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

by Andrew St. Pierre White

  “I’ll ask Olututswe to bring them to the camp so I can brief them.” I hopped up the stairs into the house and made a point of scanning the kitchen-cum-lounge.

  Baboons had defecated all over the wicker furniture, and dead centipedes and spiders littered the sink. Nothing that couldn’t be cleaned. The only possible delay to Morag moving in seemed to be the mabinda.

  “How long do you think it’ll take the women?”

  “First, you’ll have to order the mabinda twine from Sepei. While you wait for it to arrive, the women will go into the delta to collect the letaka. Budget two weeks for that. Then another two weeks to peel the reeds and to stitch them together. Then the actual repairs have to be done. I suppose about six weeks.”

  Six weeks.

  I sighed. I’d rather hoped we’d be shot of Morag by the end of the day.

  Wishful thinking. Without replying, I climbed the narrow wooden staircase to the bedroom, a large square room overlooking Otter Lagoon. Like all Tau bedrooms, the centrepiece was a bed and mosquito net. It looked so peaceful I could have lain down and slept all afternoon.

  “The water boiler has never worked properly,” Morag said, interrupting my daydream. “We flew in a gas expert, but he couldn’t get it going. I’d have coped with cold water, but the solar panel is broken, too, so no electricity.” She raised her eyebrows. “Do you know anything about gas and solar panels?”

  “Solar panels are a breeze, so I’ll have your electricity running in no time. But gas? Well, I’m no expert, but I’ll give it a try.” When Morag’s face fell, I added, “I’m sure the problem will succumb to logic.”

  I certainly hoped so because I was relying on logic to fix most of the matatas on Noga Island. And logic said the release of gas to the boiler was triggered by water pressure. So no water pressure, no gas. No gas, no fire. No fire, no hot water. Simple.

  The trickle of water coming from the tap confirmed my suspicion, sending me off looking for leaks in the system. But after scrambling through the undergrowth, following the water pipes, I came up blank. They were as tight as Sean’s wallet. I was about to start scratching my head when another thought struck.

  The water was pumped straight from the lagoon and, as clear as it was, there had to be floating debris in it. That implied some kind of filter system. A quick scout around revealed the in-line filter. I whipped it open and triumphantly removed a few leaves. Brimming with confidence, I now turned on the closest tap.

  A mere trickle mocked me.

  It was back to the filter. This time I studied it more carefully. A wisp of grass on the wrong side of the filter inlet caught my eye. I prized it out it with tweezers, replaced the filter and retested the system.

  Scalding hot water.

  “Your gas is working,” I called out to Morag.

  “What?” She tripped over her feet in her haste to reach me.

  “The gas. It’s working.” Keep it casual, low key like I do this every day.

  “No way! What did you do?”

  “Magic touch.” Like her, I wasn’t about to give away too many of my secrets. “Now for the solar panel.”

  I waded chest deep into the lagoon to a single pole on which a filthy panel had been mounted. A quick splash of water cleaned it. Then logic, again. One of the cables had been pulled out, probably by a passing hippo. So, with one eye watching for crocs and hippos, and the other on the job, I reattached it.

  This may sounds crazy, but standing in crocodile-infested water, fixing the panel was one of the most thrilling things I’d ever done. This was the grit you never got to experience as a tourist. It made every moment of every challenge we’d faced to get here worth it.

  Back at the house, I checked the battery. Dead. But the voltage from the panel was healthy.

  “Order a new battery and you’re in business,” I said to Morag.

  “I’m stunned.” She sidled up to me, purring like a cat. “Thank you. You truly are a marvel.”

  I grunted and collected my tools. She skipped along next to me as I headed back to camp in time for the arrival of the Islander.

  Chapter 23

  The arrival of the Islander was a big event, drawing not only the usual crowd of maintenance and kitchen staff but everyone else who worked at the camp. The only MIA was Morag. She disappeared into the bush the moment Gwynn came into view.

  Gwynn grinned at me as the plane door flew open. “This is so exciting! I wonder what Sepei sent us?”

  That was indeed an indictment on camp life. Sorry, Sean, but it isn’t the guests who really stir the soul. It was the promise of supplies needed to keep them happy that created the real thrill.

  “You want to sort the stock while I get the admin done with the guests?” I asked with a tinge of envy, craning to catch a glimpse of my toolbox. It was being elusive. I did spot my camera case and tripod, though. That was good.

  “Perfect,” Gwynn said, “I’ll just say a quick hello to the guests, then join you as soon as Matanta and I are done.”

  * * *

  I was finishing up the paperwork that welcomed the Schultz and Weson parties into the camp when Gwynn bounded in, giving me a thumbs-up. “Toolbox accounted for.”

  Keen to get it open, I motioned to her to take the very talkative Hans Schultz and his very quiet wife, Gretchen, to their cottage while I dashed the Wesons to theirs.

  Morag stopped us in our tracks.

  She greeted the guests and said, “Let me introduce you to your guides.”

  I shot her an are-you-crazy look. Surely after all her many months of running Tau Camp, she knew the guides were introduced to their guests at the strip? Apparently not, because she stepped forward, telling Dylos, a stocky man with a lopsided smile, to carry the Schultz’s bags. Then she introduced Kamanga to the Wesons.

  Everyone looked confused.

  “Morag, I’ve already assigned the guides,” I whispered. “Dylos is going with the Wesons.”

  “Oh! Well, in that case, I need you all to sign an indemnity before you go out onto the water. In case you get eaten by crocodiles.”

  “Andrew has already made us sign our rights away,” George Weson drawled in a deep southern American accent. “You can now safely feed us to your crocodiles.” He looked first at Morag, then at me, his raised eyebrows suggesting he’d just stepped into a loony bin.

  “Well then, let’s go to the cottages.” Morag swept out of the reception and headed towards number two, where Herb and Mary were staying. Unsure of what to do, all four guests started after her.

  This was insane. I raised my voice. “I think we’ll do it this way. Gwynn, you and Kamanga take Hans and Gretchen to number six. And Dylos and I’ll take George and Linda to number three.”

  The last thing I saw before striding out of reception was Morag blushing. Scarlet. It was strangely satisfying in a perverse way, although it did nothing to cool my fury. Or my own embarrassment. It also drove all thoughts of my toolbox from my mind.

  After settling George and Linda into their cottage, I returned to reception to confront her. Gwynn was the only person there. She was sorting through the mail that had come in with the Islander. She turned to speak to me, probably to comment on Morag, when we heard a harsh, cutting voice behind us.

  “How dare you two behave like that!” A white-faced, thin-lipped Morag stalked into reception. “You two think you know everything. Well, you don’t. Let me remind you that I’ve run this camp single-handily for two months. You two started yesterday and now you think you know everything.”

  I was officially pissed off.

  Sucking in a quick breath, I thrust my face up to hers. “Are you schizophrenic, or do you just do this to annoy me?”

  Morag blinked, and, for a moment, I saw panic on her face and heard it in her voice. “Andrew, I – I don’t mean you—”

  “Where were you yesterday when the Van Hoevens arrived?” I demanded. “You had no problem dumping us then. But now you think you can embarrass us by barging in and taking over.
Badly, too.” Gwynn touched my arm, trying to calm me down, but I wasn’t about to be placated. “There are single-celled organisms rotting in the bush who could do a better job of teaching than you can. So how about taking a hike down the runway to go and make your bird walks—or whatever it is you’re supposed to be doing around here.”

  I stopped my tirade and looked around.

  Gwynn was biting her lip with an unreadable expression on her face.

  Worse, Morag looked at if she were about to cry, whether from rage or misery, I couldn’t tell. But there was no backing down now, or she’d walk over us forever. I stared back at her with a stony expression.

  For a full minute, nobody said anything.

  Then Morag’s hands found her hips. “If that’s how you feel, you can run the camp on your own. I’ll be moving out tomorrow and I expect Otter to be ready.”

  We both knew how pointless that demand was.

  It didn’t stop Gwynn murmuring, “Nothing would give us greater pleasure.”

  With the coming of the Islander, I hadn’t had a chance to tell her about the state Otter Lodge was in. I broke the news now. “Morag’s with us for another month, at least.”

  My words were greeted with absolute silence. It wasn’t my greatest moment, I admit. But the woman had to be psychotic with her erratic behaviour.

  Finally, Gwynn spoke. “Great. That should do a lot for the atmosphere around here.” She gnawed the inside of her mouth before adding, “Morag, maybe we can at least try and be civil to each other. For the guests’ sake, if nothing else.”

  Again no one spoke. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask her what her problem was with us when she walked off. She had not gone more than ten paces when she called back, “Andrew, I don’t want to fight with you. The two of us could make a good team.”

  I shook my head in wonder.

  Gwynn slumped against the desk. “Oh, joy! I see she fancies you enough to leave you in peace, but what about me?”

  I chose to ignore the ridiculous comment about Morag fancying me.

  When I said nothing, Gwynn added, “A strange thing happened while you were at Otter. Robert called me over to speak to him. In private. Just as well, because he tore my ear off.” She saw my wide eyes and added, “Yes. I know. Weird. Anyway, he was very unhappy with my menu. Apparently, quiches and apple pies and picnics all on one day are a bit of a stretch. Not now, when the camp is empty, but when it’s full. He told me Morag would never have given them a menu like that and I’ve no right to call myself a manager. And, what’s worse, if I carry on giving rubbish menus, I won’t survive with Matanta. He says Matanta has trained every manager who ever worked here, and if I don’t buck up my ideas, Matanta will chew me over and spit me out. What do you think of that?”

  She could have told me Robert had grown wings and flown and I’d have been less surprised. “That hardly seems likely. Matanta has been really helpful.”

  “I know. But that’s not the point. Why do you think Robert even said it?”

  “Morag doesn’t like Matanta,” I said. “That’s obvious.”

  “Morag doesn’t like anyone. Except you, Lesego, and—”

  “And Robert,” I said. Where had Gwynn got this crazy idea that Morag liked me? I knew she could be insecure, but that was just nuts.

  “Precisely,” Gwynn said. “I rest my case. Her two favourites on the salary increase list. I think she’s trying to buy them off so they’ll side with her.”

  “This all sounds a bit too cloak-and-dagger for me,” I said.

  “Huh! You think? Give me a few days and I’ll slap the evidence on your desk—right on top of all those lovely ledger sheets you and Morag like playing with.”

  Before I could frame a suitably scathing reply, I heard someone striding to reception.

  Gwynn, looking over my shoulder down the path, rolled her eyes. “I don’t believe it. He’s actually going to do it. I told him lunch was about to be served, but he wouldn’t listen. And I warned him it was too hot, so they’d see nothing if they go walking now.”

  It was burning at about ninety degrees of dry, sweaty heat—and that was under the trees where it was cool. It would be hell walking on the islands now.

  “What are you talking about?” I peered over her head at Hans and Gretchen, marching down the sandy path towards us.

  “Ready for lunch I see,” Gwynn said, pointedly as the couple stepped up to the reception desk.

  They looked nothing like two people headed for a blow-out meal at Tau Camp. Hans, with his ramrod-straight back, wore a military pith helmet, giving him a decidedly Prussian general air. Gretchen, short and dumpling-like, followed a few paces behind. She wore an enormous straw hat. Lunch was clearly the furthest thing from their minds.

  “Ja, Ja. So ve are here at last,” Hans said, striding passed us into the lounge.

  I followed.

  The bay of water looked peaceful, made even more so by the pair of spotted-necked otters diving amongst the reeds. A jacana strutted over the lilies.

  Hans surveyed the view. “Ze swamps. They are very beautiful. Very beautiful indeed.” He nodded at me. “Vell done!”

  “Oh thank you. But really, it was nothing,” I said.

  Gwynn walked away, her hands covering her mouth.

  I looked at Hans. Nothing happening inside. My razor-sharp wit was completely wasted on him.

  “Ve are ready to go on ze boat.”

  “Lunch is served,” Gwynn called, louder than necessary. Then she took Gretchen’s arm, hoping I think, to lead her away from her husband’s insane idea of going game-watching at midday when all the animals—smarter than humans—would have taken cover in the deepest bush.

  “Did someone mention lunch? We’re starving.” Linda and George had arrived.

  “Step this way,” Gwynn said, still holding Gretchen’s arm.

  Like a lamb, Gretchen followed Gwynn, but her eyes darted nervously back at Hans. He stood resolutely at the bank, waiting for his mokoro trip.

  Then Hans’s nose twitched, and I guessed he’d caught the smell of the quiche.

  To say he elbowed his way to the table isn’t exactly polite, so instead I’ll settle for: after gently shoving the other guests aside, he eased himself to the head of the buffet queue, where Kekgebele served him first.

  Linda, standing behind him, suddenly exclaimed, “Oh, George!” She pointed at the cheese board. “Isn’t it pretty?”

  Kekgebele had excelled himself; the board was a work of art. He’d poled out into the bay and had picked a perfect lily pad and two lily flowers, one pink and one blue, and laid them on the board. The bottle-green leaf highlighted the yellow cheddar, cream-coloured Brie, and blue-veined Roquefort to beautiful effect.

  “I’ll just have to try some,” Linda said, helping herself. “Sorry to ruin the picture.” She turned to the table. “And the table napkins! They’re lilies too! The waiter must have spent hours folding the linen.”

  He probably had, but the effort was wasted on some of our guests.

  Hans pinned George with his agate-coloured eyes. “Your accents tell me you are both from za USA.” Before George could reply, he continued. “Ja. My wife and I, we have been to America. In fact, we took our two daughters to America for six weeks holiday. We had a wonderful time. We vent everywhere from New York, to Orlando to see Mickey Mouse.”

  I looked at Gretchen. She stared out over the bay, her mind obviously far from America.

  As Hans’ detailed itinerary droned on, the Weson’s began to fidget, edging to the table with their plates of food.

  Gwynn took Linda’s arm. “Have a seat. Andrew will pour some wine. Now, George, what do you do for a living?”

  Looking relieved, George sat and answered quickly, “I am a sociology lecturer at—”

  “Zat is interesting, ja,” Hans interrupted. “Now me, I am retired. I was working all my life for Siemens. Except, of course, during ze var. Then I was a tank driver in ze Afrika Korps. With Field Marshall Romme
l. Ze Desert Fox.” He chuckled proudly.

  Gretchen continued to stare at the bay.

  “Zis food…it’s very excellent,” Hans droned, taking a seat next to Linda. “I must congratulate you. Not like ze food we ate in America.”

  I could see Linda and George groaning inwardly. “Every day in America it was just dufnuts, dufnuts, and more dufnuts.”

  Gwynn raised her eyebrows at Linda and mouthed, “Dufnuts?”

  Linda mouthed back, “I haven’t a clue.”

  “Ja. Even my daughters got so tired of ze dufnuts. They serve every kind of dufnut you can think of. Dufnuts with chocolate. Dufnuts with jam. Dufnuts with cream—”

  “Oh! You mean doughnuts.” George sniggered.

  Linda looked away, her face red with suppressed laughter. I buried mine in my napkin. Gwynn quickly offered everyone some more wine, but when that didn’t stop her peals of laughter, she escaped to the kitchen. By now, George’s shoulders were shaking so much, he slopped his wine over the tablecloth.

  “And you know what else?” Hans demanded, oblivious of his audience’s mirth. “In America you do not see ze clothes on ze table like you do in Europe.” Clothes? I was about to risk correcting him, when he jabbed his lily-shaped napkin with a fork. “Or even here in darkest Africa. Nein. It’s all just plastic. Everything in America is plastic. Except the Spruce Goose.”

  George grabbed Linda’s long, flowing skirt, swept it up and spread it over the corner of the table. “Clothes on the table, like that?” He and Linda were both laughing openly now.

  Hans nodded. “Ja. Just like zat.”

  Unable to contain my laughter any longer, I cast about for a change of topic.

  Meanwhile, Gretchen stared out over the bay.

  A glossy starling came to my rescue. Dark blue with iridescent feathers like beaten brass, they are curious, fearless, and raucous. This one was also hungry.