Strip Pan Wrinkle

by David Fletcher

  But it had to be done. Just as it was unavoidable that Brian and Sandra now had to return to their tent. They had been up since early morning, they had been drained by the heat of the day, and tomorrow they had another journey to undertake. So they needed some sleep. And Brian needed to place that celebrity omnivore on that spectrum of clever-dicks to numpties – and to decide, in particular, how far down the spectrum acute insufferability and even acuter insouciance should drag him…

  ‘Torque to me, baby.’

  Anthropoides paradisea (Blue crane). Pulcher (beautiful).

  Nxameseri Lodge – eventually

  Surprisingly dainty

  Spellbinding

  The Botswanan Giant Aardvark

  A camp-bed at Jack’s

  A stripey landscape

  Latent mischief

  Roller chorister

  A reasonably handsome animal

  ‘I’ve got sixteen wives. It’s exhausting.’

  A Delta airstrip departure lounge

  A sable: beauty within the beast

  ‘Are you sure you know the way?’

  A pelicannery

  16.

  Breakfast was Marmite and maths, Marmite as an antidote to the foodie over-indulgence of the previous two days and maths in the vain attempt to estimate the ant population of Botswana. And this latter element of the meal had arisen from Brian and Sandra’s encounter with this insect on their way to the dining tent. There had been a lot of them, as in countless numbers of them everywhere – to the point that the walk to breakfast had been reduced to a process of skipping across a virtual carpet of the little blighters, and a carpet that seemed to go on forever. It must have been the rain of the previous evening, thought Brian. The ants either favoured a stroll in the anti-antediluvian ground conditions, or the downpour had created an underground flood that had forced them out of their chambers. But for whatever reason, they were now obvious in prodigious numbers, and if there were so many here, within the bounds of Jack’s Camp, how many must there be in the whole of the country, which appeared, superficially at least, to be just as unpromising for large-scale life-forms, and therefore probably ideal for small-scale life-forms like ants? Brian applied himself to the problem as best he could. But the absence of a few essentials, like information (on the relative size of Jack’s to the whole of the country and a proper estimate of the number of ants outside the tent), a computing ability (which could, in any way, have dealt with an excess of zeros) and something to write with, saw his efforts quickly nosedive into failure. After all, no way could the answer ‘effing gazillions’ be considered a successful outcome. Furthermore, there were more pressing queries to attend to – concerning the size of tips to be left, what to wear for the forthcoming journey, and how to find Planet Baobab again and not perish in the process by getting hopelessly lost.

  Well, all these queries were soon resolved, although the first escort identified to lead Brian and his wife out of the pan could well have landed them in the fire. Because she was a Jack’s Camp cook returning home for some holiday, who was very nice but did not, it transpired, know her way to the Planet. She was therefore supplemented by the camp mechanic who did know the way. So, after a series of surprisingly earnest goodbyes, followed by an hour or so of demanding driving, Brian and Sandra were back at Planet Baobab, had deposited there both their escorts, and were now ready for a further jaunt west – and whatever might await them.

  What awaited them, directly after another fuel stop, was the metalled road towards Maun where it was sandwiched between two national parks. To its south there was the Makgadikgadi National Park and to its north the Nxai Pan National Park, and it was this surfeit of national parks which accounted for a new animal at the edge of the road to add to the normal goat/cow/donkey hazard. And this animal was the ostrich. There were scores of them all along the road, and all of them with the appearance of a bird-strike about to happen. It was that look on their face, that sort of deranged, staring look, and below that face, that one hundred kilograms of body – supported by a pair of legs that could propel it at a Land Cruiser shattering speed of over forty miles per hour. And they did all stare at the Land Cruiser – with those big starey eyes, as though weighing up whether they should put those legs into action and test whether they really did have the right of way.

  Fortunately, none of them did, and Brian and his wife eventually found themselves beyond this (o)stretch of road and back with just the usual four-legged perils. Then they found their turn-off to the south. For now they were about to skirt the western boundary of the Makgadikgadi National Park in an attempt to locate their next lodge, a hostelry that rejoiced in the name of Leroo La Tau. This is Setswana for “Lion’s Paw”, although Brian would soon be of the opinion that it could also be Setswana for “Entirely Hidden”.

  It was Nxamaseri all over again, but with a few novel twists. The first (after establishing beyond doubt that there was no signpost to the place) was a drive down a sand-track that did have a signpost, albeit not to the lodge but instead to the entrance to the national park. This led into a small village in which there was a river, and a further signpost by the river indicating a ferry crossing to the park gate on its far bank. However, the ferry crossing was a little short on ferries. In fact, there were no boats of any sort anywhere, and no one around to provide advice on the likelihood of any appearing. The village appeared to be in shut down. Which all meant that this wasn’t a legitimate ferry crossing at all, but just a river – and a dead end for Brian and Sandra. So Brian turned around the Land Cruiser and drove back to the main road. He would have to find another route.

  He did. It was another sand-track, which brought him back into the village from another direction (now it really was Nxamaseri all over again), and he was forced to accept that he would have to find someone to ask. There had to be somebody about.

  There was. She was a local inn-keeper, and she directed Brian to another sand-track out of the village. This looked promising, until, after about seven kilometres, the sand was threatening to strand the Land Cruiser, and the number of turns in the track was threatening to make any retracing of their steps completely impossible. It wasn’t looking good. It seemed to be a choice between going on and getting stuck in increasingly deep sand or turning back and getting impossibly lost. But then, just as Brian was about to break his resolution not to panic, a gate appeared in the distance. They had at least arrived somewhere.

  Well, they had. But not at the lodge. Instead, they were in front of a massive metal gate in a ten-foot high chain-link fence with, just beyond it, a similar gate in a similarly tall and official-looking fence. And these fences were tall and they were official-looking because they were the impressive parallel boundary fences of the national park, and they were very clearly conveying the message to all unauthorised persons that they should “keep out!”

  ‘Splendid,’ observed Brian. ‘I think next year we’ll go to Cornwall.’

  ‘If we’re still alive then,’ responded Sandra. ‘Aren’t you rather assuming we can get out of here – before the water runs out?’

  ‘We’ve got enough water for a week. And well you know it.’

  ‘Precisely,’ observed Sandra – and she wasn’t smiling.

  Well, Brian didn’t get them stuck and he didn’t lose his way back to the village, but only his will to live, when an old man at the side of the track, from whom he’d asked some further directions, informed him that those gates in the park fence were never locked – and yes, that was the way to the lodge.

  Having recovered his composure after only a very short time, Brian turned his vehicle around once more and drove carefully back down the track. And the old man was right. The gates could be opened, and no more than two hundred yards past the gates was Leroo La Tau – which Brian now decided was Setswana for “They must be having a joke”.

  Nevertheless, he and his long-suffering companion were now at their destination. And what a destination it was!

  A guy called Nelso
n had met them at the entrance to the lodge, and having been less than receptive to Brian’s observations concerning the establishment’s effective concealment from the rest of the world, took them through its main “lapa” building to a seat by its pool. And from this seat, Brian and Sandra could start to appreciate just how wonderful Leroo La Tau really was.

  The lodge overlooked a river (the same Boteti River that didn’t have a ferry in the nearby village). But, as the lodge was set on a high ridge on one side of this river, it didn’t so much overlook it as offer a panoramic view of it – and of the far bank beyond. And this far bank was riddled with elephants, zebra, giraffe and kudu. It was incredible: an opportunity to game watch from a poolside vantage point. And, as then became apparent, the same stunning prospect was also available from the deck of their chalet, and even from the loo in their chalet. For it too (the chalet, not the loo) was perched, as were all the lodge’s chalets, on the same high ridge – with a view of paradise as a permanent fixture.

  Well, what to do for the remainder of the afternoon was now settled. After a little sustenance and a little alcohol, it would be a determined effort to move as little as possible from the two loungers on the chalet’s deck and soak up that view. It worked very well, with only minimal movement, but with more animals seen (including some monkeys on the deck itself) and with even a few new birds seen as well. This was quite a place – once you’d found it. And it was quite surprising it wasn’t more popular. For apparently there were only two other guests here, and they were the regional manager of the firm that ran the lodge and his wife! And soon Brian and Sandra would be “enjoying” their company.

  Yes, dinner would be taken with this pair and with three of the lodge’s staff: Ollie, a manageress, Peter, a guide, and Fred, the “over-manager”. And the first point to make is that all these people were charming and friendly (and the food provided at the meal was no less than excellent). Unfortunately, however, the meal would prove to be exceptionally memorable – for all the wrong reasons. This was because, despite the abundance of charm and amiability, in order of appearance: Moss, the regional manager, was quiet (as in uncommunicative), his wife, Moleba, was even quieter (as in silent), Ollie was subdued (possibly because of the presence of Moss at the table), Peter was sporadically verbose but almost incomprehensible when he was, and Fred was taciturn and more interested in his food than in conversation. The result was a near monologue from Brian as he tried to goad his table companions into some sort of banter – but without much success. And the overpowering mood of the meal was like that which must have pertained at the Last Supper (assuming, that is, that the disciples didn’t tell jokes and Jesus himself wasn’t a bit of a wag). And that was the essence of the problem. All these guys around the table in the lodge were Botswanans, and whilst they have a whole raft of admirable qualities, they’ve found very little room on this raft for humour or even for a bit of lively verbal sparring. They tend to the dull. And Brian knew what he was talking about here; he used to work in a profession that was known for its dullness. He also remembered what Richard had told him back at Muchenje Lodge: that some of their Botswanan staff had to be taught how to smile. Well, Brian had discounted that remark at the time as stupid and mildly offensive. But what he’d witnessed over dinner made him revise his judgement. These guys were bloody hard work. Or put another way, they were nice but not in the least bit naughty.

  They also hadn’t cracked the moth problem. For here, unlike at Jack’s, there were no covers for the glasses – but the same alco-phile moths about the place. As a result, much moth extraction was required, until Peter improvised with some coasters. These worked well enough, but Brian thought he might suggest that they deploy some real covers to cure the problem. And while they were at it, they could put up a sign on the road – so people could find the place and make their own judgements about its less than hilarious staff. But he didn’t. It was their lodge, their country, and their prerogative to behave just as they wanted, and not to adopt a demeanour or a conduct that might just suit some bigoted foreigner. And there was probably sod all binge-drinking in Botswana either. So, suitably self-chastised, Brian quitted the dining table together with his wife and returned (under escort) to their chalet.

  As he lay in bed this night, waiting to drop off to sleep, he gave some further thought to his tendency to judge people, and to judge them against his own very rigid rules and without making allowances for their different backgrounds and their different cultures. And he decided that he was a lost cause in this respect. Yes, he was quite sure that he was no more likely to adopt a different perspective or to make any sort of allowances in coming to a judgement about other people than he was to arrive at an accurate figure for the number of ants in Botswana. No, Brian knew himself. He was a believer in absolutism – in the sense that his point of view was always absolutely right. The idea of accepting relativism was anathema to him (particularly as he misunderstood its meaning and thought it meant being relatively undecided about what one thought). So when, tomorrow evening, he was at the dinner table – and again observing the rather stodgy, humourless behaviour of his table companions and forming judgements on them – he would not beat himself up about it. Although he might introduce a debate about absolutism and relativism into the proceedings. After all, who could tell? That sort of stuff might just amuse them…

  17.

  Jack’s Camp had been heavenly. (And it should have been. Brian and Sandra had paid a fortune to stay there.) But this Leroo La Tau place wasn’t too bad either.

  Indeed, it was fair to say that in the paradise stakes it was challenging Jack’s all the way, and it might yet overtake it. And Brian came to this opinion as he sat up in bed at five thirty in the morning and took in the view through the plate-glass windows of the chalet. The panorama outside was truly splendid. And yes, it really was possible to enjoy this same sublime vista as one sat on the loo. Because, thanks to the chalet’s position on the edge of a high ridge – and its situation in a people-free national park – the river-side wall of the bathroom was just a sheet of clear glass. Nevertheless, even in this latest episode of heaven, there were, as always, a few minor faults, a few minor defects in its otherwise pristine perfection – and the first one of these concerned that loo…

  There was a door-stop bolted to the floor of the bathroom no more than two feet from the loo, and directly in the path of all its barefoot patrons as they hastened to its bowl. Brian had stubbed his toe on it three times already. Then there was the shower. It used water that, just like the water in the bathroom taps, stank of hydrogen sulphide. From wherever the lodge drew its water, the bad-egg smell was down there as well. And if that wasn’t enough of a problem with the shower, there was another one: whenever one touched its control knob, one received a shock. The bloody thing wasn’t earthed.

  Well, Brian considered all these blemishes on the pearly-white skin of Leroo La Tau as he shaved over a smelly wash basin, and concluded that he was probably the biggest faultfinding curmudgeon for hundreds of miles around. That in this empty area of this sparsely-populated country, one would have to travel for hours if not days to find anyone who would focus quite so intently on what were merely trifling imperfections in what was otherwise a true paradise (and even further than that to find someone who would also be such a bastard in the evaluation of his dining companions). Yes, it was time to focus on the paradise credentials of the place – and to forget the imperfections. And that meant it was time to get the day under way and, in due course, to discover that the lodge had a far bigger imperfection than its door-stops and smells…

  To start with, everything was fine; an enthusiastic greeting from Ollie and Peter and good coffee and good toast, and then a leisurely walk with Peter to an awaiting boat. He would be Brian and Sandra’s guide for the whole of their stay at the lodge, and to conduct this guiding, he first had to get them across the river. Hence the boat. Still all was fine. The boat was comfortable and its aluminium hull was sound, which unfortunately w
as more than could be said for Peter’s mind.

  The first indicator that all was not well was when he killed a wasp. It was just minding its own business on the floor of the boat – when Peter decided to stamp on it. Now, such an act does not mark a man out as deranged and many might regard it as a minor indiscretion (although not the wasp). But Peter was a trained guide, and the rigorous training provided to all guides imbues them not just with a detailed knowledge of wildlife and the practicalities of their intended trade but also with a fundamental ethic. And this ethic is that one never interferes with any of the wildlife one encounters, either by making it do what it wouldn’t otherwise do or by causing it harm (or death). And here was somebody who had somehow mislaid this ethic. Because, not content with despatching an innocent insect, he was now driving his boat along the river at such a speed that he put a whole host of birds to flight and he then panicked a couple of drinking elephants. The man was a loony.