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

by Andrew St. Pierre White

  I wasn’t convinced about Matanta’s plan, but I agreed to talk to the Chief about it.

  When I found Andrew, he was sitting cross-legged on the floor next to the bar fridge, surrounded by warm beers, cool drinks, and wine bottles. Soot blackened his hands, which held a wire rod rolled with fabric. Both he and the rod smelled of mentholated spirits.

  “Right now I am a gas mechanic,” he said, by way of greeting.

  “I see. And what do gas mechanics do?” I asked, instantly forgetting to talk to him about the hyena.

  “They clean flues.” He shoved the rod deep into the fridge’s innards. “If the heating tube isn’t clean, it can stop the fridge working properly.” After rattling the rod around a bit, he yanked it out, pulling down a small cloud of black dust. “Next, I reset the flame. It’s got to be dead centre or—”

  “Or the fridge doesn’t work.”

  “You got it.” After fiddling with the burner for a few minutes, he dropped a plumb line down the side of the fridge. “Now for my new spirit level.” He positioned the level on the fridge, eyeing it critically. “Hmm…I’m going to need some wedges.”

  I left him to it.

  I saw him again at breakfast, looking very pleased with himself. “We should have cold beers in a few hours,” he said. “I hope no one’s thirsty before then.”

  An hour or so later, the air was split by the screech of a high-pitched engine. Guides and lekgoa passing the camp pulled their mekoro into the reeds edging the channel as the swell of a large motorboat hit them. I could hear them shouting something above the din as the motorboat swung into our bay. It sent the jacana scurrying. In a haze of exhaust fumes, it launched itself onto the bank.

  “Wildlife,” Matanta, who had appeared as suddenly as the motorboat, breathed to Andrew and me. “Like I said this morning, they’re due a visit. Be very nice to them, Rra en Mma, because they are like the police here.”

  Andrew nodded and walked to the water’s edge to greet the two khaki-clad men scrambling out of the boat.

  The taller of the two offered Andrew his hand. “Dumela, Rra, Mishak. Wildlife.” Mishak waved at Matanta, saying something in Setswana that I didn’t understand.

  Matanta translated. “Mishak is here to collect the park fees, and to talk about how things are at the camp.”

  Matanta looked at me pointedly. I remembered his plan to kill two baboons. As troublesome as the animals could be, I had no desire to start shooting them, so I said nothing.

  Andrew decided to be hospitable and invited the two officials to join us in the lounge for a cold drink. They sat in the wicker chairs, leaving it to me to play barmaid. I opened the bar fridge and felt a rush of icy air. Smiling my appreciation at Andrew, I handed around some Cokes. Before I could give Andrew his, Mishak cracked his can open.

  It exploded in his face, covering him in iced cold drink.

  “Eish!” he shouted, leaping to his feet. “What you guys trying to do? Kill me!”

  Andrew also sprung up, his tired eyes now wide with embarrassment. “Sorry, mate. The fridges are still a work in progress. How about some coffee?”

  Amid much grumbling from Mishak, we headed for the urn in the dining room. Once everyone held a steaming cup, Matanta gave me another pointed look, and started speaking to Mishak in a mixture of Setswana and English. I caught the repeated use of the words ‘hyena’, ‘baboons’, and ‘kitchen’. But what really got me worried was Mishak’s ever-changing expression.

  Finally, Mishak turned to Andrew, and, speaking in broken English, declared, “Rra, this is a place for animals, not humans! You cannot go round shooting the wildlife.”

  Looking a bit like a stunned catfish, Andrew opened his mouth to speak, but I interrupted him. “Sorry, Droon. Forgot to mention it. Matanta suggested we get a permit to kill a couple of baboons.”

  Andrew frowned, muttering under his breath, “Pity you didn’t tell me that earlier. We could have put a proper strategy together to persuade Mishak. Now it’s too late.”

  “Breakdown in communication,” was all I could think of to say.

  I glanced at Matanta to gauge his reaction. He shrugged, but from his expression, I swore I could see an idea uncurling in his mind.

  I was not wrong.

  As soon as Mishak and his smelly motorboat left, Matanta said, “Rra en Mma, come to the kitchen. I have another plan for getting rid of the hyena.”

  Andrew snorted a laugh, quoting Baldrick from Black Adder. “You have a cunning plan.”

  Without access to the BBC, the joke was lost on Matanta. But he did poke at the chicken Kekgebele, who was undergoing chef training along with table clearing chores, was chopping into pieces for supper. “I reckon hyenas like chicken, especially in a casserole. Yes?”

  “I imagine they do,” I replied, wondering where Matanta was going with this.

  “And I reckon they like it spicy. Yes?”

  “Probably,” Andrew added.

  “Then let’s give him a feast tonight. Spicy chicken casserole.”

  “You’re not thinking of poisoning him, are you?” I said, aghast. “Chefs who play with poison are even scarier than hyenas.”

  Matanta gave me an evil grin. “Tempting. But no. I’m talking about English mustard, Tabasco, cayenne pepper, chillies—lots of them. Give him a meal that makes holes in his teeth. Then when he eats it, maybe he’ll decide not to come back.”

  “C’mon, Matanta,” Andrew said, in disbelief. “Hyenas chew airplane tyres and swallow spark plugs. They even drink hydraulic fluid. I’m not sure a little Tabasco is going to be a problem.”

  Matanta gave a dramatic sigh, and, quoting Sean for whom he’d worked for so many years, replied, “That’s the trouble with you people. You never want to try my ideas.”

  Andrew and I burst into laughter.

  “Okay. Why not?” Andrew said, finally gaining control. “We have a culinary date.”

  Just before dinner that evening, Andrew and I joined Matanta in the kitchen to mix our witch’s brew for the hyena. My eyes watered and my breath caught from the reek of chillies and onions Kekgebele had spent the afternoon chopping. He looked high from the smell.

  Matanta, seemingly immune to the fumes, grabbed the mustard powder, Tabasco sauce, and a bottle of Bitters, which he emptied into a metal bowl, holding a generous helping of the lekgoa’s dinner. He stirred it up with the onion and chilli mixture. Finally, in an attempt at haute cuisine, he added a bay leaf to the top. “So the hyena will know he’s come to a top class establishment.”

  “The plan?” Andrew asked, holding his nose.

  “After my shift, I’ll leave the bowl on the floor, near the door,” Matanta replied. “Just don’t stand on it when you lock up.”

  During dinner, we told our guests about the hyena. It was with great anticipation that everyone went to bed, eager to know what the morning would bring. But when Andrew and I went to lock up the kitchen, we were astonished to see that our bowl had already been licked clean. Unseen and unheard, the hyena had crept into camp while we sat at dinner, not twenty paces away.

  It was a frightening thought.

  Perhaps the next person who bumped into it would not get off as easily as Andrew had.

  Andrew still managed to crack a joke. “That casserole’s gonna hit him hard when he takes a dump.”

  Maybe it was exhaustion, or nerves, or just my childish love of toilet humour, but I burst into uncontrollable giggles.

  Smiling patiently, Andrew took my arm, and led me to bed. We’d just settled in the blackness under our mosquito net when we heard a blood-curdling animal yowl. It came from the runway behind our hut. This was followed by a manic yelping, which slowly faded into the distance as the animal raced off into the bush.

  “That’s him. He’s just taken a crap,” Andrew said, with some satisfaction.

  He fell asleep to the muffled sound of my giggles.

  Chapter 34

  Despite our casserole, the kitchen was trashed in the morning.
Muttering about the bloody wildlife—hyenas in particular—I left the staff to handle the mess and went to my office on the runway. I was in the final stages of assembling my bastardised water pump, and all it needed was a throttle lever, which I’d fashioned out of a steel bracket. Feeling the calming effects of the autumn sun on my back, I whistled as I fitted it. Then I poured some petrol in the tank.

  The moment of truth had come.

  Would the damn thing work? Or would it be like all my other maintenance projects at Tau—an exercise in pushing rocks uphill? There was only one way to know, so I gripped the starter cable and pulled.

  Nothing happened.

  I wiped sweat from my eyes. Even though we were edging into winter, the sun had changed from warm to unpleasantly hot.

  I ripped the cord again.

  Still nothing.

  Another wrench of the cable and I heard a splutter. I yanked for the fourth time and was rewarded with a throaty lawnmower-like roar. It was so loud, Thekiso, working on the other end of the runway, came running to inspect it.

  I immediately got him working.

  Singing my maintenance praises to the birds and letchwe, he wheeled the pump down the strip to the narrow channel at the far end. I joined him, stepped into the water, and sloshed about, until we got the pipe submerged. We were ready for spray action.

  This time the pump started on the first pull.

  Okay, I admit, I shouted with joy when great arcs of water sprang up all along both sides of the runway. Trouble was, most of them were spraying in the wrong direction. No point in watering the grass on the side of the strip. That wouldn’t dampen the sand, stopping it from blowing away when planes landed. That may sound crazy, but the constant chaffing of aircraft tyres on a sand strip ploughed ruts, which made rough landings. The sand helped keep things smooth.

  Undeterred by this minor setback—it was Tau Camp, after all—I turned the pump off. Thekiso and I walked the length of the strip again, adjusting the sprinkler heads. Another walk back to the pump, and we had water spraying on the runway for the first time in months.

  I was quietly gloating on my successful morning at the office, when I spotted Gwynn standing outside the camp, waving her arms. She looked even more dishevelled than usual. Leaving the pump to run itself dry, I took a slow victory walk up the runway through the spray. I was soaked to the skin by the time I joined her.

  “Nice.” She patted my wet shoulder. “Cool too.” I could hear both envy and pride in her voice. That always made everything worthwhile.

  “So, what’s so important you had to pull me out of my board meeting?” I asked, shaking water out of my hair.

  “We have guests coming in.”

  I swallowed my irritation. “We always have guests coming in. We run a lodge, unless you haven’t noticed.”

  “It does describe the high turnover of people.”

  Guessing there was more to this than Gwynn just peeing on my parade, I opened my hands expectantly, waiting for an explanation.

  “Joan forgot to mention that we have two boatloads of very rich, very demanding French aristocrats dropping into camp today. Just when I’m low on supplies, too. The only things I’ve got enough of are some very over-ripe fillets, and a couple of green oxtails.”

  My euphoria evaporated like spray mist before the sun.

  “When are they arriving?”

  “No idea. Like I said, they’re travelling by motorboat. They left Shakawe three days ago. Joan reckons they should arrive sometime today.”

  “Crap,” was all I could think of to say. Then, realising that wasn’t very helpful, I added, “Shit.”

  “I sent Alfred to the village to call some guides.”

  My heart sank. Alfred, my maintenance medala, had only two responsibilities: collecting wood for the donkey boilers, and then building fires in the donkey boilers. No wood. No fire. No heat… I think I’ve mentioned this somewhere before. Anyway, if he wasn’t here to gather wood, everyone would be having cold showers tonight. Not what demanding French aristocrats who’ve spent three days living in a boat would appreciate.

  Hiding my frustration at Gwynn’s interference in my department, I said, “Why him? Why not Olutuswe?”

  “He’s fixing a blocked toilet in number six. It actually overflowed onto the guest’s slippers.”

  I sighed. “Okay. Good call in sending Alfred. What do you need me to do?”

  “Nothing. Just thought I’d share the pain.”

  With my day spoiled, I left the runway with her and headed for the kitchen. My stomach grumbled its protests when I caught the smell of cooking. I’d skipped breakfast and lunch was still a couple of hours away. I filched a piece of fruitcake, while Gwynn and Matanta argued over what to cook for supper. Matanta was all for the oxtail, but Gwynn won, insisting the fillet was less likely to poison us all.

  Thanking the culinary god who kept oxtail off the menu, I headed to the bar fridge to grab a Coke. It was the perfect temperature. Smirking at yet another maintenance triumph, I cracked the tab.

  Unfortunately, the profoundly satisfying first fizz was lost under a roar coming from the bay. It sounded a bit like my new water pump, except in stereo. Our French guests must have arrived. I chugged the Coke down, belched, and then joined Gwynn at the bay in time to see two sleek, silver boats beach onto the bank. Our eight new guests and their guide disembarked.

  Funny, but it doesn’t matter how dirty, windswept, or sunburned some rich people are—they still manage to exude disdainful arrogance. Or at least this lot did. What was even more impressive was that, with the exception of their guide, none of them could have been younger than seventy. That says something for French stamina.

  Gwynn must have shared my sentiments about our new guests, because she mouthed, “I’m anticipating a rough few days with these old coots.”

  We went to greet them.

  They all spoke perfect English, a talent they put to good use by immediately asking for lunch. I guessed a Coke and a piece of fruitcake wasn’t going to cut it here. Gwynn smiled a fake smile—she was getting good at those—and went to cadge an early meal out of Robert and Matanta, while I did their paperwork.

  Their haughty superiority followed them to the dining room.

  As far as I could see, the only good to come out of their arrival was that they scored me a pre-lunch run of quiche and salad to fill the gap left by the fruitcake. While chatting with them, it was clear they had ‘done’ the water and had no intention of leaving the camp during their three-day stay.

  One old matriarch even asked if we had any deck chairs, so she could park off while the waiters supplied her with a steady flow of grog. I was about to say all the deck chairs had gone down on the SS Normandie, but thought better of it. Instead, I led her to a wicker chair in the lounge. It had the advantage of being close to the bar fridge. Only problem was, waiters were not acceptable procurers of hooch for these French aristocrats. Turns out only camp managers really knew how to pour white wine. So, it was very late in the afternoon before Gwynn and I managed to escape for our cherished family time.

  As we ambled along the runway with Woodie trailing behind us, Gwynn said, “Did you know Matanta is a sangoma?”

  I snorted my disbelief. Matanta may have been many things, most of them good, but he sure as hell didn’t strike me as a man with mystical talents.

  “Honestly, he says he can throw the bones to communicate with people’s dead ancestors. He’s offered to do mine. Not that I think any of my dearly departed would have too much to say to me.”

  “So when’s the show happening?” I asked, to humour her.

  “Soon. He says he’s waiting for the perfect moment. Something to do with the moon, apparently.”

  This I had to see. “Call me when the moon’s in place.”

  “You’ll be the first to know.” Gwynn stopped to watch Woodie.

  She had slumped lethargically down onto the sand. She and Tom seemed to have worked out some kind of truce that allowed hi
m continued occupancy at Tau. He owned the front of the camp, where he got regular table treats, prime spot in the sun on the sofa, and endless cuddles from adoring guests. Definitely the loser, Woodie huddled in our house, her boredom broken only by a short evening promenade on the runway. It wasn’t much of a life for her, and, despite her resolute silence on the subject, I knew Gwynn was eaten up with guilt over it.

  “That’s strange, she’s usually so active on her evening walk.” Gwynn scooped her up and Woodie nestled in her arms like a baby—whose purring could probably be heard down at Scops Camp.

  All was at peace in my world.

  Until I heard the high-pitched whistle of escaping steam.

  I swore.

  Having lost a few hours today when he went to call the guides for the French, Alfred had tried to make up for it by over-stoking the fires in the donkey boilers. All he’d achieved was to turn them into geysers Old Faithful would envy. I knew from bitter experience that once the airborne display of steam and noise was over, the barrels would quickly refill with cold water.

  No one—not even the French—would be having hot showers tonight.

  Chapter 35

  One of the benefits of running a lodge like Tau was the guests. Meeting a plane with new arrivals always provoked the odd flutter of navel butterflies. Would the people we had to share our home and dining table with be pleasant?

  Out of today’s plane jumped a scruffy man with a broad American, if I could guess, Californian accent. He greeted me with a firm handshake, like he really meant it. I immediately considered him a welcomed addition to the French.

  His name was Joe Camp. I remember him because he wasn’t in the least bit camp, and he immediately demanded not to be treated like a tourist. He wore an invisible barrier, warding off tourist platitudes like he would a swarm of bees.