A quick glance over my shoulder told me I was alone. Without hesitation, I kicked off my sandals, hopped onto the mokoro, and dug the end of the ngashi into the mud at the bottom of the bay. Then I did what I’d seen a dozen or more guides do—I pushed off hard.
With a beautiful burst of speed the mokoro shot backwards. Only problem was, I was no longer on it. Suspended in the air, hanging at the top of the pole, it took me a few seconds to figure out what had gone wrong.
Then—splash!
I’m not sure what you’d call the opposite of a belly flop—back flip, maybe? That implies a certain grace, which was sorely lacking from my manoeuvre. Not that the semantics really mattered. I was just as wet, either way. If that wasn’t humiliating enough, the treacherous mud released the ngashi and it came thumping down onto my head. Swearing loudly—but refusing to be undone by this setback—I grabbed the stupid stick and waded over to where the mokoro bobbed against the reed island separating the bay from the main channel.
The water was deep here. Climbing onto a boat moored in the middle of the lake isn’t a challenge for the undetermined—especially when the current is working to sweep you and the boat to the hippo pool downstream.
A grunt from said hippos focused my mind, lending speed and accuracy to my boat-boarding skills. Now I just had to master the art of poling—and snappily, too, before the current whipped me into the main channel.
So, ngashi in hand, I took up a poling stance—picture an Egyptian hieroglyph of man-holding-long-stick. Remembering my hard-earned ngashi placement lesson, I lowered the pole into water until it gently bumped against the bottom. Delicately, smoothly, I pushed against the pole until something amazing happened.
I moved. With the boat. Forward. The way I’d planned.
So I did it again.
Pure magic.
One embarrassing fall, a bit of follow-up logic, and I had this poling down pat. I was a born natural.
Until I tried to turn.
I’ve never tried negotiating a London bus round a postage stamp but, hell, it couldn’t have been harder than trying to convince this six-foot long, carved out tree to go right. Or left. Finally, after an hour of trying everything I’d seen the guides do, I admitted defeat.
It was time to call in an expert.
I hopped out of my beleaguered boat, grabbed the prow, and towed the bloody thing back onto the bank.
Praying Matanta wasn’t at Robert’s volleyball practice, I skulked to the kitchen.
Practice—if they’d even had one—was over. Matanta, Lesego, Robert, and Kekgebele were draped over the kitchen counter, sharing a joke that had them all cracked up.
Feigning oblivion to the water dripping off me, I said, “Hey, Matanta, sorry to drag you away, but I could use your help with something.” I cleared my throat and added, “In the office.”
The laughter rose a few decibels, and then Matanta turned to Lesego and Kekgebele. “You two, go move the reception desk, because from now on the Chief will be doing his paperwork in the bay.”
What can I say? Someone must have seen me. We lived on a tiny island, and news—especially the embarrassing kind—travelled fast.
Refusing to be deterred, I grabbed Matanta, and headed for the water. We gathered a small audience, come to witness my first lesson in mokoro turning. Trouble was, from my vantage point on the bank, Matanta’s lesson consisted of him doing exactly what I’d been doing.
Only he was successful.
I shook my head. “Matanta, you must teach me. Showing me isn’t enough.”
“Because you aren’t watching closely enough, Rra. See what I do.” Without appearing to change his stance, Matanta slalomed the mokoro across the bay to the bank. “Now you try, and I will tell you what you are doing wrong.”
That could work, so I swapped places with him. Half an hour later, I admitted defeat, again. Matanta had probably learned to push a mokoro before he could even crawl. Everyone born in the Okavango had. No one in Matanta’s twenty-odd-years of existence had ever asked him how he did it. I suppose it would be like asking someone to teach you to walk. Where do you even begin? I wasn’t sorry, therefore, when Gwynn pushed through the crowd, gesturing at her watch.
“It’s ten to three. Joan hasn’t called with any late bookings,” she shouted. “It’s looking good for volleyball, so I suggest you guys call it a day. Our players need to get their team colours on.”
She didn’t have to speak twice. My audience dumped me, running towards the laundry to dress for the match. I couldn’t help feeling a little deflated. Here I was thinking my mokoro lessons were fascinating, but all they were actually waiting for was the signal to ditch camp. I let them go and joined Gwynn at reception.
Her hand hovered over the radio off-button. I looked at my watch. Five minutes to go. The temptation to flick the switch was unbearable, but Joan and I had a deal. I gestured to my sodden clothes. “You wait here while I go and change.” A few steps towards the edge of reception, I stopped. “And no cheating.”
Gwynn stuck her tongue out at me just as the radio cackled into life. “638. 637.”
Joan.
My heart plummeted.
Gwynn scrunched up her face, eyes tight shut, as if not seeing the radio would stop it from squawking.
I picked up the mic. “Go ahead, 637. Joan, please tell me this is a courtesy call, inviting us to enjoy our volleyball game.”
“’Fraid not,” came Joan’s curt voice. “I have two Germans flying in for Tau Camp on an otherwise empty plane. Gwynn, expect stock. They land at 3.15.”
So that was the end of that.
I opened my mouth to acknowledge Joan’s transmission, when she added softly, “Andrew, what you do with the Germans is your business.”
Decisions. Decisions.
Gwynn and I looked at each other for a full minute, saying nothing.
Then Gwynn said, “What German wouldn’t enjoy a delicious African barbecue, followed by a night walk to check out the stars?”
“Especially if you kick the event off with a trip down river by mokoro. There are some guides hanging around for the volleyball match.”
“Wouldn’t kill one of them to do some poling.”
Easy for Gwynn to say, she’d never poled a mokoro.
“It would be the perfect start to the perfect holiday.”
“Isn’t that what the travel brochures would say?”
I flicked the off-buttons on the two radios. “You get a room cleaned, and I’ll fill a cool box with drinks for their trip down river.”
Twenty minutes later, our three fridges were bulging with food, and Kurt and Wilhelm were on a mokoro, headed for Scops Camp.
The party had already started when Gwynn and I finally walked into Scops. Someone had set up a couple of speakers, blasting the campsite with Bob Marley’s Buffalo Soldier. It seemed appropriate.
A crowd—the two teams?—clapped and wailed as Robert and Kyle knocked a volleyball back and forth over a net slung between two palm trees. The court itself consisted of a patch of grey sand, peppered with rough grass.
With a marked disinterest in volleyball, Matanta, holding a beer can, stood off to one side. He leered at one of Milly’s prettier staff members. She leaned in closer, giggling at something he said. Clearly, his night was sorted.
Back on the court, Robert smashed a serve, sending Kyle scrambling. Smelling potential victory, I punched my fist into the air.
I could have saved the energy.
The ball sailed clean out of the demarcated court area and lodged in a palm tree, far off to the right. Robert was supposed to be our star player. The first inklings of doubt assailed me. Was it possible Tau Camp could be whipped? The humiliation would be worse than my little episode in the river.
I called to Kyle, “You’re taking this seriously?”
“Oh yes. You will be thrashed.” Like a monkey, he scrambled up the tree to get the ball.
How could I not have noticed how athletic the guy was?
I cleared my throat. Then remembering Englishman was supposed to be pathetic at ball sports, asked hopefully, “I take it E’man’s on your team?”
“For sure,” came the reassuring answer as Kyle lobbed the ball back to Robert, who fumbled the catch. “E’man. Be a team player and hand my friend a beer.”
Now I knew we were in trouble. I cracked the tab on the can, putting the open bit to my ear to hear the fizz, and then reverted to what I do best—humour. “Brilliant goal, Kyle. Listen you can hear the crowd cheering.”
A German-sounding guffaw pulled my attention away. Kurt and Wilhelm propped up one end of the bar.
“Wunderbar!” one of them—I’m not sure which—shouted, waving a beer can at me. “Four hours ago, we were in a bar in Windhoek in Namibia, and now we are here, in a bar in the Okavango.”
“Ja,” added the other one. “And thanks for the beers for the river. We drank them before we even reached the camp.”
I looked at my new German friends with profound respect. I’d put at least ten beers in that cool box, and it was only a fifteen—twenty, if one goes at a crawl—minute boat ride to Scops.
The sharp trill of a drill whistle rent the air. Milly calling us to order. When no one listened, she yelled at the top her lungs, “Scops Camp! Tau Camp! Get your teams on the court. Now.”
No one dared disobey.
I took up position behind Robert—he was a lot bigger than me, so I figured he’d protect me from too much ball damage—and sized up the competition. Apart from Kyle, no one looked particularly menacing, so I relaxed, stepping out to face the first ball.
Milly blew her whistle again and the Tau World Series Challenge was on.
Robert, our team captain, shouted orders no one listened to, and—even with Kyle’s moral guidance—Scops Camp cheated openly. It was a total blast, the way team sports should be played. But in the end we had to succumb to the inevitable—Scops Camp beat us by about 700 points.
Sweating and grinning, Robert bowed gracefully to Kyle, and went to grab Matanta—who was grabbing the pretty girl. Robert dragged him away from her, over to the glowing coals in the barbecue. Together, they cooked a succulent fillet steak in mustard sauce. From Milly’s kitchen came a salad and a huge pot of stywe mealie pap, a crumbly, tasteless corn porridge much beloved by all in southern Africa. All except me, that is. Pap is usually served with a tomato and onion bredie (an Afrikaans word for stew, also not beloved by me). The meal may not have been the best ever prepared on Noga Island, but it probably ranked high among those served at Scops Camp.
I tipped my glass to Gwynn, toasting the day’s success.
“It’s not over yet.” She gestured at Kurt and Wilhelm, singing raucous German drinking songs at the bar. “We still have to get them home.”
True.
It was my turn to drag Matanta away from his two girlfriends—he’d added another girl to his arm since dinner—this time for a quick discussion on travel logistics.
“You go first, Rra,” Matanta said. “Gwynn and I will come after you. With the Germans.” His eyes flickered to his girls, draped around a palm tree, waiting for him.
“So you can finishing making out with Hot and Sultry?” I demanded.
“No, Rra,” he said, with faked indignation. “I’ll catch them later. But we need someone to chase the animals off the runway. And what happens if the hyena is in the camp?”
“And I’m that idiot?” I asked, aggrieved, although I knew he was right. Someone—preferably someone sober—had to make sure it was safe before we took our unsuspecting lekgoa home.
Gwynn obviously agreed, because she said, somewhat callously, I thought, “Get the kettle boiling, so we can offer Kurt and Wilhelm some coffee when they get there.”
So, orders in hand, I picked up my Maglite, checked its operation—it looked very dull—and headed for Tau. I had not gone far when it dawned on me that I was a lone, suburbanite, white man, walking on a moonless night, along a footpath deep in the African bush with only a twelve-inch torch to protect me. That was also about the time I discovered the major flaw in our plan.
I hadn’t had nearly enough to drink.
All my faculties were working faultlessly, including the ones used to distribute fear. So, it didn’t matter how hard I tried to blot out the cloying darkness and scary noises, my over-wrought mind happily filled in the blanks. Elephant. Hyena. Maybe even the odd lion. Who knew? Not me, because I could barely see my hand in front of my face.
I wish I could say I walked swiftly, but weeks of elephant depredation on the Scops Camp side of the island had taken its toll. The path was littered with fallen trees, which had been easy to negotiate during the daylight when Gwynn and I had walked to Scops. Now they were like bear-traps, waiting to ensnare me in twisted vines and broken branches. My shins were skinned raw by the time I finally caught the glow of the pale runway sand. Almost home. I took a deep breath to calm my hysterical heart and started jogging.
My relief was premature.
The most horrifying sound I had heard since coming to the Okavango rent the air. Even though I knew exactly what it was, my mind slammed down in denial. I swung around to face this nemesis, my torch beam about as useful as a hammock on a desert island with only one tree.
Still, in the pale beam, I saw IT.
A hippo, as heavy as a locomotive, stood about fifty paces away from me. Only difference is that, unlike locos, hippo are bad tempered and unpredictable. But, thankfully, they also have poor eyesight, so I switched off my torch.
Heart pounding—its sound was drowning out my footsteps, which were drowning out everything else—I ran a short distance into the grass on the side of the strip and crouched low. I had no idea what to do to warn Gwynn and Matanta, so I sat for a while, to think.
The hippo continued munching on the grass opposite me.
Then I heard a less common bush sound: an off-key German drinking song. The broken lyrics continued for a time, gradually getting louder. They were punctuated by violent swearing. One of our new friends must have been tripping over the fallen trees. I choked back a laugh. By the time Gwynn and company reached the runway, the singing was operatic in tone, if not quality.
Then my blood froze.
Gwynn and Matanta had obviously not seen the hippo. Given the interest it was paying them, it was just a matter of time before it charged. Someone, maybe even my wife, could die.
I stood, about to scream a warning, when the singer, striving for a particularly high note, let out a strangled screech. The hippo yelped like a frightened puppy, and then dashed off into the water on the other side of the strip.
I could have cried with relief.
Laughter took over as I watched Kurt, our singer, stumble his way up the strip. It was only thanks to Gwynn’s arm slung around this waist that he was still standing.
Wilhelm wasn’t doing nearly as well. He was out cold. If Matanta hadn’t been dragging him, he’d have fallen by the wayside somewhere along the track.
“Did you hear the hippo?” I asked, when they got within earshot.
“Yes, but we got lucky,” Gwynn replied. “Wilhelm’s snoring frightened it away.”
Chapter 38
The morning after the volleyball match started slowly. Understandably, Kurt and Wilhelm didn’t stir until breakfast. Once at the table, they made up for lost time by cracking their first beers of the day. A couple of lagers later, they both looked positively radiant. Okay, slight exaggeration, but good enough for Kurt to say, “We came to the Okavango to do some fishing. The lady in the Maun office said you have rods and tackle we can use.”
Andrew’s eyes brightened. He loved fishing, but never caught a thing. “I’ll get you fixed up with some kit after breakfast. Any particular fish on your list?”
Wilhelm burped, and then said, “Tigers, of course. That’s what everyone comes to the Africa to catch.”
“They are the best fighters,” Andrew agreed, “but I think you’re being a bit optimistic.
I haven’t heard of anyone pulling a tiger this far south in the Okavango.” Kurt and Wilhelm deflated visibly, so he added, “But I’m pretty sure you’ll hook some bream. If they’re a good size, bring them back. The chefs will cook them up for you.”
“Then let’s get the party started,” Kurt downed his beer and thumped the can onto the table. We had offered him a glass, but what can I say?
“Ja,” Wilhelm added, “Andrew, you must come with us. We insist.”
Andrew turned to me with his hands held up in mock defeat. “The word of a guest is law.”
“Huh,” I snorted. “And I suppose you want me to supply the bait for this goof-off?”
“Some of that fillet steak that came in yesterday would do nicely.”
I left a very smug Andrew and his new buddies to tackle up.
Once they and the guides had poled out of the bay, I ambled to the kitchen to prepare the menu for Morag’s up-coming CIM trip with the twelve Canadians. She was due back today from her recon, and I wanted to be ahead of the game with my planning to avoid any unnecessary conflict.
I was deep in thought when Matanta said: “I think it’s time. You are ready, Mma.”
“For what?” I looked up from my notes to see Robert leaning against the prep-counter. “Shouldn’t you be off duty already?” I asked him. He had done the breakfast shift, which had just ended. “You know the Canadians are coming. Then you’re out in the bush for a week with just Sam to help you cook. You should grab some time away from work while you can.”
“A meeting with your ancestors.” Matanta crooned, before Robert could reply. He swung a black leather pouch at me. “I’ve brought my bones.”
His sangoma bones! Finally. This was definitely more interesting that my human resources interview with Robert, or Morag’s menu. I plunked my clipboard down, and joined Matanta and his bones at the prep-table.
Matanta fondled his pouch lovingly. “My great-grandfather started collecting them. When he died I—” He stopped, looked at me, and then at Robert, and said indignantly, “And what about me? He and Sam are going out to have a holiday in the bush with the lekgoa. I’ll be alone here in the kitchen doing everything. And I haven’t left this camp for over three months.”
Torn Trousers: A True Story of Courage and Adventure: How a Couple Sacrificed Everything to Escape to Paradise Page 21
