still on maternity leave. She’s just had another one of Matanta’s children. I’ve lost count on how many he’s bred now.”

  I swallowed hard. Like the kitchen, managing the housekeepers was my department. Other than dishing up top class meals, my second concern centred on dealing with the staff. Here a soap opera unfolded before my very eyes.

  Morag now faced Impeleng. “Number two. Get it ready. The guests will be here at noon. That’s in less than an hour”.

  Chapter 15

  Morag’s tour of the camp continued. In our ramblings, I’d noticed three red-uniformed men sweeping up nature’s attempts to untidy the grounds around the cottages. Morag now led us to meet them. They were watering and digging over the sorriest vegetable garden I’d ever seen. The sterile, grey Kalahari sand had been coaxed into producing a few rows of stunted marigolds, some struggling herbs I didn’t recognise, and a huge red chilli bush.

  Morag looked at the garden in despair. “It’s bloody hopeless really, but we have to try because vegetables are so expensive, and the supply so erratic.” She put her hands on her broad hips. “The baboons don’t give us a chance, though. Every time something green appears, they’re in here like locusts. Chilli is the only things they don’t eat, hence the big bush.”

  While Morag rambled, the three gardeners watched me closely.

  Morag now waved an arm at them. “Sean insisted on red uniforms so the pilots can see them when they’re working on the runway. But they’re much more useful for spotting this lazy lot when they skive off to slee
p in the bush during the day.”

  It was comforting in some weird way to know that Morag was horrible to everyone, not just to Gwynn.

  “Andrew, meet your team. This is Olututswe, head of maintenance.” Olututswe, a tall, slight man nearing retirement age, stood erect, with his feet together, displaying yellow teeth in a broad, confident smile. “He’s the only person on the island who knows how the sewer system works, because he built it.”

  Next to Olututswe waited an old, semi-upright man leaning on a home-made rake.

  Morag gestured to him. “Alfred is the medala.” Although I was probably more than half Alfred’s age, I read in his eyes and in his humble bow that I was the boss, and had been from before we met.

  “He’s also the only one around here who eats barbel,” Morag continued. Also known as catfish because of their whiskers, these almost prehistoric bottom-dwelling fish looked and tasted like mud. Not something most people relished.

  Finally, Morag introduced the last of the maintenance trio. “Thekiso.”

  He was young enough to be in high school.

  Thekiso stepped forward. “I like to speak English. It is good to meet our new managers.”

  “Hello, Thekiso,” I said.

  “Thekiso,” he corrected.

  “Yes. Thekiso,” I repeated.

  “Thekiso! Thekiso!” Olututswe interrupted; clearly distressed by the way my Western tongue mangled the Tswana name.

  The distant rumble of an approaching aircraft suspended my lesson in Tswana phonetics.

  “You haven’t checked the room!” Morag gasped.

  “I haven’t checked the room, is what I think you mean,” Gwynn corrected so only I would hear.

  Still, Gwynn and I dashed back to the cottage where the laundry ladies were putting the finishing touches to their cleaning. Those girls sure worked fast. Just as well, given that the Cessna was touching down at that very moment.

  Breathing hard, Gwynn and I bolted back up to the runway to meet it and our first guests. We arrived at the edge of the strip just as the pilot turned the plane hard and opened the throttle. The prop wash cloaked us in great clouds of white dust and leaves. I can’t imagine why I didn’t see it coming.

  The doors burst open and we had a look at our first guests.

  Not what I expected.

  A long-haired man, sporting multiple ear piercings, climbed awkwardly from the plane. A small brunette dressed in grubby denim shorts and a faded India-print blouse followed him. They looked like dollar-a-day travellers—definitely not the type of guests we’d met when we visited the camp in January. Still, I stepped forward, determined to give my rehearsed greeting a try. Then, I noticed a middle-aged lady and gentleman huddled on the backseat of the plane.

  Kyle, who seemed to have materialised out of nowhere, slapped me on the back. “Nice change at Tau Camp! The new managers even acknowledge that Scops Camp clients exist.” He gestured to the scruffy pair, and smiled at me.

  “Oh, they almost had a free cottage,” I said blithely, moving in to help Mrs—Crikey, with everything going on, I hadn’t found out their names. Anyway, whoever she was, I rushed forward to help extricate her from her seat. “Welcome to Tau Camp,” I said, flashing my friendliest smile. “I’m Andrew.”

  “I’m Herb Van Hoeven, and this is my wife Mary,” Herb said in a broad Dutch accent. He grabbed my hand and shook it firmly, while I considered how nice it was when people tell you their full names.

  “We saw elephants as we flew over the swamps,” Mary enthused. “This is our first visit to Africa, and I have always wanted to see real elephants.”

  “Then you’ve come to the right place.” I looked around for Morag, hoping she’d take the lead in getting Herb and Mary settled into their cottage. She was sorting through the supplies Sepei had squeezed on board. With a curt nod to me, she organised the staff swarming around the plane into a sherpa-style ferry to carry the stock, and then disappeared with them into the camp.

  Gwynn and I were alone on the runway with our new guests. Cursing under my breath, I was about to pick up their luggage when a wizened man stepped up—he looked half-Motswanan and half-Bushman—but he was wearing the khaki uniform worn by the guides.

  I sighed with relief as he held out his hand to Herb, saying, “Dumelang, Rra en Mma. I am Lecir, your guide to show you the Okavango. I must also carry your bags.” He scooped up the cases and nodded at me, probably a hint to tell me to start moving my butt towards reception to check this lot in.

  Feeling like the rank amateur I was, I led the way in silence. I couldn’t help but wonder how Lecir knew we were the new managers. I would love to have known what rumours had been flying around the staff village since our arrival yesterday.

  Confronted by the paperwork at reception, I again looked around for Morag, but she was conspicuous by her absence. Gwynn gave me an encouraging smile and engaged Mary in conversation, leaving only Herb for me to look stupid in front of. He was smiling, confident I had it all under control.

  And then it struck me: Herb hadn’t a clue of what should happen now. I could’ve offered him a beer and chat, and he’d be none the wiser. I decided to do it my way. Travel agents handed out lots of bits of paper when booking guests into—or onto—things. I asked Herb for his bits and soon had a small pile of vouchers on the desk in front of me.

  Then I remembered the indemnity.

  It was nowhere to be found on the desk. I delved under the counter. Somehow, the pad of forms had managed to get hidden inside a water-marked ledger, coated with so much dust I swear no one had used it in years.

  Strange that.

  As I placed the indemnity in front of Herb, I remembered Rodney’s comments when we’d signed that form all those months ago. He wasn’t someone I wanted as my mentor, so I said nothing about being eaten by crocodiles. Formalities complete, we took them to their cottage.

  “This is just how I imagined it would be,” Mary crooned. Then, with a tinge of nervousness aimed at the waist-high wall and door, she asked, “There’s no chance of animals getting in during the night, is there?”

  “This is probably the safest place on Earth,” Gwynn assured her, exuding confidence as if she’d welcomed a hundred guests. “The only room we lock here is the pantry. And that’s only to keep out the baboons.” Seeing Mary’s panicked expression, she quickly added. “They only raid the camp in the mornings. We don’t even lock up the bar. The animals don’t drink.”

  Mary put on a brave smile and laughed at Gwynn’s little joke. “You’ve used that line before. Probably countless times on nervous fools like me.”

  Gwynn and I exchanged a small victory smile. Then I saw Gwynn’s brow crinkle with worry. Muttering about a meeting with Morag, she left me outside the Van Hoevens cottage and headed for the kitchen.

  I braced myself for the fall out.

  Chapter 16

  Morag wasn’t in the kitchen as I suspected, but Matanta was there. He handed me a pink sheet of paper that looked rather like a grocery shopping list.

  I looked at him blankly. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe ask Morag, Mma, because she gave them to me to give to you.”

  My core temperature rose. It was definitely time that woman and I had a little chat. I turned to find her, but Matanta grabbed my arm. “Maybe later you can solve that matata, Mma.” He leaned in close so none of the other kitchen staff could hear him. “But now we should have lunch, yes?”

  I looked at my watch. It was nearly one o’clock. “Lunch is served now?”

  “Always, Mma,” Matanta whispered. Then he shouted across to a young waiter, “Ari, Ari. The lekgoa are waiting for their food.”

  Struck by the youthfulness of the lad, I didn’t bother asking Matanta what lekgoa meant. Ari couldn’t have been older than fourteen or fifteen. Ari jumped to attention, scooped up a tray with the lunch, and headed for the door before I could even check the food.

  “Ari,” I called, hoping to stop
him before he vanished.

  Instead of pausing, he sped up, dashing out the room.

  Matanta must have seen my surprise, because he laughed. “You just told him to move his rump, Mma. Ari means hurry. And his name is Kekgebele. He wants to be a chef when he grows up. Like me.”

  “Then let’s ari-up and help him learn,” I said, feeling like a complete idiot.

  Matanta was diplomatic enough to smile at my awful joke. Then he shrugged. “He can’t read, Mma. His father is… difficult. He doesn’t believe in school. Very hard to be a chef if you can’t read recipes.”

  Matanta had a point, but still I wanted to help. “Maybe when he’s working with you, you can show him things. Help him.”

  Matanta must have approved because he beamed at me with his infectious smile. “Em, Mma. I’ll do it. I like Kekgebele. He’s a good kid.”

  In that moment, Matanta and I clicked. I can’t describe exactly what happened, but I just knew he was going to become very important to me, and I sensed he felt a bond, too.

  As if building on that, Matanta pointed to the dining room. “I think your food is getting cold.”

  I grinned at him. “Yes, Rra. I’m on my way.”

  Andrew had mustered the Van Hoeven’s into the dining room. There was no sign of Morag—ever ready to ease us into our new job—so it seemed we were doing our first official meal at Tau, solo. But, I asked myself, how hard could it be, inviting people to eat and then talking to them while they did so?

  I let out the breath I’d been holding.

  Right on cue, as if to help us along our way, Mary commented on the weight of the chair as she struggled to drag it away from the table. I let Andrew answer while I checked out the food.

  As much as it burned me to admit it, the food under Morag’s watch looked and smelled delicious. I instantly gave Matanta the credit, thrilled I wouldn’t be hanging my head in shame this mealtime. So, basking in his reflected glory, I waved a hand at the display and invited Herb and Mary to dive in.