He was right. But thanks to Morag’s and Andrew’s insistence that Robert go on CIM, there was nothing I could do about it, so I poked a finger at the pouch. “Tell me more about these.”
Matanta yanked the bag away so quickly, you’d think I carried some sort of finger plague.
“My bones are sacred. No lekgoa is ever to touch them.” He glared at the other staff who had drifted over to watch. “And no dirty little Motswanan fingers are to touch them, either.” As one, our entire complement of waiters and dishwashers took a step back. “Now. Silence. Everyone.”
You could have heard a cockroach fart in the laundry.
Then Matanta closed his eyes and started chanting. An eerie, almost manic sound, it made the hair on my arms rise. I wasn’t the only one in his thrall. The other staff shuffled closer, belief and awe alight on their faces. Finally, with a showman’s flourish, Matanta tumbled the contents of the bag onto the counter. A collective gasp went up around me, and I realised, with some surprise, that I had been part of the chorus.
“Study the bones,” Matanta intoned. “See how they lie. Hear what the ancestors tell you.”
So I did, leaning in for an even better look. Even though I had only seen sangoma bones in pictures, these looked like the real deal: odd-shaped, bleached-white animal bones, small stones, and seed-pods. There was even a rusty nail.
Matanta waved his fingers over a particular knobbly bone. “The aardvark speaks.” He paused. I opened my mouth to ask what it said, but he lifted a flat hand to silence me. “Your days at the camp will be long.” He flicked a camel thorn tree seed pod with a fingernail. “Your husband is a good man. He will become a great chief of many.” Another pause. Then he rolled one of the pebbles. “Treasure will find you here.” Yet another pause, longer this time.
I waited for more.
Still, Matanta stood with eyes closed, as if deep in conversation with an unseen world. Then I heard a muffled guffaw coming from behind me. I looked over my shoulder to see Robert, spluttering and shaking, as he propped himself up against the stove.
A thought began to dawn. I glanced furtively at the other staff. They were holding their breath, looking pained, clearly at the end of their self-control—and their acting skills. My flush of humiliation started at my forehead, roared down my face, past my throat, and was half-way through my stomach when Matanta burst into raucous laughter.
“You fell for it, Mma,” he screeched. “You thought you got me when you pretended to cut my arm off, but now I’ve got you back. Never, ever play with the master.” The swine then dropped down onto his haunches, holding his sides with laughter. Moments later he was up on his feet, hand scattering his ‘bones’ across the prep-table. It was then I noticed the marked resemblance between the aardvark bone and the oxtail I’d consigned for burial.
It was mortifying.
All I could think was to pat Matanta on the arm before making a rapid escape. Cowardly, I know. By the time I reached reception, my humiliation had given way to laughter.
And respect.
Matanta was good. No doubt about it. But I had to be better. And I knew exactly what I needed to do to achieve that honour. When I was finished with him, Matanta would be crying real tears of real pain while the rest of us laughed. I rubbed my hands gleefully, wishing Andrew were back from his fishing trip so we could put my plan into operation.
Lunchtime saw the return of the fishermen. Kurt was the only one dragging in a fish. I’m not exaggerating when I say ‘dragging.’ His catch was well over a yard long, with a head about as thick as a rugby player’s thigh.
“Congratulations, a barbel,” I said, tweaking the whiskers protruding from the monster’s flattened nose. “So ugly, only their mothers can love them. I thought you guys were after bream. No one is going to eat this thing.”
“And that is where you’re wrong.” Andrew stuck a hand into the fish’s gills to help Kurt with the weight. “Alfred specifically asked me to bring him back a barbel if we caught one.”
“What on Earth for?” I asked, unable to grasp why anyone would want this almost prehistoric looking bottom-dweller.
“For lunch.” Andrew grinned at my revulsion. “Yes, I know. Amazing. Apparently he loves the green flesh and muddy taste.”
It takes all types, I guess. But then who was I to argue when Alfred’s barbel sounded—and looked—just like some of the high-class meat decomposing in The Cupboard? So, while he cooked his delicacy over an open flame in the laundry, Andrew and I sat down to lunch with our guests.
I immediately told them about Matanta’s trick on me.
“That should not go unchallenged. Matanta will be running this place if you guys aren’t careful,” Kurt joked, half-warningly.
“With a beer in one hand, and a girl waiting for him in every cottage,” Wilhelm added.
“That’s why I have a plan,” I said. “Only problem is that it includes Robert. He might not play along with me because of—” I covered my mouth with my hand, and coughed under my breath, “Morag.”
“Hmm. But he may do it for me,” Andrew said, eyeing me thoughtfully. “Tell me what you have in mind, and I’ll see if I can bring him over to our side.” Clearly, he also saw the opportunity this presented to break some of the ties between Robert and Morag.
“You mean the dark side.” Kurt cracked open another beer, little understanding the depths the office politics he was wading into.
By the end of lunch, we had fine-tuned the plan for bringing Matanta to his knees, and Robert onto the dark side.
Then, almost as if she knew we were plotting against her, Morag and her small flotilla of mekoro sailed into the bay. My lunch—a delicious coronation chicken with rice salad—turned to acid in my stomach as her dark pall stretched across the camp.
Reluctantly, I followed Andrew to the bay to welcome her home. That didn’t stop the mantra ‘only two more days and she’ll be gone again’ from racing through my mind as I listened to her babble on endlessly about her adventure.
Chapter 39
It had been a hectic day and it was only eleven in the morning. Our new Canadian guests sat in the lounge—far away from the smoke billowing from Kurt and Wilhelm’s enormous cigars—watching me, Morag, Robert, Sam, and the guides load up the mekoro for their CIM. Things were running late and their departure was now a couple of hours behind schedule. Feeling the pressure, I wedged a pile of camp chairs into a mokoro when Gwynn appeared. She looked worried.
“Woodie’s face has exploded.”
I dropped the chairs. “What?”
“She’s got a huge bulge on her cheek. She needs a vet.”
Timing, why did it always suck?
I sighed, running my hands across my face. The logistics of getting her to a vet in Maun, treated, and then returned to us were complex. Then a thought struck. Did they even have vets in Maun who dealt with domestic pets? It seemed unlikely.
While I was musing, Morag lashed out with a sharp, “How do you propose doing that, Gwynn? The pilots won’t take kindly to having a yowling cat on board. Neither will the Maun office.”
Gwynn’s fists clenched and she opened her mouth to reply. I got in before she could fire off a shot. “The pilots are great; they won’t mind helping out. And it’s Verity’s job to look after the camp managers. Gwynn, give Maun a call.”
I listened with half an ear as Gwynn spoke to Joan. Call complete, she came back to the bay, looking even glummer than before. I tossed down the bag I was manhandling and waited for an explanation.
“She leaves today at four. Joan will take care of it all for me.” I gave Morag an I-told-you-so glare, but Gwynn wasn’t finished speaking. “Problem is, she’s going out on an unscheduled incoming flight.”
Morag forgotten, I faced Gwynn. “Who’s flying in on it?”
Gwynn sighed. “Sandy. Her baby. A couple of nannies. Sandy’s friend. And the two boys. The noisy ones we met at Sean’s house.”
So, it was finally happening. A visit from Sandy.
The temptation to join Morag on her CIM was almost overwhelming. I suppressed it and the scream of frustration threatening to explode from my chest. Emotions on a tight rein, I turned back to the mokoro I was supposed to be packing.
It seemed Gwynn wasn’t finished dispensing bad news. “Don’t forget we have a plane arriving in five minutes. More Italians.”
Italians? Just what I needed. But right then, I didn’t care. I wriggled a cooler box into the mokoro, and grunted, “Handle it.” I hoped my temper cooled off by the time they arrived.
It had, and I caught my first glimpse of our three new Italian guests at lunch. One of them, a round, almost bald man in his mid-sixties, chatted to Wilhelm as he helped himself to a huge plate of spaghetti bolognese. I thought it brave of Gwynn to offer pasta to Italians, and was about to make a witty crack about it, when she grabbed my hand, pulling me to one side.
“That’s Giuseppe,” she giggled, pointing to the balding man. “When Kamanga met him on the runway, he gasped, and then scurried off to find a wider mokoro.”
I could see why. Giuseppe could have gone in his creased chinos and polo shirt to a costume party, called himself a beer barrel, and no one would have been any the wiser. I stepped over to him and extended my hand in greeting.
“Ah!” he enthused in a lilting Italian accent, and then planted a kiss on each of my cheeks. My proffered hand fell limply to my side. “You must be Andrew, our charming hostess’s husband. Delighted to meet you.” He bowed. “Call me Giuseppe.” He waved a pudgy arm at the equally barrel-shaped, sixty-something chap standing next to him. “And this is Guido. The beer king of Italy.”
I swallowed hard, wondering if Giuseppe was cranking my chain.
But Guido also bobbed a bow, and then winked, his eye almost disappearing into the folds in his face. “In my past, Giuseppe, in my past. Today, I find myself in good company. My friend Giuseppe, here, was the pasta king of Italy.”
I looked at the third Italian. In contrast, he was so skinny he could have crawled through a piece of macaroni without touching the sides. He smiled an even thinner smile. “My friends have recently retired from the Beer and Pasta Associations in Italy.”
That made sense, if looks were anything to go by. “And you?” I asked.
“Franco.” He, at least, didn’t kiss me, and instead, held out a hand for a shake. “I? I am nothing.”
“Ha! Nothing but a liar,” Giuseppe declared, slinging an arm around my shoulder. “Franco is a prosecuting attorney. By necessity, he does a lot of work in Sicily.”
The Mafia! This should make for good conversation around the dinner table. I turned to Franco. “I bet you’ve met some real charmers.”
Robert De Niro would have envied his shrug. “Guilty or innocent, they’re all scum. When God designed hell, he had those guys in mind.”
An unpleasant vision of four other perfectly turned-out Italians floated before my eyes, and I couldn’t help asking, “Are you sure you guys are from Italy?”
Giuseppe laughed, and then turned to his friends. “I think our host has had a bad experience. Tell me, where were the other Italians from?”
“Rome.”
“Ooh!” came a collective moan of commiseration, and three sets of hands pointed skyward.
“Next time you order Italian, make sure it comes from Milan.” Giuseppe grinned down at the spaghetti spilling off his plate. “Now, time for a product test.”
I heard Gwynn groan, and I smiled. It was my turn to spread the pain around. As I poured the wine, I watched Giuseppe taking his first forkful of Matanta’s best. After slurping in the noodles, he chewed, rolling them around in his mouth, then his eyes closed and his face lifted. Rubbing his fingers together, he finally breathed, “Bellissimo.” Having decent guests in camp was certainly going to help when Sandy arrived.
Chapter 40
Sandy. I had just got rid of one witch and now, if what I had been told were true, I was expecting another. This just wasn’t fair.
Remembering how Sandy had tormented Barbara, after lunch, the staff and I gave the kitchen a thorough scrub down. Not that it made any discernible difference. It still looked as grimy and rundown as always. I braced myself for Sandy’s ire.
The sound of the approaching Islander grew loud in the sky. Heart heavy with worry about my job and my cat, I packed up Woodie for her trip into Maun. She slumped in our wardrobe, her right eye lost in the livid, plum-sized ball growing out of her face. I instantly felt guilty. If I’d spent more time with her, I’d have found this sore before it exploded into an abscess. But, off-duty time was a luxury, and I usually spent it catching up on much needed sleep. Aching over my neglect, I gently eased Woodie into her cat box—she was too sick to even protest—and headed to the runway to meet the boss’s wife.
The Islander touched down at exactly four o’clock. I knelt down and whispered comforting words to Woodie while the pilot taxied to a stop. The door flew open, and I left Andrew to greet Sandy and her brood. My whole focus was on getting Woodie safely on board.
I handed the pilot the cat box. “Wes, no more free Cokes, ever, for as long as you draw breath if anything happens to my cat between here and Joan’s loving hands.”
“Joan’s loving hands? Crikey, Gwynn have you actually met her?”
“Okay,” I admitted. “She can be a little crusty, but she’s promised to take care of Woodie. That makes her my new best friend.”
Wes took the cat box. “You’re about as deep as a teaspoon.” I grinned to hide my tears. Wes must have seen a glisten or two, because he crushed me in a one-armed hug. “If it goes pear-shaped with Joan, Woodie can spend the night at my place. I’ll get her to the vet for you.”
I brushed away a tear, gave a tremulous smile, and then steeled myself to face Sandy.
Andrew joined me, his face a picture of incredulity. “She came in an Islander,” he groused, “but she’s got so much junk, Sepei couldn’t even squeeze a ball of mabinda twine on board. Have Sean and Sandy no idea of the daily struggle we have with stock?”
I could see why he was so indignant as a veritable mountain of suitcases, baby cots, high chairs, a couple of tricycles, fishing gear, and a crate load of toys sprang up on the runway.
“How long is she staying for exactly?” Andrew demanded, now looking decidedly panicked.
“Unknown,” I whispered, moving over to greet her. Pity Morag wasn’t here to keep her entertained—and out of my hair.
“I trust you’ve organised a guide?” came Sandy’s opening salvo.
“Two. We thought you would double up with one of the boys, while your friend—” Name unknown. “Um…went out with your other son.”
Sandy rolled her eyes. “I only wanted one. Send Lecir home.”
I looked over to where Karomona and Lecir stood politely to one side. Lecir’s face crumpled as Sandy spoke. The guides freelanced and only got paid if they worked. I felt so sorry for him, I pointed to the mound of luggage. “A Coke in exchange for helping us shift this lot into the camp.”
He answered by heaving the baby cot and one of the tricycles onto his shoulders.
“That’s mine!” one of the boys, the eldest one with a faced blurred by freckles, wailed. He was about six.
“No! It’s mine,” his little brother bellowed back, showing a mouth missing a whole lot of teeth.
“S’not,” Freckles yelled, shoving him in the chest.
The little guy reeled onto the strip. All credit to Toothless, he wiped off his tears, and leapt to his feet. His little fists were clenched, ready to pummel Freckles. Freckles’ fist shot out first, and Toothless landed in an ungainly heap.
I looked over at Sandy. Standing with her friend, she seemed oblivious of the Noga Island Featherweight Championship being staged two feet from her nose.
Just then, her baby, cradled in a nanny’s arms, let rip an almighty scream. Anyone would think it had been stung by a bee. The birds in the trees stop chirping, mid-song. Some took flight. Even the baboons, watchi
ng the plane from across the strip, bolted back into the bush.
So that was the answer to the baboon problem. Bring a few babies into camp.
I wondered if it would work on the hyena. The laundry ladies would be only too happy to oblige for an experiment. I was always sending their babies, sneaked into the camp just as the guests were heading off for afternoon naps, back to the babysitters camped out at Otter Lodge.
But for all that Megaphone’s scream silenced a few square miles of Okavango bush, it had little effect on her fighting brothers. Or her mother, who still seemed oblivious to all her kids’ antics.
Toothless now planted a kick on Freckles’ shin, making him squeal. Freckles lunged forward, for what he probably hoped would be the coup de grace, a finger in the eye. Karomona swooped in. He scooped Freckles up, swung him onto his shoulders, and started for the camp.
Toothless immediately wailed for someone to carry him, too.
It was going to be a long and trying visit.
* * *
Sandy had been in camp for a full day. It felt like a week. Although she’d complained about the lighting in her cottage, I was still to hear anything from her about the rest of the camp, housekeeping, and catering. It was like balancing on a guillotine, waiting for the blade to fall.
But, despite my tense anticipation, her only priorities seemed to be to ignore her children’s bad behaviour and consume vast quantities of gin and tonic.
She and her friend—still unnamed—commandeered the lounge, spreading sun hats, magazines, clothing, swimming towels, and shoes across every chair, sofa, and table surface, making it impossible for any other guests to find a comfortable seat. Every time I sent the waiters in to clean up, Sandy sent them packing.
She was not my only frustration.
I had yet to hear anything from Joan about Woodie’s health, even though I hadn’t strayed more than five feet from the radio since the plane had taken off. Had Woodie made it to the vet? Could the vet do anything to help her? When would she be home?
Torn Trousers: A True Story of Courage and Adventure: How a Couple Sacrificed Everything to Escape to Paradise Page 22
