Strip Pan Wrinkle

by David Fletcher

  Almost one hundred kilometres out of Nata, Brian was still musing on these animal/human likenesses – and still avoiding the animals – when he spotted a giant aardvark. It was by the side of the road, a house-size sculpture of this secretive animal, designed by a talented artist and also designed to tell all those who were seeking it that they had now arrived at the turn-off to “Planet Baobab”.

  Now, it is worth pointing out at this stage that Brian and Sandra had spent almost six hours driving through a country in which features of any sort, including people and constructions, are virtually non-existent. But here they were, in the middle of all this nothing, and there was this surreal object marking their arrival at what was to prove an even more surreal undertaking. For Planet Baobab isn’t what one would describe as a standard destination. Indeed, it wasn’t Brian and Sandra’s final destination. They had come here simply to pick up an escort. But what a place!

  It was a kilometre or so off the road, hidden in the middle of some half-hearted bush and, as its name suggested, accessorised with a number of fine-looking baobabs. Between these remarkable trees had been built an eccentric lodge-cum-camping-site, where the ethos was über-relaxed and the architecture was a mix of colourful African and the downright peculiar.

  Brian had parked the Land Cruiser in its small gravel car park, and he and Sandra were now entering its reception. It was amazing. Almost conventional looking from the outside, but within, it echoed the interior of a flying saucer. A smooth-surfaced, porthole-equipped corridor swept in a semi-circle around a similarly-shaped reception desk, which must have given every visitor to this place the idea that they were indeed about to step onto another planet. None of the flying saucer’s crew was about at the moment, so the accompanied Brian passed through the ship and into Planet Baobab itself – and found himself smiling. It was such a smile inducing sight.

  All around there were low concrete walls, shaped and painted to resemble the local vernacular style of building, albeit a version of it that was more than a little slanted towards the psychedelic. And between these walls were little thatched roundels, an enormous (empty) swimming pool, a large outdoor lounge (with gaudy upholstered furniture) and a large thatched building, which was clearly the bar.

  Brian and Sandra were soon within this edifice, not only drinking lager, but also marvelling at its eclectic decoration. For as well as the expected African embellishments, there was a whole gallery of ancient prints and posters (from Africa’s colonial past), hide-covered 1960s-style chairs, and a gigantic chandelier dominating the drinking space and fashioned from empty green beer bottles. When illuminated, it must have looked a sight, even more of a sight than it did now in the early afternoon. Brian was impressed. And no less so by the story of its sister chandelier…

  He and Sandra had been approached by the captain of the flying saucer – otherwise known as the lodge manager. He, having observed the new visitors to his domain admiring the lighting arrangements, clearly thought they would be interested to hear about its bigger sibling. For the one here, although enormous, wasn’t the size of a similarly beer-bottle-adorned monster that, a year ago, had been hung from the ceiling of the lodge’s dining room. This, apparently, had taken ten men to lift it to its supports below the thatched roof of this building. And there it had stayed, until just a few days ago when it had pulled the roof to the ground… There had been a shaking, then a creaking, and then the laws of physics had eventually decided that the force it was exerting on the roof of the dining room was a force too far – and gravity took over. Inevitably, the manager told this tale not as an anguished account of a disaster but merely as an amusing end to a preposterous endeavour. And who, in this climate, needs a roof to a dining room anyway?

  Well, Brian, at this stage of the proceedings, was beginning to regret that he and Sandra hadn’t chosen to stay at this hostelry, if only for one night. It was so odd, but also so inviting and so laid-back, that it was a pity that they had to move on. But they did have to move on. Because, as Sandra was quick to point out, they had an appointment with one of the most expensive lodges they were ever likely to stay in, and their escort to this lodge had now arrived in the bar. So it was time to go, and time to drive further south for another fifty kilometres in order to secure their final destination for the day, which just happened to be located in the dead centre of absolutely nowhere.

  Brian and Sandra were currently situated on the northern edge of an area of Botswana which is home to the “Makgadikgadi Pans”. These pans were once part of a “superlake” of over 60,000 sq km, which 10,000 years ago, because of climatic changes and geological fidgetings, evaporated completely to leave the largest saltpan complex in the world – and really nothing else at all. And this means that the Makgadikgadi Pans now constitute one of the most desolate places on this planet and represent an area of Botswana where, if one is foolish enough to venture without proper equipment and guidance, one will almost certainly become lost – and shortly thereafter, one will also become dead.

  Well, Brian and Sandra were now into venture mode, but fortunately for them they had an escort and the proper equipment in the form of a Land Cruiser. They would need both – immediately. To start with there was gravel. Then there was salt (and a choice of salt-tracks). Then there was rougher salt. And then there was salt that was rutted and split. And then, in the distance, were a few palm trees and the hint of some structures near the palms. And they were there. Their escort had successfully led them to “Jack’s Camp”.

  Jack’s Camp is an institution. It may not be quite as world-famous as the Sydney Harbour Bridge, but it is renowned, especially amongst those who are fortunate enough to be able to include southern Africa in their itineraries. And for good reason. For “Jack’s” is unique and, of course, it is situated in a unique environment: the void known as the Makgadikgadi Pans.

  Its own uniqueness stems from its history, because it owes its existence to a guy called Jack Bousfield, a safari specialist (and supposedly a crocodile hunter) who embarked on a long love affair with the Makgadikgadi Pans in the early ’70s. After his untimely death in an air crash, his son, together with a woman friend, established Jack’s Camp in his memory, and later on they decided to style it to reflect his safari past. That is to say, they refurbished it to echo the style of East African safaris of the 1940s. Accordingly, ten green canvas tents have been set within a palm grove to create an oasis of comfort in the harshest of environments – and, as Brian and Sandra were about to discover, a standard of comfort that bordered on the absurd.

  Their first introduction to the sumptuous nature of the camp was not in one of the ten accommodation tents but in its “dining tent”, a construction of extravagant proportions that housed their afternoon tea. But there wasn’t just a selection of home-made pies and delicate sandwiches in this emporium, but a whole host of fittings and artefacts that not only belied the remoteness of the camp’s situation but also reinforced the fact that Jack’s was truly unique. There was an enormous dining table that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a country pile. There was a small billiard table and a selection of comfy chairs (which could have been taken straight out of Sherlock Holmes’ study), there were shelves of books – and there were countless glass cabinets full of all sorts of specimens. There were rocks, ostrich eggs, stuffed animals, insect remains, examples of bushmen utensils and weapons, butterflies and bones. And all this, under an internal swathe of a Victorian-patterned, purple damask, draped to accentuate its richness, made one feel that one had stepped back in time, but not in any way in standards of comfort. Indeed, it was all so opulent that if one was still dusty and unkempt from a seven-hour journey, one felt not quite in keeping with one’s surroundings, and more than eager to repair to one’s own rather more modest billet where one could tart oneself up.

  This was not a problem. When a little of the afternoon tea had been consumed (there were piles of it and only Brian and Sandra to eat it), Peter, who was one half of the “front of house” team of Pet
er and Kirsty, led the newcomers to their abode. It was almost as daunting as the dining tent – albeit on a more human scale. It had an internal lining of the same rich damask and it housed, at its centre, an enormous four-poster bed that was equipped with a set of steps with which one could mount it. Around this bed were Persian rugs, Victorian/Edwardian cabinets, more chairs filched from Sherlock’s study and even a few more “specimens” – including an unidentified animal skull in a glass case. And behind the bed chamber of the tent was a bathroom that was not only wood-panelled, but that also came with a gentleman’s washstand (complete with copper basin) and a leather-upholstered wooden armchair – which was actually a loo. This device was a real period piece, overhung by a wood-encased cistern, complete with the sort of metal-chain pull that Brian hadn’t seen since his childhood. Oh, and of course there was also a suitably copper-embellished shower in this bathroom – with another similar shower outside – to ensure that one kept one’s body adequately sluiced at all times so as not to offend the ladies. It was all completely bonkers, but all completely wonderful.

  So too was dinner. Brian and Sandra had polished themselves up and had returned to the canvas Natural History Museum, and there to greet them were Peter and Kirsty together with the two other guests who were resident in the camp this evening, and Super and Bones. Now, such a miscellany of characters needs a little introduction, so starting with Peter:

  Well, Peter was in his mid twenties, had graduated with a degree in the history of art and architecture from Edinburgh University – and sounded as though he had. From somewhere near Thetford, he was now doing his bit on the edge of the world’s largest saltpan and putting into use that part of his degree course that had entailed his socialising with strangers. And this he did very well. He was genuinely amiable and entertaining, and had that aura of confidence that signalled that he could deal with just about anybody. Even with visiting Russian oligarchs, one of whom had visited the camp only the previous week (somebody called Alexander Lebedev, who apparently owned, amongst other things, the Evening Standard, which is supposedly some un-tuned organ of our great free press back in Britain). Kirsty had the same aura and similar antecedents and, like Peter, was still enjoying her twenties. Her job was to partner Peter and to look attractive but entirely unattainable.

  The “other guests” were a couple by the name of Jonathan and Debbie, who appeared to be representatives of that breed which once had a country of origination (in their case, South Africa and England respectively), but which is now divorced from anything as mundane as a national identity, and inhabits instead some sort of first-class, international super-world, where one flits between one’s properties in New York, London and Rome and where one never admits to the patronage of any particular tax regime. That said, they were both quite pleasant, although Brian thought that Debbie deferred to her husband rather too readily – in a way that Sandra had never quite grasped how to do.

  That leaves Super and Bones. These black guys were the two resident senior guides in the place, with Super clearly the more senior of the two. Bones was quietly-spoken and obviously very bright, but Super… well Super was super. He was in his early thirties, he was tall and, having been a protégé of the original Jack, he had spent his life at the camp, which meant that he now had even more confidence than Peter and Kirsty, more authority than this pair put together, and a capacity to talk and generally to entertain his guests that was simply unique. In due course, Brian and Sandra would discover that his “super-ness” also extended to his guiding. He was quite a cool guy.

  So, anyway, with this complement of disparate but unavoidably interesting fellow diners, the meal was an experience and a joy. The conversation ranged between scary animal encounters, the habits of Botswana’s bushmen (the San people), rugby football and Land Rovers versus Land Cruisers. What was also discussed was the rarity of visits to this camp by people in vehicles. Virtually everybody who came here came in a light aeroplane (the camp had its own airstrip) and people who used Land Cruisers were very few and far between – and clearly slightly out of their minds. Didn’t they know how far away from anywhere this place was? This cheered Brian immensely. He loved to find a strand of the unconventional in this increasingly conventional world, even if it meant seven hours in a driving seat and tackling potholes the size of cars. He also loved the atmosphere of the meal.

  The eight diners sat either side of the enormous table, decked with fine china and fine cutlery – and with cut-glass wine glasses that were each equipped with their own hand-made moth-guard, a weighted round of fabric which discouraged one especially large and colourful variety of moth from supping from the wine within. (And they did try – continuously – no matter whether the wine was white or red. And, according to Super, the vintage and the grape variety made no difference either. They were all just helpless wine-aholics.) Anyway, the table was overhung with those rich purple drapes, and these drapes, along with everything else in the tent, were bathed in the light of old-fashioned oil lamps. There was no electricity in the structure whatsoever. The result was a near-magical ambience made even more magical by the knowledge that this fine dining was taking place not in some city-centre gentleman’s club but in the middle of nowhere. Outside, there was only inky darkness, distant animal noises, salt – and a queue of monster moths waiting their turn for a chance at the wine… If only such bewitching experiences could be created more easily and more conveniently, more “closer to home”. But, of course, they couldn’t. Even if one had access to talented chefs and the benefit of good company, only by transporting oneself into the middle of a virtual void could one savour such a stupendous experience. Brian felt very fortunate – again. And he made a promise to himself. This promise was that as long as he could he would, and this was shorthand for ‘No one knows when his or her clock-spring will wind down, and for as long as you’re able (both physically and financially) you should go for it, relish the difficulties of attaining it and bloody well enjoy it when you’ve got it. Experiences are what define your life and you should pack in as many of them as you can, especially if they are anything like the experience of dinner at Jack’s Camp. And who wouldn’t enjoy competing with a moth for a mouthful of wine?’

  Well, maybe it was exhaustion through driving that was getting to him or the number of units of alcohol was now overtaking him, but Brian really did feel well with the world. So too did Sandra. She said so. Although the next day, with what they would both encounter in the morning, they would soon come to the conclusion that it was quite possible to feel even weller…

  15.

  It was 5.45 in the morning and Brian and Sandra were sipping coffee. Fifteen minutes earlier, a lady had arrived at their tent with the stimulant in question and a plate of home-made biccies. Much better than an alarm clock and infinitely more enjoyable, especially as the sipping could be conducted on the tent’s deck and therefore with a grandstand view of the rising sun. As it rose above the horizon (from our travellers’ perspective, between two palm trees) it looked sensational – and very red. Not like some item of exotic underwear, of course, but more like what it really was: a manifestation of the impossible, a daily event that is truly fantastic – and one that gives life to the Earth. All too often this literally every-day miracle is taken for granted – until one sees it like this: as a crimson orb being reborn yet again. Yes, there was no getting away from it. The coffee was really strong. Brian hadn’t been stimulated into these sorts of thoughts for years.

  But now it was time to move. Super had appeared – at a respectable early-morning distance – with a battlefield-green safari vehicle and the prospect of a ride into nowhere. For, when one left the palm oasis of Jack’s, that’s all there was: a treeless expanse of Botswana with only salt-hardy grass and essentially nothing else, except, of course, a few skulking birds. These guys were all small and veered towards the little-brown-jobs end of the bird spectrum. But Super knew them all, and found most of them with his ears before he’d found them with his eyes. He
was as gifted a guide as Brian and Sandra had ever encountered, and soon he would be providing them with an experience they were never likely to encounter again.

  Super had driven them a few bumpy miles away from the camp, had stopped and was now inviting them to ease their buttocks by taking a walk into the emptiness all around. Only, of course, it wasn’t quite empty. About fifty yards away there was an almost indiscernible mound, and this was their destination. On arriving there, Super demanded Brian’s camera and then suggested that he and his wife sit on the ground – just next to the mound and quite close to a burrow that led directly beneath it. Brian and Sandra knew what would now happen, but this pre-knowledge did nothing at all to diminish its impact when it did happen – which was no more than two minutes after they’d sat down.

  There was just one to start with, a wary, almost bleary-eyed little fellow who came to the lip of the burrow and then went back in. Then another emerged and took a few steps outside, followed closely by what could have been the first guy and then by another after him. Initially, they stayed at the burrow’s entrance, until more of their number appeared behind them – including a couple of babies – at which point one of them trotted across to Brian, jumped onto his lap, ran up his right arm and sat on his head. Then another of the leading squad did the same with Sandra – albeit he (or she) eschewed a head perch in favour of a shoulder. So Sandra now sported on this part of her anatomy, not a traditional parrot, but a rather more unorthodox resident, and one that is only infrequently found on human heads. Yes, both Brian and Sandra were now wearing, about their persons, a meerkat, and both of them, quite clearly, were coping with the ordeal very well. One might even say that they were not just coping with the experience but relishing it – to the extent that they were savouring the unalloyed delight of having the closest possible contact with one of their very favourite animals. And this was real. This was nothing to do with a comparison of the insurance market on the telly, but just an innocent sort of ecstasy, the sort of ecstasy that comes from the knowledge that a certain desert-living creature has decided to use you for a look-out.