Torn Trousers: A True Story of Courage and Adventure: How a Couple Sacrificed Everything to Escape to Paradise
Page 34
Matanta grinned. “Finally, you get it Rra.”
Less than twenty minutes later, four Scops’ guides appeared through the bush.
Laughing and joking, they strode over to the car and, without prompting, instruction, or persuasion, lifted the entire back end. They parked it on level ground.
I handed out the last of the Coke and biltong and we drove on.
The staff at Tau also heard us coming. Every single person lined the runway. They waved and laughed as we took a slow drive past, almost like a victory lap.
A Land Rover One-Ten V8 station-wagon was a particularly cool looking 4x4 when it came to bush travel, so the points I’d lost over the fire boat incident were quickly regained. I could imagine, years from now, folk singing songs about the great chief, with the big gun, and cool 4x4.
The adoration didn’t stop there. They showed their appreciation by immediately cleaning my dusty, mud-splattered car. Even Matanta got his hands wet.
I might have been their hero, but in every way I could think of, they were mine, too.
* * *
The next day, Gwynn and I packed up all our worldly treasures and drove Darien out to the runway. This time, the waves of the waiting crowds were subdued, the laughter stilled. I noticed more than a few tears in Gwynn’s eyes.
Heart in my throat, I drove the Landy down the airstrip for the very last time. The bush at the end swallowed us whole, and the camp and our staff disappeared from view.
Epilogue
Gwynn was pregnant with our first child when we next visited Tau Camp. Exactly two years to the day that we had started our Tau adventure, we returned. We left Woodie (who made a full recovery and had forgiven us for her troubles) in the care of Gwynn’s mother and departed from Johannesburg in Andrew’s twin-seater Grob motor-glider. The motor-glider’s 17-metre wingspan made it too hazardous to land on Tau’s narrow airstrip, so we camped the night in Maun.
Joan, Verity, and Sepei were pleased to see us, but Sean was cool. He didn’t offer us a free night in the camp as we had hoped he might. How could we have forgotten so soon about that tight wallet of his?
We did manage to scrounge a discount at Scops, though. We were writing a 4x4 travellers’ adventure book and promised to feature the camps. The article was eventually published in three editions of that book.
Our first night on Noga Island was spent at Scops. The next morning, we walked the familiar path back to our old home. We might have left the island, but the elephants certainly hadn’t. Not many palms remained standing.
As we walked the length of the runway, we noticed that most of the sprinkler heads were missing or broken. We shared a warm chuckle. The hippos were still around, too.
So were the baboons, sunning themselves on the runway opposite the camp. Bold as ever, they were fat and healthy, no doubt from regular kitchen raids. The shooting of Saddam and the other baboon had made no dent in the raids when we were at the camp. It was unlikely anything had changed in our absence.
Close to the camp entrance waited a small bachelor herd of elephant. They looked familiar. Had they come back to greet us? Or hadn’t they moved since the day we left?
There were two new signs nailed to a tree next to the anthill. The first one read, ‘Private Camp.’ That seemed like a good idea. The second, ‘No Elephant Allowed’. We both thought that very cheesy.
In the camp, everything was quiet. There were no guests, no manager, and few staff.
We found Robert in the kitchen.
He greeted us warmly with a traditional handshake. “Rra en Mma, when you left, everything changed. Sean hired a Zimbabwean lady. She was a matata. The worst racist you can imagine. She drove us all to rebellion.”
We listened with sadness as Robert recounted the details of the ensuing strike. Matanta and all the guides had been fired.
Robert shook his head, as if still unable to believe the carnage. “Three weeks later, Sean fired the Zimbabwean woman who caused all the trouble.”
Leaving Robert to his quiche-making, we ambled to the bay.
Thoughts of happy times nudged away our sorrow at Matanta’s loss. Being autumn, the water had filled the floodplain. Only one of the palms that created the camp’s picture-postcard composition remained standing.
Sean had built a raised platform between the lounge and the dining room. We thought it an ugly addition that spoiled the open feel of the guest area. But then we would have preferred to return and see it just how we had left it—a happy, vibrant place, filled with the spirit of friendship and laughter, with bits of chewed plastic lying around.
Before saying our good-byes, we stepped into the curio shop and bought a beautiful bream, carved from palm-heart. It remains a treasured possession.
After our first two daughters were born, we escaped Johannesburg again, this time to settle in Cape Town. Sadly, Woodie didn’t join us, having succumbed to kidney failure the year before. With a third daughter added to the family, we built a book and documentary film production business. The 4x4 book Andrew wrote at Tau Camp was the very first we published.
In August 2010, we visited Tau Camp for the second time.
Andrew was making an adventure travel program and had embarked on an expedition to find the source of the Okavango River in Angola. He followed its course through the delta, past Tau Camp, onto its end in the Boteti River at Rakops.
Gwynn met him on Noga Island.
Tau Camp had changed so much that it was unrecognisable. In fact, the two camps had swapped places. We walked around Scops, which now occupied Tau Camp’s side of the island. Our old home had gone, as had the ugly raised platform Sean had built. Half of the cottages had vanished, too. An air of disrepair hung about the place.
Down at the new Tau Camp, the famous mokoro bar and its skulls had gone. The camp itself was as beautiful and, if anything, more luxurious than when we had left it.
Even better, a Motswanan man was in charge. Despite Sandy’s greatest fears, he was an excellent host. Turns out he remembered us, but we didn’t remember him.
We learned from him that Kamanga, the venerable man who had not approved of Sam’s strike, had been taken by a crocodile. He had fought to save his guests after a croc upturned his mokoro. While they scrambled to safety on the bank, Kamanga was dragged under and never seen again.
Most of the guides we knew were still in the Okavango.
But the person we were most interested in was Matanta.
He, too, had moved on to manage a camp in Savuti. We still have to meet up with him again.
Back in Maun, we bumped into Robert. He had become a successful businessman. We joined him for dinner at the lodge and restaurant he managed. He shared the sad news that Thekiso, Olututswe, Seatla, and Alfred had all passed on.
It reminded us of how fragile this mortal life really was. Following one’s dreams is important, regardless of the outcome.
Like everyone, we have regrets, but the year spent on Noga Island wasn’t one of them.
As we write this final chapter in late 2014, we still feel the indescribable urge to do it all over again.
Dear Reader,
Thank you for reading our story. We hope you enjoyed it as much as we enjoyed writing it. Please help others to find it by leaving a review on Amazon or Goodreads. Thank you.
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ABOUT ANDREW AND GWYNN
Andrew and Gwynn live in England with two of their daughters, a golden Labrador, a yapping Toy Pomeranian, and a fantastic farm cat called Pixel. Like Woodie, Pixel rules them all with a sharp claw in a velvet paw.
Andrew is a published author of fifteen 4x4 books, and countless travel and 4x4 magazine articles. He also produces and directs adventure travel TV shows. These have been broadcast on three continents. You can stalk him at:
http://4xforum.com/
and
https://www.youtube.com/user/4xforum
Gwynn began her publishing career writing travel books. She now devotes her creative energy to fantasy and sci
ence fiction.
You can find her at:
http://gwynnwhite.blogspot.co.uk/
and
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Gwynn-White/1424220634521068