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

by Andrew St. Pierre White

  “Why, George!” Linda cried through her tears. “Would you look at that little bird over there? He’s helping himself to the cheese. Isn’t that just the cutest thing you ever saw?”

  The starling dug his beak into the cheddar, then stopped, cocked his head to one side and turned his beady bright eyes onto us.

  I glanced over at Gretchen. She was looking animated for the first time since arriving at the camp. Cooing in delight, she clasped her hands together, and leaned towards the bird.

  Hans curled his lip, looking at me with disapproval. When I did nothing to chase it away, he flicked his napkin at it.

  The starling cackled in surprise, and fluttered off to join his friends in the trees, where they waited their turn to attack the cheese.

  The light died in Gretchen’s eyes. Without a murmur, she turned again to stare out over the bay.

  Hans stood abruptly, yanked Gretchen’s chair out from under her, and declared emphatically, “Now we go out on ze boat.”

  Realising there wasn’t a moment to lose, I dashed up to the laundry to call their guide. Following the example of just about every other intelligent creature in the delta, Kamanga was peacefully asleep under a tree.

  Bad luck for him. Hans had given his orders.

  “Kamanga,” I called. “The Desert Fox is ready to go out to chart the islands.”

  Kamanga woke, sat up, and rubbed the side of his head. It was clear from his mutters, he thought the new Tau Camp manager insane.

  I laughed. Maybe mental illness was catching.

  Kamanga pulled himself slowly to his feet and asked in a bemused voice, “The lekgoa want to go out now? In the heat? They’ll see no animals. And these lekgoa speaks very strange. I cannot understand him.”

  “Nor can anyone else,” I said, patting him on the shoulder. “Just do your best.”

  With that, Kamanga picked up his pole and headed down to the bay.

  Chapter 24

  The Wesons rested before their afternoon outing. Woodie slept peacefully in the sun in our garden. Morag and Tom weren’t anywhere near me—or Andrew. He busied himself unblocking the French drain outside Herb and Mary’s cottage, leaving the rest of his maintenance projects—as critical as they also were—to wait. That left me minding the radio. Again.

  Instead of sitting in the lounge moping, I headed to the kitchen. And Matanta. I was determined to find evidence of the Robert/Morag collusion. Then I would enlighten my painfully dim husband to the fact that the Ice Queen was after his body.

  “So, Mma,” Matanta began as I joined him at the prep counter where he rolled pastry for the apple pie. “I heard the laughing at lunch. It seems the German is funny. That’s strange for Germans.”

  “He is,” I plonked my elbows down on the counter opposite him and rested my chin on my hands. “But he doesn’t mean to be funny.”

  “They’re usually the funniest.”

  Pleased he’d opened the discussion, I said, “I’m learning to speak Setswana. I’ve added at least twenty words this morning.”

  “That’s good. Barbara and Rodney weren’t interested in learning. Sandy can’t be bothered. Sean tries, a bit, but not much.” He gave me an almost shy look. “Gwynn. That’s a strange name. I’ve never heard it before.”

  “It’s Welsh. Short for Gwynneth. But never call me that, because I won’t answer you.” He raised one eyebrow. “My mother only ever called me Gwynneth when she was cross with me.”

  “Mothers!” Matanta waggled both his eyebrows at me. “You know what mine did to me?” When I shrugged, he said, smiling, “She named me Torn Trousers. Now how’s that for a name?”

  “Matanta means Torn Trousers?”

  “I had thirteen brothers and sisters, but I never met one of them. They died, all of them, before I was born. When I came, my mother said, ‘No, this boy is just torn trousers, like all the rest. So, I’m not going to love him enough to give him a proper name.’” He paused, waving his rolling pin at me. “You understand that no one keeps torn trousers?”

  “She was smart, your mother. By naming you that, she ensured you lived.”

  Matanta chuckled, nodding. “People have told me many times to change my name, but I never will. I’m Torn Trousers. The survivor.”

  The survivor.

  I liked that.

  As I was quickly coming to realise, part of my survival at Tau Camp depended on befriending Matanta. I leaned in closer to him. “Robert said a hyena is bad luck. Is that true? Apart from the obvious things like chewed fridges and blown up kitchens, of course.”

  Matanta’s dark eyes studied me. “A hyena is a very, very bad animal.” He continued working with his pastry with a zeal that surely could not be good for it. I was wondering if I would get anything more out him, when he added, “But you know, a hyena is not always an animal. Sometimes it’s a person who comes as a hyena because he wants to make trouble for you.”

  My thoughts immediately sprung to Morag. Morag the Hyena, coming back in the dead of night to cause even more problems … Morag the Hyena, gnawing the knobs on the stove … Morag the Hyena, chewing on the dustbin … Morag the Hyena, not knowing how to do the paperwork—

  Laughter welled up inside me, but I contained it because Matanta was searching my face for traces of scepticism. At that moment, Kekgebele and Betty joined us, standing unobtrusively to one side.

  “Yes,” Matanta continued, perhaps fooled by my poker face. “The people who have the power to become hyenas are the Bushmen. The Tswana people like me, they don’t like the Bushmen because they are very strong. They have magic that is much stronger than the best of our sangomas.”

  Betty and Kekgebele nodded their heads in agreement.

  “One night, Robert and I were in Maun,” Matanta continued, wrapping a dented pie tin in pastry. “We were at a party at a friend’s house and there was a Bushman there, and he’d drunk too much beer. One of the other guys got cross with him and told him to go, but the Bushman started to fight with him. Now, the Bushmen are small, and they can’t fight one of us with their fists and win. But this one wanted to fight, so the Motswanan started to beat him. First, he grabbed the Bushman with both arms and threw him on the ground. Then, he fell with his knees on the Bushman’s chest. We heard the air coming out of his lungs and I knew he didn’t stand a chance.” Matanta fell quiet. Nothing moved in the silent kitchen until he said, “Just when we thought the Bushman would be killed, we saw his body change. The Motswanan couldn’t hold him because he was too strong. Then the Bushman threw the guy off and stood up. But, he was no longer a man—he’d turned himself into a hyena. Then, seeing the fire, the hyena got a fright and ran away.”

  “And you saw this?” I asked, searching his face for signs of mirth. There were none.

  “You ask Robert. He was there, too. On my life, that Bushman turned into a hyena.” There was no hint of laughter in his voice, either.

  I turned to Betty and Kekgebele. Their serious mien said they believed every word.

  “And you and Robert hadn’t been drinking beer?” I asked in my best investigative voice.

  “I started drinking plenty of beer after that,” Matanta said. Then he smiled. “And I haven’t stopped.”

  I don’t know what happened that night in Maun, but I know firelight can play tricks on superstitious minds. Matanta and Robert probably saw fear combined with the threat of death give the Bushman the strength to throw off his tormentor.

  Or maybe he had done exactly what Matanta had said: turned into a hyena.

  I wanted to believe it was true.

  Leaving Matanta to his baking, I wandered back to my post at the radio. Andrew was there, writing furiously on a tatty piece of paper.

  Without looking up, he said, “Have you any idea just how much stuff I have to fix? And the list is growing—probably as we speak.”

  I tilted my head, cupping my ear dramatically. “Hey, listen, I think I just heard the toilet in number four break.”

  “Not funny,” Andr
ew groused. “Especially considering I’ve spent the last hour up to my armpits in crap.”

  I made a poor attempt at suppressing a laugh. “So, is the soak-away soaking again?”

  (For those with more advanced plumbing—the running water kind supplied by your local city council—a soak-away is a kind of French drain. A deep hole, dug in the ground, is filled with rocks or beverage cans and bottles, which allows water from showers, basins, and toilets to seep away quickly and discreetly. The hole is covered with soil and grass to hide the evidence. And the smell.)

  “Give me a hug and I’ll tell you,” Andrew said, grinning.

  I grimaced. The malodorous scent of sewage hung around him like a limp cloak.

  Andrew laughed. “I think the cans have rusted away so Thekiso is busy digging it up to find the problem.” He gestured at his crumpled paper. “But I have to get in an urgent order for maintenance stuff. Maybe we’ll get another Islander soon, and I want to be prepared.” He started reading off his list. “A new battery for Otter. Six more gum poles. A couple bags of nails. Twenty two-by-fours. Some lavatory cistern spares. A roll of twin-flex. Three rolls of mabinda twine. Chicken-wire—”

  “Enough already!” I pulled a wad of paper off a clipboard sitting on the desk and plastered it to his chest. “Use these, or you’ll just have to write the list over. And I don’t think I could stand hearing it again.”

  “Ah,” Andrew grunted. “Stock requisition forms? That makes sense. Did Matanta tell you about these?”

  “No. I radioed Maun this morning, while you and Morag were at Otter. Sepei and Verity explained my pink shopping lists to me. Apparently, we’re supposed to do orders on Sunday, so Sepei has the week to find the stuff.”

  Andrew looked up from his scribbles. “Weren’t they surprised Morag hadn’t taught us all this?”

  “If they were, they’re too tactful to say anything.”

  Not caring that it wasn’t Sunday, Andrew shoved his order form into the mailbag to go out on the next plane. Then he leaned against the desk in chatting mode. “What else have you done, while I’ve been working my butt off?”

  “I spent a productive hour with Matanta in the kitchen.”

  “Getting chummy with him, are you? This doesn’t perhaps have anything to do with Robert’s comments, does it?”

  “I admit that sucking up to Matanta was part of a nefarious plan for securing allies in the war against the Ice Queen, but then I started talking to him. He’s really nice.”

  Andrew grinned. “So now you don’t want to use him anymore?”

  At least I had the decency to laugh. “I know you don’t believe my whole conspiracy theory, but Matanta has no time for Morag, either. A snake could bite her and he’d step right over her. And he’s not stupid, he knows Morag is going to be around here long term, so I figure he’s also looking to strengthen his defences.”

  “I think you’re being paranoid. Matanta is just professional.”

  “Really? Any idea what the word matanta means?” When Andrew shook his head, I added with relish, “Torn trousers. His mom named him that because he was the only one of thirteen kids to survive.”

  “He told you that? It sounds kind of personal.”

  “Not as personal as his avid belief in Bushmen who turn into were-hyenas.” I smiled at Andrew’s bemused expression. “Ask him to tell you about it. Or, better still, ask Robert. He was there, too, the night a Bushman turned into a hyena. It would be interesting to hear his take on it—if he’s even willing to share.”

  I had the pleasure of seeing Andrew tug at his beard. I guessed he was thinking back to Robert’s reticence to speak when we asked him why hyenas were bad luck. Knowing Andrew, I left that thought to brew with him and changed the subject. “Now, how about a shift system? One day, I do the early morning and you do the afternoon. Then we swap. That way we can both get some time off in the day.”

  This time he didn’t even stop to think. “Deal.”

  “Good. Enjoy your afternoon fixing the toilets—while listening for the radio. I’m going to sleep with Woodie. Wake me when the sun goes down.”

  Chapter 25

  I looked down at my sleeping wife and cat. They looked so peaceful. Too bad, since I was about to wake them. I bounced down onto the bed. “The Van Hoevens are back from their picnic. They had a grand time.”

  Gwynn groaned. Woodie opened one eye and glared at me.

  “The other guests have also come back from their outings. And, ta-ra-ta-ra …I’ve fixed the Fresh fridge door.”

  Gwynn sat up, rubbing her face. “I thought you were fixing toilets?”

  “Enough about the stupid toilets. Listen to my fridge story.” She leaned forward dutifully. “I used a candle to heat the plastic lining, which I then remoulded back into shape. Then, I mixed up some fibreglass and resin, and patched the holes.”

  “Does the door actually close?”

  “Huh!” How dare she doubt me? “I was on a roll today. Silicone rubber is wondrous stuff. I used it to fix the seal.” I paused, still seeing doubt. “Okay. The fridge will never be perfect again, but now it blends ever so nicely into the rest of our kitchen. Robert and I are calling it The Hyena fridge.”

  “Robert was there?”

  “Yes, and he and I got along just fine.”

  “Did you ask him about the hyena?”

  “No, I was too busy—”

  “Being a fix-it hero,” Gwynn interrupted.

  She smiled her approval and my chest puffed a little. I covered it up by saying, “Now, Woodie and I think it’s time you got up and had a walk with us along the runway.”

  “Walk? Are you insane? My whole body is aching from walking.”

  “Tell someone who cares.” I jumped to my feet. “C’mon, it’s beautiful out there.”

  Muttering something about slave-drivers, Gwynn dragged herself off the bed. I scooped Woodie up, and the three of us strolled out onto the runway.

  Tentatively at first, and then with obvious delight at being out of the house, Woodie rolled on the sand. Nicely coated in powdery white dust, she darted in and out of the long grass, sniffing out every hole—probably made by snakes. Without a care, she disappeared down one of them, leaving only the tip of her tail visible. Pity she wasn’t this brave where Tom was concerned.

  A little way down the strip, a group of lechwe looked up at us with cautious dark eyes. Golden-brown antelope with white bellies, they used the waters of the delta to hide from predators. They were having dinner on the coarse grass skirting the runway. It reminded me that night was approaching and our guests would be looking for their meal soon, too. We started for home.

  “Would you still have come if you had known how exhausting running a lodge would be?” I asked as Gwynn stooped to drag Woodie out of yet another hole.

  “Of course. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” came her quick reply as Woodie wriggled in her arms. Gwynn dropped her, allowing her to continue exploring.

  “Even though we’re on call virtually twenty-four hours a day?”

  “To be honest,” Gwynn admitted, “I hadn’t really thought it through properly when I suggested we come here. But regrets? No.”

  Just as well, since we had only been here for three days. It felt like weeks had passed.

  Back in our cottage, I flopped down on one of the chairs—the first time I’d actually sat in this room. I was about to point out that disturbing fact when a black beetle, easily the size of a chestnut, droned by the front of the house. It veered sharply into the lounge, did a low level pass above our heads, and then buzzed off outside again.

  I smiled. Just being in a place that made a visitation like that possible was worth any amount of time spent fixing toilets.

  As I was undressing for my shower, a movement next to the toilet caught my eye. I peered closer, straining to see in the gloom around the toilet bowl.

  “Hey, Gwynn,” I called softly. “Did you know we have a pair of bats living next to the toilet?”
>
  “Bats!” Gwynn bounded into the bathroom, eyes blazing with excitement.

  The bats, about two inches long, were hanging upside down from a copper pipe running to the toilet cistern. Almost reverently, we watched them. Rhythmically, they swung their furry little bodies, shrouded in beautiful, paper-thin wings, from side to side. Their black eyes sparkled in their rat-like faces.

  “I think I’m going to call this one Moriarty,” I said, pointing at the one on the right.

  “Moriarty? From the Goon Show?” Gwynn turned up her nose.

  “Yes,” I said, somewhat defensively. Since my earliest childhood I had been a Goon Show addict, something Gwynn never quite understood. “And I’m going to call the other one Moriarty, too.”

  “Both of them?” Gwynn objected. “You can’t do that.”

  “Why not? Can you tell them apart?”

  As if fully in agreement with me about their names, the Moriarty twins spread their wings and flittered off into the dusk.

  Chapter 26

  Herb and Mary were describing the delights of their picnic to the Wesons when we arrived at the pre-dinner campfire.

  With a mischievous grin, George nudged me with his wine glass. “How did Hans and Gretchen’s game viewing go?”

  Right on cue, Hans and Gretchen joined us.

  Without a word, Gretchen sank down onto a chair and stared out at the bay.

  Hans remained standing, looking a little deflated. “We had a long ride in the boat. Then the boy took us for a walk. But we did not see very many animals. Kamanga said it was too hot. He said we should have waited for the late afternoon when the animals come out.”

  “I’m surprised Gwynn didn’t tell you that, too, before you left,” Morag said, pushing a shocked tone into her voice.

  I was saved from answering by a loud grunting coming from the river.

  “Ah ha! And what makes that grunting sound?” Hans looked excitedly towards the water and I could almost see him thinking: So…there are animals here, after all.