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

by Andrew St. Pierre White

  Finally, she took a deep breath and said slowly, “He was sick this morning, that’s why he was late. And anyway, what’s one morning? It’s the overall picture one must look at and I think he deserves it. He’s threatened to leave if we don’t increase his salary, and it would be a great loss to the camp.”

  “Morag,” Sean said, barely veiling his impatience. “If I pay Lesego what you are asking, he will be the best paid waiter in Botswana. And we’ll have set a very unhealthy precedent for every other useless waiter in the country. They’ll all be queuing up to work here.” So much for that special friendship.

  Although by now Morag knew the kitchen was my department, she looked to Andrew for support. “You’ve seen him work. What do you think?”

  I answered for Andrew. “I think Kekgebele is a better waiter.”

  Sean slapped his hand onto the table. “Forget it. I am not paying both Kekgebele and Lesego exorbitant sums of money.” I wish I could say Sean looked angry, but his face was just mild—and determined.

  Morag launched into a long narrative of Lesego’s virtues, at the end of which, Sean still looked unconvinced. Finally Morag pleaded, “Trust me on this, Sean.”

  Sean sighed. “Okay, Morag, but tell him I expect him to be the best waiter in Botswana, not just the best paid.” He picked up our wage demand letter again. “And these outrageous amounts for Robert and Matanta?”

  This time Andrew and I threw ourselves into the debate, and together with Morag, we managed to persuade Sean to part with a little more of his cash.

  Sean ran a tired hand across his face. “I can’t believe I’m saying this right after giving out pay rises, but Matanta and Robert need some time off, or the government will be all over me for exploitation.”

  “Forgive our ignorance,” Andrew said, “but why?”

  Sean looked squarely at Morag. “I thought you’d have explained the overtime situation?”

  Morag wriggled in her seat. “There’s been so much going on, I hadn’t got to it.”

  Sean shook his head, and turning to Andrew and me, said, “Staff are supposed to work for a month, followed by a week off. Because Seatla has been gone popping out babies, Matanta and Robert are way behind on their off. I doubt they’d complain to Labour, but I’m not taking any chances. Pick one, and tell him to meet me at my plane tomorrow morning. We’ll fly out together.”

  “Robert,” I said immediately. “We’ll send him.”

  Sean attacked his sandwich.

  I spoiled his lunch. “We have a hyena destroying the kitchen. And the baboons are a real menace too.”

  As to be expected, he didn’t look pleased. But his answer surprised me. “I’ve told these people exactly what to do about the baboons, but no one will listen.” He waved his arm as if to implicate Morag and all the previous managers who had ever set foot on Noga Island. “In the warehouse in Maun, I have twenty litres of whitewash paint—bought at great expense, I might add —for the purpose of getting rid of the baboons. I’ll have it put on the next plane up here.”

  “Sean!” Morag shrieked. “You’re not still on about that! It will never work.”

  “It will work,” Sean insisted, glaring at her. “The trouble with you people is that you won’t try my ideas. Andrew, I’m sending up the whitewash. Then I want you to lay an ambush for one of the baboons. It doesn’t even have to be the alpha. Just wait at the top of the camp and when the baboons come in, throw the whitewash at the first one you see. The more paint you can get on him the better. I guarantee you that when the others see the white baboon, they’ll get the fright of their lives. They’ll leave the island and never come back.”

  Andrew’s mouth dropped. He snapped it closed. Then he said, “I’m a little confused. How exactly am I supposed to get close enough to a baboon as he swings through the trees to throw whitewash at him?”

  Sean looked crestfallen. Yet another manager had rejected his brilliant plan. “Well, that’s it then. If you people don’t want to listen to my suggestion, don’t complain about the baboons.”

  “Hey, maybe I could use it on the hyena.” Andrew laughed. “We got so close to him last night, I could have done some art-deco paint effects on him.”

  Typically, Morag, joined in laughing at Andrew’s joke.

  Even Sean smiled. Then he stood up, and I knew he had no real solutions to our problems with the wildlife. “Andrew and Gwynn, come with me. I want to go and look over the cottages.”

  We walked from cottage to cottage, excluding those where the Italians were staying, making copious notes on everything Sean wanted fixed, revamped, or replaced. Andrew now had months of work cut out for him.

  Sean then pulled out the stock requisition sheet Andrew had sent to Maun the day before. “I take it most of this stuff is for Otter.”

  Andrew nodded.

  “Forget it. Otter’s not the priority. Tau is. Morag will just have to camp out here for a bit longer.”

  I could have burst into tears.

  At the end of our walk, we found ourselves back in the lounge. Our guests had appeared for their afternoon activity. As expected, they were elegantly turned out. But it was not the perfectly cut khaki trousers or the tailored jackets worn over pure silk shirts that grabbed my attention. Neither was it the leather-trimmed pith helmets. It was the hundreds of pockets that really blew me away. Some large, some small, some rectangular, others square, pockets covered every inch of fabric, all glinting with brass buttons.

  I tried counting them, but the Italians kept opening and closing them, feeding them with sun block, hankies, sunglasses, miniature cameras, and guidebooks. I even saw what looked like a bandanna. I looked around at Andrew and Sean. It was obvious their wandering eyes were counting pockets, too.

  But, unfortunately, not even all the shiny buttons in the world could brighten the Italians’ moods. They remained as surly as they had been at lunch.

  I glance at Sean, then walked towards them. “Are you ready for a nice long walk?”

  The Spokesman didn’t bother replying.

  After seeing them off, I rejoined Sean and Andrew. “I’m afraid these four are going to be tough. The travel agent told them they would be going on game drives.”

  “It happens.” Then, as if it were of little concern, Sean turned back to Andrew. “So what are you going to do about the lighting?”

  Andrew’s face paled at the sound of another looming maintenance project. In our few brief private moments, he’d explained the complexities of the camp lighting system to me. Two solar panels, which charged two large car batteries, supplied our electricity. From there, the current was drawn to power the radios and small fluorescent lamps in the cottages and kitchen. The system didn’t work very well and the lights were as dim as candles.

  I now allowed my mind to wander as Andrew launched into a discussion with Sean about current usage and voltage drops. Whatever Andrew said must have been good, because when I tuned in again, Sean was agreeing to purchase a new battery and a third solar panel.

  This was turning out to be an expensive trip for him.

  In exchange, Andrew offered to rewire the whole camp to reduce current loss. He would probably have to do this between three and four in the morning, because I had no idea when else he’d find the time.

  Sean now turned his attention to the hot water supply. He pulled a sketch out of his pocket and, with some enthusiasm, slapped it on the table. It was a page torn out of Farmer’s Weekly magazine.

  “Andrew,” he said, with a gleam in his eye. “There has been a revolution in donkey boiler design. Instead of placing two fifty-gallon drums side-by-side, the experts now say we use three barrels. Two next to each and one on top!” Andrew and I grinned at the excitement in Sean’s voice, but he didn’t notice. He patted his paper. “I want you to build me one of these!”

  All amusement banished, Andrew snatched the page and studied the design as if seeing it for the first time. He looked up, a faintly wild expression in his eyes, “But…but this wil
l take bricks, a fifty kilo bag of cement, water barrels. All delivered by plane. What about all my other stuff? There will never be room for it all.”

  “Piece of cake,” Sean said, brushing away his objections with a sweep of his hand. “Sepei will get the stuff to you before you’ve wiped your eyes out.”

  Did Sean actually know what went on in the logistics department of his camps?

  I shook my head, doing a quick mental tally of all Andrew’s fix-it projects. In no particular order:

  1. Clean up Tau’s rubbish tip.

  2. Repair the Hyena fridge. For the fourth time.

  3. Build a hyena-proof door to the kitchen.

  4. Fix the scullery roof.

  5. Revitalise the runway sprinkler system, including rebuilding the water pump.

  6. Improve the functioning of The Cupboard and the bar fridge.

  7. Give eight cottages a thorough facelift.

  8. Install a new solar panel.

  9. Rewire the camp.

  10. Build a new donkey boiler.

  Oh, and not to forget Otter Lodge, more urgent than anything, if Morag and I were to survive sharing the island.

  I think if Andrew had been prone to panic, he’d have had a full-blown attack at that point. As it was, he was looking decidedly weighed down, so I wasn’t sorry when Sean announced he was going to Scops Camp.

  I looked at my watch. It was after five. “Will you be staying the night, Sean?” I asked, hoping he’d say no. Having my boss around with four horrible Italians didn’t sound like fun.

  “Yes,” came the reply. “I don’t mind which cottage, but number four is my preference.”

  He and Morag had barely left the camp when Andrew rushed over to the radio. “110, 110, 638.”

  “Hi Andy. What’s going down?” It was Kyle.

  “You mean who’s coming down. Sean and Morag are on their way. Over.”

  “Sean? Here? Now?” Kyle’s shock made me wonder what they were up to at Scops.

  “On their way down the runway this very minute,” Andrew replied.

  “This is a joke, right? I didn’t hear any aircraft.”

  “Kyle, you’re too smart for me,” Andrew said. “Nice try, though.” He put down the microphone with a satisfied grin on his face.

  * * *

  Because Sean was around, Andrew and I decided to do the early morning shift together. Sean waited for us at the kitchen. “So where’s this hyena you were telling me about?”

  As perversity would have it, the kitchen was untouched, looking as neat as I’d ever seen it. The fridge was closed, the oven door attached to the oven, and the pots and few remaining Tupperware all in their respective places. It was uncanny.

  “It must have gone,” Andrew said, somewhat superfluously.

  Sean shrugged and turned towards the path. “I’m going for a walk around the island. Tell Morag when she wakes that I’ve gone without her.”

  We waved him away and joined the Italians and their guides at the bay. If they had been surly last night when just contemplating the prospect of walking, they were now positively morose when faced with the actual activity. Less than an hour had passed, however, when I caught sight of two mekoro racing back to the bay, poled by very glum looking guides.

  Not, however, as glum as the Italians.

  Andrew and I walked over to meet them.

  As the first mokoro entered the bay, The Spokesman burst out, “How can you expect people to go walking here for hours? We saw no animals. There are no lions, no elephants, no rhinos, no leopards, and no cheetah. All we saw were stupid birds and animal droppings.”

  KD parked his mokoro on the bank, and said quietly, “Rra en Mma, we saw zebra, giraffe, impala, letchwe, and tsesebe. All nice and close. We even showed them a black coucal.” He now looked pained. KD was a bird fanatic and bumping into a black coucal was a rare and privileged sighting. It was clear KD considered his lekgoa Philistines.

  By now, The Spokesman had clambered out the craft and was standing inches from Andrew’s nose.

  Andrew took a step back. “It seems to me you actually had a good morning’s viewing. The problem is your travel agent sold you the wrong camp. She should have booked you into Savuti in northern Botswana. That’s where you’ll find vehicles, and elephant, and lion galore. Here, at Tau Camp, you’re seeing what Africa looked like without engines, vehicles, and motorboats. Like it was before man messed it up.”

  The glower on The Spokesman face said he was unimpressed by this little speech. “We’re leaving today. You must arrange for our bookings to be changed.”

  “Bring me your travel vouchers and I’ll contact the Maun office,” Andrew said. “I’m sure they’ll do their best.”

  The four of them marched off to their cottages, presumably to change into something more suitable for breakfast. Moments later, The Spokesman appeared brandishing his paperwork. He didn’t bother waiting for Andrew’s radio call.

  Just as well, because it was with a fair bit of moaning that Joan agreed to shuffle them onto the incoming flight. They didn’t even get to eat the enormous breakfast prepared for them.

  Moments after their plane left the island, Sean announced his intention to leave. Andrew and I walked with him to the strip, to find that Robert and Matanta had beaten us there. Robert jived and laughed, obviously thrilled to be off the island for a week. Matanta smiled stoically at Robert’s joy, and I could feel guilt infusing my face. I’d acted hastily to get rid of Robert, thus overlooking my friend who needed the leave just as badly. But this wasn’t time to show doubt or weakness. I plastered a satisfied smile on my lips, and offered Robert a farewell handshake.

  Once in the plane, before Sean started the engine, he turned to us and said, almost as an afterthought, “You guys are doing okay. And Gwynn, last night’s dinner was the best meal I’ve had at Tau Camp in years. You have some very happy chefs. Matanta is beaming.”

  Experience would teach us that that accolade from Sean was abundant praise.

  Andrew and I stood together on the runway until his aircraft was a little more than a speck in the deep blue sky.

  I grinned. “Sean’s just given us our wings to go solo.”

  “Yes, I think we can say that our trial days are over.”

  Chapter 32

  A week had passed since Sean’s visit. I was alone at reception, doing my paperwork, when Morag singled me out for a private chat. I’d avoided being alone with her since Matanta’s and Gwynn’s assertions that she was after my body. I steeled myself for this engagement.

  “You know Robert came back from his leave today?” she asked.

  My grunt was non-committal.

  “Well, he brought me a letter from Sean saying I’m in charge of running CIMs.” When I didn’t reply, she added, “Overnight safaris to Chief’s Island which Sean sells as Chief’s Island Mokoro-trails. Anyway, twelve Canadians are arriving in a couple of weeks and Sean wants me to take them out with the guides.”

  My adventurer juices began to bubble. I dropped my pencil and calculator and looked up at her.

  “Sean says KD and I have to do a high-speed recon to find the best places to take them. I’ve already spoken to KD, and we’re leaving tomorrow.” Morag leered at me. “You can come too, if you like.”

  I cleared my throat, and then stuttered, “Um…nah…maybe some other time.”

  Cringing at her obvious disappointment, I escaped into the lounge, grabbed a topographical map, and some aerial photos of the delta from the bookshelf, and laid them across the coffee table.

  “So where are you planning on going? Chief’s Island is a big place.” Actually, Chief’s Island was a vast place, a bush-covered sand island stretching some one thousand square kilometres in the heart of the Okavango delta.

  I shoved sleeping Tom off the sofa and sat. Morag sank down next to me, thighs rubbing mine.

  I shifted a bit.

  With a resigned sigh, she said, “The Canadians have booked a seven-night excursion, so we can g
o quite far, even by mokoro…”

  The next thing I knew, we were being called for lunch. At least two hours had passed, spent doing what I love most: pouring over maps, plotting routes to places with strange sounding names. Still deep in conversation, Morag and I made our way to the dining room. The guests—six unmemorable couples and a family complete with noisy kid—had already assembled.

  Gwynn gave me a deeply questioning look.

  Realising how my morning must have appeared from her perspective, I wrapped my arm around her and whispered so only she could hear, “Good news. Morag’s leaving us for a few days. And I’m doing all I can to help her on her way.” Gwynn raised her eyebrows in yet another silent question. “Tomorrow, she’s going on a camping trip.” Then I added a warning. “So I’ll be busy all afternoon helping get her stuff together.”

  Gwynn bounced off to pour the wine.

  That afternoon, Morag and I assembled cooking grids, paraffin lanterns, tents, roll-up mattresses, and all the other gear needed for her trip. I left her to pack and went to raid the kitchen for some cooking pots.

  Matanta was there with the usual stragglers.

  “Hey!” he shouted on seeing me. “Waiters, scullery ladies, and everyone else hanging around here hoping for kitchen scraps—out. I need to talk to the Chief.”

  Half a dozen grumbling people vacated the kitchen.

  I gave Matanta a quizzical look.

  “Rra, after lunch, Morag waited for Gwynn to leave the kitchen before she briefed Robert and Lesego about the food for her trip. Again, without telling Gwynn, she told KD to bring Sam tomorrow. Gwynn found out Morag went behind her back, and now I think your wife is cross. Very, very cross.”

  I sighed. “Thanks for the warning. And who’s Sam?”

  “A guide.” Matanta gave a dispirited head shake. “Difficult, difficult guy. He runs his own church and he doesn’t let anyone drink alcohol. Or smoke. Or even have sex.” Matanta now rolled his eyes. “And the stupid people here all still run to him like he’s selling the good stuff. And then he charges them for the privilege.”