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

by Andrew St. Pierre White

  I laughed self-deprecatingly. “Can’t be beat! Anyway, plaster and all, Jonty was the first to climb to the top of our tree. I only dared look back once I was safely on a branch. The girls were still screaming their heads off, running full throttle towards us. Then I saw the buffalo had stopped. Without words, my mates and I agreed to say nothing. If there’d been enough time, we’d have placed bets on which girl made it to the tree first.”

  “I have no doubt your girlfriend immediately severed all ties with you,” Mary said primly.

  “Do you think he’d have risked that with a girlfriend?” Gwynn now chimed in. “My husband’s not that dumb. They were all just good buddies, so no harm done.”

  Everyone laughed. Everyone that is, except Morag. She glared at Gwynn, shoved her chair back noisily, flung her napkin down onto the table, and stalked out of the dining room. Lucky for her, Sean lived in Maun and didn’t see any of her antics. Surely, not even her friendship with Sandy could have protected her from this kind of behaviour?

  An uncomfortable silence settled. These were definitely becoming tedious.

  Gwynn sighed, and then leaned into me, whispering, “Time to feed the fish eagle, maybe? Break the tension. Just like Barbara and Rodney did.”

  I never thought I would copy their example, but clearly it was a tried and tested remedy for getting camp managers out of sticky spots. “I suggest you get your cameras because we’re going to feed the fish eagle.”

  Amid the clattering of chairs, Gwynn headed to the kitchen to get the meat. I walked to the bay and started preparing the float.

  A twittering voice stopped me in my tracks. “Andrew, let me help you with that.” Morag’s hand slithered onto my arm, clasping me tight.

  I ignored the loony and carried on tying my float. It was then I felt eyes boring into my back.

  Surprised, I turned to face my challenger.

  Gwynn stared at me. She scowled, and then vanished into the kitchen.

  The moment the feeding was over, I joined her.

  She leaned on the counter, watching Matanta gather the ingredients for lunch, her face still dark and brooding.

  Although I had no idea what I’d done to earn her fury, I laid down a peace offering. “Hey, I suggested to everyone we go for a post-breakfast, pre-lunch swim. I thought you might like getting away from camp for a bit.”

  “Everyone?” Gwynn asked, not bothering to look at me.

  “Well, almost everyone. Not…you know who.”

  “Her name is Morag. Say it,” Gwynn snapped. “And here I was planning to be nice to her today. Shows what an idiot I am.” In a brief flurry of animation, she slapped herself on the forehead, and then her elbows sank back down onto the counter with her hands supporting her head. “What I don’t get is why you encourage her.”

  It struck me that talking about Morag in front of the staff really wasn’t very bright. It smacked of Sean and Sandy—and Barbara and Rodney. “C’mon, let’s go to reception.”

  Gwynn slouched even deeper over the counter. She was going nowhere in a hurry.

  Matanta turned to the only other staff member in the room, Petso, sloshing her way through her first pile of breakfast dishes. “Hey, Pets. I need a smoke. Run to the laundry and ask Dylos to give me a cigarette.” Without hesitation, Petso leapt off her beer crate and bolted out of the kitchen. “And some matches,” Matanta called after her. He waved his hand at me, as if indicating that I had the floor.

  So, with the coast almost clear, I replied to Gwynn, “Morag’s just sucking up to me so I’ll fix her house, her solar panel, her plumbing—”

  “Her plumbing!” Gwynn’s head shot up, eyes flashing. “How can you be so naïve? The only plumbing she’s interested in is yours!”

  My mouth dropped. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Oh, yes I am. And I’ve been trying to tell you this for days, but you’re too dense to listen.”

  That ticked me off. “You don’t think you’re taking this whole thing a bit far?”

  Wrong choice of words.

  Gwynn’s face blanched and she hissed, “Am I? Then tell, why do you let her hang onto you like she owns you?”

  Oh jeez…and the day had been going so well.

  I scrambled for an answer that wouldn’t have me sleeping on the couch for a week, when Matanta laughed.

  “Women! Lekgoa. Motswanan, they’re all the same. Nice. But trouble.” He shot a glance over his shoulder, probably to check we were really alone, and then confided, “Like the gorgeous little Impeleng in the laundry. She’s made so much trouble for me, but what man could resist her?” He cleared his throat as if he couldn’t believe what he was about to say. “Even a woman like Morag can be trouble.”

  I rounded on him. “So you think Morag has the hots for me, too? She has the sex appeal of a box of matches!”

  “Of course,” he replied in a matter-of-fact voice. I wasn’t sure which statement he was agreeing to.

  Still I protested, “Never! She’s too—” I scratched my head, thinking, “too mental to be interested in me. One minute, she’s biting my head off, the next she’s…” My voice faltered.

  I was going to say all over me, but I didn’t think that would improve my relationship with Gwynn. Also, it made me see Morag in a new light, and what I saw was terrifying. My eyes widened and I looked at Gwynn with pure panic. Not that I got any support there—she was still glaring at me.

  “Rra, Morag’s an interesting one,” Matanta said. “I’ve been here at Tau Camp a long time. Eight years I’ve worked for Sean. I started doing maintenance, but I didn’t like it because there’s no proper maintenance here, just reed huts to fix, and toilets to unblock. I like building with bricks, so six years ago I moved to the kitchen. For the past five years, I’ve been Sean’s deputy manager. So trust me, I’ve seen many managers come and go in this camp. But the biggest matatas always happen when a new manageress arrives before the old one has left.”

  I glanced over at my angry wife and released a breath. Her face had relaxed and she was listening intently to Matanta. I could have hugged him—except that real men don’t hug. And Matanta probably didn’t hug either.

  “Sean also made that mistake when Barbara and Rodney came,” Matanta continued. “Now, me and the other staff, we didn’t like Barbara or Rodney. They treated us like children and they didn’t like black people. You just have to look at Rodney’s stupid signs all over the camp to know that.” Rodney had plastered the kitchen, laundry, and reception area with belittling notices aimed at the staff. “But I felt sorry for Barbara because of the previous manager who stayed here on the island. She was terrible, just like Morag is to you, Mma. Some things never change.” Matanta laughed. “Only now Morag wants your man. I promise you, no one wanted Rodney and his slippers.”

  Gwynn also snorted a small laugh and I relaxed even more. Then she took my hand and I knew my bed was safe for the night.

  “The next time she hangs on you,” Gwynn said, “please, please, please knock her across the river.”

  I wanted to say that I didn’t smack ladies, but even I knew the timing was wrong. “Got it.” I slapped Matanta gratefully on the shoulder.

  “Mma en Rra, I want you to know that Robert likes Morag. I don’t. Not at all. But I like Robert. A lot. So we don’t talk about Morag.”

  Gwynn gave me a victory smile that screamed ‘I told you so.’

  I held up my hands in defeat. “You win. I was wrong, you were right.”

  “And don’t you ever forget it,” Gwynn smirked.

  “So, Mma en Rra, us three? We’re a team? Or what?”

  Before I could reply to Matanta, Gwynn leaned over and gave him a one-armed hug.

  He yelped in pain as if he’d cut himself with the paring knife he was holding. Then he dropped to his haunches, holding his arm, eyes rolling in his head.

  “Matanta,” Gwynn cried, crouching down to help him.

  Matanta leapt to his feet, laughing. “Ah ha! Fooled you. You thought yo
u’d cut me! You’re as easy to trick as that Pets.”

  Gwynn grabbed a carving knife from its cradle and started sawing viciously on Matanta’s forearm. Shrieking with shock, Matanta pulled away.

  “Ah ha! Fooled you,” Gwynn laughed, holding up the knife, sharpened edge angled to the ceiling. “You’re an even easier tease than that Pets.” She handed him the knife, and skipped out of the kitchen. “I’m going swimming. Coming, Andrew?”

  “Haven’t you forgotten something?” I shouted after her. “I can’t pole yet.”

  “Gagona matata.” Matanta said, clapping me on the shoulder. “That means no problem, Andrew Rra. I will pole you both to the swimming hole.”

  “Done.” We shook on it. “But first I have a job to do. Follow me.”

  I led Matanta to the notice board in the reception area, where one of Rodney’s offensive signs was pinned. This one read:

  STAFF BANK ONLY OPENS BETWEEN

  11:00–12:00. MON-FRI

  DON’T BOTHER ASKING FOR HELP AT ANY OTHER TIME

  BECAUSE YOU WON’T GET IT

  I slapped a drum roll onto the desktop, and then pulled the sign off the wall. Matanta took it out of my hands and shredded it into tiny pieces.

  Kekgebele, who had been sweeping the floor, dropped his broom and darted past us, headed for the laundry, probably to tell the rest of the staff that today was the day all the signs came down.

  Chapter 29

  Linda, George, and Herb gathered at the bay, dressed and ready for our swimming expedition. Hans, still wearing his battle fatigues, stood at attention, watching us. “Aren’t you coming?” I asked him as I tucked my curls under my hat.

  “And be eaten by ze crocodiles? Nein. I have told my wife we will not be swimming today.”

  “Mary is also too nervous to join us,” Herb said with obvious disappointment. “I tried to persuade her, but she’s adamant she’s not swimming in crocodile-infested waters. I can hardly understand it. We haven’t seen a single crocodile since coming here.”

  “We haven’t seen the hyena either,” George chirped, not very helpfully, “but we know he’s here.”

  Matanta and Andrew joined us.

  Matanta had swapped his khaki longs for a pair of khaki shorts, ready for swimming. I introduced him as our deputy manager. He turned his winning smile onto each person, shaking hands using the traditional African handshake. Andrew had packed a cool box with a few drinks for everyone, which Matanta heaved into the closest mokoro.

  Like good hosts, Andrew and I waited until our guests were seated in their mokoro. Only then did we climb aboard the one Matanta had commandeered from an off-duty guide. I wondered if this constituted car theft, Okavango style.

  As a show of respect, I suppose, Matanta waited for Lecir and Dylos to lead the way out of the bay. Then, with us reclining comfortably on our cushions like rich lekgoa, we headed upstream for our first outing as managers.

  One of the primary attractions that brought people—including us—to the Okavango was the experience of reclining in a mokoro, while a man whose very being was tied to the ebb and flow of life in the delta, poled one rhythmically along tranquil waterways. Very little compared with gliding past intoxicatingly sweet water lilies, while ripples from the mokoro projected streamers of sunlight onto the golden sand below. At times, the silky water was so shallow I could reach down and run my fingers through the fine sand. Sublime.

  We had not gone far up the main channel when Dylos, Lecir, and Matanta parked their mokoro against the reed bank, skirting a bronze-coloured sandbank.

  The guests looked at Andrew and me. I could almost read their minds: who was going to act as crocodile bait and dive in first? I—naively perhaps—expected the guides to lead the way, but they settled back in their mokoro to wait. The noonday sun beat hot upon our shoulders.

  Then, George, looking a bit like a beached whale in his swimming shorts, launched himself overboard. The other guests followed. I was also about to leap in, but Andrew grabbed my hand. I looked at him in surprise.

  “Patience,” he murmured, gesturing with his head towards Matanta and the guides.

  They hadn’t moved a muscle.

  Understanding dawned and I settled back in my seat to watch Linda, Herb, and George frolicking in the water. Then a stab of guilt lanced me. How could I sit here in the safety of my little wooden boat, using my guests as crocodile lures?

  I threw myself into the drink.

  Matanta and Andrew followed.

  Finally, the other guides joined us.

  Now fairly confident it was safe, I lay back on the sandbank, allowing the bubbling water to massage away my Morag-induced tension. I was vaguely aware of Andrew handing around drinks, and I’m sure he offered me one, but I was too deep in relaxation to notice. Then I heard a distant, dreamy voice echoing my own mood.

  “If I fall asleep, pick me up in Maun.”

  It was followed by a loud splash.

  I sat up with a start to see Dylos swimming after George. He had floated off the sandbank and was heading downstream towards Scops Camp and—if he survived the perils of the river, which was unlikely—Maun.

  Without looking up from where she was lying, Linda called out, “Crocodile din-dins are served. American tourist. Tender. Well-marinated and very juicy.”

  “But no lean cuts,” George added, laughing at his own expense as Dylos pulled him back to safety. “And at least I’ll have something to tell old Hans about when I get back.”

  Too soon, the guides and Matanta climbed out of the water and I guessed we’d tempted fate for long enough.

  As our little flotilla returned to camp, we saw Hans pacing in front of the lounge. “Ah, zo,” he said, as we pulled up onto the bank. “You have all returned alive. I said to my wife that maybe one of you would not come back.”

  Deep down, I think he was sorry he hadn’t joined us.

  At lunchtime, Hans made up for missing out on the swimming by being first in the dining room. We were all tucking into a fantastic lasagne when an excited babble from the kitchen caught my attention.

  I went to investigate.

  A small, noisy crowd congregated outside the kitchen door, where a young boy held court. It was clear from his waving arms and wildly dancing eyebrows that he was getting as much mileage as possible from being the centre of attraction. The increasing decimal level brought Andrew over to join me.

  Robert broke away from the huddle. “Rra en Mma, this boy is saying there are tlou on the island down at Scops!” Robert waited for our reaction while Andrew and I exchanged puzzled glances.

  “What are tlou?” I asked finally, when it was obvious no explanation was forthcoming.

  “Elephant!” Robert breathed in delight. “Elephant down at Scops Camp.”

  “Are they there now?” Linda gasped.

  It was then I noticed that all our guests had joined us, probably to find out what all the fuss was about.

  “What are we waiting for?” Herb yelled. “Let’s go.” His half-eaten lunch forgotten, he turned, probably looking for Lecir, because Mary was welded to his side.

  “Not so fast. Let’s get more on this. To the radio everyone,” Andrew commanded.

  Typical. If were up to me, I’d have grabbed my hat and bolted down to Scops with the guests. Now we all stampeded to reception.

  “110, 110, 638,” Andrew said into the mic.

  Scops Camp responded as if they’d been waiting for his call. Joan would have been pleased. “638, 638, 110. This is Englishman. Go ahead, Andy.”

  “E’man. Please confirm the rumours that there are elephant down at Scops Camp, over.”

  “So that’s what they are. We looked them up in the guidebook, but that page is missing. It was eaten by the baboons.” I heard Milly laughing in the background as E’man continued, “They’ve been here all morning, Andy. Right now, they’re playing in the river in front of the camp. I’m sure if your lekgoa come, they’ll see them.”

  “Let’s go, let’s
go,” Herb called. “Get into the mokoro, Mary!”

  “I don’t think that’s wise,” Andrew said, pouring water onto Herb’s fire. “The elephant are in the river. Mekoro float on the river. Don’t intentionally meet an elephant in the water, when on the water.”

  “Ah! Not a pretty picture,” Herb said, grabbing Mary’s arm. “Come, let’s change our shoes.” He, and all our other guests, rushed off to grab walking shoes, hats, and cameras.

  I looked at Andrew, querying if he wanted to go, too.

  He shook his head, his face a woeful. “With my fix-it list, I have to pick my outings carefully.”

  Leaving him alone in camp, even if it was my afternoon off, seemed a little cruel—even for me. So, just a tinge jealous, I watched the camp empty as guests, guides, and off-duty staff vanished to Scops Camp.

  Several hours later, as the sun was losing its strength, I heard people lumbering down the path towards reception. Anticipating glowing stories of close encounters, I went out to meet them. But it was a weary, dispirited crew, which slumped down into the wicker chairs in the lounge, begging for cold drinks.

  Nature had tricked them.

  The elephants had moved on minutes before they arrived.

  “We did see some palm trees pushed down and a whole lot of fresh dung,” Mary said, as if that made it all worthwhile.

  I grinned. “That must have pleased the guides.”

  “True,” George added, perking up considerably. “Other people come to the Okavango to spot birds or animals. But Tau Camp guests come to see dung.”

  “Well, in that case, elephant dung is a lifer for me,” Gretchen said, unexpectedly, beaming at everyone. She was referring to the quaint habit birdwatchers—called twitches—have of calling new bird sightings ‘lifers’.

  “Then we will just have to tick it off on our list.” Hans took her arm, laughing with her as he led her back to their cottage.

  * * *

  Uninterrupted meals were becoming something of a rarity at Tau Camp as I discovered that evening. We were just savouring a rather sublime after-dinner syllabub—a very English dessert, this one made largely with cream flavoured with sugar and Cointreau—when a loud crash from the kitchen halted all conversation.