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

by Andrew St. Pierre White

  “I guess I just didn’t consider how exhausting it would be.” I was about to nod in agreement when he added, “Being cut off from the world. I never thought I’d actually crave a telephone. And hardware shops. And flying. And my car.”

  There was nothing I could say. He had zeroed a thousand-watt lamp onto the basic problem tugging at us: we both loved our jobs, the people we worked with, and met—most of them anyway—but should a job be one’s life? Working nine to five, and often way past it, back in Johannesburg hadn’t been much of life, either. That’s why we’d come here. But hadn’t we merely replaced one extreme with another? Surely there was a balance somewhere? If there was, I didn’t know how to find it.

  Matanta’s fishing rod landed at our feet, pulling us out of our private chat. “Time to go,” he announced, shuffling into his spot at the engine. “Or it will be dark when we are cooking our fish.”

  The sun lay low on the horizon as Matanta angled the boat downstream toward the camp. He opened the throttle and we set off, now doing twice the speed we had before.

  We had not gone more than fifty yards when a squadron of midges dived to attack. Robert, sitting in the prow, was the first to be face-splattered. He was still coughing up bugs when Andrew and I ploughed through the swarm. We didn’t even have time to cover our eyes.

  “Eish,” Robert spluttered, ‘this is a matata.”

  “We will soon be through them,” Matanta shouted with the confidence of a man who had done this route before.

  Turns out he was wrong. The bugs just kept on coming.

  Without warning, the boat veered to the left, grazed the reeds, and then slewed across to the other side of the river.

  “Got a problem?” Andrew shouted to Matanta, waving his arm to clear the bug-infested air around his face.

  “Can’t see a bloody thing,” Matanta yelled back, fighting to bring the boat under control with one hand, while his other swatted bugs.

  “Here, take these.” Andrew passed Matanta his bug-splattered sunglasses. “Should at least keep your eyes clear until we’re through this swarm.”

  Through this swarm. If only. It was as if every midge in the Okavango had chosen that moment to dive bomb the river.

  I squinted, spitting out bugs as Matanta popped on the glasses.

  “These are great, Rra,” he shouted. “Only one problem. Now I can’t see where I’m going.”

  “Then slow down,” Robert yelled, fanning his face.

  “Then we’ll still be on the river when the hippos start moving,” Matanta yelled back, powering the motor to make his point.

  The prow hit a log.

  Or I think it was a log.

  Could have been a croc, but we were going too fast to know for sure.

  The engine spluttered and then died.

  “Matata.” Matanta sighed, peering over the edge at the motor. “I didn’t see that with the sunglasses on.”

  No blood bloomed in the water, so I guessed it was a log. But the warning was clear: with sunglasses, Matanta would not be belting the boat back to camp. Without them, he couldn’t open his eyes. We’d be limping home.

  Andrew and Matanta got the engine going. Even with the current in our favour, we set off at a plodding pace. All thoughts of reaching the camp before dark were dashed. As matatas went, this was pretty serious. A week ago, a Scops guide had been attacked by the hippo on the river near Tau. It hadn’t been nearly as dark that day as it was now. The guide had been lucky to survive. He was still in hospital, fighting to save his arm and his leg.

  To add to our worries, the bugs worsened. Now they were a cloud of black, hovering over the river as far as the eye could see, which, granted, given the conditions, wasn’t very far.

  If asked what’s worse—bugs doing breaststroke in my eyes or bugs boring up my nose—I’d be hard-pressed to answer. Amazing how nothing in life—even the most perfect of days—was ever truly perfect.

  The sun dipped below the horizon.

  We heard the first grunts of moving hippo.

  My insides turned to water and I huddled low in the boat—as if that would offer me any protection from Africa’s most dangerous mammal. My hands gripped my seat as the grunts turned into snorts, and then bellows as the motorboat glided into their haunt.

  Honking like a deranged locomotive, one of them surged away from the herd and lunged for us. A tidal wave crashed into the side of the boat. Even in my panic to stay on board, I instantly sympathised with that poor croc we had almost drowned. The thought was swamped away as a second wave hit us. The hippo rapidly closed the distance between us.

  Swearing, Matanta opened the throttle wide, powering the boat over the wave, inches past the hippo’s nose. Mouth gaping, it taunted us with its tusks as we surged by. Laughing hysterically, a combination of fear, relief, and possibly sunstroke, we roared into the bay with the hippo on our heels.

  Thank all the saints who protect naughty employees playing hooky, it stopped at the entrance to the camp, snorted a couple of times, and then swam back up river. Too grateful to care about the reason for our reprieve, I leapt out the boat.

  Then I saw what the hippo must have seen—an unexpected fire twinkling in the hearth at the sitting out area. Around it waited four chairs. On the ground sat our entire complement of staff. As one, they stood and cheered.

  “What are you all doing here?” I had given them the day off. “The hippo! How will you get back to the village?”

  Seatla bowed, and then gestured to a table decked with salad, condiments, and a jug of lemon butter sauce. “We are here for the fish braai, Mma. We will spend the night at Honey Camp.”

  “How did you know we’d catch any?” I asked in astonishment.

  A knowing smile spread across her face. “You cannot go to Jugujugu and not catch fish, Mma.”

  While Seatla and Kekgebele barbecued sixteen of the fattest, juiciest bream I had ever seen, Andrew, Robert, Matanta and I sat under the stars (not used for getting anyone to bed) and traded fishing stories with our staff.

  Perfection.

  Chapter 51

  Christmas was almost upon us. To my delight, I had just completed the fastest Christmas shopping I had ever done. In Maun to renew our work waivers, (our promised work permits were still to arrive) I dropped into a convenient curio shop and bought Gwynn a necklace and a small duck broach that I called Florence.

  I guessed she’d bought me yet another T-shirt from our own curio shop, so I was glad to get her something different. At Maun airport, I helped load the Cessna, making sure every square inch of packing space was utilised. We arrived back at camp in time for lunch.

  Stomach rumbling, I made my way into the dining room. Being low season, the camp was almost empty with only a couple of Germans and a small group of Norwegians visiting. The Norwegians were already seated at the table.

  “Got a letter from my Dad,” I told Gwynn after greeting everyone. I sat and opened the envelope. It read:

  “G’day and howzit in the bush, then? Evie (my mother) said the other day: ‘Have you written to Droonie and Gwynn?’

  ‘Does the elephant knock down trees in the Savuti?’ I replied, in my usual evasive manner. ‘Is the Sitatunga quiet and retiring? Does the boat beat the bike as a means of urban transport in the Okavango CBD? Does the fish eagle use sonar buoys?’

  ‘OK, OK, OK,’ she stopped me. (Just like the guy in ‘Local Hero’)

  ‘Does the dung beetle…’

  ‘OH-KAY!’

  A thought for the day:

  Roses are red

  Violets are Blue

  I am a schizophrenic,

  And so am I.”

  And that was it. His way of telling us everything at home was normal. I wished I was there to share the joke with him.

  I put my letter away and noticed two empty place settings where our German guests should have been. “Where are Fritz and Ursula?”

  “Good point.” Gwynn frowned. “You know, I haven’t seen them since breakfast. I
better go and check—”

  I squeezed her arm. “Sit, I’ll go.” I wanted to hide her Christmas present anyway, so I could swing past number three on my way home.

  The camp was quiet with all the off-duty staff lying low because of the December heat. Not nearly as bad as spring, it was still easily a 100 degrees under the trees. Even the birds seemed lethargic. I figured Fritz and Ursula were enjoying an extended post-breakfast, pre-lunch nap.

  I stopped at the back of their cottage and called. Early morning wake-up calls had taught us that the most effective way of waking people was to use their names.

  I had no sooner finished speaking when I heard an agitated voice reply, “Mein Gott! At last! Get these foul creatures out of here before we have heart attacks.”

  Foul creatures?

  Not knowing what to expect, I bolted around the chalet, into the front door.

  And froze.

  Then my nose crinkled against the smell—a malodorous one I knew too well. I took a step closer. The mosquito net, once white and pristine, hung in ragged loops over a faeces-smeared duvet cover. The crap continued across the floor. The water flask and glasses lay shattered amid piles of clothing, ripped from an open suitcase. But in all this chaos, there was no sign of our guests.

  Then I heard desperate sobbing coming from the bathroom. I darted across the room, skidded on the filth, and lunged for the bathroom doorframe to stop myself falling. As my hand gripped the frame, my face burst through the reed curtain, giving me an uninterrupted view of the room.

  Trousers around her ankles, Ursula sat on the toilet, her face buried in her hands. Fritz, naked as the day he was born, cowered in the shower. Strangely, neither of them showed any reaction to my appearance.

  Then I understood why.

  Standing in front of them was the alpha, the same baboon who’d out-stared me when I’d first arrived at the camp. Robert had named him Idi Amin, after the African dictator who ravaged Uganda some decades before. Idi Amin now turned to look at me, cunning eyes devoid of fear.

  “We’ve been here the whole morning with this thing,” Ursula finally moaned, looking up for the first time. “Every time we try to move or shout—”

  Idi Amin lunged at her, barking. She shrank back, collapsing into herself. Fritz huddled deeper into the corner of the shower until his blotchy white flesh was almost one with the letaka wall. I could see the baboon getting high on the fear pheromones swamping the air.

  But I hadn’t braved black mambas, and hippos, stared down a hyena, and scared off thirty six elephants to now be frightened by a mere baboon—no matter how big his incisors or dangerous his name sounded.

  Arms held high, shouting at the top of my lungs, I leapt into the room. Idi Amin hesitated, clearly loath to give up his dominance. I shouted louder, right into his face. Barking raucously, he fled through the opening between the reed wall and the ceiling.

  We both knew who had won that round.

  But there was no time for triumphant chest thumbing. I had guests to attend to.

  Crying like a baby, Fritz crumpled into a heap in the shower. Ursula rocked back and forth on the toilet, also keening.

  I tossed a towel over Fritz. “I’m going to call Gwynn to help you. And the housekeeping ladies to clean up this mess.” Fritz mumbled something, but I couldn’t make out what it was, and I didn’t stop to find out.

  “Get down to number three, now,” I panted into Gwynn’s ear when I reached the dining room.

  She looked at me questioningly, but must have seen my anger and frustration because she excused herself from the table without comment.

  Morag looked up from her lunch. “Find Thekiso,” I commanded her. “Now. Tell him to bring his ngashi to reception.”

  Perhaps it was my imperious tone, but she didn’t even murmur. She put down her glass, dropped her napkin on the table, and followed Gwynn from the room.

  So that was how to control Morag.

  By the time Gwynn and Morag calmed Fritz and Ursula down, Thekiso was on his way up stream to the Wildlife department with a hastily drafted letter demanding action.

  It was time to shoot some baboons.

  Chapter 52

  Rifle in hand, Mishak and two of his cronies arrived at camp the next morning. The weapon was an ancient-looking thing that had probably been around since the Anglo-Boer war. For the first time ever, their uniforms were clean and pressed. Pressed? Mishak was obviously taking this cull very seriously. I must admit, it inspired confidence, convincing me I’d done the right thing by calling in the law.

  Mishak pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and waved it at Matanta, on hand to translate. Matanta listened and then moved to grab the paper. Mishak deflected, rattling something off in Setswana.

  Rolling his eyes, Matanta turned to me. “This is the permit to kill two baboons, but he won’t give it to you until he’s checked your story with the lekgoa.”

  I couldn’t fault that. So, aided by Matanta’s translation skills, Fritz and Ursula were called over to recount their trial. Face hard, clearly looking for revenge, Fritz seemed only too happy to retell their story.

  Finally, Mishak nodded. “Bad, bad matata for the tourism.” He turned to Matanta and spoke in rapid-fire Setswana.

  Matanta translated. “Andrew Rra, he says we must fetch all the lekgoa to the front of the camp. All the staff must hide in the laundry. Everyone must stay still while they’re shooting the baboons.”

  That made sense. The last thing we needed was for our guests to witness this cull. And the staff? Well, with our luck one of them would be mistaken for a baboon. My mind stuttered, not wanting to pursue that line of thought.

  “What about breakfast for the lekgoa?” Gwynn asked.

  Matanta didn’t bother conferring with Mishak. “Of course the kitchen staff will prepare and serve breakfast, Mma. This is Tau Camp, after all.”

  Typical Matanta.

  So, while Gwynn rounded up the guests for breakfast, I herded the rest of the staff into the laundry with instructions to stay put until Mishak gave the signal. I needn’t have bothered with the warning. Any Motswanan worth his salt would be only too happy to be told by the boss to goof off when he should have been working. I made my way to the radio to alert Kyle and Milly to keep their staff and guests away from the camp.

  I knew Gwynn would have no interest in watching animals, even if they were baboons, being shot, so I wasn’t surprised when she joined the guests at breakfast.

  Matanta wasn’t so reticent.

  Leaving Seatla to cook the eggs, he set off with me towards the runway. Mishak and his two cronies stood in the centre of the strip, deep in conversation. To me the whole thing was simple: all we had to do was creep under the trees where the baboons lived, take aim, and pull the trigger. Twice. Two baboons, that’s all I wanted to kill. The rest would quickly get the message that they weren’t welcome.

  I set my jaw in a hard line and pointed to the closest tree. “Let’s go.”

  Mishak turned to face me. “No, Rra.” His chest puffed out with self-importance. “This is official Wildlife business.” He gestured to Matanta. “You must both wait with the lekgoa.”

  I wanted to protest, but it was hot, and he did look like he meant it. Also, he was holding a gun.

  Matanta was having none of it. He opened his mouth to complain.

  I grabbed his arm and dragged him back to the kitchen. “Stay. Cook eggs.” His laughter ringing in my ears, I went to breakfast. Gwynn dished me up a plate of food even though I wasn’t hungry.

  Neither was anyone else it seemed because no one was eating. We sat in heavy silence, punctuated by gunshots. These were followed by panicked screams of baboons.

  Just how many of the damn things was Mishak killing?

  Gwynn and I exchanged looks and I could read on her face that she was as unhappy about this as I was.

  Fritz was less subdued. “This is good, ja. The more he kills the better.”

  Perhaps if I had been trapped
in the bathroom for hours by an arrogant alpha baboon, I may have understood the sentiment, but right now I just felt heavy with regret. It was because of the camp with its easy pickings of food that the baboons had become problematic. As much as I disliked them, it wasn’t their fault. I guess it wasn’t anyone’s fault, really.

  Closer at hand, the bush and trees in which the camp huddled, usually alive with the raucous sound of squabbling babblers and starlings, was ominously silent. All living things, other than Mishak and the few surviving baboons, seemed to have gone to ground. It was only once the waiters were clearing away the tea and coffee cups that the firing finally stopped.

  I braced myself for Mishak’s report.

  Like Rambo with a rifle slung over his shoulder, Mishak and his two sidekicks marched through the camp, coming to a halt at reception. Every eye at the breakfast table turned to me. I dropped my napkin and left.

  Grinning like a maniac, Matanta darted out of the kitchen and loped over to join us. He slapped Mishak on the shoulder. Clearly, he had no problems with the wholesale slaughter of a troop of baboons. The result of almost-daily post-baboon invasion clean ups, perhaps?

  Despite Matanta’s joyous assault, Mishak stood to attention at reception, rifle held proudly in front of him as if he were one of the President’s guard.

  “Er, Rra, well done for solving this matata,” Matanta gushed at Mishak.

  I wasn’t so effusive. “Are there any baboons left of the island?”

  Mishak cleared his throat and then looked down at his feet. After what seemed like an eternity, he muttered something in Setswana. Matanta leaned in closer, holding his hands up in a typical what-was-that gesture. Mishak cleared his throat again and picked at the black insulation tape wrapped round the rifle’s hilt.

  Something was definitely wrong here.

  My jaw dropped. “Don’t tell me you’ve shot someone.”

  Mishak’s head jerked up, his eyes wide and tortured.

  “Who was it?” I demanded. “Someone from Scops Camp? A guide who didn’t know we were shooting today?”

  Mishak turned to Matanta and started sprouting in Setswana, words tumbling out a dozen a second. Eyes boring into Matanta, I waited impatiently for a translation.