Morag looked over at me and sighed—a pained one, filled with self-sacrifice and stoic endurance. “All right, for the good of the camps.”
So, that was how Morag and I ended up going to the staff village together.
We left soon after breakfast the next morning with Karomona at the helm of our mokoro. Like the day before, it was stinking hot, the kind of heat that usually had me cowering under the leafy canopy covering the camp. I hoped to make this visit short and to the point.
Arriving at the village was a bit like beaching on a foreign shore. We landed on a small muddy bank from where a dozen pathways wandered into the trees. Karomona picked a well-trodden one and led the way.
It quickly became apparent that his pathfinding wasn’t really necessary. Paper wrappers, plastic packets, broken shoes, tin cans, bottles, and rotting mekoro littered the winding trail. My eyes widened and my jaw dropped with each step I took into this midden. The guides, so strict about even the smallest piece of litter in the delta, obviously didn’t care about the mess in their own village. It shocked me rigid. They, especially Karomona, loved bringing their lekgoa here. I couldn’t imagine what the guests must have thought of this dump.
“I think we could do with a bit of clean up here,” I said to Morag, who had her hands filled with the rubbish she’d collected.
“Order some extra black bags, and I’ll arrange for some of the kids to do a litter blitz,” Morag said. Then she frowned. “I might have to motivate them, though. Maybe both Scops and Tau could donate some cash.”
It seemed outrageous that the kids would need to be bribed to clean up their own living space, but I guessed Morag was right. “We can pay them ten tebe for every bag collected.” That was equivalent to a couple of U.S. cents.
We reached the first line of houses. Constructed from mud and thatch gleaned from the surrounding bush, each house consisted of one small room, with perhaps a second, used for a bedroom. Ablution facilities were non-existent, except for a communal long-drop toilet in the centre of the village. If the residents wanted to bathe, the women had to carry water from the river.
Despite the depressing air of neglect, each yard was swept, with nary a trace of litter. Rickety fences, made from sticks, demarcated individual ownership. The absence of junk in the gardens exemplified the concept of Not-In-My-Back-Yard beautifully.
Part of the problem was that the village wasn’t recognised by the government as an official settlement. These people had gathered here because work was available at the nearby camps, and not just Sean’s, either. The government believed the camp owners were responsible for providing facilities, while the camp management considered it the job of the administration. Stuck in the middle, the people living here had fallen into a bureaucratic hole.
Perhaps that explained some of their lack of pride.
Morag and I walked in silence as Karomona led us through his world.
We stopped to watch a huddle of woman, sitting under the palm trees, weaving baskets from palm fronds. Their snotty-nosed, butt-naked babies and toddlers crawled about in the dust at their feet.
The baskets ranged from large Ali-Baba designs to small bread trays. Each featured beautiful, geometric triangles, diamonds, or zigzags in muted colours of natural cream, dusty pink, beige, sooty black, ochre red, and donkey brown.
The women brought their wares to the camps to be sold for pennies to rich lekgoa. We used their baskets for everything from serving bread to collecting laundry. I even had a private collection going in my cottage that I intended to take home when I finally left here.
Basket making, it turned out, was a time consuming labour of love.
“These women,” Karomona began in his heavy pidgin English, “they collect the palm leaves. Lots and lots of leaves. They walk far, very far each day for leaves. Then, they must find the colours for the baskets.”
It took me a moment to realise he was talking about plant dyes. My eyes widened in admiration at the effort. My mother was a mad knitter who loved to spin and dye her own wool. She, too, would forage for plants to naturally dye her yarn. So I had some insight into the effort it took to find enough raw material to dye a project of any meaningful size.
“It takes months and months to make a single basket,” Karomona finished.
How the women found the time, I would never know. Like in most parts of Africa, they performed the bulk of the work in the village. As if to prove the point, a couple of women carrying ten gallon drums of water on their heads trudged past us—and a group of idle men, shading themselves under the trees. The men didn’t even look up from their card game.
Karomona continued his tour.
“Now we visit our chief,” he informed us. “His name is Monnapula. He has no English. I speak for you.”
I didn’t know the village had a chief. I risked mentioning that fact to Morag.
She surprised me by answering. “You are as in the dark as I am.”
We quickened our pace, eager to meet this man—and to get out of the heat into the shade of his home.
Karomona stopped at a house no grander than any of the others. He ushered us in. Although the staff called Andrew chief, I had never met a real chief before, so I wasn’t sure what to expect. It just wasn’t what confronted me in Monnapula’s perfectly swept yard. I was about to proffer my greeting when I stopped short.
A wizened old man sat hunched in the grey dust. The stoic, unhappy resignation on his dark face said that life had not been kind to him. A skinny, wrinkled woman, his wife I assumed, clucked as she went about her sweeping.
I noticed his foot. It was bandaged with the filthiest piece of cloth I have ever seen. Grey from the dust, green pus oozed through it from whatever wound it hid.
An acrid, vile smell hit me.
But even as my stomach threatened to launch my breakfast, my heart went out to him. Monnapula, no great chief, just a sick old man, seemed to sense my interest. He sprang into action, ripping at the bandage.
Horror and nausea washed over me as the bandage unwound. His lower limb was ulcerous, rotten, and, even to my non-medical eye, beyond repair. What could have reduced a human being to such a pathetic state of pain and neglect? All thoughts of a quick escape from the village fled my mind.
Morag and I exchanged horrified looks and then I rounded on Karomona. “Why hasn’t he seen a doctor?”
“We can’t get him to the plane. Too heavy to carry.” Karomona’s answer summed up the problem of the staff village’s ambivalent place in the Botswanan social structure. No government doctor would visit here. I thought of the wheelbarrow in Andrew’s work shed back at the camp. Would it work as wheelchair to get Monnapula to the airstrip? Would Joan book him a seat on a plane? She had to. I would fight Sean and his tight wallet to the death over this.
“How long has he been like this?” Morag asked, her words gagging in her throat.
“A long time. Many, many months.”
“He needs to get to the hospital.” I smiled reassuringly at Monnapula who listened without understanding to our discussion about him.
“Lekgoa medicine—no good,” Karomona said emphatically. “This chief, he has a bad spirit. A Bushman, he came here, two, three years ago. He wants to be chief. So this man,” Karomona pointed one of his mangled fingers at Monnapula, “he fight with the Bushman. But the Bushman is too strong. He sent the ancestors to curse Monnapula. His leg go bad, and there is no medicine that can fix it.”
An expletive, aimed at telling Karomona exactly what I thought of his evil spirits, danced on the tip of my tongue. I swallowed it. I was here to help, not mock other people’s beliefs. Instead, I said, “Tell him I will be back here tomorrow with medicine and clean bandages.”
As Karomona translated, I watched Monnapula’s face blossom with relief. He grinned a toothless smile at his wife. Her face streamed with tears. It steeled my resolve to help get him to hospital.
Once back at the camp, I called Maun, determined to fight Joan for the next available s
eat on the plane.
I did her a disservice.
After her kindness to Woodie, I should have expected Joan’s prompt reply, “The next available flight out is his. Get him to the runway, and I will have a vehicle waiting at the airport to transport him to the hospital.”
Tears pricked my eyes as I said my thanks.
“And, Gwynn,” Joan added. “Where there is one man in need, there may be more. Ask around the village. If anyone else needs help, let me know, and I will send in a plane, if necessary.”
“What about Sean?”
“Let me worry about Sean.”
The next morning, I went alone to the village with Karomona. This time I was armed with anti-septic, clean bandages, some pain relievers, and a couple of pairs of surgical gloves.
Monnapula was thrilled to see me. With much tongue clicking, he galvanised his wife into fetching clean water. Eyes darting at all the attention, she set about boiling a large, black, three-legged pot. The fire could not burn fast enough, so she fanned it with a wing collected from some large raptor. A cloud of black charcoal dust wafted into the sky, only to settle on our supposedly sterile water.
As I waited for it to boil, I looked around the house and courtyard. A few threadbare blankets, obviously someone’s bed, lay crumpled on the sand under a lean-to, built next to the main hut. A black and white goat lay sleeping peacefully on them.
The sound of babbling people caught my attention. A crowd had a gathered to watch my ministrations. I hoped I didn’t embarrass myself by throwing up all over Monnapula. If anything, the smell wafting off him was even worse than yesterday.
With the water just cool enough to touch, I swabbed Monnapula’s limb and foot. Putrid skin peeled away under my fingers as pus oozed from open sores the size of oranges. I knew my face was as green as the pus.
Despite my stomach’s objections, I pressed on doggedly, with lots of encouragement from the old man. Seemingly oblivious to all pain, Monnapula poked and squeezed at his limb in an effort to remove as much poison as possible.
After what felt like a day, but was only an hour, he and I re-dressed his leg in a fresh bandage. I left him with instructions to keep the bandage clean—a hopeless dream, given that he spent his day sitting in the dust. Promising I would return to do it again the next day, I returned to camp.
It was Matanta who finally brought me news of the other sick and disabled in the village. After another radio call to Joan, an Islander arrived at Tau Camp to collect Monnapula, and three elderly ladies crippled with arthritis.
As long as I live, I will never forget our guests’ faces as an entourage of well-wishers wheeled barrows filled with the sick and infirm up the runway to welcome the incoming plane.
It was some months before Monnapula arrived back at the camp. Despite Karomona’s protestations to the contrary, he was in good health, but with an amputated foot.
There was another positive spin-off from Monnapula’s adventure in the Maun hospital, though. He’d obviously told all who would listen of the plight of other infirm villagers. It didn’t take long before a deputation of social workers arrived. This brought to light a mentally disabled woman, two blind children, and a paraplegic. This time, the government footed the bill to ferry them into Maun for treatment.
Chapter 48
I wiped the sweat off my face with my sleeve and stared in disbelief at the calendar in reception.
Unfortunately it didn’t lie.
Today was the 15th of September. Andrew’s birthday.
I had forgotten. I immediately blamed the guide strike and my meeting yesterday with Monnapula. Combined with the incessant, brain numbing heat, those events were enough to make anyone forget anything.
Dragging my flagging energy together, I lumbered to the kitchen. If it was hot outside, then it was scorching in here, and all the staff suffered. To add to their woes, the camp was full to capacity with our six South Africans, five Canadians, and a party of six English folk. Even with Seatla back from maternity leave, the chefs had their hands full.
Still, I knew Matanta wouldn’t fail me. I sidled up next to him at the prep counter and crooned, “Feel like making me a chocolate cake?”
He looked up from his onion chopping. “Instead of the crème caramel for pudding?”
I winced, feeling bad about my demand. “To go with the crème caramel.” I felt Robert’s stare of disapproval, but ignored it. “It’s Andrew’s birthday. I’m about to buy him a T-shirt from the curio shop, but I think a cake is also needed.” I was throwing myself on Matanta’s mercy, but I added, “Please don’t tell him I only remembered now.” I could only hope I wouldn’t become the butt of a retaliatory prank to make up for the last one we had pulled on him.
But it seemed Robert was the greater threat. “The Chief’s birthday?” he bellowed with about as much subtlety as an axe in the head. If Andrew hadn’t heard that yell, then age must have affected his ears. “Of course we’ll make him a cake. The best one he’s ever had.”
I patted Robert on the arm to say thank you, and we both grimaced—him from the heat radiating off my hand, and me from the sweat streaming down his arm. Oh, I wished it would rain. A vain hope because a brilliant blue sky continued to mock us.
It was time to find somewhere cool.
I plodded over to reception to read the latest letter from my mother. A photo of Woodie dropped out of the envelope. Painfully thin, at least the hair had started to reclaim her face. She lived with my parents, and their three Siamese cats. Apparently, Woodie was being a real witch, constantly beating up on them, leaving them gibbering idiots. Why couldn’t she have done that with Tom? Although I’d spent precious little time with her, I missed the comforting feel of her furry body pressed against mine at night.
Shouts coming from the river pulled me out of my musing.
Not knowing what to expect, I trotted down to the bay to see what was happening. I was greeted by a traffic jam, Okavango style.
Our bachelor herd of elephant had taken to the river just up from the camp. Hidden by the reeds and the curve of the channel, the guides had almost poled right into them. With a burst of speed, which belied the heat, the guides did a quick reverse, parking their mekoro in the reeds a few yards from the elephant.
A smile spread across my face. Our South African guests and their guides were laughing together at the elephant frolicking in the water. Thanks to Human Relations 110—Elephant Encounters, the South Africans and their guides were late in for lunch. No one complained.
* * *
That evening, Petso shyly placed a crabmeat and avocado starter before Andrew. I plunked his birthday present down, too.
“What’s this?” Andrew asked, pointing to the brown paper parcel.
“A T-shirt.”
“Oh. How original. What for?” He had yet to lift his spoon to eat his starter.
“Your birthday.”
“My birthday? I thought you’d forgotten.”
“Forgotten?” I said indignantly. “Really, what do you take me for?”
“Someone who forgets her husband’s birthday.”
“Like I ever would.” I could see our whispered conversation was attracting some attention, but ignored it. As soon as we served the birthday cake, the guests would discover that it was the most important day of Andrew’s year.
“Then why am I eating this?” Andrew prodded his starter—or more specifically, the avocado part—with his spoon. “Or, correction, not eating this?”
Damn. My story was blown. Avocados. Yet another thing Andrew didn’t eat. We both knew I’d never have scheduled avocados for his birthday dinner. I blasted him with my most ingratiating smile.
He ignored it.
Turning to Bram, one of the Canadian guests, he asked loudly, “Has Sharon ever forgotten your birthday?”
Sharon answered for Bram. “Of course not.” She winked at me. “But if I had, this is what I’d do.” She stood up and started singing—yup, singing. Skinnamarink, to be exact. Co
mplete with crazy hand gestures. Bram also leapt to his feet, and, before we knew what was happening, both of them were crooning, “I love you in the morning, and in the afternoon, I love you in the evening, underneath the moon.”
Blooming red, Andrew buried his face in his hands.
When the clapping and cheering from the other guests had finally stopped, Andrew looked up. “Thank you. I’ve always wanted to be serenaded with children’s songs on my thirty-second birthday.”
George, an English chap sitting at the far end of the table, called out to the singers, “I thought I recognised you both. You’re Bram and Sharon, the Canadian children’s singers! My kids love your songs.”
Bram and Sharon took a stage bow, and then Sharon said, “But what we do best is getting people to sing along.” She waved her arms at us. “Up. On your feet, everyone.” We all groaned, but Sharon was having none of it. “Come, people, it’s Andrew’s birthday. The least we can do is sing him a happy birthday.”
Everyone joined in and the song went like this:
“Hi,
My name is Joe, and I work, in, a button factory,
I got a wife, and a dog, and a family.
One day, my boss comes up to me.
He says
“Hi Joe, are you busy?”
I says, “No!”
He says—turn the button with your right hand.”
Bram and Sharon had us all laughing uncontrollably as we moved our body parts in time with our signing—left hand, right leg, left leg, neck, knee, elbow—until every conceivable part of our anatomies were simultaneously involved in turning that button. Try doing that after a few glasses of wine.
Later, much later, Matanta and Robert served Andrew’s cake. It came complete with the thirty-two brightly burning birthday candles.
Birthday candles were not something any of the stores in Maun stocked. As his gift to Andrew, Matanta had spent his afternoon hand-whittling ordinary domestic candles into birthday treats. He’d depleted our entire stock, but it was worth it just to see the delight on Andrew’s face. Robert and Matanta joined us round the table as we carried on singing children’s songs.
Torn Trousers: A True Story of Courage and Adventure: How a Couple Sacrificed Everything to Escape to Paradise Page 27