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

by Andrew St. Pierre White

  Thekiso, my young maintenance lad with the unpronounceable name, was on his hands and knees on the floor. Growling fiercely, he lunged at the oven door. Then he turned and charged the fridge. Robert grabbed a wooden spoon and chased him around the kitchen. Thekiso then pounced at Betty. She squealed in terror and ran across the room towards the scullery, slipping on a ripe fig that brought her down on her bum, much to everyone’s raucous delight.

  Then Robert spotted us.

  He coughed loudly to attract attention. Thekiso obviously didn’t hear because he dashed towards Robert, waving a torn dishcloth above his head. Robert pulled himself erect and barked Thekiso’s name, making our ferocious ‘hyena’ look up in surprise. Robert gestured with his head towards us. Thekiso’s dark face paled as he froze, crouching on the floor with the dishcloth between his outstretched hands. Slowly, he panned around. The moment he saw us, his eyes clamped shut in embarrassment.

  A sudden hush settled on the kitchen and I knew Gwynn and I had just arrived at a crucial crossroads in our lives at Tau Camp. What we did now would determine whether the staff respected us as people, or merely tolerated us as managers.

  I could see Gwynn was thinking exactly the same thing. Without hesitation, she stepped over to Thekiso and patted him on the shoulder. “You’re a brilliant hyena. Even I was scared.”

  Only Robert gave a quivering, nervous laugh.

  “But you see, Thekiso, this hyena likes plastic, not cloth,” I added, surreptitiously watching their faces. It took a moment for them to register that I wasn’t angry.

  Then, like magic, the tension evaporated. Everyone, including Thekiso, cracked up laughing.

  I learnt a valuable lesson that morning. This was Africa where patriarchal societies dominated. Gwynn might be the manager, but I was the chief, and it was only after I’d spoken that the law was set and the final judgment given.

  Robert suddenly became serious. “This hyena is bad luck. They bring very bad magic.”

  “Why?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.

  But Robert became all business-like. “When Matanta comes we’ll tell you all about hyenas. But now I must make breakfast. Lesego must set the table and you, Mma, must give me the menu for today.”

  I could see from the wide-eyed panic rippling across Gwynn’s face that she had been too busy being depressed yesterday to give the menu a second thought. She quickly flipped through the grimy recipe files. “Let’s have quiche and salads for lunch,” she began hesitantly. Then she yanked open the Everything fridge. “And for dinner… we’ll start with—” she licked her lips and smiled, “my personal favourite: deep-fried camembert cheese with marula jelly. And then,” she opened The Cupboard—our freezer—gasped at the smell, and slammed it shut. “The chicken rotting in there, perhaps you’ll turn it into a mushrooms and sour cream casserole. But do it soon.”

  Robert smiled. “Em Mma. And pudding?”

  “Um…apple pie and custard.” Satisfied with her decision, Gwynn pinned up the menu on the notice board.

  We left the kitchen—only to be confronted by Impeleng and her cleaning team.

  “How many lekgoa today?” Impeleng asked.

  Lekgoa. That word again.

  Gwynn and I stared at her blankly.

  Impeleng repeated the question with a hint of impatience. I called Robert over to translate. He laughed when Impeleng, now tapping her broomstick on the ground, repeated herself for a third time. “She has a matata, Rra. A problem. She doesn’t know how many guests are coming today, and what rooms to make up, so she said, ‘how many lekgoa?’ Lekgoa is Setswana for white people, so we call the guests lekgoa.”

  “Don’t you get any black guests?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Robert replied. “Or as we say in Setswana: em or er.”

  “And what are black guests called?” Gwynn asked.

  “We make them honorary white people for their stay and call them lekgoa also.”

  Clarity restored and yet another lesson in Setswana complete, Gwynn thanked Robert and instructed Impeleng to prepare number three. We had one party of two lekgoa coming in today.

  The excitement over, I looked over at Morag and the bookkeeping. There was no avoiding it.

  Gwynn grinned at me. “Enjoy. I’m going to check on Woodie.”

  I watched her go with a brooding sense of resentment that she was free and I wasn’t. Now I knew exactly how she’d felt yesterday afternoon.

  About nine thirty, Gwynn came back down to reception. The desk was still spread with voluminous sheets of ledger paper, each covered with a tangle of figures. I know I must have looked perplexed. Morag, also looking confused, was chewing thoughtfully on a pencil.

  “How’s the admin going?” Gwynn asked, looking disgustingly relaxed and cheerful.

  “I’ve managed to confuse myself while teaching Andrew,” Morag admitted.

  “Let’s begin again,” I suggested for the third time.

  “Herb and Mary are on the way back,” Gwynn announced.

  Morag threw down her pencil and leapt to her feet. “I’ve done my part, Andrew. Now you have to come to Otter with me today.”

  Done her part! “Not even close,” I said to her departing back. “We carry on after breakfast until we get it right.”

  “Then I suggest you learn faster.”

  I opened my mouth to say something cutting, but Gwynn grabbed my arm. “Fighting with Morag is what I do. Now come, breakfast is ready—including a nice big bowl of yoghurt.”

  I made a vomiting sound, rather like Woodie throwing up a hairball. “You know my views on yoghurt. Didn’t you make anything worth eating?”

  “Yoghurt. And fruit salad and juice, cold cereals, oats porridge, eggs to order, crunchy bacon, fried tomatoes with mushrooms, and toast and jam, of course.”

  My mouth watered. “Are you sure that’s enough?” I asked as we headed for the dining room.

  Gwynn skidded to a halt. “You don’t think so?” Why do women always doubt themselves? “Just as well I got Robert to make some sweetcorn fritters, too.”

  It struck me that we must be among the most privileged people on Earth. Here we had free access to delicious food and drinks, prepared by someone else, served by someone else three times a day, every day, on an elaborate baronial table in an environment that would be the envy of most people on the planet. And we were being paid to eat it. What more could you ask out of life?

  Other than a bit more sleep, it was perfect.

  Chapter 21

  Perfection, Andrew called it. Hmm, perhaps up until breakfast was finishing and Mary turned to me with a wistful look in her eye. “Lecir suggested we take a picnic lunch today to a place called Baobab Island. Apparently, we’ll sit under the trees like hedonists while he serves us. We would love to do it, if possible.”

  Was it possible? How did I know? I didn’t even know if Baobab Island existed. And why did I always get the potentially embarrassing problems? Mentally kicking Lecir for his over-eagerness, I plastered on a fake smile. “I’ll go and brief the kitchen.”

  Matanta had joined Robert at the stove. I addressed my remarks to him. “What’s Baobab Island?”

  “Ah!” he said. “The lekgoa want to go on a picnic.” He shouted across to Betty, “Run to the laundry and get the cooler boxes.”

  As she complied, I asked, “So Baobab Island is the usual picnic spot?”

  “One of them, Mma.” Matanta smiled at me. “You’d like it. Small island with just two trees. A little baobab—” Fingers angled skyward in the usual African gesture used to indicate height, he pointed to the low ceiling. I assumed the baobab was indeed a young tree. “And an umbrella acacia. Very nice place. Maybe one day when we have an empty camp, you and the Chief can go picnic there.”

  “Sounds great. And when was Andrew promoted to chief?”

  Matanta gave me an arch smile, and, instead of answering, started to sing, “So, what do the lekgoa eat today, Mma? Must I make a special quiche to go on picnic, and one to stay
at camp?”

  It was my turn to say ah! “So we need another menu.” I grinned at him. “Something tells me Tau Camp picnics are not like the last picnic Andrew and I had. We ate soggy egg mayonnaise sandwiches straight out of the tin foil, and drank Coke from a can.”

  “No, Mma.” He continued his tuneless song as he walked to the Everything fridge and extracted a large Tupperware basin. “Maybe I do cold meat, potato salad, mixed salad, cheese, biscuits, and fruit?” With a smile, he placed a generous helping of meat into a second Tupperware—it had a few chew marks from the hyena, but that couldn’t be helped. He snapped the lid closed before dropping it into the cool-box.

  “Perfect,” I replied. “I couldn’t have done it better.”

  Matanta held his hand up for a high five, and then said, “I hear you like our new hyena.”

  “Thekiso, I like very much. The other one I’m not so sure about,” I replied, slapping his palm.

  “I think we’ll have fun together, Mma.”

  I had been conscious of Robert during our exchange. He said nothing, but his eyes hadn’t left me either. I turned to face him, and was surprised to see a deep scowl marring his jovial features. Before I could delve into what it meant, Morag poked her head around the door.

  “I take it you intend to feed the fish eagle?” Her voice was as cold and condescending as usual. “He’s been screaming for the last five minutes.”

  I hadn’t heard him.

  Matanta couldn’t have heard him, either, but he burst into a chant, “Time to feed the audi, time to feed the audi.”

  Robert made a croaky impersonation of a fish eagle calling.

  “Audi? Does that mean fish eagle?” I asked, ignoring Morag.

  Matanta nodded as he handed me a small piece of fillet steak pulled from The Cupboard. “Audis do not always eat fish. They also eat dead animals.” He glanced pointedly at Morag. “Unlike some, they’re not fussy. Rump, fillet, they don’t complain.”

  Morag scowled at him and marched out the kitchen.

  Hmm…Matanta didn’t like Morag. This was information a girl like me could use.

  Chapter 22

  The fish eagle didn’t disappoint. There was a clatter of camera shutters like a celebrity press conference as it swooped down onto the bait. The only trouble was the timing—every photographer was about a second off.

  “Fantastic,” Herb shouted. “I promise I’ll send you one of my photographs for your pinboard in reception.”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell him he’d just taken a picture of a small splash in a lily pond. Sadly, the fish eagle excitement was short lived and I now had to face more bookkeeping with Morag. She saw me coming to reception to join her, picked up her pencil, and sighed. An hour later, she was no closer to helping me unravel the mysteries of Sean’s accounting system.

  Then I heard a welcomed distraction.

  Gwynn, Matanta, and Lecir were down at the bay, helping Mary and Herb and their picnic onto the mokoro. I joined them. Lecir loaded in a fold-up table and camp chairs, a roll of toilet paper shoved on the end of a spade handle, a cooler box of drinks, and another cooler box of food. Once his passengers were safely aboard, he took his spot at the back of the boat. He shoved his pole into the water. Gwynn gave the prow a firm push. They were off—and I was instantly jealous.

  Gwynn must have been too, because as Lecir manoeuvred the mokoro out into the main channel, she said, “Makes one want to come back as a lekgoa.”

  “Maybe next time we have an empty camp we can duck off and have a picnic under a tree.”

  “That’s what Matanta suggested. Sounds great.” Gwynn gave me a sideways glance. “But you’ll have to learn to pole first.”

  I rubbed my hands together in anticipation. “I need one of those poles the guides use to punt with.”

  “Ngashi.”

  I waited for a translation of a new Setswana word.

  “The poles are called ngashi. And the best ones are made from the Silver Terminalia tree. Matanta told me. So when do your lessons start? I’m sure he’d teach you.”

  My sigh bested the call of the mourning dove. “Not until I’ve knocked off a few things on my ever-expanding fix-it list.”

  Morag’s bark, reminiscent of the alpha baboon, pulled me back to the books. As I plonked my butt down onto the stool next to hers, she announced, “I’ve been meaning to tell you that the staff salary reviews are overdue. It should have been done last month, but Sean was waiting for you to join.”

  That would explain Lesego’s wage gripe.

  I wanted Gwynn here for this discussion, but as I called her over, Morag said loudly, “I hardly think we need all three of us.” She fixed Gwynn with an imperious eye and added, “I’m sure you have rooms to check.”

  Gwynn plunked her elbows on the desk and smiled sweetly at Morag. “Miss this? You must be kidding. I love talking about money. Almost as much as I like spending it.”

  Morag opened her mouth to object, but I got in first. “Gwynn and I are a team. We do this together.”

  “Anything you like, Andrew,” Morag said in an even more saccharin voice than Gwynn’s. She handed me the staff salaries book.

  I shook my head as I paged through it; whatever Sean’s faults, he couldn’t be accused of being generous. Even Matanta earned a pittance.

  “It isn’t quite as bad as it looks,” Morag justified. “Each staff member also gets a hundred Pula credit to spend at Scops Camp’s shop. It’s the only shop on the island, so everyone has to buy from there.”

  “And it’s owned by Sean. Talk about giving with one hand while taking with the other,” Gwynn pointed out with unassailable logic.

  Even Morag pulled a face at that injustice. “Sean is happy to look at an eight percent increase for the staff, but I think we should push for more for Robert and Lesego.”

  “Lesego? Why him?” Gwynn demanded.

  Morag gave a tired sigh. “When you’ve had as much experience running this camp as I have, you’ll know that he’s an excellent waiter.”

  “Then I suggest he works on his first impressions,” Gwynn said with a mulish cast to her jaw.

  “This is not about ‘first impressions’,” Morag replied, as if Gwynn were a dumb kid. “It’s about doing what’s fair for a good and loyal staff member. And remember, I’ve been here long enough to see past ‘first impressions’.”

  Gwynn was revving up to reply, so I intervened. “Okay, Morag. Based on your recommendation, we’ll include Lesego in our salaries crusade. But what about Matanta? Obviously, if anyone is going to get a raise around here, he should. Apart from anything else, he’s the deputy manager.”

  “As you wish.” Morag’s disdainful tone told me she didn’t care much for Matanta.

  Childish, I know, but that knowledge sent Matanta soaring in my estimation—and from Gwynn’s eager nodding, she agreed.

  Morag shoved a piece of paper and a pen at me. “As manager, you must write the motivation letter to Sean.”

  I knocked together a credible begging letter, asking Sean to hand over some more cash for his staff. The letter would go off on today’s plane.

  Gwynn scowled her disapproval as she read my missive. “You do realise that if Sean agrees to this, Lesego will earn almost as much as Robert? That will probably make him the most expensive waiter in all the Okavango…forget that, the whole of Botswana, maybe even southern Africa … I could go on.”

  Morag’s eyes narrowed. “There’s a waiter at Fish Eagle Camp who earns more. And that’s just down the river from here. So much for what you know about things.”

  Thankfully, the radio crackled into life. I lunged for the mic. “638. Go ahead Joan.”

  “Nice ‘n prompt!” came Joan’s crackly reply.

  “As you said, you make our lives possible,” I said, sounding smug. “What can I do for you?”

  “Sorry for the short notice, but I’m sending you another two guests on the 12:30 flight. Weson X 2. And I’ve changed the Cessna to an Islan
der.”

  My heart did a high jump. A Britten-Norman Islander was a twin-engine, ten-seat, high-winged flying delivery van. Maybe Sepei would have managed to pack my toolbox into it. I really hoped so.

  I saw Gwynn’s eyebrows rise and registered that Joan also said she was sending us some new guests. I glanced at my watch. It was just after eleven. Plenty of time to get a room ready, but what about a guide?

  Morag said, “Andrew, you’d better send Thekiso to the staff village to call another guide. And I think we’ve done enough admin for the morning. Let’s hit Otter Lodge.”

  I wanted to ask Gwynn if she’d manage on her own, but knew she wouldn’t thank me for it. At this point, she’d rather have chewed off her own arm to feed to the hyena than admit defeat in front of Morag.

  She must have read the concern in my eyes, because she leaned over to kiss me. “Go. Have fun.” Then in a more serious tone she added, “Getting Otter habitable is certainly the number one priority round here.”

  * * *

  Otter Lodge perched at the edge of a tranquil lagoon on the other side of the island, about ten minutes from the camp. Like everything else, it was a large reed structure built between the trees, except this time, it rose two levels. The missing sections of walls and roof suggested it had survived a small tornado.

  “Baboons,” Morag said, following my gaze. “I employed some kids to chase them away, but it’s pretty hopeless. The blasted animals still wrecked the place. That will have to be fixed before I move in.”

  I tugged on my beard. “Um…who makes the reeds?” I knew nothing about building reed houses.

  “Mother nature, I suppose,” Morag said with an irritating laugh.

  “No. I mean the walls.”

  An air of melancholy settled on Morag’s face, probably at the failure of her joke. “Old women from the staff village. They bind the letaka together to make what the locals call mabinda. That’s then turned into walls and roofs. If you want, I can arrange for three women to start working on it.” My face must have registered my surprise—where did this helpful Morag come from?—because she simpered, “In the interests of teamwork, and all that.”