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

by Andrew St. Pierre White

  Unable to stand the suspense, I finally radioed Joan.

  From her tone, I quickly surmised that she had been avoiding me. “Letter about your cat is in the mail,” she said. “Should get it on the next flight.”

  “The next flight? But that’s tomorrow. What’s happening now?”

  Joan keyed the mic and I heard her sigh. Then her voice softened into despairing kindness. “Gwynn, if your cat had been a cow or a goat, the vet may have been able to help.”

  My stomach imploded and my knees trembled. “What are you saying? Is she…dead?”

  “Not yet. It’s just that the local vets don’t deal in Siamese cats. But they do know enough to predict that her abscess is life threatening.”

  I slumped down onto the ochre-coloured concrete floor in reception. “What do I do, Joan?” Never before in my life had I felt so isolated, so cut off from all that mattered. It took me a moment to remember to take my finger off the mic key so Joan could reply.

  “If it were my cat, I’d send her to Johannesburg.” Joan’s voice sounded as if it was coming from a great distance away. It was. So far away from all help, all hope. “Is there someone I can send her to? I can have her on a plane tomorrow.”

  I rubbed my face, vaguely aware of tears streaming down my cheeks. “Will she survive until then?”

  “Who knows? Give me a number to call in Joburg, and I’ll get it sorted out for you.”

  So much for Joan being crusty. She was now my life-line, my true best friend. I mumbled off my parents’ home number, while my mind grappled with one thought: Would I ever see Woodie again?

  As if she could read my mind, Jean said, “Bringing a city cat into the African bush probably wasn’t the smartest thing you could do.”

  I wasn’t about to argue, even though the African bush had nothing to do with Woodie’s plight. That was all Tom. Her abscess was the result of one of his attacks. I left reception, headed for the privacy of my cottage, where I planned to sob into my pillow until lunchtime.

  I had only taken a couple of steps when my foot squelched down into something mushy and foul-smelling. I looked down—and swore. A stark naked Toothless, toy airplane in hand, sat in the dust next to a urine puddle. It had a strategically placed turd perched in the middle of it. The poop I had just stood in.

  Cursing Sandy and her children for further ruining my day, I took off my soiled shoe, and hobbled to the laundry to find a member of the maintenance team to do a clean-up job of the offending dung pile. I could just picture one of our charming Italians or Germans falling unsuspecting into the same trap.

  By the time I’d cleaned my shoe, supervised the poop disposal unit, tracked down a nanny to put some clothes on Toothless, and placated Wilhelm and Kurt about the vile smell wafting into the lounge from his indiscretion, where they were smoking their equally vile cigars, it was time to serve the midday meal.

  Thoroughly ticked off with life, I joined Matanta in the kitchen to help put the finishing touches on lunch.

  He flicked a tired-looking dishtowel at a fly and said, “Only six more days until Robert gets back from his CIM. Then I go on leave.” He stretched, clicking his neck, as if releasing bottled tension. A miasma of exhaustion hung over him.

  My own worries forgotten for a split second, I felt guilty about the trick Andrew, Robert, and I had concocted to play once Robert got back from the CIM. But then I remembered the oxtail bones, and my heart turned to flint. “Counting the days, huh?” I asked innocently, waving my hand at another fly, intent on the crabmeat salad.

  “Em, Mma, you have no idea.” He eased the salad onto Kekgebele’s tray. “My friends and I are taking a motorboat from Maun to Jugujugu.”

  “Where?”

  “Jugujugu? It’s a few hours upriver. We’re going to spend the week eating, drinking and sleeping—” he leered “—with girls. Lots of girls.”

  “Better not let Meshu hear about that. Or Impeleng.”

  Matanta gave me cocky smile. “Both my sweet girlfriends will be safe at home with their babies.”

  “Your babies,” I corrected, as Kekgebele carried the tray out.

  “Details, Mma. Details.”

  Why did I like this guy so much? When all was said and done, Matanta was a complete dog when it came to women. He just did charming so well. I changed the subject. “I guess you wouldn’t want to miss your leave.”

  His face paled at the thought. “I’ve dreamt about this trip for months. Getting all my friends together at the same time has been a big matata. But you know me,” he rubbed his palms together, “I’m Torn Trousers. I can scheme things.”

  I slapped him on the back, hiding my smile at his cockiness crashing and burning when Robert returned in six days’ time. “I’m sure you can. Now, I better get everyone eating this crab salad before the maggots start crawling out of it.”

  Shuffling leaden feet, I made my way to the dining room just as Karomona’s mokoro slid into the bay. He and Freckles had been out fishing. Somewhere along the way, Freckles had lost all his clothing. He jumped out of the mokoro butt-naked. Squealing with delight, he scooped something up out of the bottom of the boat.

  A small dead fish covered in ants.

  Lovely.

  Before I could suggest he throw it back into the water to feed the wildlife, he bolted into the dining room, where the guests and Sandy were assembling.

  I opened my mouth to protest, but Andrew sidled up to me and grabbed my hand. “It’s Sandy’s problem, not ours,” he whispered in my ear.

  “But these are our guests,” I whispered back, watching the Italians and Germans shooting askance looks in Freckles’ direction.

  “Correction. They’re Sandy’s guests. She and Sean own the place, remember?”

  Although it burned my butt to see a naked kid parading around with a smelly, dead, ant-infested fish in the dining room, Andrew was right. Through clenched teeth, I invited everyone to help themselves to the food.

  Plate in one hand and glass of wine in the other, Sandy took Andrew’s and my chair at the head of the table. Hope sprang up in my bosom. Maybe she would use that elevated position to discipline Freckles.

  How could I have been so naive?

  Fish firmly clutched, Freckles clambered up onto the table right between the seated guests. After giving us a quick flash of his anus, he sat gazing into space, one hand absentmindedly fondling the wrinkled skin on his scrotum.

  Giuseppe’s knife and fork dropped from his hands. He jerked back in his chair, and folded his arms across his chest. Face aggrieved, he turned to stare at Sandy.

  She took another sip of her wine, between chatting with her friend.

  I now had little trouble believing the guest report about Sandy that Barbara had shown us so many months ago. What little respect I had for the boss’s wife vanished in a puff of smoke.

  She couldn’t leave quickly enough.

  This was the first of three Sandy-and-kids visits we endured. Sadly, none of them got any better. She never did comment on the camp, the cleanliness, the staff, or our relationship with Morag. It was as if all our efforts, both good and bad, were for naught.

  Chapter 41

  After four days of torment, Sandy finally returned to Maun, leaving a bitter taste in our mouths and a dread in our stomachs for her inevitable return.

  The Italians and Germans left, too. Giuseppe’s parting words seemed pithy: “You have a beautiful place here, Andrew, and the best intentions of running it well. But with such a boss! She flushes the wonder away with her excrement.” Harsh words from a man who did nothing but gush praise for even the tiniest pleasure.

  Now the camp was empty while we awaited the return of Morag and her twelve Canadians. They were expected at any moment.

  Gwynn and I took advantage of the respite to enjoy the winter flood. Despite being the dry season, winter in the Okavango means rising water levels. News from the towns further north said the floods were looking good, and might even be better than recent years. We ha
d nothing to compare it to, but that didn’t mean that we couldn’t enjoy the bounty the waters brought.

  At breakfast, I’d spotted hundreds of birds, mostly giant white egrets and herons, lining the channel outside the camp. The water boiled with the rise and fall of countless fish. The barbel run had begun, and the birds were feasting.

  As ugly as they were, barbel had an extraordinary defence against drought. They’d dig themselves into burrows in the drying riverbed. Once hidden, they created a protective slime cocoon around their bodies. They could remain in stasis for years. When rains returned, they emerged from their slippery hibernation to swim and spawn. As the floods arrived, they swam vigorously into every expanse of the delta.

  With no guests to host, Gwynn and I commandeered a mokoro, and, using my still mediocre poling skills, I pushed us out into the channel. The water was black with fish.

  “Are you going to stick your hand in?” I asked, knowing how squeamish Gwynn was about barbel. I lowered my hand into the seething mass to make a point.

  Face contorted with disgust, Gwynn dipped her hand in, too. “Ugh, it’s so slimy,” she moaned, quickly pulling away. “This is a sight best enjoyed from a distance. Ideally with drink in hand.”

  She had a point. I love fishing and fish, but even I had to admit that the fish bumping my hand were gross. To add to the creepiness, a forest of tendrils—the barbels—rose to the surface. The white gums of countless gaping mouths gulped at the air. I grinned at her. “And to think the water for that drink would have come straight out of the river—home to all these fish.”

  “Disgusting, when you think about it.”

  I sat back in the mokoro and got some splendid photos of the pristine white birds stalking their prey.

  * * *

  It was show time.

  Robert and the rest of CIM crew headed down the river towards camp. The flight due any moment would take both Matanta and Morag to Maun for their leave.

  Gwynn kept shooting me cryptic smiles as Matanta paced the bay. He had dumped his uniform in favour of a cool pair of jeans, a brightly coloured shirt decked with palm trees, and a pair of sparkling white Nikes. Mirrored sunglasses, perched on top of his head, completed his ensemble. His packed bag lay at his feet.

  I felt for him. Despite his snazzy clothes, he looked shattered from working non-stop, both day and night, for over four months. For the last week, all he’d spoken about was his planned boat trip to Jugujugu with his mates.

  Still, he was the master prankster who gave no quarter with the endless jokes he played on everyone. Although none of the other staff knew of our plan, I guessed it would have found instant support if they had.

  Matanta let out a girlish squeal. “I see them! I see them! Right on time.” His hips did a twisty sort of dance. “Let the party begin.” He swept his hand around to give me a high-five.

  “I’m happy for you,” I said, my voice betraying none of the mirth bubbling under the surface.

  Then a thought struck. It had been almost ten days since we’d hatched our plan with Robert. Would he even remember? I gnawed my lip, wondering how I could jog his memory. For that, I needed Matanta to leave, so I could have a private chat with Robert. But judging by the way Matanta was prancing around the edge of the bay, that wasn’t going to happen. I was about to suggest to Gwynn that she distract him, when the flotilla of mekoro turned off the main channel and surged into our little lagoon.

  Too late for any diversions.

  So, ignoring Morag and the Canadian guests, my eyes locked on Robert. Focused on climbing out of his mokoro, he didn’t acknowledge me.

  Matanta rushed over to shake Robert’s hand. “You’re back. Now I can go.” Again that hip shimmy he did so well.

  Robert didn’t take Matanta’s proffered hand. Instead, his face collapsed into a deep grimace of pain.

  He’d remembered!

  I smiled, holding my breath.

  “Matanta,” Robert said in a quavering voice. “The CIM…it was tough. I’m a camp chef, not a bush chef, and my back…” Both hands rubbed his lower back. “It’s buggered from sleeping on tree roots. Man, they killed me.” His voice quivered some more, and even I wondered if this was an act, or if his pain was real. “I’m sorry, Matanta Rra, but I need the doctor. I have to go to Maun today.”

  Matanta’s face blanched. There was only one available seat on the aircraft, as he well knew. His hand shot up to rub his hair, bumping his sunglasses off his head. They tumbled into the water. He didn’t even notice. Then his fingers tugged at his straggly beard. “Painkillers, maybe?” he pleaded. “Booze?” His eye caught Sam, the enema-giving-trouble-making-cooking-priest-guide. “Pipe up the bum?”

  “Sorry, man, but I can hardly walk.” Robert punctuated his words with a slow, painful hobble up the bank. He was putting so much heart into his display, I couldn’t help but wonder how many times Matanta had caught him in practical jokes. “I promise, Matanta Rra, I will only be in Maun for one day. I’ll get an injection and be on the flight back tomorrow.”

  Matanta’s eyes seemed to spin in his head. “That doesn’t help me. My boat leaves this afternoon. I can’t hold up my friends. They also only have a few days before they have to get back to work.” They must have been desperate for this holiday if they were all willing to risk being on the river in the evening when the hippos were at their most aggressive.

  Robert threw up his hands.

  Matanta let out a long, tired sigh, and then turned to stare out north, in the direction of Jugujugu. A thousand emotions washed across his face. Finally, shoulders sagging, he muttered, “Your health comes before my leave. Take my place on the flight.” Despondency bleeding from every pore, he lumbered back to the kitchen.

  Robert turned to Gwynn and me and winked. Then he called out to Matanta. “Be a friend and help me to the runway. I can hardly walk.”

  Matanta paused mid-step, and I wondered if he’d tell Robert to go drown himself. But he turned, managed a tired smile, and came back to sling his arm around Robert’s broad shoulders. “Bob, if you lost a few kilos—like about thirty—maybe your back wouldn’t give you so much trouble, and roots wouldn’t be such a matata.”

  Robert moaned painfully—probably to hide his laughter.

  I picked up Matanta’s bag and slung it over my shoulder. Smiles firmly suppressed behind faked worried frowns, Gwynn and I walked behind Matanta as he part-carried, part-dragged Robert to the airstrip. The short journey through the camp took so long the Cessna had already touched down when we arrived. Tears gleamed in Matanta’s eyes as he helped Robert towards the open door. Matanta was about to heave him up into the seat when he stopped and looked around.

  “Your bags?” Matanta asked. “What are you going to wear in Maun? You can’t go dressed in this.” He poked a disparaging finger at Robert’s soiled uniform. “No girl will even look at you.”

  “Girls? Is that all you ever think about?” I dropped Matanta’s bag at Robert’s feet.

  Matanta’s eyes widened and his hands—supposed to be holding Robert upright—flew into the air. “No, Andrew Rra! There are limits. Even for me. I’ll give up my leave for him, but Robert is not wearing my clothes in Maun.”

  Without his support, Robert stumbled, falling onto his knees. He cried out in agony as if the impact had crushed every bone in his back.

  “Eish!” Matanta moaned. “I’m sorry. You can have my clothes. Anything.”

  Robert caught my eye and, from the mirth threatening to boil over his face, I guessed this joke had just about run its course.

  Gwynn stepped right into Matanta’s personal space. “About the oxtail bones you threw for me.” Matanta looked at her blankly. “And the time you told Andrew the camp had an electric winch for unblocking toilets so he didn’t need to use his hands—”

  “Forget that,” Robert interrupted. “What about the time you told me my father had died when he hadn’t, and I stole a mokoro to go to Maun because there was no place on the flights for me? The
Wildlife guys wanted to lock me in jail and you were going to let them!”

  Matanta’s eyes widened, perhaps with dawning understanding.

  “Well, gotcha,” Gwynn said, grinning.

  The usual crowd of laundry and scullery ladies, maintenance men and guides standing at the strip—who had all been victims of Matanta’s pranks at some point—burst into cheers, laughter, and clapping. They had got the joke, even if Matanta was still being a little slow to catch on.

  He turned to Robert. “So your back? It’s fine?”

  “Never better. And make any more cracks about me needing to lose weight, and I’ll skin you and feed you to the hyena.”

  A slow smile spread across Matanta’s face. Then he dropped to his haunches and his shoulders began to shake with laughter. Finally, rubbing tears from his eyes, he clapped both Gwynn and me on the backs. “I must learn a lesson from this. I don’t know what the lesson is yet, but I do know one thing.”

  “And that is?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid of you both.”

  “And me?” Robert demanded. “It was my acting that made the magic.”

  “Pff,” Matanta snorted. “You’re just a lump of lard.”

  Chapter 42

  Like Matanta and the rest of the staff, we needed time off work, too. In terms of our contract with Sean, after every three months worked, we earned a ten-day break. As we had to pay for our flights back home, if we chose to go there, any break needed to be well thought out.

  As it turned out, my brother, Simon, made the first decision for us. Just prior to our three month mark in June, a letter arrived announcing his wedding. It was to take place in Johannesburg, six weeks after our first break was due.

  “What do you think?” I said to Gwynn after reading it to her. “Do you want to take our break now, or wait another six weeks so we can throw confetti at them?”

  “Would it be churlish if I said I wanted to throw something heavier and far more painful?” she asked.

  I understood how she felt. We were both exhausted from three months of solid work and the prospect of adding another month and a half wasn’t thrilling. Also, I had been writing my 4x4 vehicle guidebook in my spare time, such as it was, and the lack of sufficient electrical power to run my computer was a constant frustration. I planned to buy my own solar panel and battery during our leave to power my Mac. That would have to wait, too. Still, he was my brother and family was important. So I said, “Another six weeks probably won’t kill us.”