Strip Pan Wrinkle

by David Fletcher

  First there were elephants, lots and lots of elephants. Then there were antelopes – of all different sorts. And then there were even more elephants. Stephen had driven to a stretch of the Kwando River where it forms an enormous and simply exquisite horseshoe-shaped bend. And here there were dozens of these giant creatures going about their business. Just as there were dozens of baboons going about theirs – which was to see whether any of the nibbles served with Brian and Sandra’s sundowner drink might have fallen unnoticed to the ground. Stephen reckoned there were more than two hundred baboons in this particular troop and this was far too many. Fights were now breaking out between its more senior members, and at some point in the near future the troop would fracture. Baboon society, he said, simply cannot function properly when the community has become too large. This piece of information stirred some thoughts in Brian’s mind, first concerning the population of Britain, then that of the European Union, and then that of the whole world. But he kept these thoughts to himself. He had no desire to spoil such a wonderful sundowner in such a wonderful setting.

  When he and Sandra were then returned to the lodge, any residual concerns about population growth were soon displaced in Brian’s mind by the singular concern of extracting himself from his wet clothes. After this he was further distracted by the need to get from their chalet to the lodge’s main building, for which purpose one needed an escort. This was to guard against the possibility of an unscheduled meeting with an elephant, in the same way that obligatory closed shoes were to guard against the attentions of scorpions and snakes. And it all worked. Soon, he and Sandra had made the transition to that part of the lodge with a bar, and were sitting with a drink in their hand and a host at their side. This was Eddy, the (Botswanan) lodge manager, who lost no time at all in informing them that he was new at this lodge, having just returned from a year in Florida working for Disneyland! He told them that he had been the only (black – or even white) Botswanan on the staff, and he’d met no visitors who needed his facility with Setswana, his native language. He also told them that he found it rather quieter back here in this Namibian lodge. And, of course, how could he not? Several hundred thousand punters versus two people waiting for their candlelit dinner, and with not a parade or a fireworks show within miles. However… for his two guests, it wasn’t quite as clear cut as that. Because, unbeknownst to him, his Disneyland revelation had unleashed a thought process in Brian’s mind that would, this evening, successfully disrupt the serenity and the other-worldliness of this Susuwe Lodge – by its casting a shadow over the forthcoming dinner. And this shadow would be in the form of (another) verbal assault by Brian on his wife, sparked by the revelation and involving, this time, the long-suffering Church of England…

  His essential point was that with so much pulling power – and probably more “pilgrims” each year than even Mecca gets – Disneyland quite clearly represented a possible source of salvation for the Church of England. And this source could be tapped if only the Church of England authorities were able to engineer a tie-up with this popular institution, possibly through a reverse takeover, and thereby harness all that popularity for the revival of their own fortunes. Of course, it wouldn’t be just a matter of joint branding and cross-over promotions, but real integration, and real integration through the inclusion of a few tempting C of E attractions within the amusement parks themselves. This is where that shadow over dinner was at its most intense – when Brian regaled his wife with his ideas for these new attractions…

  ‘Yes, there’d have to be a “Hell and Heaven Experience”, of course, and this would be modelled on one of those 3D shows they have. You know, in a specially kitted-out theatre, where all the punters sit in rows wearing 3D goggles, and then get subjected to all sorts of sensations as well as the 3D show itself… ’

  ‘Really,’ discouraged a despondent Sandra.

  ‘Yes. So in the hell half, you’d have scenes of hell in all its forms – with imps and trolls and things, all in 3D – and with lots of flames appearing to shoot out towards you, while, at the same time, your seat would get uncomfortably hot and your bum and legs would get pricked by miniature mechanical tridents – hidden within the seat’s upholstery. And when you’d got through all that, it would be a 3D heaven, with dazzling angels and maybe some Disney cherubs – all delivered while the atmosphere of the theatre was being infused with a big dose of Prozac… ’

  ‘Really… ’ continued Sandra.

  ‘Yes,’ responded a smiling Brian, ‘although it wouldn’t be a patch on “Schism Wars”… ’

  ‘Pardon!’

  ‘Well, there’d have to be two actually. One for the traditionalists and one for the liberals.’

  ‘I’m all ears.’

  ‘Yes, well, for the traditionalists, you’d have these little individual car things – maybe for two traditionalists at a time – and in the shape of an oversized dog collar… And the cars would be whisked off through a maze of theological obfuscation and religious pedantry – in which, at random intervals, would appear the images of scary women bishops. As these spectres revealed themselves, the cars’ occupants would be challenged to use onboard (virtual) “shafts of biblical justification” to knock off their mitres – and thereby earn points… Whilst at the same time the church liberals would be being whisked off through another maze – of equivocal thinking and more equivocal thinking – in cars with no shape to them at all… And in this maze there would be, at random intervals, the images of scary un-reconstructed African bishops whose own mitres would have to be removed with a well-aimed virtual stream of reasoned enlightenment. And that’s the way they’d earn points… ’

  ‘And what does one do with all one’s points?’ asked a now horrified-looking Sandra.

  ‘Easy. Those participants with the top five scores each year would all be awarded a seat on the Church of England Synod. I mean, it would really give it an edge, wouldn’t it? It would make it a real contest between the trads and the reformers – as well as it being bloody good fun… ’

  ‘Is that it?’ enquired Sandra nervously. ‘There aren’t any more, are there?’

  ‘Well, yes. There is another one. And it’d be called the “Mad Archbishop’s Ride”.’

  ‘The Mad Archbishop’s Ride?’ echoed Sandra. And then she closed her eyes as though she barely wanted to know what this ride would entail. But it was to no avail. She got to discover what the ride would entail within seconds.

  ‘Yes. Well, you see, you’d have a conventional rollercoaster ride where you get strapped into one of those rollercoaster carriages – but when it moved off, it would first of all move very slowly, to take you past a long billboard, full of a particular Archbishop’s proclamations, together with extracts from his sermons and newspaper columns. And then, to fuddle your brain and disorientate you even further, the carriage would speed up to take you through a series of loops and rolls – only to slow to a virtual walking pace for the remaining 80% of the ride, to reinforce that sense of confusion beyond any doubt and to ensure that you went away from the ride with an enduring sense of disappointment… ’

  ‘You’re mad,’ pronounced Sandra. ‘Completely mad. You need help. I mean some real therapy. And soon. As soon as we can arrange it.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’ asked her now grinning husband.

  ‘Easy. A boat-ride in the morning. And then, later on, another game-drive. Albeit preferably one without hailstones…’

  ‘Definitely one without hailstones,’ agreed Brian. ‘Although that does give me an idea for a new attraction, one involving all the plagues of Egypt. And just imagine what we could do with a plague of frogs and a plague of boils. And what about some animatronic locusts as well… ?’

  8.

  The boat-ride didn’t happen. Neither did the game-drive. This was because of what had happened instead in the night – in the loo. In the morning, Brian was comprehensively indisposed and was obliged to spend the remainder of the day in bed.

  Well, what a waste
. And what a test of Brian’s ability to occupy his mind between bouts of comatose drifting. It was just as well that he had his religious musings of the previous evening to feed off, because he was already feeling guilty about being quite so mean to the Church of England. Because, in his early innocent life, he’d been raised a Catholic…

  Yes, it was time to apply his semi-conscious mind to this other Christian institution, and he did this by first imagining a discussion with the Pope, a discussion in which he asked the Holy Father about the role of the Devil. More specifically, he tried to conceive how this head honcho of the Catholic Church might explain how his Catholic god would respond to an honest request by the Devil that he be forgiven and be allowed permanently to mend his ways. In short, how would God react to a request by Satan to forsake his evil role entirely and to return to his earlier job as the heavenly Lucifer?

  Well, Brian could easily surmise that this sort of question would be met at least initially with the response that such a request by the Devil would be highly improbable and, as such, it barely deserved an answer. Even if he pushed his demand for an answer, he would probably get no further than something completely anodyne along the lines that ‘only God would know what to do’. But that would be wrong, because, although his recollection of Catholic doctrine was now rather vague, he did remember that redemption was one of its principal features, and that as God would have the power to look into the soul of Satan – and thereby discover his sincerity – he would have no other choice but to give him back his original job. For what greater redemption can there be than that of welcoming back into heaven the Devil himself?

  Now, this would definitely have consequences, and these consequences were what Brian now considered. And the first of these, he believed, would be the Catholic Church’s need to revise some of its iconography and probably its need to issue an addendum to the bible – as well as preparing itself for the inevitable collapse in the market for exorcisms. But it would go far beyond this. Because no longer would there be anybody there to lead its adherents into temptation and no need to deliver them from evil – as well as there being no eternal damnation to scare the pants off them. (After all, with its sole proprietor gone, hell would be out of business within hours.) And frankly, who, in his or her right mind, buys insurance to cover a risk that no longer exists? It would soon become apparent to the Vatican that the whole of Catholicism was facing nothing less than an overwhelming and unavoidable existential threat. Put simply, overnight, it would have become irrelevant and essentially redundant.

  Brian could imagine it: a desperate attempt to redefine its role – by offering its parishioners a new service – or at least a newly emphasised existing service. And this would be to intercede on their behalf for the protection by a merciful god against the worst excesses of a wrathful god. But it wouldn’t work, would it? One can’t base a successful religion on the spiritual equivalent of Jekyll and Hyde, even if one can base it on some very questionable myths from the past. And that would be it. The Catholic Church would be on the scrap heap (along, it has to be admitted, with the Church of England as well).

  There again… it might soon be discovered that many human beings still had that much advertised freedom of choice, and that with this freedom they didn’t necessarily need Satan to lead them into temptation. They could do it very well on their own, and that by taking this path they could soon uncover the fact that the Devil hadn’t got around to patenting evil. It was there for the taking by anyone who desired it. That is to say, that a whole host of the Catholic brethren might prove quite adept as self-starters; they could get up to all sorts of mischief even without the help of the Dark One. And then another problem for the Church (if it still existed at all). Like how would it dissuade these sinners from their reprehensible behaviour, now that it didn’t have fear to control them and the ultimate fear of an eternity in hell? The best they could do would be to introduce a league system into heaven. This, they might claim, would see the pious and the most sickeningly good admitted into its Premier League, whereas the ordinarily good would rate a place in one of the lower leagues – right down to the rapists and murderers who would be obliged to occupy the paradisical equivalent of the Football Conference. And Mugabe, serial poachers and most terrorists would end up in a Football Conference team that was permanently teetering on the edge of administration…

  No. It wouldn’t work, would it? In fact, the more that Brian examined all the consequences of his theoretical conundrum posed to the Pope, the more he realised that they were all as completely terminal to the Church as they were fanciful. And he also realised just how important to Catholicism was the continued existence of the Devil… Indeed, he was more than important; he was vital. Take away Satan and the whole edifice of a “great religion” crumbles to the ground within no time at all. And what does that say about this religion or, for that matter, all other religions in this world? Like rotten dictatorships, they can often only survive by identifying some external (and entirely imaginary) threat. Remove that threat and they fall over, and their patrons begin to realise just how much they’ve been hoodwinked. Not that Brian was bracketing the Pope with people like Assad and all those frightful people in Iran – but there were similarities in their modus operandi. Indeed, in Iran, don’t they actually refer to the USA as the “Great Satan”?

  Anyway, by conducting such a mean-minded hatchet job on all those well-meaning Catholics, Brian at least felt he’d reinstated some sort of balance between the C of E and their more dedicated Roman counterparts – as well as partially distracting himself from his stomach-centred suffering. So that was some sort of success, even if, much later in the day, the acute discomfort in his abdomen was still there.

  And as much as all the splendid guys at the lodge did to alleviate this suffering – and his wife’s confinement in the chalet with him – they could do nothing to banish the gastric invasion by agents unknown. Brian just had to hope that these agents had withdrawn by the morrow, for then there was another drive to undertake – and another border to make their way through.

  Yes, the next day was to be their first day in Zambia, and Brian desperately hoped that it wouldn’t be his second day in purgatory (assuming, of course, that, along with hell, purgatory hadn’t been shut down as well… ).

  9.

  It was gone. Overnight, a battle had been fought between his body and those invading agents, and the agents had been vanquished – completely. Brian felt like a new man – and a decent breakfast. And, after he’d consumed this breakfast, he was ready for the road – and for Zambia.

  Of course, before the road there was a river to cross and a sand-track to tackle. But soon these hurdles had been overcome and Brian and Sandra were once again back on the B8 and on their way to “Katima Mulilo”. This is the last town in the Caprivi Strip before Namibia runs out and one finds oneself in Zambia. It is therefore very much a settlement “at the end of the road”, a road, incidentally, which was now effectively without traffic and had for company only a few impoverished villages, a few bags of charcoal for sale at its side and a few wandering goats.

  Brian thought this a bit odd. After all, there was an international border up ahead and, at this border, Namibia’s only access point into Zambia, its north-eastern neighbour. So where was all that cross-border traffic, all those hordes of visitors to Zambia? Brian and Sandra couldn’t be the only ones – could they?

  The mystery continued in Katimo Mulilo itself, a really sleepy sort of place – with no indication that it was next to a major(?) border crossing and with little more traffic in it than they’d seen on the road. Nevertheless, there was a clear sign to the “Sesheke” border post at the only junction in the town, and having fuelled up with another load of diesel bullion, Brian headed off in the indicated direction, and within only a kilometre or so he arrived at the Namibian-side border post. Inside it the emigration procedures were tiresome but familiar, and the whole process took very little time. This was because the post was almost deserted.
There were no other vehicles passing through and the only other customers were a handful of “foot passengers”, who had come from and were going to God knows where. So after just a few minutes, Brian and his wife were crossing the border into Zambia and steeling themselves for the entry procedures on the other side (as they had been warned that these procedures could take a little time).

  What they had not been warned about, however, was that at this crossing point, the Zambian border post is a little unconventional. And that really is the kindest possible term that can be applied to its character. Indeed, others might choose to describe it as a complete fucking disgrace. And in all honesty, this latter terminology is probably a great deal nearer the mark.

  Brian was looking at the crossing now: a T-junction within fifty yards of the border, littered with ancient, overloaded lorries, abandoned cars, dilapidated shacks – and actual litter. And in this mêlée of dereliction and waste there was only one thing missing: a Zambian border post! It had to be here – somewhere. They wouldn’t just have forgotten to build one. But where had they built it?

  Brian drove forward and peered around. There was really nothing that looked anything like an official construction. And as there appeared to be just a line of more of those overloaded trucks to the right of the T-junction, he turned left here, and peered once again. And there it was – possibly. It was a battered chain-link fence overgrown with creeper, and just visible behind it was a small building. Brian decided to drive in through the gate. Or rather he decided to drive in through an opening in the chain-link fence where there was a sign covered in fading and now illegible writing – because he was convinced that this just had to be the place.