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

by Andrew St. Pierre White

  Herb leaned forward and grabbed my arm. “More waiter training? Or is it something else altogether?”

  “The staff have gone, so I think this could be something else altogether.” I motioned everyone to keep still while Andrew edged his chair away from the table and crept to reception to fetch his Maglite torch.

  He beckoned us, and we sidled up to him outside the kitchen. Then, like villains in an espionage movie, we all scuttled around the back of the building. Our destination was a five-foot high anthill a few feet from the back door. We quietly scaled it.

  Praying the reek of wood smoke coming from the still-gleaming donkey boiler to the right of the mound would hide my human scent, I peered out into the darkness. I saw nothing.

  Then I heard a scuffle, followed by a grunt. No genet could have made such a guttural sound.

  It had to be the hyena.

  A ripple of excitement trilled through me.

  Andrew switched on his torch, and in the beam, I caught a big black dustbin lying on its side outside the kitchen door. The sloping rear end and buckled legs of a spotted hyena protruded from its open mouth. A thousand imaginary ants stampeded through my stomach.

  A collective gasp from the watching crowd punctured the air.

  Even with his ears buried deep in the bin, the hyena must have heard us, because he pulled his head out. Glinting green eyes, set in a primeval head massively out of proportion to his sloping body, skewered us. He didn’t like what he saw because he opened his maw, displaying yellow, bone-crushing teeth, easily the size of my pinky finger.

  My excitement drained into fear.

  Mary, kneeling next to me, dug her fingernails deep into my arm. As painful as that was, I didn’t make a sound.

  The hyena watched us for a moment more then turned back to the dustbin. His total disdain chilled me to the bone. Had he wanted to, he could have been up the anthill and onto us in seconds—and we would have been defenceless.

  Andrew must have shared my concerns because he quietly, but firmly, indicated with his hand that it was time to leave. We backed off the anthill and returned to the dining room, leaving the hyena to his meal. It wasn’t long after that we heard him crashing through the undergrowth as he headed back out into the bush.

  It was with some trepidation that Andrew and I, now armed with walking sticks, went about the last chores of the day.

  Chapter 30

  Gwynn was on early morning call. I listened to her leave the cottage, and then rolled over to doze. It was going to be a hectic day, seeing off our current crop of friends and welcoming a new supply of guests. I needed some sleep if I was going to cope.

  Friends.

  My mind played sleepily with that thought.

  Herb and Mary, George and Linda, even Hans and Gretchen had become friends in the short time we’d known them. I was going to miss them. Still, such emotion shouldn’t interrupt much needed sleep. I was happily drifting off when I thought I heard someone speak.

  “Sorry, my love, but I think you need to get up.”

  I groaned, ignoring the voice.

  A gentle hand stroked my face, brushing my hair aside. Nice dream…this could get better.

  “Droon, you need to wake up.” The voice was more insistent now, the sound completely at odds with the fingers caressing my shoulders and back.

  I ignored it.

  The caress turned into a pinch. “Andrew. Get up. Now.”

  My eyes shot open in alarm.

  Gwynn stood over me with her hands on her hips. “The blasted hyena has destroyed the kitchen. It could mean no breakfast for the guests. And if that isn’t bad enough, that idiot Lesego hasn’t shown up for work, either.”

  Swearing under my breath that the damn kitchen—and Lesego—hadn’t been buried in a concrete bunker when Sean built the place, I dressed and headed into camp.

  This time the trip down the path was like walking through the debris field of the Titanic. I waded through chewed plastic lids, pot handles, a tangled bundle of string, the long green pole now used for propping the Hyena fridge door closed, chewed tubs belonging to chewed plastic lids, and several other unidentifiable items. Heart drooping, I stopped at the still-broken kitchen door and peered into the room.

  The Hyena fridge, repaired for the third time yesterday, was fast approaching a write-off. The lining hadn’t just been pierced, it was shredded, with a dozen jagged pieces of plastic scattered on the floor.

  The oven had also roused his displeasure. The door was twisted so badly on its hinges, I wondered if it would ever close again. The shelf where the pots and pans usually waited gaped emptily at me. I’d have to get the maintenance team searching the island for them today or the kitchen couldn’t operate.

  My shoulders sagged.

  I had so much to do, so much to fix, and I was getting nowhere—largely thanks to this damn animal that had decided to turn our kitchen into his buffet lounge.

  “What do you two intend doing about the hyena? If this goes on for much longer, we won’t have a kitchen left.”

  Oh no.

  My stomach knotted. The last thing I needed now was Morag. But here she was, adding to my stress.

  “We’re not sure, Morag,” came Gwynn’s sugary reply. “What would you have done if the hyena had arrived while you were running the camp?”

  “What I would have done is irrelevant, because the hyena didn’t arrive while I was running the camp.”

  “Yes, I know!” Gwynn lunged forward, right into Morag’s personal space. The hair on Hazel’s back bristled, but Gwynn didn’t seem to notice. “Maybe you should talk to Matanta about that. He has some interesting theories about hyenas—and people.”

  I didn’t have the energy for this. Not now. Not today, with so much needing to be done. I pulled Gwynn to my side. “Okay, girls. None of this is helping.” Hazel sat next to Morag, but didn’t take her eyes off Gwynn for a second.

  Morag flicked her hair over her shoulder. “Of course she isn’t, Andrew. But if you need me to help you, don’t hesitate to ask. I’ll be in the dining room, waiting for the coffee.” As she turned away, she called over her shoulder to Gwynn, “Oh, by the way, I noticed Tom going into your house. Perhaps you should go and see if your cat is still alive.”

  Using swear words I didn’t even think she knew, Gwynn charged up to our cottage.

  Days like this shouldn’t be allowed.

  I followed at a slower pace. When I arrived at the cottage, Gwynn was cuddling Woodie.

  “Is she all right?” I asked, trying not to sound as irritated as I felt.

  “There was a fight, but no obvious damage. Tom goes to Scops Camp. Today.”

  My clenched stomach now knotted. As much as I loved Gwynn and Woodie, this wasn’t a fight we needed with Morag. I hugged Gwynn, hoping to calm her. “I get it. You hate Tom. And Morag. But please, not today. Not with the hyena and guests leaving and coming.”

  Gwynn sighed, and then bit her lip. “What’s happening about getting her to Otter? Maybe she can take Tom with her.”

  “I’m doing everything I can. The old women are gathering the reeds, everything else that can be fixed has been fixed. All we need now is for Sepei to play along and send the rest of the maintenance supplies.”

  “Maybe on today’s plane.” Gwynn sounded almost evangelical. “Maybe she’ll have space today.”

  “That’s the spirit.” I stroked Gwynn, and then Woodie. “I think we have a job to do.”

  “Keep the guests distracted while I get the water boiled for the tea and coffee.” Gwynn darted down to do Lesego’s job while I chatted to the guests.

  Despite the chaos of the morning, Matanta and Robert presented us with a fine breakfast. It was scarcely over when we heard the approaching aircraft. Gwynn rounded up the guides and guests, while I collected the outgoing mail.

  “I am so sorry to leave,” Mary said as we headed up to the runway.

  “Come, come, we must not be late,” Hans snapped at Gretchen.

&nb
sp; She hastened her pace.

  As the pilot brought the aircraft to a noisy halt, Gwynn and I offered our hands to shake our goodbyes. Herb brushed Gwynn’s aside and scooped her up in a big bear hug. The next thing I knew, we were both being bundled from person to person. I even got a hug from Gretchen.

  But, sad as it was to see them go, the arrival of new guests meant there was little time for lengthy farewells. Gwynn and I walked over to meet the first Italians we would welcome to the Okavango.

  The sight of them left me speechless.

  Chapter 31

  My first impulse on seeing the four Italians was to look for the film director and crew—or, more particularly, the wardrobe person. There had to be one. How else did people look so immaculately turned out when standing on a dirt airstrip on a tiny island buried deep in the lower abdomen of Africa? But without any obvious outside help, these two Italian couples managed it. Perfectly.

  Both women were tall, with long, tanned legs, clad in ridiculously short khaki shorts. Their highlighted blonde hair was beautifully coiffured. Being rather short, dark-haired, and somewhat stubby, I was instantly jealous.

  The men, gorgeous with their Latin good looks and sexy two-day growth, made Denys Finch-Hatton from Out of Africa look shabby.

  I swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how casually dressed I was in my grubby kikoy, (I had succumbed to the lure, buying one from the camp curio shop), a faded T-shirt, and dusty sandals. My hair, although brushed, was a tangled mess, and it was days since my face had seen make-up. Like Sean and Sandy, or Milly and Kyle, I, too, had gone ‘bush.’ I pushed the humbling thought aside and held out my hand in greeting.

  “The airplane was late,” one of the men immediately complained in good Italian English. “The travel agent said we would fly from Maun at nine-thirty. It’s now eleven-thirty, and we wasted all that time sitting at the airport.”

  “Well, things need to be a bit flexible here in deepest Africa,” I replied in my best dealing-with-complaints voice. “The important thing is that you’re here now, and I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful time.”

  From their sour expressions, it was clear they considered me a rabid liar.

  It was time for a distraction.

  I waved my arms to include the guides into our circle. “Let me introduce you to KD and Jackson. They’ll show you the delights of the Okavango.” Smiling, the guides offered their hands for a traditional African handshake. “They’ll also carry your bags.”

  It was then I saw the mountain of hand-tooled leather suitcases and carry bags standing next to the plane. My heart sank. I was surprised the plane had been able to get airborne. Try as she might, Sepei would been unable to squeeze a roll of toilet paper in with that lot, let alone a car battery. The guides, no weaklings, winced as they struggled to pack it all onto their backs. Once loaded up, we gave a final wave to the departing guests and walked into camp.

  There was no friendly banter while we checked in the Italians, partly because the spokesman from the runway was the only one who could speak any English. It looked like a difficult few days ahead.

  “Let’s hope we get a late booking of people who can at least speak English,” I said to Andrew. We had just returned to reception after showing them to their cottages.

  “A mixture of English and Italian if we can be really picky. I must say, though, the two I took down really loved the cottage.”

  “Oh!” I replied in surprise. “My two didn’t even blink when I showed them around.”

  “Mine waxed quite lyrical. I thought they’d never shut up.”

  I looked up at Andrew’s deadpanned face and grinned. “They didn’t say a word, did they?”

  “Nope. All they did was flick the towels into the laundry basket, as if using a hotel towel would give them a nasty rash.”

  I laughed, and then bit my tongue. The Italians had sneaked up on us. Hopefully, their lack of verbal communication skills extended into auditory areas, too. Their faces remained dark and glum, so it was impossible to tell. After I showed them the bar, the four of them sat in the lounge, staring at each other with expressions of saint-like endurance.

  For a moment, I thought about going to talk to them, but pushed the idea aside as quickly as it formed. I intended saving what little conversation I could muster with these people for important occasions—like meals, when we’d be trapped with them for a couple of hours.

  Turns out, that was a mistake.

  They suddenly huddled together for a brief, intense conversation. Then The Spokesman walked over to join us. “You said we’re going to have to walk in the bush. Is this right?”

  Andrew smiled brightly at him. “Your guides will take you out in the mekoro—the long canoe things down there on the bank—to visit some of the other islands. From there you’ll walk, looking for animals and birds. Is this a problem?”

  I swallowed a laugh at Andrew’s faked innocence. You didn’t need 20/20 vision to know that this was indeed a problem—a big one, judging from The Spokesman’s stony face.

  “The travel agent didn’t say anything about walking.”

  Andrew and I looked at each other, unsure of how to proceed.

  “I’m sure you’ll find walking most rewarding,” I finally hazarded, although even I could hear how lame that sounded. The Spokesman didn’t look impressed, either. I tried again. “You can really see things you wouldn’t otherwise see from a vehicle—”

  The spokesman had had enough. He slapped his hand down onto the reception desk. “I hope so, because we paid for game drives. And lions, too.” He glared at me before turning back to his party to relay the bad news.

  I shuddered to think what they’d make of our ‘poop walks,’ Tau Camp’s unique answer to the boring old game drives, offered by camps to the north of us, where hungry lions hung out in numbers unheard of here.

  Lunch, when it was served, turned out to be uncomfortable. Conversation flowed at the same pace, and with as much enthusiasm, as a fly doing the breaststroke through marula jelly. Our guests largely ignored us, as if they didn’t approve of the hired help eating with them at table. I can’t even say they had a jolly time together. So, it was a relief when they headed to their cottages to fortify themselves for their afternoon exertions.

  Even though Andrew’s early morning lie in had been a disaster, the rules of engagement said it was my afternoon to relax. So, leaving Andrew at the helm to deal with Storm Italy, I strolled back to our house to play with Woodie.

  We had just settled together in the sun, when I heard the purr of an aircraft coming in from the south. Expecting no more guests today, I ignored it, until I realised it was on final approach to our runway. I ambled out onto the strip to find Andrew already there, standing in the shade. The heat radiating off the dusty white runway was killing.

  “Maybe our prayers have been answered and it’s a late booking,” I said. “Although a bit of warning would have been nice.”

  “Maybe Morag took the call and didn’t tell us.”

  My face flushed with irritation. “Why am I not surprised? I’ll brief Impeleng to prepare a cottage.”

  “Wait.” Andrew grabbed my arm. “It’s not a 206. Too small for that.”

  We watched the little plane—a two-seater Cessna 150—touch down. Without fuss or fanfare, it rolled towards us. The pilot took off his head-set, shut down the engine, and climbed out.

  It was Sean.

  My lunch curdled. Then I remembered the difficult Italians and my heart imploded, too. Why couldn’t Sean have come yesterday?

  “Unannounced visits. That’s a bit rough,” Andrew whispered as we walked to meet him.

  Sean shook our hands and handed Andrew a spirit level. “To level the fridges. Andrew, you asked me for it before you guys left.”

  “You didn’t perhaps bring a car battery with you as well?” I enquired, hopefully.

  Sean looked at me in surprise. “No. Should I have?”

  I gave him my broadest smile. “It would have been
helpful. But no matter. We’ll survive.”

  “Good. I like survivors.” Sean turned towards the camp.

  As Andrew and I walked with him, I noticed his eyes darting around, taking in everything. I hoped his first impressions of our efforts were positive.

  Once at reception, I offered him a sandwich for lunch. He nodded, and I escaped to the kitchen to brief whoever was there. When I returned Morag, Sean, and Andrew were sitting across from each in the lounge. My built-in friendship-detector antenna kicked into overdrive as I scrutinised Sean and Morag, but nothing from their body language indicated a close friendship.

  Sean pulled a familiar piece of paper out of his jean’s pocket.

  Our begging letter for the staff salaries.

  He waved it at us. “What were you lot thinking, sending me this?” His downturned mouth added to his pained expression. “I’m particularly shocked at the amount you are suggesting for Lesego, the waiter.” He looked at Andrew and me, demanding answers.

  We looked at Morag, expecting her to justify her proposal.

  She sat, looking smug, saying nothing.

  I scowled, and then ratted her out. Apart from anything, I wanted to see just how buddy-buddy she and Sean were. “It was Morag’s suggestion to up Lesego’s pay. She thinks he’s a good waiter.” Morag turned brittle eyes on me, but I ignored it. “And since the increases were apparently needed now, I left it to her judgment.”

  “But what do you think?” Sean demanded, without so much as a glance in Morag’s direction. “You’re the manager, it’s your opinion that counts, not Morag’s.”

  I’m ashamed to say it, but I started to gloat. “I don’t think he’s worth it, but we’d only been here for a day when we wrote the letter, so I acceded to Morag’s prior knowledge of his performance. Turns out I was right. The guy was late for work today.”

  “Great.” Sean now turned to Morag. “And you want me to give him more money?”

  Three sets of eyes now focused on Morag. I could see she was embarrassed. This wasn’t what she’d expected. For the first time since we had arrived, her back was in a corner. If she stood by her demand for more pay for a laggard like Lesego, Sean would think her over-generous with his money. But if she backed down, she’d lose face with us. I was fascinated to see what she’d choose.