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

by Andrew St. Pierre White

  Finally, Matanta threw up his hands and, in a voice brimming with disgust, declared, “He says he can’t shoot moving targets.”

  “What? Was the guide running?” I tried to stop myself from laughing at the bizarre comment. “He can’t …” I shook my head, trying to process that. “What the hell does that mean?”

  Matanta rolled his eyes. “All those shots we heard? He says he didn’t even hit the trees. The gun was jumping around in his hands so much, he almost shot his assistants. He says his shoulder is now very sore.”

  I took in a long, deep breath and tried not to laugh. No doubt, the baboons knew very well who had won that round.

  Face scorched with shame, Mishak pulled the shooting permit out of his pocket. Like his uniform, it now looked decidedly crumpled. He laid it on the table, together with a pen, which appeared like the hyena had been chewing the end. Painstakingly, he jotted my name onto the permit, next to a sentence of Setswana words underlined in black ink. Then he spoke to Matanta.

  Matanta translated. “This is a permit to shoot two baboons. But he has something very important to tell you.”

  In very broken English, Mishak said, “Two baboons only. Bury on same day.” I nodded agreement. “And you must shoot. Only you. Not Matanta. He cannot shoot anything.”

  Matanta yelled something at him, but Mishak merely said, very loudly, “Gagona. No. Mister Andrew, only. Understand?” He looked sternly at Matanta.

  I think that was Mishak’s English vocabulary used up.

  Ignoring Matanta’s outraged disappointment, I asked, “What gun am I supposed to use?” It was clear from the way Mishak was hugging his rifle, that he had no intention of handing the old relic over.

  “Ask Sean to send his gun,” Matanta suggested glumly. He shooed Mishak out of reception, back to the Wildlife motorboat.

  So, that was it. I, who had never held a rifle in my life, let alone killed anything bigger than a fly, was now responsible for culling two baboons.

  “So, what’s the baboon plan now?” Gwynn asked, joining me at reception after seeing Mishak off the island.

  “I’ll get me a gun and shoot the bastards.”

  She didn’t smile. Neither did I.

  Sighing, I scribbled a quick note to Sean, asking for a big gun with big bullets. I popped it in the mailbag. But first we had to get through Christmas.”

  Chapter 53

  I love Christmas. I always have. Being with family. The twinkling lights. The decorations. The tree. The whole ho ho ho that is Christmas. Maybe it was because our families were so far away, with not even a telephone to call them, that I intended to make our Tau Camp Christmas as memorable as possible.

  My planning had started in October, probably around the same time as the Christmas decorations appeared in the shops and malls back in Johannesburg. First off, I’d written to my mother, asking for the recipe for her traditional Christmas pudding. Sepei had balked a bit when she’d seen my order for candied peel and glacé cherries but, give her her due, she’d rallied to the cause, and had rustled up all the ingredients we needed.

  Then, in the scorching October heat, Matanta and Robert had made me my pudding. So intent on humouring me, they had even agreed to allow the staff, at least those who wanted to engage in my madness, to line up for a chance to stir the pudding batter for luck.

  “Lekgoa magic.” Andrew winked to Matanta and Robert by way of explanation as he too prodded the mix with a sticky wooden spoon.

  That raised a smile, but not nearly as broad, or as incredulous, as the ones that greeted me when I started boiling a handful of coins to add to the batter.

  “You waste money on a pudding?” Robert demanded.

  “It’s tradition,” was my only answer. After all, what was Christmas without a pudding no one wanted to eat, other than to dig through to find the money? Or at least, that’s how it always worked in my home.

  Once prepared, I stashed my pudding in the deepest, darkest recess of the pantry, far from hyena and baboon deprivations.

  Come November, I’d pulled out Tau Camp’s Christmas decorations and found nothing but a few limp pieces of tinsel. Another order sheet went off. Sepei did her best, but there was nary a bauble to be found in Maun. I would have to make do with my ragged tinsel. She did at least find a couple of boxes of Christmas crackers, complete with party hats.

  In early December, I’d ordered the turkey and a ham, which, astonishingly, arrived a few days later. Sepei also managed to squeeze in some chocolates and nuts.

  Now, on Christmas Eve, I was set.

  All I needed was my fresh fruit, vegetables, cold cuts of meat, and cheeses. Sepei promised to send them in on today’s plane. Given our lackluster fridges, and the shop closures accompanying the holiday season, the timing of the fresh order was critical. Arrive too early, and it would all rot in the summer heat. Arrive too late, and, well … I didn’t want to think about that.

  I had just crossed off the last item on my Christmas to-do list when I heard the roar of an airplane on final approach. Apart from our Christmas fresh, we were meeting the last few guests who’d grace our Christmas table. I hoped they’d be as pleasant as the quiet Botswanan couple we had in camp. Our day-to-day happiness depended largely on the guests. Some were wonderful, some plain dull, and a few truly awful. All we hoped for were people who would enjoy the festivities with us. Christians, of one sort or another, would be good.

  As I neared the strip, a raindrop the size of a coin splattered my face. Then another hit my arm. I peered through the canopy of trees and blinked. A grey sky peered down at me.

  Grey?

  How was that possible after two months of brilliant sunshine? As if to mock me, a blast of cold air gusted past, pebbling my skin with goosebumps.

  “What’s with the weather?” I shouted to Andrew who joined me from his work shed.

  “I’ve been watching it roll in all morning. It looks pretty ominous.”

  “It better just be passing through because this wind is really cold.”

  Another gust hit as we stepped out onto the runway. It almost bowled me over. Thunder rumbled across the now purple sky, followed by a crack of lightning. Someone in the heavens opened the sluices and a deluge of water gushed from the sky. We broke into a run towards the plane just as Wes threw the cockpit door open and jumped out.

  “Andrew, Gwynn,” he shouted, handing Andrew a shotgun. Sean must have accepted Wildlife’s instruction to kill two baboons. “We’ve got to make this a quick turn-around.”

  As if we needed to be told that.

  “Maun has closed the tower to all traffic, other than the planes already in the air.” He wrenched the passenger door open and started ushering everyone out.

  “Closed the tower? Why?” Andrew demanded, barely noticing the guests cowering in the wind, hands covering their heads against the driving rain.

  “The cloud base is two hundred feet. Too dangerous to fly.” Wes started dragging stock out of the pod. “According to the Met office, this bugger is here to stay until New Year. If it is, you won’t be seeing me, or any other planes until the clouds lift.” He chucked the last piece of luggage into the rapidly forming lake next to the plane, leapt back into the pilot seat, and slammed the door shut. Just before starting the engine, he shouted out, “Happy Christmas.”

  The words were almost lost in the wind. How he was going to take off in this was anybody’s guess. I suppose that was another reason the tower had closed Maun airport. Getting in and out of these bush strips was challenging enough at the best of times, let alone in the driving wind and rain. So, despite the miserable conditions, the guests, Andrew and I watched the take-off like spectators at a gladiatorial fight to the death.

  Wes turned the Cessna’s nose. Engine roaring, he trundled down the waterlogged strip. Water sprayed up on either side of the plane as the wheels dug into the rapidly forming mud.

  My breath hitched. He had reached the take-off point but the Cessna wasn’t flying nearly fast enough t
o make it over the trees. If Wes didn’t pull up, he’d smash right into them.

  Someone clutched my hand. Andrew. I dug my fingers into his as Wes coaxed the plane out of inches of muddy water sloshing on the strip. Inexorably, the plane inched into the air. There it hung, a few feet above the ground, hardly moving against the wind. Then, as if spurred on by angels, it lurched upward. In a brilliant piece of precision flying, Wes aimed for the narrow gap between the clouds and the top of the palm trees. A whoop of joy broke out on the runway as he cleared the tree tops and sped low across the horizon towards Maun. He had no sooner vanished from view when the clouds settled, blanking out the end of the runway.

  So much for a sunshine-filled African Christmas.

  While I quickly sorted out through the rain-drenched stock, Andrew rounded up our guests. Our Christmas additions consisted of a bedraggled-looking Japanese man, and an African couple with three young children. Andrew shepherded them down to reception. From their swarthy complexions and French accents, I guessed the black family were from somewhere in West Africa. I hoped they all enjoyed celebrating Christmas.

  It was still pelting rain half an hour later when I left the pantry and made my way back to my cottage to change my sodden clothes. Andrew was already there, pulling on a dry shirt. I opened my mouth to tell him something of great importance, but he cut me off.

  “Joan forgot to mention on the flight sheets that the Nigerian family are vegetarians.”

  “What?” I slumped down onto a wicker chair. “Can’t be.”

  “Fraid it is. They don’t eat meat, so it looks like it will just be us two, Morag, Sipho, Thembi, and the Japanese guy eating all that turkey and ham.”

  My hands clutched my face, knowing my despair bled into my eyes. “My fresh order never made it onto the plane.”

  Andrew slumped down into the chair next to me. “And now?”

  “And now what? I’ve got a wilted cabbage, some butternut and gem squash, a handful of over-ripe tomatoes, a few potatoes, and a couple of onions with green things sprouting out of them. Tinned peas, tinned corn, tinned tomatoes, and tinned mushrooms. That’s it.” I rubbed my face. “Oh, and no cheese worth mentioning.”

  “Scops?” Andrew asked.

  “I’ve already radioed them. Their fresh didn’t arrive, either. They have even less than we do, so I’m lending them a couple of trays of tinned stuff.”

  “We’ll just have to ply the guests with booze.”

  “The kids as well?”

  He smiled. “It is Christmas.”

  Not seeing the funny side, I lumbered to my feet to change. Teeth chattering from the cold, I muttered, “I better get the housekeeping ladies to give everyone hot water bottles tonight.”

  Andrew threw a wet towel at me. “You’re just grumpy because the fresh didn’t arrive.”

  I glared at him. “Correction: I’m just grumpy because the fresh didn’t arrive and it’s bloody freezing in here.”

  Andrew pulled me into his arms. “I get it. You’re homesick. You’re missing Woodie. I am, too. And the weather isn’t helping. The thermometer at reception says its nine degrees.” That was a rosy 48 degrees. “But we’ve handled far worse, so we’ll manage this little challenge, too.”

  As much as it burned me to let go of my self-pity, he was right. The show must go on. “I think we should make an effort to decorate the table, seeing we don’t have a Christmas tree.”

  “As soon as the rains breaks, we can cut some palm fronds,” Andrew said, clearly humouring me.

  Then he smiled, the boyish one I loved so much. “At least the rain is keeping the baboons out of the camp. That means I have a reprieve from shooting them.”

  * * *

  As soon as the rain breaks we’ll cut some palm fronds…now there’s a laugh.

  It rained all through dinner.

  Thanks to the lack of fresh veg and cheese, it was the first time I’d seen curried eggs and rice come out of our kitchen. Still, our vegetarian guests seemed to like it.

  Christmas morning dawned gloomy and wet. The visibility was so bad the guides couldn’t have taken the guests out even if anyone was foolish enough to want to go walking. The pretty paths threaded through the camp were mud. There wasn’t a dry sheet on the island. To add to everyone’s miseries, it was a bitter forty-two degrees—exacerbated by the airy reed huts, patently not designed for weather like this. The lack of hot water didn’t help either. Not for the want of trying, Alfred had been unable to find dry wood, so the donkey boilers smoked and stuttered, producing no heat to warm the water. Andrew tried to assist by adding petrol, but all that did was produce small explosions, followed by great clouds of smoke.

  Still, we tried to keep up the Christmas cheer, even sneaking off to listen to our short-wave radio in the hope of hearing a couple of Christmas carols. But the BBC World Service failed us. Not one carol broke through the mire of Middle Eastern conflict and politics.

  Just before lunch, I cornered Andrew in the kitchen. He was stealing chocolates intended to supplement the Christmas pudding. I ignored the infringement, even helping myself to a handful of Quality Streets. I shoved a toffee into my mouth, and said, while chewing, “I’m tired of bolstering our lekgoa’s sagging spirits. Let’s steal a minute to go and exchange presents.”

  In the past we’d always torn into the present pile on Christmas Eve, with more left for Christmas morning. Given our limited gifts, this would be it. It was a testament to the strangeness of the day that the tradition had failed.

  Andrew tossed a packet of chocolates at Matanta and Robert. “Share.” He grabbed my hand and we skittered out of the room. We raced through the rain to our cottage. Laughing and giggling, we dived under the mosquito net and collapsed onto our bed. I reached for Andrew’s present first.

  “Let me guess,” he said, taking in the very obviously T-shirt-shaped parcel. “It’s a house plant.”

  “Nah. It’s a fishing rod.”

  “Could have fooled me.” He tore off the brown wrapping paper. “Oh, look, how thoughtful of you. Yet another Tau Camp T-shirt to add to my collection.”

  “Be thankful you got anything, given that I haven’t left this camp in months.” I took the parcel he was holding out to me. It was small, wrapped in a zebra striped print paper. I shook it, and then poked it, trying to figure out what it was.

  “Get on with it,” Andrew said, with an expectant smile. Clearly, he was well-pleased with his present choice.

  I ripped the paper open.

  A very boring necklace, made from brown, black, and cream-coloured beads fell out. I recognised it immediately, having sold the last one in this line a few weeks ago in our own curio shop.

  “I know brown isn’t really your colour,” Andrew said, “but I hope you like it. I went all the way to Maun to get it for you.”

  Brown most certainly wasn’t my colour. But, as I told myself, it was the thought that counted. And I didn’t have to wear it. Not really. I couldn’t resist saying, “The only reason you went to Maun for it was because our stock of them had already sold out.”

  “True,” Andrew admitted. “I had meant to buy one before the last one went, but I forgot.” He grabbed the wrapping paper. “There’s more.”

  This time I gave the paper a good shake. A bright yellow duck with an orange beak and feet tumbled out onto my lap. I pounced on it, squealing with delight.

  “It’s a brooch,” Andrew said, unnecessarily because I was already pinning it to my shirt.

  “The best gift ever.” I hugged him, knowing this was his real gift for me. “You’ve made my Christmas.”

  “Yeah, well, if it carries on raining like this, we’re all going to need webbed feet.” Andrew tossed his boring new T-shirt aside and leaned back against his pillow, as if he didn’t have half a dozen listless guests waiting to be entertained. “Come cuddle.”

  We finally got to have sex. Those stolen moments in the rain, under our mosquito net, were perhaps amongst the most memorable at Tau Camp.


  Around three in the afternoon, the rain let up enough for me to grab Andrew’s hand and a pair of garden shears. “Come, let’s go foraging for Christmas finery.”

  We dashed through the soggy camp. Water dripped down our necks as we made our way to a spray of palm fronds growing next to our vegetable garden.

  “How many do you want?” Andrew asked, shears poised to cut.

  “Enough to cover the length of the table. I’m going to wreath them in tinsel. I’m using chillies as baubles, so it should look quite festive.”

  “Consider it done.” Andrew pulled the closest fan down to eye level to snip the stem. Leaving him to it, I sloshed through the mud to the chilli bush. I was about to start picking, when Andrew let rip with an ear-shattering scream.

  “What?” I shouted, slipping and sliding across the mud in my haste to get back to him.

  He tugged at his shirt, trying to undo the buttons, looking more desperate to be rid of it than he had a few hours ago. Giving up the unequal struggle, he finally yanked it apart, caveman style. The fabric tore along the button line.

  My mouth dropped. It was his favourite shirt. A colourful patterned one, I always hoped he wouldn’t wear on special days. He shrugged it off and flung it around his head in some sort of manic dance. I had almost reached him, when he yelled, “Get back. Wasps. Hundreds of the bloody things.”

  It was then I heard the angry buzzing and saw a swarm of mud wasps. They surged around a nest, hanging from the frond Andrew had been about to cut. I grabbed his arm, dragging him, moaning—this time in pain—back to our cottage.

  He slumped down on the chair. “Bastards. Check my back. Tell me how many got me.”

  I counted nine angry stings on his neck and shoulders. “Wait here.” I dashed into the bathroom and grabbed a tube of antihistamine, which I daubed liberally on each welt. Foraging for Christmas finery was now clearly off the table—if you’ll excuse the very poor pun. I was about to suggest to Andrew that he lie down, when he stood up, looking determined.