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

by Andrew St. Pierre White

  With plates loaded and wine glasses filled, we settled down to get to know each other. The conversation flowed easily—after all, Mary and Herb wanted to be here. They had a deep interest in everything about Botswana, the Okavango, and the camp. And I was just as interested in their lives, left back in England. Herb, it turned out, was obsessed with lighthouses. So obsessed in fact, he and Mary actually lived in one, which he was painstakingly restoring.

  Enjoying the food and the company, I allowed myself to relax so much that it came as a bit of a shock when Mary said, “How long have you been here?”

  Andrew and I exchanged embarrassed glances. Clearly, he also wasn’t that keen to admit this was our first day on the job.

  But we needn’t have worried about framing a reply, because Morag answered for us.

  “Today’s their first day on the job, and I guess it shows.” Morag and Hazel eased into the dining room as if they’d been waiting in the wings for just this moment. Smiling smugly, Morag settled at the table and grabbed a plate of cheese.

  I’m not a violent person, but right then I could have gladly stabbed her with a bread knife.

  “Well, who would have believed it?” Herb replied. I looked at him, trying to detect veiled sarcasm in his words, but I didn’t know him well enough to judge.

  Mary was more effusive. “But you do it so well. I thought you’d been here for ages.”

  I couldn’t resist a sideways glance at Morag. Her face was deadpan, her ice-shard eyes staring at her gorgonzola.

  “So Andrew, when do the flood waters reach here?” Herb asked, changing subject. He’d have to be blind, deaf, and dumb not to have noticed the tension between us.

  Andrew’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped as he scrambled for an answer.

  Morag answered for him. “The flooding of the Okavango Delta is caused by summer rainfall in the Angolan highlands. The bush telegraph says the waters have already reached both Shakawe and Seronga—small villages to the north of us. The people in Shakawe say the flood is excellent. The folks in Seronga, further south where the panhandle splits into the actual delta, say the waters are already subsiding. So who knows? I guess we won’t find out until mid-June or July when the waters finally reach us.”

  “So, if Gwynn and Andrew are the managers, what do you do here?” Mary asked Morag in a sweet, tinkling voice.

  Mary wasn’t the only one who wanted the answer to that question, so I leaned forward to listen.

  “I’m a teacher, of sorts. Sean, the camp owner, has employed me to train the guides. Birds are my specialty and that’s where the guides are weakest. I also happen to be best friends with Sean’s wife, Sandy. Altogether, I’m invaluable to them.”

  Best friends with Sandy? That explained a lot of some things, but very little of other things. Like why she wanted to sabotage her friend’s business by not teaching the new managers the ropes. There had to be a reason, I just had to figure it out—before I killed her and sent her gift-wrapped remains back to Sandy on the next flight out of here.

  Wearing that friendship like a bulletproof vest, Morag fixed her horrible eyes on me and added with obvious glee, “I’ll be living here on the island, at a place called Otter Lodge.” For someone as cold as Morag, she sure knew how to look smug.

  Still smirking, she turned to Andrew. “Otter hasn’t been lived in for a while and it needs some maintenance work to make it habitable. I’m hoping you’ll make it a priority.” Without waiting for a reply, she addressed our guests. “Why don’t you have a nap? Come back at four, and Lecir will take you on your first outing.”

  Dismissed, Herb and Mary shuffled their chairs back and began a slow walk to their cottage.

  Morag stood up to leave, too, but I grabbed her arm. “Not so fast. Matanta gave me a pink shopping list. What am I supposed to do with it?”

  “And while we’re talking about paper work,” Andrew added. “What do I do with the vouchers and things the Van Hoevens gave me?”

  Morag gave me a condescending look as if I were the only one who had spoken. “We do admin in the mornings when the guests go out. Now it’s time to attend to the staff, and to look after the guests.”

  “But you’ve just sent the guests to bed,” I said, unable to believe how annoying this five-foot of nothingness could be. “And we are staff.”

  Morag turned to leave. It was clear the only way I’d stop her would be to rugby tackle her. As my rugby playing was as bad as Andrew’s volleyball, that would be counter-productive. And who knows how Hazel, glued to her ankles, would feel about that.

  Always unpredictable, Morag stopped to simper at Andrew. “Sean asked me to prepare a bird walk for Tau guests to follow when strolling on the island. The chief guide, KD, is going to help me. I’m meeting him at the runway now.” She flicked her hair over her shoulder and set off down the path.

  I scowled after her retreating form.

  “Calm down,” Andrew ordered. “She’s obviously pissed off you got the job as manager.”

  “Me? What about you? I’m not doing this alone, you know?”

  “I know. I don’t get it, either. But she is friends with Sandy, so—”

  “Don’t even go there,” I snapped. “I am not letting that influence me.” I bit my lip, and then added, “If Sean and Sandy wanted her as camp manager, they would have given her the job. They didn’t, so she must just suck it up.”

  “Good. That’s the spirit. Just no fighting with her. It won’t get us anywhere.”

  Typical Andrew. He was always the peacemaker. Tedious, if you asked me.

  He smiled, as if reading my thoughts. “Anyway, running the camp can’t be that difficult. We’ll figure it out as we go.” A placating kiss landed on my cheek. “Now, I’ve things to do with my new maintenance team.”

  “I’ll walk with you to the kitchen,” I grumbled. But what I really meant was I’m going to find Matanta because if it’s war with Morag, then I need an ally.

  Chapter 17

  Sadly, the kitchen shift had changed and Matanta and his team had gone. Nervous about claiming my new domain, I stood in the shadow of the door as Andrew hurried away to play MacGyver. After a few moments, my quiet skulking was rewarded by the sounds of sweet singing coming from the scullery.

  I stole in to look.

  A chubby young girl stood on a red beer crate, singing while washing the lunch dishes. It was then that I noticed how high the sinks were. Without the crate, her feet would be sloshing in the oily dishwater leaking from the sink onto the floor.

  She turned to face me. “Dumela, Mma. I’m Betty.”

  Her somewhat plain face was lifted to real beauty by huge brown eyes. I recalled seeing her earlier in the day when Matanta showed us around the kitchen. That meant she should have gone home when the morning shift left. It rang alarm bells. “Are you the only scullery lady?”

  “Em, Mma. We are short staffed in the scullery.”

  Great. So I was missing a chef, a waitress, and now a scullery lady, too. I guessed hiring staff was a little more complicated here than just slapping an advert in the local rag. I was nibbling on the inside of my cheek when a voice behind me said:

  “And me, I’m Lesego.” I turned to see a lanky teenager with a cocky smile. “Did Morag tell you I’m not happy with my pay? The waiters in Maun get much more money than me, and I have to live and work in the bush.”

  I had no idea how much he earned, but his tone said that living in the bush was the greatest inconvenience possible. The last thing I needed now was a wage dispute to go along with my recruitment drive, so I answered evasively, “There’s a time for everything, and the time to discuss your wages will come.”

  “Lesego!” an outraged voice called from the door.

  It was Robert. He grabbed Lesego by the arm and jerked him across the kitchen, berating him in Setswana. With a sulky look in my direction, Lesego snatched up his tray and headed for the dining room. Without saying a word, Robert continued with his kitchen chores.

&nb
sp; I walked through the camp to see what was happening in the laundry. A relaxed, peaceful atmosphere greeted me. The three women sat chatting, while Impeleng, the only one whose name I remembered, worked her way through a pile of table linen with a gas iron. Some of the other off-duty staff lay sleeping in the sun. The only way I could tell they were staff was by their uniforms. Learning the names and faces of our twenty fellow team members was going to be more of a challenge than I had anticipated.

  Feeling weighed down by yet another thing to cope with—without the help of a mentor—I made my way to our cottage to find my sorely neglected cat. Woodie hunched into a small ball, hidden amongst my clothing in our wardrobe. My heart ached as I scooped her out of her hiding place. Secretly, I wondered if bringing her here was the right thing. My guilt soared as she nestled into my neck. She and I were headed for a cuddle on my bed when I remembered Joan and her confounded radio. As much as I wanted to curl up with Woodie, I could hardly skive off on my first day here, could I? So, adding ‘disgruntled’ to my list of miseries, I took Woodie and headed back to the reception area.

  Woodie was having none of it.

  Yowling in terror, she leapt out of my arms—her claws leaving great gouge marks behind them—and raced back to the safety of our cottage. I stood in the path, torn between going back to her and my new responsibilities. Duty finally won out over love, and I slouched off to reception, and flung myself down into a chair to wait for the radio. To make matters worse, Tom, the resident camp cat, sprawled out on the sofa opposite me. He snored softly, obviously without a care in the world. I had the sudden urge to throw a scatter cushion at him, but resisted it. It wasn’t his fault Woodie was scared, Morag horrible, and I was stuck at reception.

  The more rational part of my brain knew I was being silly. After all, I’d wanted to be here so badly, I’d given up just about everything I owned for the privilege of listening for radio calls that may or may not come. But now the reality of camp life didn’t seem to measure up to the dream.

  There weren’t supposed to be evil witches like Morag in paradise. People like her were reserved for fairy tales or women’s prisons. And this wasn’t a fairy tale. If it were, huge grin plastered on her face, my cat would be at my side, taking on this world with me. Instead, she cowered in my cottage and I was in the lounge, alone, while Andrew had fun fixing up the island with his team.

  It all seemed so unfair.

  I’m ashamed to admit it, but I was so deep into my pity-party that it took the sound of a broom thumping against furniture to bring me back to the present. Lesego was sweeping away the dust I had tracked onto the highly polished ochre floor.

  “So,” he said, leaning on his broom. “Do you know my name?”

  “I’m still learning all your names. And this is time to sweep, not talk.” I know I was in a bad mood, but his cockiness wasn’t winning him any friends here.

  Clearly too thick-skinned to notice, he continued, “Well, Mma, you are very slow. My name is easy. Lesego. It means lucky.”

  I stood to face him. “Lesego, it might surprise you to know that yours is indeed one of the names I have remembered—and not for the best reasons, either. You are full of cheek, and I don’t like cheek.”

  Lesego grinned provocatively, then sauntered off back to the kitchen, leaving me to my poisonous thoughts.

  Chapter 18

  It was late afternoon when I made it back to Gwynn and our cottage. Brimming with excitement about my first day in paradise, I couldn’t wait to share my news. Gwynn wasn’t there, even though Woodie waited in the wardrobe. Deflated, I trotted down to reception.

  Gwynn sat in the lounge, staring morosely out at the bay.

  I did a mental reverse on my enthusiasm. “Hey, how come you’re not up with Woodie?”

  “She didn’t want to come down here,” Gwynn replied, not even looking at me.

  I shifted Tom off the sofa and sat down right in her line of sight. She looked away. Oops. Matata. I proceeded with caution. “So why aren’t you with her?”

  “Joan said someone was supposed to man the radio at all times. Remember?”

  I’d forgotten about Joan and the radio. Feeling a twang of guilt, I asked, “Did she call?”

  “No.”

  That explained Gwynn’s bad mood. I shelved my excitement, and asked tentatively, “So, what else have you done other than sit here?”

  “I’ve taken a deep dislike to Lesego. He’s a cheeky little swine.”

  I had no idea who Lesego was, but still I joked, hoping she’d crack a smile, “Not another person you don’t get along with?”

  Without moving a facial muscle, Gwynn replied, “He’s moaning about his pay.”

  Hmm. Bad joke. I tried again. “Everyone moans about their pay.”

  “Not to their brand new boss, they don’t. Apparently, every other waiter in Botswana earns more than he does. And he told me I’m very slow, and that his name is Lesego. It means lucky.”

  I really wasn’t in the mood for this, but I played along. “And then?”

  “I told him I don’t like cheeky waiters. I think he also hates me now. But he can get in line behind Morag.” Gwynn must have finally heard the self-pity in her voice, because she winced, and then forced a smile. “Tell me about your afternoon. I know you’re dying to.”

  Okay, I’m a callous swine, but she didn’t have to ask me twice.

  “You won’t believe the junk on the other side of the runway. No wonder the baboons live near the camp. There’s probably enough garbage there to feed them for a year. I can’t believe Sean knows about this. Rodney just dug huge holes in which they dump the rubbish. Olututswe says they burn the paper and make compost with the green stuff, but I don’t believe it. The place is a disgrace and one of the first things I’m going to do around here is clean it up. And would you believe, there’s even an abandoned International 4x4 and Land Rover over there.”

  Gwynn smiled as my words tumbled out. “You look happier than I’ve seen you in months.”

  “I’ve also looked at the runway sprinkler system. Sean told me to spray it every day before the planes land, to settle the dust and to stop the strip from blowing away. Olututswe says the pump hasn’t worked for months and half the sprinkler nozzles are broken.” I grinned. “Some look as if they’ve been chewed. Olututswe says hippos graze on the grass next to the strip at night. We should see them from our cottage.”

  “That’ll be fun.” Gwynn brightened visibly.

  “I saw two old water pumps in the shed, so maybe I can cannibalise one and get the other working. I think I’ll make that my first job.” With that, I stepped into the CIM room, a little storeroom next to reception where camping equipment, tools, and other odds and ends were stored. It was the first time in years that I’d felt challenged and content at the same time.

  “Don’t worry,” Gwynn called to me from the lounge, rather pointedly, I thought. “I’ll wait here for the Van Hoevens. Someone should welcome them back from their outing,”

  I decided to ignore her tone. “You’re a brick. See you back at the cottage later.”

  A quick glance at her face and I knew I wouldn’t get away with abandoning her at reception for much longer. Clearly some kind of shift system was needed. But for now, I was too excited about my new job.

  * * *

  The sun was going down when I finally closed the work shed door on my water pump project and headed for our cottage.

  Gwynn stood in the middle of the lawn, tears streaming down her face.

  “And now?” I asked.

  “Woodie. She’s gone.”

  “Gone? Gone where?”

  “If I knew that I wouldn’t be standing here. I’d be finding her!” Gwynn snapped at me.

  This wasn’t the time to argue, so I bolted to our wardrobe to see if Woodie was there.

  “I’ve already searched it. I’ve searched everywhere,” Gwynn said, following me.

  “Let’s just check again,” I replied, heart sinking way bey
ond my boots, settling deep down in the Kalahari dust.

  We pulled all the clothes out of our wardrobe. Next, we stripped the bed. Then we shifted the two chairs and coffee table, the only other furniture in the house.

  There was no cat.

  That left the garden.

  Or I hoped it left the garden because the thought of her wandering off into the bush was not one I wanted to pursue.

  We stomped across the spiny grass, hoping to flush her.

  Nothing.

  We peered under every shrub, calling and calling.

  Still nothing.

  “What more can go wrong here today?” Gwynn cried. “This is a very high price to pay to be in paradise.”

  I didn’t know what to do or say, other than to keep searching.

  At last, a small, plaintive cry caught our attention.

  She was somewhere in the garden. Where I couldn’t imagine, because we’d searched every inch of it.

  Again, the cry.

  “She’s hurt,” Gwynn wailed. “I can’t believe it. Something must have attacked her. Maybe she was bitten by a snake, or perhaps a raptor tried to carry her off.”

  Gwynn was being irrational, but I wasn’t about to tell her that. “She’s alive and here. That’s what matters. Let’s just keep looking.”

  Another mew, a little clearer this time.

  “She’s in the cottage,” Gwynn said, running inside to look again.

  Still no cat.

  “I don’t get it,” Gwynn sobbed. “Where is she?”

  “Woodie,” I called again, with some exasperation.

  As if sensing this game was getting old, Woodie gave a positive meow. It was coming from the rolled-up reed blinds hanging from the roof rafter where our front wall should have been. I hadn’t noticed them before.

  Gwynn ran over to the blind, calling.

  My heart skittered when I saw Gwynn’s eyes widened in shock. She gently pulled Woodie out from the rolled-up blind.

  Our confident city-slicker cat trembled pathetically, her little body covered with scratches, blood, and matted fur.

  Gwynn kissed her and then asked in a tear-muffled voice, “What do you think did it? A wild cat?”