Torn Trousers: A True Story of Courage and Adventure: How a Couple Sacrificed Everything to Escape to Paradise

by Andrew St. Pierre White

  “Hello. My name is Sepei. Welcome to Tau Camp.” I recognised her from our LSD trip. She’d been the one trying to persuade Mick to squeeze a few more tins of peas onto the plane. She grabbed one side of my toolbox before leading us to a pickup truck parked outside. Still beaming, she helped ferry the rest of our junk to the vehicle and then dropped us off at the familiar offices of Okavango Safaris on the main street.

  Sean and Sandy were waiting for us.

  The first question off my lips was about our work permits.

  Sean shrugged. “Not yet. But they’ll come.”

  “And now?” Gwynn asked, looking drained after the harrowing day.

  “Work waivers,” Sean said breezily, flapping a piece of paper at us. “One of you will have to come to Maun each month to renew them. Don’t forget, or they’ll kick you out of the country.” He looked down at the cat box.

  Disgusted beyond measure, Woodie had finally stopped howling on touch down at Maun airport.

  “So this is it. The cat. Doesn’t look like much. Watch out for genets. They’ll have her for a snack before you can blink.”

  Gwynn glared at Sean, but said nothing. About the size of small, low-slung terrier, except with a long, bushy tail, genets hunt mice, small birds, and insects. Woodie might have been a featherweight, but this was insulting. Still, I sympathised with Gwynn’s reticence to answer back. Like her, all I wanted was a room, a shower, and a meal.

  As if sensing our moods, Sean said, “Too late to get to camp tonight. You can sleep in our guest cottage.”

  Tiredness robbed me of the will to complain.

  Our bosses’ house was located on the banks of the Thalamakane River, Maun’s main water source. The failing light limited appreciation of the view as we stumbled through swarms of mosquitoes behind Sean. He led us to a small thatched room at the river’s edge.

  Strangely, it had no bathroom.

  “Shower and toilet are outside.” Sean indicated a reed screen a few yards away. “We’re now entering hurricane hour.” Gwynn and I exchanged puzzled looks but Sean didn’t elucidate. “Don’t let it put you off. Come up to the house for supper when you’re done here.” Shoulders sagging despite his own advice, he ambled back to his home.

  After a day in hell, we were alone at last. It was time to let Woodie out of the cat box.

  Woodie usually showed her disapproval of changes in her routine by going on hunger strike. Not tonight. She downed a bowl of water and polished off two helpings of tinned fish without coming up for air. One look at the spartan cottage, with its double bed and mosquito net, she decided she didn’t like the view, and climbed back into the cat box.

  “I can’t leave her.” Gwynn’s body writhed and her hands wrung. I could see she was battling back tears.

  “But you can’t stay here, either. Sean will think you’ll dump his guests for the cat.”

  Gwynn sighed. “I know.” She tried to cuddle Woodie through the cat box door, but was rewarded with a scratch and a snarl. The Siamese wasn’t making this easy.

  I went to clean up, leaving Gwynn to sort through her emotions. Naked in the open air shower under a trickle of lukewarm water, I wished the autumn night wasn’t so cool.

  Gwynn arrived. “The show goes on,” she said, stripping off. “I’ll make it up to her when we get back from dinner.”

  After a tussle for the best spot under the nozzle, I decided to let her win. I leaned against the reed wall to wait for her to finish and dislodged a squadron of mosquitoes. Towel in hand, I flicked left and right, trying to knock the buggers from the sky. A monster landed on Gwynn’s leg, and I lashed out. Gwynn squealed with pain as the corner of the wet towel struck. But at least I squished the little bugger. It left a splatter of blood on her thigh.

  “Lovely,” Gwynn moaned as the blood washed away in the shower. “Next time warn me, so I can hit you back.”

  “Be thankful. I saved you from a chowing.”

  “Too late. That one already had me.” She cocked her wet head at me. “You know what the one mosquito said to the other?”

  “Nah.”

  ‘“Should we take Gwynn outside, or should we eat her in here?’ The other replied, ‘Take her outside? Are you crazy? The big boys will have her for sure.’”

  I snorted a laugh. “Very funny.” It was good to hear her joking, no matter how lame the joke.

  When the tepid water ran out, we dressed and headed off to schmooze with our new bosses.

  A scream rent the night air not fifty paces from their house. It wouldn’t have sounded out of place in The Shining. That was followed by more yells, this time a mature voice. Then more childish shrieks.

  We approached with caution.

  On the veranda, we found the source of some of the noise.

  A servant bathed a little boy in a large zinc tub. Given his punches and wild kicks, he wasn’t enjoying it.

  Neither was the maid. She yelled back at him, telling him to sit and be quiet. The boy’s fist shot out, landing a punch on her nose. She retaliated by shoving soap into his eyes. The kid screamed even harder. It struck me then that he looked like a miniature version of Sean.

  It had to be one of Sean’s “monsters.”

  “Oh, boy,” Gwynn muttered. “Is it possible Barbara was right?”

  “It could just be a once-off occasion,” I said, wishing that were true.

  Gwynn gave me a please-let-it-be-so look, followed by a don’t-let-him-do-this-at-the-camp look.

  Then we heard another set of wails, this time coming from the house.

  Leaving the little boy and the maid to their fisticuffs, we wandered through the rambling mansion. The din led us to the kitchen, where a boy, only a little older than his brother, howled on the table in the centre of the room. He was also a carbon copy of Sean.

  The insults Sandy was shouting at Sean over the racket soon brought us up to speed with the action.

  This was their eldest son. He had been practicing a karate chop on a creeper in the garden when the resident snake had taken exception. It had spat at him.

  “And you, you bastard, you’re not even taking it seriously,” Sandy yelled above the kid’s screaming.

  Sean shrugged. “This is Africa. Kids get bitten and stung and spat at every day.” Turning to us, he asked, “You guys want a drink?”

  “Spat at by a snake?” Gwynn replied, looking anxiously at the child.

  Sandy seized upon that weakness. “Yes, Gwynn, a bloody great spitting cobra! Enough venom to blind an adult, forget about a six-year-old boy. And what does he care?” She shoved Sean in the chest. “Nothing.”

  Sean rolled his eyes and led us back to the veranda, where his other son shrieked in the bathtub. He poured the drinks, handed them around, and slumped into a wicker chair. “Like I said, hurricane hour. It’ll be over soon. Sit.”

  It was like I’d stepped into another world.

  Chapter 10

  Maun may have been a backwater, but getting high-paying tourists around the delta was big business. Sean’s chunk of that industry ran like a well-oiled machine, thanks to three women who bustled about the office when we arrived at work the next morning.

  The only one I recognised was Sepei. All hopes of Sean introducing us to the other two were dashed when he disappeared into his cave and shut the door.

  A blond woman in her mid-thirties stepped forward. “I’m Joan, the travel agent here. It’s my job to send guests to both Tau and Scops Camps.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Andrew smiled at her.

  Joan didn’t smile back. “I’m also your link to the outside world, so the most important thing you need to know is how to answer when I call you on the radio.” She pointed to two communication radios behind her desk and rattled off, “VHF. It works most of the time. As long as the weather’s good. And HF is for when it’s lousy.” She glared at us, eyes flashing.

  Andrew and I exchanged now-what-have-we-done-to-offend looks, but no answer seemed forthcoming.

  Instead
, Joan continued, “Never, ever leave the radios on overnight. The batteries are solar powered, so they’ll be dead by morning, and then I can’t get hold of you. And that makes me as mad as a hippo in labour with twins.”

  “Roger that.” Andrew puffed his chest out with aviation efficiency. “What call signs do we use to reach you?”

  “Calling 110 will get you Scops Camp,” Joan barked. “Maun office—me—is 637. You’re 638. When you hear some call 638, jump. It’s me, and I get seriously pissed off if I’m kept waiting.” Joan’s glower deepened. “That means one of you stays close to the reception where the radio is kept. Always. Not like Barbara and Rodney, who spent most of the day in their hut with their feet up.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” was all I could think of to say. I wondered if a salute would be too much. I regarded it a privilege to work here but, apparently, Joan didn’t share my views.

  Then, as if she’d read my thoughts, Joan’s worn face cracked a tiny smile. “Okay, okay, I’m not as bad as all that. In fact, I make your life possible. Me and Verity.” She pointed to a slight woman beaming at us from across the office. “That’s Verity. She pays you, so I suggest you be very nice to her.”

  I shot Verity my most ingratiating simper.

  Her grin broadened, showing a mouth full of brilliant teeth.

  “And you’ve met Sepei,” Joan continued. “She makes sure you eat. It’s her job to shop for both camps.”

  “Everything from fillet steak to concrete bricks,” Sepei said. “Come, I show you.” She grabbed us each by an arm and led us out into the bright sunshine.

  We spent the next few hours scouring Maun’s two cash-and-carry warehouses for the items Morag, who was back at the helm at Tau Camp, had requested Sepei purchase for the camp.

  To say that Maun’s merchandise was limited was being kind.

  “Never be in a hurry,” Sepei advised us for the tenth time. “Sometimes it takes weeks and weeks for stock to come.” She looked at a sheet of paper clasped in her hand and shook her head. “Eish! Morag, she ask for gum poles and chicken mesh. Impossible. Maybe next of next week, when the truck comes from Gabs.”

  Next of next week? I understood enough Setswanan pidgin-English to realise that two weeks would pass before the next supply of building materials arrived from Gaborone, Botswana’s capital, over five hundred miles away to the south.

  That was a real problem. Over breakfast, Sean had made it clear that he expected his camp fixed up as a priority after Rodney’s neglect.

  “Building supplies. Not easy to get?” Andrew asked, tugging his beard.

  Face forlorn, Sepei shook her head again. “It’s a big matata.”

  This was long before Timon and Pumbaa of Lion King fame rocked us all with Hankuna Matata, so I had no idea what matata meant. Sepei soldiered on before I could enquire.

  “The other matata is that the stock can only fly when there’s space on the planes. People, they come first, and the guides and staff are always jumping on board, snatching the seats.” She said this as if it were the bane of her life.

  I was beginning to glean what the word matata meant.

  “And gas bottles! They are an even bigger matata. They can only fly on empty planes, so it can take months and months to get gas bottles to the camps.”

  Both camps used gas for cooking, fridges, and some lighting. Gas bottles were as important as bread and milk.

  “And then Scops Camp also needs its other stock for their shop.” Sepei must have seen our growing concern because she leaned in close, and repeated, “Never be in a hurry.”

  “And fruit and vegetables?” I croaked. “I don’t see any in the wareouses.”

  “Other than cabbage and butternut.” Andrew pulled a face. He hated cabbage and butternut squash equally.

  “Fresh comes from Gabs on Tuesday and Thursday. If it can catch a ride on the plane.”

  “And if it can’t?” I asked in an even weaker voice.

  “Then it’s a matata. That’s why I send you tinned peas, cabbage, butternut, and gem squash.”

  “This is beginning to sound like the Berlin Airlift,” Andrew said. At the rate he was tugging on his beard, he wouldn’t have a hair left by the time we got to camp.

  “Perhaps the most challenging part of the job,” I added.

  Rookie mistake. But what did I know then about the matatas awaiting us at Tau Camp?

  * * *

  At three in the afternoon, Sepei announced it was time to meet our plane. Sean was at the airport. He pointed to a blue and white Cessna 206 and said, without a trace of pride, “The first in my new fleet. Okavango-Air is taking to the skies.”

  He was nothing if not entrepreneurial. I had to admire that.

  Sepei loaded some of the morning’s shopping into the Cessna’s belly pod and looked at our pile of luggage with a pained expression. “Eish. It’s a matata. No space.”

  I understood her problem. And, as camp manager, it was now my problem. “Just the cat and one of the suitcases, Sepei,” I said, opening our two bags.

  Andrew helped me shuffle our clothes around until we had one case filled with enough stuff to tide each of us over for a few days. The laundry department had better be efficient. Done, I zipped the suitcases and Andrew heaved one of them back into Sepei’s truck. He gazed at his camera gear, toolbox, and computer, then, with a sigh, strong-armed them into the truck. Getting to work on fixing the camp would have to wait.

  While the guests bound for Scops Camp climbed on board, Sean introduced us to the pilot. “Andrew. Gwynn. New Tau Camp managers. Andrew can fix things.” He looked at me as if wondering just what it was I could do.

  Heartwarming.

  “Wes,” the straw-blond Australian pilot said, sticking his hand out in greeting. “So you fix things, then, Andrew? Bloody marvellous. If you want to endear yourself to us pilots, then do something about the bloody awful runway.”

  “What?” Andrew asked, leaning in.

  “Make it longer, mate.”

  I thought back to the cricket pitch we had landed on, hemmed in on both ends by open lagoons and palm trees, and realised that some matatas at Tau Camp might be impossible to solve.

  Chapter 11

  A troop of baboons playing on the runway welcomed us when we landed at Tau Camp. They scattered as the plane trundled past, stopping on the side of the strip to watch us disembark. For wild animals, they were fearless. Meeting planes must have been a regular item in their day.

  But, interesting though they were, I was expecting a human welcoming party. Gwynn and I might have been flippant about wanting to run a hotel, but I was very conscious that I had zero experience. I was rather counting on Morag’s help to get started. With a bit of luck, she’d left her bad mood at the Johannesburg gift shop.

  As if she knew I’d been thinking about her, Morag stepped out of the grove of trees hiding the camp.

  A leggy dun-coloured dog trailed her. It had a pointed nose, a large bulge in the middle, and a whip-like tail, narrowing to another point at the tip. It looked like every other Botswanan dog I had ever seen. Due to generations of interbreeding, local dogs had earned a breed title of their own—Ngamiland Pointer. Smiling broadly as only dogs can, it lolled its tongue at us in greeting.

  I wish I could say the same about Morag.

  All we got by way of welcome was a curt, “So you’ve arrived.” Without waiting for a reply to the obvious, she turned to the staff streaming onto the runway. “Stock. Get it sorted before the baboons rip it apart. Luggage and cat goes to number nine. Then go. Come, follow me.” She patted the dog and they both started towards the camp.

  It took me a moment to realise she’d aimed the last instruction at Gwynn and me. As human relations went, this wasn’t looking good. What was it with these people? Every person associated with camp management had a massive chip on their shoulder. There had to be a common denominator. I’d always been taught that a fish rots from its head. As mild as he appeared, perhaps Sean wasn’t the easiest boss
to work for. Unless it was Sandy who got everyone worked up. Time would tell. As for me, I’m a friendly guy, and Gwynn…well, Gwynn is Gwynn—what you see is what you get. Right now, my wife wore a stunned expression, rather like a bludgeoned fish. I shrugged, took her hand, and we fell into step behind Morag.

  She stalked to a cottage built from the same reeds as the rest of the camp. Situated to one side of the runway, it had a private garden of prickly grass and palm trees, screened by a reed wall. The cottage itself looked cool and inviting. It would make an ideal home for Woodie, which would make Gwynn happy. That would make me happy, so I hoped it was our new home.

  Morag’s voice broke into my musings. “You live in a letaka hut. Same as everyone else around here.” She turned to leave.

  “Letaka?” Gwynn said, clearly grasping at anything to strike up a conversation.

  Morag’s eyes narrowed and her voice sounded incredulous. “You don’t know what letaka is?”

  “No. Should I?”

  “And you want to run a camp in the Okavango? Amazing.” Morag’s voice could’ve cracked ice.

  “I didn’t know the study of African architecture was a requirement for running a lodge,” Gwynn snapped back.

  This wasn’t going to end well. For anyone.

  I took a deep breath and stepped between them. “I’m guessing letaka is the local name for the reed walls, right? And I’m also guessing this is our house. Gwynn, maybe you should get Woodie settled in. She’s been in the box all day.”

  I hoped Gwynn would clutch this face-saving exit with both hands. With a scowl at Morag, she bent down to pet Woodie through the bars. I let out a breath. Trapped for the second day, Woodie was too ticked off to even yowl. Gwynn picked up the box and flounced passed Morag into our doorless hut.

  Morag turned to leave. “We have no guests, so I’ve given the staff the night off. We’ll be eating at Scops Camp. I’m leaving in half an hour. Don’t be late, because I’m not waiting.”

  “We’ll be ready.”