Strip Pan Wrinkle

by David Fletcher

  Well, he was quite relieved when the dinner was at an end, and already eager to get back into a Land Rover in the morning for what would be his and Sandra’s last drive in the Okavango Delta. And tomorrow, apparently, Ban was going to drive them to an area they’d not been to before, an area that from the lodge lay a little way off to the seast…

  25.

  If Brian were to be reincarnated, he had decided that he would like to come back as a latter-day David Attenborough or maybe as Richard E Grant (it was just his voice and the persona he’d created in Withnail and I, the perfect degenerate with a taste for good wine). But he knew that he’d not get a choice, and he’d probably end up as something like a football agent or an MEP. And what’s more (at least from Brian’s perspective), this whole reincarnation thing was all rather daunting. For no matter whom you came back as, there was still the prospect of a whole new life, just after you’d finished your old one. And how scary was that? Christ, one life was quite exhausting enough. But the prospect of multiple lives, each one following on from the other as part of some infinite series, was simply horrifying, and literally enervating just to think about. And then, of course, there was always the possibility of not coming back as even a football agent but as something other than human – like an antelope or an anteater or an ant. Well, for some reason, Brian had woken up with these thoughts in his head, and would have cause to revisit them just a few hours later. Just as his last drive through the delta was reaching its end…

  It had started very well. Ban had set out (seast) in his Land Rover, with Helen in the seat behind him and Brian and Sandra behind her. Immediately, they had stumbled upon a hyena and, soon after this, upon a pair of enormous elephants with suitably enormous tusks, busy reducing a tree into mouthfuls of elephant breakfast. The spectacle was breathtaking and, at the same time, not a little intimidating. There was just so much power on display. And then… there were more of those giant water-birds on show, a whole cluster of them around the remains of a lagoon, including literally hundreds of great white and pink-backed pelicans. It was a really ostentatious display of wildlife, and one that wasn’t eclipsed even by the arrival of a flock of carmine bee-eaters and a solitary but extremely rare “Souza’s shrike”. Yes, this drive was proving to be as rewarding and as engrossing as it possibly could be – right up to the point where Brian became aware of his back…

  Something had bitten him, he was sure. There was a real itch there, just where his back became his right side. And he just had to scratch it. But then he had to scratch further to the left – and then further left still – while at the same time still needing to scratch to the right. And now it wasn’t so much an itching – in a wide swathe across his back – as a burning. It was as though somebody had poured an irritant chemical all over the rear of his torso and it was now inflaming every nerve ending it encountered. As much as he scratched and as much as he wriggled in his seat, scraping his back across the seat-back, he could get no relief. And it was all becoming too much to bear.

  It wasn’t, however, becoming too much to bare, and soon he was exposing himself to his wife – and to Helen – in an attempt to get either some relief or just an amateur diagnosis. Was there something obvious there, and could it be dealt with? Well, yes, there was something there. According to Sandra, a huge red rash which stretched all across his back, and which was decorated with the sort of tiny, livid blisters one experiences with shingles… But no, she had no idea of how to deal with it. How could she? All she could do was sympathise with Brian’s condition, and then point out the small, unexceptional ant on his shirt. It was currently traversing the left shoulder area of his shirt – until Sandra flicked it off – and it was clearly the culprit. Just as clearly as it was a reincarnation. Yes, thought Brian, it was probably the reincarnation of some grossly over-rewarded captain of industry who had been knocked off his gilded perch and had returned as the real insect he was and with an all too clear recollection of his former pampered life. And how he resented his fall, his demotion from being a very important parasite to being a very insignificant ant amongst millions, but an ant who could bite and an ant who could vent his bitter resentment on any passing fool. And that fool just happened to be poor old Brian.

  The burning and the general discomfort didn’t get any better when Ban stopped for their coffee break – and for a renewed inspection of the afflicted area. Nor were matters much improved by Ban’s admission that he’d not seen anything like it before and that he doubted that it could be the work of a single ant. Shit, thought Brian, maybe the whole board had been knocked off and what he’d experienced was a concerted attack by a mass of the little blighters. Or worse. It wasn’t an ant attack, but some new menace unknown in the naturalist world and possibly lethal within hours.

  Well, whatever it was, it hadn’t dispatched Brian by the time he’d finished his brunch back at the lodge, but its impact wasn’t transitory. His back still hurt like hell. Fortunate then that Brian was such a stalwart in the face of pain, and was still able to attend to the niceties of a departure from a Wilderness lodge. He and Sandra had been presented with gifts from Vumbura Plains: a handsome book on the local wildlife and a print of a wildlife scene, and to reciprocate, he and his wife had showered Ban, Lorato and a squad of their colleagues with their unreserved thanks and then some generous tips. And now the bitten traveller and his unbitten spouse were on their way to the airstrip.

  By the time they’d arrived there, the burning sensation had abated, but not very much. So that when two Cessna 172s arrived to pick up first Helen and then Tim and Ingrid (who were all on their way to other lodges), Brian was still preoccupied with his back and had to make a conscious effort to attend to the attendant farewells. Even when another three of these aircraft appeared – delivering a new contingent of Germans to Vumbura Plains – he wasn’t entirely engaged, either by their close-formation flying or by their close, one-after-another landing. Although he did wonder whether a third aircraft landing while the two in front of it were still tearing down the runway was completely normal or completely safe.

  He also wondered whether the first Cessna that took off again would ever leave the ground. It didn’t even have a full load, but it was now almost midday, the air was thin and there just didn’t appear to be enough of it to provide the necessary lift. But it made it. Just. And then it was Brian and Sandra’s turn…

  All was well. Their own Cessna seemed to have less of a problem, although it was piloted by a South African lady who was so brusque in her manner that Sandra made a whispered reference to her behaviour and to something else concerning dates, something, Brian thought, about the time of the month…

  Anyway, she delivered them intact and unharmed to Maun Airport. And within half an hour, Brian was again at the wheel of his trusty Land Cruiser (which had happily received no reports of the supremacy of Land Rovers) and he was pointing it towards a place called Ghanzi. This was a town three hundred kilometres to the south and the nearest town to their next destination, another lodge in the middle of another stretch of nowhere. Indeed, by looking at his map, Brian was able to confirm that Ghanzi itself was at the epicentre of a real void, a large, empty area of western Botswana that was bordered by just more empty land. It looked like a great place to head for.

  The journey there was quite uneventful. There were a few bends in the road to start with – and some less than ideal road surface – but soon the highway had resolved itself into the normal Botswanan thoroughfare: a long stretch of tarmac running through endless scrub, with more donkeys on it than vehicles and with no turn-offs. And there were no turn-offs because there was nothing to turn off to – for three hundred kilometres. No towns, no villages, no Little Chefs and not even any Ikeas. Indeed, the only “features” on the way to Ghanzi were some hills. They weren’t very high and they soon fizzled out, but they were the first mounds of any sort that Brian and Sandra had seen in the whole of Botswana. The country must be one of the flattest in the world – as well as one of the em
ptiest.

  So, arriving in Ghanzi was something of a relief. Even though it was little more than a giant lay-by next to the main highway – a single road with a few shops and a filling station – there were people here, people in the middle of nowhere and people who might be able to direct two travellers to their next destination. And so they could. Apparently, the lodge they were looking for was further along the single road and then about forty kilometres along a gravel road where the tarmac ran out.

  Great! It was still light, Brian had secured a fill-up of diesel, and he had a firm fix on where he was going – with every chance of their not getting lost again. No, the only probability now was of getting a flat tyre. The gravel road was littered with rocks and looked as though it should have been littered with stranded vehicles, and was not, only because there were no other vehicles on it. However, the Land Cruiser made it – to the gate of the lodge – where there was then a ten-kilometre drive up a track that seemed to be paved with the sort of rocks you could use as razors. Brian proceeded carefully and eventually arrived at a game-fence – with all his tyres still intact. In this fence there was a gate – with a sign. And the sign informed you that you were now only 1.6 kilometres from Motswiri Lodge, and that if you passed through the gate you would soon be in possession of a cool welcoming drink. Result! And it was still light – just.

  Well, there was a welcoming drink, but it was deficient in alcohol and it was presented to the new arrivals by the “lodge steward”, a thin black man who rejoiced in the cheery name of “Morlin” and clearly regarded the practice of conversation as an unnecessary extravagance. Indeed, the only information he imparted, as Brian and Sandra quaffed their drink in the lodge’s small lounge, was that they had been expected to arrive for the afternoon game drive, which kicked off at four o’clock – with the implication that they must have dawdled on their way from Maun. Brian was tempted to respond to this mild rebuke by sharing with their new host the fact that their Land Cruiser, not having been fitted with a Merlin engine or a set of afterburners, could not manage a speed of two hundred kilometres per hour, and that really they’d done very well to get here when they did. But he decided against it. He preferred a miserable Morlin to an irate Morlin, and anyway another guy had now arrived, a young black guy who was called KB and who smiled and who then asked whether anyone wanted a beer. This seemed to depress Morlin even more and he withdrew, and Brian and Sandra were left with their new companion and two Windhoek Lagers. Result again!

  KB wasn’t loquacious, but he had a lot more to say than Morlin, and started by informing Brian and his wife that they could have dinner whenever they liked, because they were the only guests in the lodge (again). He also told them that dinner was served ten feet from where they were sitting in the lounge – on the small table that occupied the other half of the lodge building. Yes, this Motswiri place was really tiny and, as would soon be discovered, it had just four “luxury tents” for the use of its clients. What would also be discovered, when KB escorted them to theirs, was that these “luxury tents” weren’t quite in the Vumbura Plains league. Indeed, they were far from it, and were the sort of tents in which one might expect to find a discarded scout leader lying in a corner. That said, they were more than fine and quite roomy enough for two. And all four of them were set well apart from each other and faced a truly beautiful stretch of arid blonde “parkland”, bounded by thorn trees and in the middle of which was a small waterhole. Brian was going to like it here – even if he still had a back which was as itchy as hell and tender to the touch.

  He did, however, have a bit of a problem with dinner. It was “hearty”. And when there are only two of you, and neither of you can cope with the sort of heartiness that covers the entire surface of a plate and has a measurable height – and there is a smiling but almost deferential waiter (KB) in attendance – it can all get a bit awkward. There is nowhere to hide, and certainly nowhere to hide all the uneaten food. Nevertheless, KB didn’t appear to take offence, and was happy, after the meal, to provide his guests with a couple of digestif lagers and to leave them to take in the twilight. For they had now relocated themselves to a pair of comfortable armchairs that gave them a view of the lodge’s parkland – and of its waterhole. It was spellbinding: a moon-lit view of a tranquil slice of Botswana, hardly bothered by the presence of what was a very insubstantial lodge, and, in the foreground, at the edge of that waterhole, a small gathering of springbok and waterbuck. And whilst neither of these species was rare or indeed special, they were “just right”, just the perfect unexceptional animals to complement a scene that was itself not in the least bit unexceptional – and entirely sublime. The springbok and waterbuck also stirred a thought in Brian’s mind, and this thought concerned their circumstances, their sipping at that waterhole while Brian was here on this comfy chair sipping lager with his wife. And as he’d never been known to keep a thought to himself, he commenced to air this one, and opened his broadcast with the following words: ‘I wonder whether they’ll ever get a turn.’

  ‘Come again,’ said his wife.

  ‘These springbok and waterbuck here. Do you think they’ll ever rule the roost? You know, when we’re long gone… ’

  ‘As in extinct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No? No what?’

  ‘You asked me whether they’d ever “rule the roost”,’ explained Sandra. ‘And, well, I don’t think they will – ever. They’re just not equipped to do that. Not only physically and mentally, but they also lack the necessary “cupidity and stupidity”. Remember?’

  Brian did remember, and he knew Sandra was right. Even if, one day, meerkats inherited the world (which he strongly suspected they would), these ill-equipped antelopes would never get a turn.

  ‘It’s so unfair, isn’t it? It’s been our turn for so long now, and we just don’t give any other animal a chance. And that’s the real problem. We know that no matter how badly we behave, it’s always going to be our turn, and we’ll never get our just desserts. Whereas if we knew it was, say, the donkeys’ turn next – you know, to be in charge – it wouldn’t half change the way they were treated. They wouldn’t all be left to nibble nothing at the side of the road. And in other parts of the world they wouldn’t be treated like shit… ’

  ‘I don’t think donkeys are much better placed than springbok or waterbuck,’ observed Sandra.

  ‘I know,’ responded Brian. ‘I was just using them as an example. And in fact, it would be better if we didn’t know whose turn it was next, but just that some other creature was going to take over. That way we’d have to treat them all as though one day they might be our masters. Which would just about put paid to intensive farming and battery chickens overnight. I know I wouldn’t fancy being a battery human in a chicken world. No way.’

  Sandra shook her head slowly and regarded her husband.

  ‘Great sentiments, Brian, but a crap hypothesis. Chickens and cattle – and waterbuck… none of them is going to end up dislodging us. And we’re never going to give up our turn. Not until we do ourselves in. In which case we’ll probably take all the chickens and cows with us, having already got rid of all the waterbuck and springbok. So forget it, and just enjoy the view.’

  ‘Well OK,’ retorted a newly enthused Brian. ‘But if we won’t give up our turn, maybe we can just apply this same principle to our own condition.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, you see, I accept that those guys by the waterhole are never going to get a go with the bat, but just think about how many people there are who are left equally batless because some other bugger hogs their turn… ’

  ‘Uhh…?’

  ‘Politicians, Lords, top bankers – the usual suspects – the whole range of bat-hoggers who are collectively known as the Establishment. And they’re all cemented into their positions so firmly and so permanently that they get away with murder. Whereas… if they knew that they had just a temporary slot at the top – and that soon they’d b
e on the receiving end of power rather than on its wielding end – they’d probably behave themselves a helluva lot better.’

  ‘Brian, you’re back into crap hypothesis territory again… ’

  ‘Ah, but bear with me. I mean, why couldn’t it be done with politicians? You’d hardly need to change any of the existing arrangements – other than limiting their time as MPs to just one term. Three or maybe five years, and then you were out, and you could never get back in. And then you’d have to look for another job – a real job – in the environment you’d been responsible for creating. Might, if nothing else, encourage you to get rid of a bit of red tape. And think of all the MPs back home now – and how many of those you’d like to see working in a shoe shop or on a bin-round. If, of course, they could manage it… ’

  ‘What about their political experience? Wouldn’t you just be throwing that away?’

  ‘Political experience is the parliamentary and administrative equivalent of biofouling.’

  ‘Biofouling!’

  ‘Yes, biofouling – as when barnacles attach themselves to the bottom of a boat. They become more and more tenacious in their grip the longer they are there, and they do more and more damage. Just like MPs. Because, let’s face it, real political experience means learning how to play the system, how to bend to the prevailing imperatives and how to secure a stronger hold on power and influence. And consequently, political experience is only ever a benefit to the politicians themselves; for everybody else, just like barnacles, it’s a problem.’