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

by Andrew St. Pierre White

  If Lesego was surly, then this lot seemed absolutely morose. Even the guides looked… I sucked in a breath. Belligerent, that was the only way to describe the set of their jaws and their hooded eyes. Worse, they shifted restlessly on the bank while their lekgoa struggled to climb—unaided—out of the mekoro.

  I hurried over and asked the guests, “How was your morning?”

  “Bleerie awful,” Koos shouted. He was the same profile as a Mann truck, pulling a fifty-nine thousand gallon tanker. “These boys of yours are bleerie useless. All they did was shout to each other in their language and smoke. We saw no animals.”

  The other guests rumbled their agreement, punctuated with more Afrikaans swear words.

  I was so not in the mood for this. I called out to Andrew, working on his paperwork in reception, to spin his ‘Chief’ magic.

  He took one look at the guests’ faces, and strode over to KD, our head guide who should have known better. “Care to explain?”

  KD had the decency to look down at his shoes.

  Dylos, also part of the crew, wasn’t so shy. He barrelled towards Andrew. “We need a kgotla to talk about this.”

  Andrew winced. Kgotlas were long, drawn out meetings, sometimes spanning days, where problems were aired and, hopefully, solutions found. “You need to apologise to your lekgoa,” Andrew said instead, masterfully dodging the kgotla arrow.

  The South Africans folded their arms across their chest, waiting expectantly.

  “No, Rra,” Dylos insisted. “Talk first and then say sorry afterwards.”

  Like a rugby scrum, the three South African men joined shoulders and edged towards the guides. I clearly read their intent: the guides were about to be taught a short, sharp lesson about back-chatting the management.

  “Um,” I stuttered, grabbing the closest guy’s arm. “Let’s let Andrew sort this out while the rest of us have breakfast.” I tried pulling him away, but he was built like a brick privy and I couldn’t budge him.

  “Ag, no man, Frikkie,” his wife said, coming to my rescue. “Listen to Gwynn now, and come and have breakfast.” She glared at Andrew. “Just you sort these boys out before we have to deal with them this afternoon.”

  “Don’t worry,” Andrew said. “I’ll be on your afternoon outing to make sure it goes as it should.” He now glared at the guides.

  KD wasn’t the only one to look shamed. Having the manager tag along to monitor their behaviour was no small matter. Jobs were on the line here, and they knew it.

  What had gone wrong today?

  As I invited the guests to tuck into their bacon and eggs, I decided it must have been something in the spring air that had everybody riled up. The temperature—soaring to a cool 107 degrees at ten in the morning—was doing nothing for my mood.

  My next concern was whether Andrew’s mokoro driving skills would be up to the challenge of keeping up with guides. His poling had definitely improved since his first lesson with Matanta, but the last time he’d taken me out, he had ended up in the water again. Maybe because I’d laughed myself silly, there had been no further offers of Andrew-propelled mokoro trips.

  Oh well, the day had started off badly. Who said it couldn’t end that way? Especially if a kgotla was part of the planning.

  Chapter 46

  As much as I didn’t want to sit through a kgotla, the guides made it clear that I didn’t have much choice if I wanted them to show up for the afternoon outing. So, while Gwynn placated the guests over breakfast, I led them to the laundry to talk. Morag saw us. Maybe figuring that the guides were her baby, she joined me.

  “This should be interesting,” Morag murmured. “I’ve been hearing mutters about this for the last few days in the guide school.”

  “Would have been nice if you’d mentioned something.”

  “I’m not the manager here. And anyway, if you’d accepted my invitation to help me run the school, then you’d know.”

  That didn’t warrant an answer. We both knew I had a camp to manage, a thousand maintenance projects to complete, and a wife who took exception to Morag hankering after my flesh. Even after all this time, she never missed the chance to touch me. I shoved the distressing thought aside and sped up, entering the laundry at a trot.

  Sam waited for me, and it suddenly all made sense.

  He was a regular pupil at Morag’s school, but I guessed discussions on bird calls and plumage were not what had brought him here today.

  I grunted a greeting and sat down in the shade on a sawed-off palm stump. Once everyone settled in the circle of protest, I called the meeting to order. My eyes fixed on Sam.

  But Sam was a wily chap. He gestured to Dylos to speak.

  Even before Dylos opened his mouth, I knew I would be hearing Sam’s words. He didn’t surprise me.

  “Rra,” Dylos said, “it all starts with the morning tea. How can you expect us to go walking with lekgoa when we have no tea?”

  “Yes,” Karomona added. “The lekgoa even have rusks. We must too.”

  This was rich. I wanted to say that when you pay hundreds of dollars a night for bed and board, you could have early morning rusks, too. But I didn’t. Instead, I countered with, “We sorted the tea problem out weeks ago. I agreed to give you a cold drink before you went out with the lekgoa instead of tea after you came back.” Shortly after Sam had returned from his first CIM, he had begun campaigning for early morning tea again. It had caused so much hard feeling that I had agreed to replace the guides’ breakfast tea with a cold drink to take out on their morning walk. It had seemed a small price to restore peace, but maybe all I had done was open the door to more trouble.

  Discontent rumbled through the circle, confirming my suspicions. Still, I wasn’t concerned. We’d had kgotlas before, and I understood how the system worked. This party wouldn’t end until everyone had their say.

  Also, I knew Sam well enough to figure that the morning cold drink was a red herring. So, as I listened to a litany of complaints about nonsense, I kept waiting for Sam to bring up the real issue. My tiny patch of shade had given way to full sun when he finally spoke.

  “Rra, the real matata is not about the cold drinks. It’s about our lunch.”

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “Lunch?”

  “Er, Rra. It does not help for us to only eat at lunchtime. We are hungry before then. You and the lekgoa have a big breakfast. We just have a cold drink and sandwiches. We need our lunch. Especially now that we have to protect the lekgoa from the elephants in the camp.”

  “So what do you suggest?” I asked, running out of patience with this. It was blisteringly hot. In fact, I’d heard earlier on the BBC World Service that Maun was the hottest place on Earth that day. It was supposed to clock a miserable 116 degrees F. I was feeling every degree of that. All I wanted was a pre-lunch swim to cool off. But for that, I had to get the guides back on board, because Gwynn and I could hardly sneak off, leaving our guests behind.

  Sam stood to explain his solution. “The scullery girls must cook us our meals when we need them. We, each and every one of us, will go and ask for our lunch when we are hungry. And then they must make it.”

  I snorted a laugh as I pictured Gwynn and the chefs agreeing to that demand. “Betty has enough to do without spending her morning cooking guides’ lunches.”

  “Petso must help her,” Dylos said, to a murmur of agreement.

  “Petso is now a waitress. Lesego no longer works here,” I replied.

  Morag, sitting next to me, sucked in a breath. “What’s happened to him?”

  “Fired. This morning.” I sighed. “It’s been quite a day. And he might not be the last.” I said that last part loud enough for everyone to hear.

  Some of the older guides shifted in their seats. I expected Morag to complain about the loss of her favourite, but instead, she left the laundry. I hardly knew what to make of it, but had no time to worry, because Sam was back with his next salvo.

  “Then let us guides cook our own meals in the ki
tchen.”

  That was an even worse idea than having Betty at the guides’ beck and call. I gave a definitive headshake. “Not happening. This camp is here for the lekgoa. They pay your salaries, and I’m not risking their meals because you can’t wait until one o’clock for lunch. You are not children.” I stood. “That’s my decision. The kgotla is over. Guides on duty, get your ngashi’s because we’re taking the lekgoa swimming.” Without waiting for a reaction, I left the laundry.

  Gwynn was waiting for me at the kitchen with an expectant look.

  “Tell the guests to get changed. We’re all going swimming,” I said.

  “Thank goodness. I’m dying here.” She flapped her T-shirt, exposing her stomach, as if that would help cool her down. Then she kissed me. “Whatever magic you’re weaving, don’t stop doing it.”

  I raised a quizzical eyebrow. She put her finger to her lips, and tiptoed into the kitchen. Puzzled, I followed. Morag stood on the beer crate in the scullery, helping Betty wash the breakfast dishes.

  You could have floored me with a bacon rind.

  Gwynn cleared her throat, and then said hesitantly, “Morag, we’re all going swimming. Care to join us?”

  Now I knew for certain that the world had gone mad.

  “Are you going?” Morag asked, without bothering to face Gwynn.

  “Wouldn’t miss it for anything,” Gwynn replied, her smile looking just a tad strained at Morag’s rudeness.

  “Then I wouldn’t come. For anything.”

  I sighed, a peaceful, happy sigh. My world—that seconds before had shifted on its axis—had righted itself again. All was as it should be.

  Leaving Gwynn to fume, I headed to the bay, fully expecting the guides to be waiting for us.

  It was my turn to be disappointed.

  Swearing under my breath, I stomped back up to the laundry.

  None of the guides had moved off their sawn-off palm logs.

  I stopped at the entrance to assess the situation before speaking. The older guides still wouldn’t look me in the eye. Yet, there they sat with the firebrands who had no such qualms about staring me down.

  Sam stood and faced me. “No one is going swimming until you agree that we can make our own lunch.”

  Insanity stalked the camp once more. I could feel the world teetering on its axis again. What was with this day? Maybe it was the heat.

  I put my hands on my hips, and let out a long breath, counting slowly to whatever number is supposed to stop one from losing one’s temper. I’d reached about a million before I realised it wasn’t working. “And if I refuse?”

  “Then we go on strike.” Sam turned to the waiting guides and, like a conductor leading a discordant choir, waved his arms, chanting, “Lunch or strike. Lunch or strike. Lunch or strike.”

  The younger guides got to their feet and started to toyi-toyi—a highly politicised protest dance youth in South Africa’s townships had used during their fight against apartheid. Not a scene I ever thought I’d see under my watch at Tau Camp.

  A thousand doubts assaulted me. I had been sweating before, but liquid now gushed from my body. Had I been too lenient with the guides? Should I have been a racist prat like Rodney? What could I do to save this situation?

  Before I could conjure any answers, our three South African guests—the built-like-a-brick-privy-sized guys—chose that moment to poke their heads into the laundry. The towels slung across their hairy shoulders said they were ready and waiting for their promised swim. To a man, their eyes widened as they summed up events.

  Then their faces hardened.

  They, too, had watched scenes on South African news reports where toyi-toying crowds threw rocks at police, or necklaced people. Necklacing: the charming practice of placing a burning vehicle tyre around a victim’s neck …

  Frikkie stepped into the laundry, cracking his knuckles threateningly. “Having some trouble, Andrew?”

  Inspired by Sam, the guides’ chanting rose a few decibels.

  Frikkie’s eyebrows rose proportionately.

  This couldn’t end well.

  I grabbed Frikkie’s and Koos’s hambone-sized biceps. “Beer. We need beer. Uys koue bier.” Ice cold beer, I added for emphasis in my best Afrikaans. Hoping their mate Piet would follow, I steered them out of the laundry, down to the bar.

  Piet did. Deflected by the promise of a cold lager, they and their wives gathered around the fridge. Still, their conversation was filled with all the dire things they would like to do to the ‘boys’—a phrase I hate when applied to black men, any men, in this kind of context.

  Feeling my world slip away, I went to the radio, and took a deep breath, dreading what I was about to do. But there was nothing for it, so I keyed the mic.

  “637, 638.”

  Joan’s voice crackled back at me. “Go ahead, Andrew.”

  “Is Sean around?”

  “Stand by.”

  Moments ticked away, and then Sean greeted me. “Andrew, what do you need?”

  “Guides have gone on strike.” Best keep it short and to the point. If he wanted details, he’d ask for them.

  “It’s Sam, isn’t it? I knew this day would come.”

  I nodded; then remembering he couldn’t hear a nod, added, “Affirmative.”

  “Fire the lot of them. I’m sending you a motorboat with a new guide. They’ll be there tomorrow morning.”

  Before I could say how radical that was, Joan spoke. Sean was already on the phone organising the boat. I dropped the mic and buried my face in my hands.

  Why, why, why had it come to this? With the exception of Sam, I liked the guides. All of them. There had to be a solution that didn’t include the wholesale carnage Sean proposed.

  A gentle hand stroking my shoulder pierced my misery. “Matanta has an idea.”

  Forcing a smile, I turned to face Gwynn and Matanta. “Of course he has.”

  “Rra, get rid of Sam and the problem will go away.”

  “What about CIMs? He’s the cook.”

  “What’s wrong with me and Robert? One of us can go along to cook. We’ve proved already that it can work.”

  He had a point. With Sam out of the picture…I swung around and scooped up the mic. “637, 638.”

  “Andrew.”

  “Joan. Message for Sean. I’m firing Sam. All the other guides have to reapply for their jobs. Anyone who still wants trouble will go with him.”

  “I’ll relay the message, but the motorboat is already organised. Might be too late to call it back now.”

  Man, that was quick. Why couldn’t I get a roll of wire that fast? “No problem. I’ll park it somewhere safe in case we need it.”

  I dropped the mic and turned to see a mischievous glint in Matanta’s eye.

  “A motorboat at Tau?” He rubbed his hands together. “Did I tell you how great Jugujugu was?”

  Matanta always knew how to bring a smile to my face. I slapped him on the back. “Hold that thought. I have a troublemaker to fire.”

  Back in the laundry, they were all there, talking among themselves. By and large, these were fair-minded people. Talk reasonably and be fair, and you’d gain their support. It had worked before, and I reckoned it would work again.

  I didn’t sit down. “Sean does not pay my salary if the lekgoa don’t come. If the lekgoa are unhappy, they won’t come. The trouble is, if my salary is taken away, I’ll get very upset, and I’ll do something about it. Like find some guides who won’t chase the lekgoa away.”

  No one said a word.

  Kamanga stood, stared over at his colleagues and then walked out. He was one of the oldest, most experienced, respected guides. A few weeks before, he and his guest had been stampeded by a herd of elephants. Risking his own life, Kamanga had ensconced the guest safely under a bush before seeking shelter for himself.

  Everyone else stayed quiet.

  Everyone else except Sam who ranted a little in Setswana.

  Matanta, standing at my right, didn’t translate,
but I didn’t like the tone. Voice hard, I said, “Sam and the rest of you, what are you going to do?”

  Sam stood, shouted something, and sat back down. The rest of the guides looked down at their hands and I sensed that the mood had shifted.

  It was time to go for the kill. I fixed my eyes on Sam. “There’s an easy solution. You are fired.”

  Sam hissed in a breath. I looked around the circle, stopping to drill each man with my eyes. Shifting in their seats, no one met my gaze. I knew it wasn’t necessary, but I added, “Anybody who wants to go with Sam, leave now. The rest of you, take the lekgoa for a swim. I am coming with, and you had better be smiling.”

  And they did, and they were.

  Chapter 47

  Andrew handed me beers to replenish the supply in the bar fridge, depleted by the South Africans. The dust had settled on the guides’ strike, but we remained jittery as we went about our chores that evening. In one day, we had lost both Lesego and Sam. Sure, they were troublemakers, but if a strike could happen once, it could happen again.

  Morag appeared. She spoke hesitantly. “Perhaps we’ve all been at fault.”

  Morag admitting fault? It had to be the hot night air that hung languid and heavy over us all. I jerked my head out of the fridge and stared at her.

  “We’ve neglected the staff village,” she said. “Maybe if we’d been more in touch with what happens there, the guides would not have been so inclined to follow Sam.”

  The staff village was on a neighbouring island, a distance of about thirty minutes by foot and mokoro. Andrew and I were yet to visit it, so yes, maybe Morag had a point.

  “When do you want to go?” I asked.

  Morag kept her eyes fixed hopefully on Andrew. “Tomorrow?”

  He shook his head. “I lost almost the whole day today, thanks to the strike. Sean could drop in at any time to inspect his precious new donkey boiler. Given that we haven’t even dug the foundations yet, I have to focus on that.” His voice hardened, as if brooking no argument. “Why don’t you two go tomorrow? You can report back to me on anything I need to get involved with.”