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

by Andrew St. Pierre White

  Gwynn snorted.

  I knew she wanted to go home to check on Woodie. From the last two letters from her mother, we’d learned that she’d had had a couple of operations to drain her face. For days, it had been touch and go. Post-ops, Woodie’s recovery, punctuated by flares of infection, had been slow. Gwynn was now on tenterhooks to hear if the latest round of antibiotics had kicked in. Letters took a painfully long time to reach the Okavango Delta.

  I expected her to comment on Woodie, but instead she said, “I guess it all depends on who we have in camp.” I knew she was referring to Sandy and her bunch because a day didn’t pass when we didn’t dread the announcement of another visit. Gwynn grabbed the clipboard with the booking sheets and started flipping through them. “All clear. Unless they come unannounced again.” Her teeth gnawed the inside of her mouth. “But that can’t happen because we’re chock-a-block full for the next six weeks. Not a spare bed for anyone.” She sighed and then clunked her forehead with the clipboard. “Why oh why did Simon plan his wedding so badly? And why did Woodie have to get sick?”

  “She’s having the best care possible,” I said, hoping she’d agree to extend our time. I really wanted to be at the wedding.

  Gwynn glared at me.

  “Hey,” I said. “Look at the bright side. A full camp means no room for Morag. She’ll have to stay at Scops.”

  The tiniest grin crossed Gwynn’s face. “Where she can plague and torment Kyle and Milly. Oooh, I do like full camps.”

  “She’ll have to come here during the day to run her school,” I warned.

  Morag had started the guide school Sean had employed her to run. The lessons on bird identification and animal lore took place at Tau Camp, an attempt, I think, by Sean to impress his guests with his progressiveness. She had asked me more than once to pitch in and help her teach the guides, but I had declined. The joy it would have given me wasn’t worth the strife it would have caused.

  “Yes,” Gwynn agreed, “but if I juggle my day carefully, I won’t have to see her until lunchtime. Even I can probably cope with only seeing her for an hour a day.” Obviously now feeling magnanimous, she conceded, “Write and tell Simon we’ll be at his wedding.”

  And that’s how we got rid of Morag and Hazel for a while. And ended up working eighteen hours a day, seven days a week for five months straight. The only thing that made that kind of insanity possible—and pleasurable—was the wonder of our ever-changing world.

  About a week after my letter had gone off to my brother, I was sitting in reception working on my paperwork when Gwynn stormed in, looking wild-eyed and breathless.

  “Where’s my 24mm lens?” she gushed, “I need to take a photo of an elephant.”

  I rolled my eyes. Ever since I’d met Gwynn, I’d been trying to teach her photography—I even went so far as to buy her a fancy camera. She never got past the basics, but this was pathetic, even for her. Without bothering to look up from my work, I said, “You don’t use a wide angle lens to photograph elephants.”

  “You do with this one.” She grabbed her camera bag from under the desk and bolted from the room.

  This I had to see. I chucked down my pencil and followed her to cottage number eight—and almost soiled my underwear. An elephant the size of a small house stood no more than ten paces away from us. It eyed the nuts in the palm trees overhead.

  “Good lens choice,” I muttered. “Now get the shot before he stomps on us.”

  I heard Gwynn’s camera click and pulled her back a few steps, only to hear a trumpeting coming from behind. I spun—and looked right up at a beetle-black eye set in a wrinkled grey cheek. My heart— already beating like a jack hammer—attacked my rib cage.

  We were surrounded by elephants.

  I was plotting an exit strategy that wouldn’t get us charged, crushed, or leaned on, when I heard a scream coming up the path. Again, I pivoted, this time to see Matanta racing towards us. Back from his leave, he had more energy than a nuclear warhead.

  “Tlou,” Matanta shouted at the top of his lungs. “In the camp. Everyone come, see.”

  His shouts emptied the laundry and kitchen of staff. Even a few guests joined in to witness the arrival of our first elephants.

  The elephants, clearly offended at having their morning spoiled by noisy tourists, snorted a bit, but didn’t hang around. Feet pounding, they broke cover and headed out of the camp, back onto the runway. There they stopped and looked at us.

  Matanta grinned at me. “Ever touched an elephant’s butt, Rra?”

  “No. You?” I asked, grinning at him.

  “Me neither. But I’m about to.”

  Before I could think of how to stop him, Matanta burst into a sprint towards our little bachelor herd. I can’t even begin to imagine what the elephants thought about this mad man running full tilt towards them. But, whatever it was, they weren’t hanging around to find out. They took off across the runway, skidding to a stop at the line of trees our baboons lived in.

  Who knows what Matanta had been smoking—his mattress maybe—but he raced after them. As three of the four elephants fled into the bush, Matanta reached out a hand to flick a retreating tail.

  It was an affront which elephant number four would not forgive. Ears pressed hard back against its enormous skull, he turned and charged straight for Matanta.

  Laughing like the village idiot, Matanta wheeled round and raced back across the runway with the elephant at his heels. Everyone—including Gwynn and I—scattered as the wild pair approached the camp.

  Matanta burst through the trees onto the pathway leading to our house—and the elephant stopped. Trumpeting furiously, it kicked up a cloud of dust before prancing back across the runway to join his mates.

  I smacked Matanta on the side of the head. “Are you stupid? I need a chef tonight!”

  Sweat pouring down his face, he laughed triumphantly and held his hand up in the air. A few strands of coarse elephant tail hairs blew in the breeze. “All my life, I’ve wanted to do that. Now I can die happy.” He kissed his fingertips and then opened his hand, letting the hair blow away in the wind.

  “Whatever floats your mokoro, Matanta,” I said, rolling my eyes.

  Chapter 43

  The arrival of the elephants was timely because we had a group of guests in camp who were passionate about another of Africa’s treasures—the rhino. These folk, a mix of seventeen Australian and English cricket lovers, were here to support the Save the Rhino Foundation. The idea being that they paid a bucket load of cash to the charity for the privilege of spending a few days in the bush with a cricket hero. The man in question: David Gower, one-time English cricket captain who led England to victory in the Ashes cricket tournament against Australia. The Ashes were an annual series of matches in which England and Australia each sent fifteen fleet-footed, nimble-handed sportsmen to do battle.

  The term Ashes was first used after England lost to Australia on home soil back in 1882. The next day, the Sporting Times carried a mock obituary of English cricket which concluded that: “The body will be cremated and the ashes taken to Australia.” A few weeks later, an English team set off for a series in Australia. Bligh, the English captain, vowed to return home with the ashes. His counterpart was equally as determined to defend them. At the end of the tour, the Australians awarded Bligh a small terracotta urn as a symbol of what he came to claim. Almost a hundred years later in the early nineties, a fancy trophy entered the fray. England and Australia have been waging cricket war over it ever since. Cricket being the only team sport I’m even vaguely interested in, this was my chance to, if not join the Balmy Army, at least be a stupid English supporter.

  It was their first day in camp. We had long since finished lunch but, despite Gwynn’s imploring eyes and the waiters’ vain attempt to evict us from the dining room, we were not budging. David Gower had us rapt, listening to a ball-by-ball account of his winning innings that had sent the Australians limping back to the dressing room, and took the Ashes trophy
back to England.

  He stopped to sip his drink, giving Phil, the tour organiser, the chance to ask, “Is there anywhere we could set up a pitch for a game of cricket?”

  A rumble of approval rippled across the table.

  I snorted a laugh. “You’ve just landed on it, but the outfield needs a mow. Did you bring a bat?”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Ah! I knew there was something I forgot to pack.”

  “Anyone else?” I asked, looking around the table. Seventeen heads shook in unison. Man, this lot was unprepared. And I really fancied playing cricket with David Gower. It was something I could tell my grandkids—if Gwynn and I ever got to have sex again. I stood up. “Leave it with me. I’ll devise something.”

  “Oh, and a ball as well,” Phil added.

  I glared at him. “Now you really are pushing it.”

  “We have absolute faith in you, mate,” one the Australians said. “In fact, so much so, I think we should start dividing up the teams.”

  “Surely that’s obvious,” David said. “It’s the English against the Aussies.”

  “Are you sure that’s wise?” I asked over my shoulder as I headed out to find something we could use to hit one of Hazel’s many chewed tennis balls Morag had left at the camp before moving to Scops.

  My steps took me to a clump of palm trees in the centre of the camp. One of our visiting elephants had nudged a tree, knocking down branches. I selected a nice sturdy one and headed for my workshop. Bow-saw in hand, I cut off the fronds and then used my Swiss Army knife to carve something that looked a bit like a bat out of the soft wood. All it needed was black insulation tape around the handle to take the edge off the spiky grip. Then it was back to the dining room, where the guests still occupied the chairs, making Lesego’s life difficult. A roar of approval greeted my offering and, again in unison—had they been practicing?—our guests headed straight for the runway. After making sure no planes were due, I set two camp chairs up as wickets.

  Then the game was on.

  In all honesty, it wasn’t that different from the volleyball match. Nobody was doing much of anything but laughing at the pitch and joking with David, who was being altogether childish. No teams. Just mucking about. However, I am proud to announce that, while I have the hand-eye coordination of a silkworm, I scored a run, and got bowled out by the great David Gower.

  Back in the dressing room—the anthill next to the strip—I had an idea. It led me to the bar, where I selected a small whiskey bottle, the type they serve on aircraft. After ditching the Scotch, and removing the label, I filled it with ash from the evening’s campfire. Trophy complete, I presented it to Phil that evening at dinner.

  Instantly recognising it for what it was, his face split into an enormous grin. With an almost childlike agility, he leapt up onto his chair, and declared, “Gentlemen, order!”

  Everyone stopped talking and looked at him.

  He held up the bottle. “Tomorrow we play for the Ashes. England against Australia.”

  A roar of approval went up and glasses chinked all around.

  In all this excitement, I was the only one looking concerned about my ancestry. I’m was a mixed breed. My father was a New Zealander, my mother an Australian, and I was born in England, although I grew up in South Africa. That pretty much covered the entire English-speaking cricketing world. But I really wanted to play on David’s team.

  Tugging on my beard, I hazarded, “Even though my mother’s Australian, I was born in Kent. So would you mind if I—”

  “Happy to have you on my team, Andrew,” said David.

  “But that means he’s with us,” Phil, also on the English team, moaned. The Australians started laughing—they’d seen me play. “Didn’t you say something about your mother being Australian?”

  “I’m as English as you are,” I said to Phil. “And that’s it. All negotiations are closed.”

  * * *

  The following afternoon our Ashes match began. To everyone’s shock and surprise, David made me captain of our team. We won the toss and elected to bat. David opened our innings, but just played silly buggers, acting like a little kid, missing the ball at every shot. He obviously needed some coaching.

  I stormed up to him, doing my best serious captain act. “David, for heaven’s sake, I thought you were supposed to be this great batsman. I’ve been billing you as our secret weapon. Now grow up and hit the bloody ball for once.”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,” he said sheepishly, and then began what must surely be one of his most memorable innings, albeit witnessed by only a dozen or so people. His next swing was a beautiful cover drive. One of the Australian fielders sprinted through low scrub to catch it.

  I cupped my hands and yelled, “Watch out, there’s a dirty great snake living there.”

  The fielder stopped dead in his tracks and the ball sailed over his head. “Is there?” he shouted back in alarm.

  “No,” I shouted back.

  There was hysteria around the England camp as we collected a quick six runs, putting us ahead on the scoreboard.

  The Aussies set their collective jaws and the bowler fired another ball at David. David’s left hand swung out, and the bat connected perfectly with the ball, sending it far into the outfield, headed for another six runs.

  But this time the tennis ball hit an anthill and bounced.

  I—and the rest of the English team—watched in horror as it flew directly to the Aussie wicketkeeper’s outstretched hands.

  David was out for four.

  It all fell apart after that and the Australians won convincingly.

  That evening, while the boys recounted their losses and victories, David and I huddled in the CIM room. I had suggested that he autograph the bat as a gift to the Man of The Match. Trouble was, the polished finish of the palm bark was proving impervious to ink. We were about to give up when I spotted a dusty bottle of typist correction fluid sitting on the shelf.

  “Your best signature, please,” I said, handing him the half-hardened paintbrush.

  I held the bat as he painted a wobbly signature onto the front surface. He grinned at me. “As much as it pains me to say it, I think we need to give the award to an Australian. The one with the dodgy leg who still managed to score a few runs.”

  “But they won,” I moaned.

  “Isn’t that always the way?” David said, clearly feeling my pain.

  The recipient of the bat and the bottle of Ashes teared up and had to be handed a table napkin to mop his face as David made the presentation over dinner.

  Now if only all guests could be like these. Star that he was, David was a gem to have in camp. To make good friends so quickly, only to have them taken away again, was one of the difficult-to-get-used-to parts of the job.

  And, as we were soon to be reminded, not all guests become friends so easily and left with such regret.

  Enter the Fox party.

  Chapter 44

  Fox Family Adventure Tour: Alaska, Himalaya, Rocky Mountains, Chile, Kenya, South Africa, and Botswana. Or so claimed the itinerary blazoned in bold capitals on the T-shirts worn by our seven new American guests. Father Fox, a very rich Californian, had a penchant for splurging exotic travel destinations on his wife, two daughters, and their spouses. He even paid for a professional guide.

  The air thick with West Coast twangs, Andrew and I showed them and their guide to their cottages with instructions to meet us at the dining room for lunch in half an hour.

  Not even five minutes passed when Paul, their guide, hunted us down at reception. Andrew and I were arguing over which of the women was wearing the most expensive jewellery. I was making a case for the faux redhead with the gold-and-diamond choker the size of a bulldog collar when Paul cleared his throat. He looked troubled.

  “The Fox family want to leave. Now.”

  “Whatever for?” I asked. “They haven’t even had lunch.” Not even with the best hearing in the world could they have heard us gossiping about them. And even if the
y had, it didn’t warrant bailing out before the first meal had been served.

  “They say if they see another bug they’ll go crazy.”

  Andrew raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Then what the hell are they doing in Africa? There are more bugs in this reception area than there are animals in the San Diego zoo.”

  Paul sighed. “Of course there are. I know that. You know that. I thought they’d know that. Apparently, I was wrong. Please, whatever you do, don’t tell them I’ve told you this, but honestly, I’ve had it with these people.”

  “But surely they encountered bugs in Kenya and South Africa?” I demanded, refusing to let this go. “Unless their T-shirts are lies.”

  “Oh no, the South Africa bit is true. I was there with them. We stayed at a top game lodge and the women saw a few moths. They didn’t stop moaning about it.” Paul ran a hand across his face. “Anyway, bottom line is, they want to leave now. By charter, if necessary.”

  Andrew moved to pick up the mic. “So where is this bug free utopia I’m supposed to be sending them to?”

  “Sandton City, in Johannesburg. And they want me to go with them.” Paul sounded even more pained. “Like they need a guide to show them around a five-star shopping mall and hotel.”

  Andrew patted him sympathetically on the shoulder and called Joan.

  “I saw this coming when I met them in Maun.” Her sigh was the identical twin to Paul’s moan of frustration. “The father kept yapping on about how adventurous his daughters and their lawyer husbands are, but all I could see was a bunch of spoilt Americans.” That was harsh, even coming from Joan. “Andrew, make sure they understand that there’ll be no refund on the Tau Camp accommodation. That has to be made clear before I waste my afternoon rescheduling things.”