Andrew’s forgotten birthday turned out to be the latest night we’d spent at Tau Camp. But even at three in the morning, no one, including Robert and Matanta, wanted to leave the party.
I took a moment to step back, to watch us all through my third eye as jokes, songs, and hilarity flowed. Andrew and Matanta goofed around together, doing silly hand gestures to even sillier songs. It struck me that this moment, with these people, at this place, was probably the closest we would get to paradise on Earth.
That almost made me sad.
Transient as I knew the moment would be, I lodged the joy deep into my memory banks. I would live off this party for many years to come. Smell being such an important part of memory, I took a wild sage-filled breath, drinking in the scents of the night. A ripple of cool air wafting in from the river caressed my skin. Soak it all in, I told myself, determined to never forget.
I suppose, deep inside, I knew Andrew and I were on the downward curve of our Tau adventure. Although neither of us had voiced any thoughts about life beyond here, I guessed, like me, Andrew was beginning to feel the tug of a world of Land Rovers, freedom to travel more than a mile from our front door, and easy communications with the friends and family left back home. Not to mention Woodie.
But for tonight? I said a silent prayer of thanks to Robert, Matanta, and the Canadian singers who had not only rescued Andrew’s forgotten birthday, but had made it eternally memorable.
Chapter 49
For some weeks, as spring turned to summer, Gwynn and I seemed to have more baboons and elephants in camp than guests. There was little we could do about the baboons, but the elephants were another matter. With the right mental attitude and enough noise, they could—almost—be discouraged from wrecking the camp. Elephant patrol became an important part of the maintenance team’s job descriptions.
The first time I’d asked them to undertake this assignment, Olutuswe clicked his tongue disapprovingly, muttering something in Setswana. Matanta translated it to mean that the men from the insane asylum must come take me away.
But, crazy or not, for the safety of our guests, not to mention our last remaining palm trees, the elephants had to be made to leave. That meant Thekiso or Olutuswe spent their days beating metal dustbin lids together while running after elephants. If I’m honest, all the activity really achieved was to tire out the maintenance team, give everyone else a headache, and annoy the elephants. It also put a nasty drag on the completion of my maintenance projects.
I was therefore more than a little proud the day we put the final touches on my new donkey boiler. I considered it a small miracle that we built it under the feet of four belligerent male elephants. Not to mention the months it had taken to assemble the building materials. Now, while Thekiso kept a lookout for elephants, Olutuswe and I gave the donkey boiler a final coat of mud plaster. Unlike the many reed walls and ceilings I had commissioned and installed at Tau, this boiler would be here for years to come. I even signed and dated my initials in the concrete.
Tonight it would be christened.
Brimming with satisfaction, I stood back that afternoon and watched Alfred build a fire in the belly of the boiler. That evening I hurried my shower, and dashed down to the pre-drinks fire to ask the guests in number four, the cottage my new boiler served, how they’d found the hot water. I skidded to a halt just inside of earshot, unable to believe what I was hearing. Agatha and Yvonne moaned loudly to everyone about the cold shower they’d been forced to endure.
“But you have a brand new donkey boiler all to yourselves,” I objected.
Agatha turned steely eyes on me. “If I said there was no hot water, then there was no hot water.”
The customer is always right. Except when they’re wrong. Anyway, the ambient temperature was so hot, a cold shower couldn’t have been the torture she claimed.
Or so I comforted myself.
Still, I was troubled by her claims. Sean’s boiler blueprint had been cut out of Farmer’s Weekly magazine. I had always had my doubts about the design, but without building it first, there was no way to test it. Sean hadn’t bothered with such niceties before commanding me to construct one.
I sighed. Oh well. It still looked great.
Drink in hand, I slumped down into a chair and left it to Gwynn to entertain the guests. Although I may have looked vacant as I stared out over the bay, my mind was scheming on how to improve an inefficient boiler without having to rebuild the damn thing.
My pensive mood continued through an excellent meal of garlic mushrooms, followed by fillet steak, and then a chocolate mousse. Despite frowns from Gwynn, I contributed little to the conversation.
No that it mattered. I was no closer to a solution when I finally collapsed into bed that night.
As Gwynn and I leaned over to share our chaste goodnight kiss, I heard a deep cracking coming from the centre of the camp. A bang followed. Then silence. My heart sank. I knew exactly what it was.
“Sounds like elephant,” Gwynn said unnecessarily.
“Don’t bother waiting up,” I replied. I didn’t wait for Gwynn’s answer. After the hyena’s late night visitation, we both knew she’d be leaving this to me.
Groaning like a very old man, I flicked on my torch. Then a spurt of adrenalin kicked in and I casually, almost calmly, pulled on my trousers, donned a shirt, grabbed my Maglite, and walked out into a night as black as coal.
I made my way to the kitchen for vital elephant chasing equipment. Meanwhile, my treacherous mind conjured pictures of broken cottages, dead guests, and Sean in a fearsome rage at his manager’s ineptitude. I quickened my pace. Once in the kitchen, I couldn’t find the dustbin lids, so I settled for a large stainless mixing bowl.
I stopped to listen.
From what I could make out, this was one, maybe two elephants. They must have entered the camp from the runway end, passed our cottage unnoticed, before settling down to some concentrated chewing and tree pushing near number four, the cottage where the frosty Agatha and her partner were sleeping.
Then again, sleeping was being optimistic. Above the rumbling of elephant stomachs, whooshing trunks, and creaking palm trees, I heard the unmistakable sound of women squealing—and not in delight either. The guests were scared and, as manager, it was my job to protect them. Or so I told myself.
I scratched my beard, plotting my attack strategy. At this point, I should have felt some sympathy for Thekiso and Olutuswe who did this every day. In truth, I felt nothing. It was daylight when they chased elephant around the camp. They could see things like snakes, and cottages, and tree roots, and, well…elephants, before they tripped over them.
Elephants can’t see very well. Even so, I couldn’t risk lighting my torch. Not that the darkness helped me because they more than made up for poor eyesight with an acute sense of smell. Considering the garlic I’d eaten at dinner, I didn’t give myself good odds at remaining undetected should things go wrong. That meant I needed an escape route where they could neither see nor smell me. But where?
Then I remembered my new donkey boiler with its extra wide mouth
Surely, the acrid smelling ash would mask me and my breath? All I needed was to hide in its belly should things go wrong.
I heard the elephants shake fruit from the palms. It wouldn’t be long before they got frustrated and brought a tree down. Definitely time to move.
I set off into the dark, soundless night. And tripped over a log. Grunting, I dropped the bowl and the torch at the same moment a spider’s web wrapped itself around my face. Cursing inwardly while trying not to imagine the size, or current location, of the spider, I felt along the leaf litter for my stuff. My hand brushed something hard and cold.
Ah ha. The torch. Then the bowl.
I scrambled to pick them up, then stood—and bumped my head on an overhanging branch. The bowl fell out of my hands again, clattering to the ground.
This was the stupidest day ever. So much for my element of surprise.
I took in a d
eep breath and, weapons held securely, prepared for another attempt. As I moved forward, I pictured myself in my mind’s eye. In a strange way, this was a realisation of a dream, a dream I didn’t even know I had—until now.
I, the great white hunter, had been sent to frighten away huge, fierce creatures threatening my home. I was experiencing Africa at its rawest, alone, with only my ignorance to protect me from abject fear and borderline incontinence.
Still, firm in the belief that my game plan was sound, I stalked my quarry. Not wanting to fall again, I occasionally flashed the torch against the sky, hoping to simulate distant lightening, something elephants would be familiar with. Each flash briefly illuminated the path. A few more steps and I reckoned to be about twenty paces from the elephants. They were still way too far off for me to see their dark bodies, in the dark wood, in the dark night.
I did however see a faint orange glow from the dying embers deep inside the donkey boiler. I crouched, my torso tense with excitement. Then, with three swift movements, I struck the bowl as hard as I could with the torch.
For a few seconds, nothing happened.
Then a scream rent the night like an express train screeching to a halt after the emergency stop chord is pulled.
All hell broke loose.
I don’t know how many there were, but six, eight, twenty elephant charged through the bush towards me. The ground beneath my feet shook, branches cracked and fell, and two women screamed, and screamed, and screamed some more.
No second to waste.
I sprinted in the pitch dark towards the orange glow in the boiler. Diving in head first, I was vaguely aware of the hot coals charring my hands. Nothing for it but to suck it up. Weirdly, I felt no fear; the entire event was just surreal. Ash stirred by my feet wafted to my nose and I stifled a cough. How long could I hold it?
Trumpeting and the rumble of feet passed around me.
Then silence.
My plan had worked.
Sneezing, I crawled out, gasping for air. I turned on the torch, and stumbled towards cottage four. “It’s safe now.” My voice sounded like someone was strangling me. “You can sleep peacefully.”
The next morning over breakfast, I waited for Agatha and Yvonne to boast about my braveness. Surely, they would recount my heroic deed to the other guests? But then I heard Agatha say, “And then, just before the elephants took off, Andrew tripped over the fire bucket!”
“What?” I spluttered.
“You know, that red bucket next to the cottage? I assume it’s for putting out fires. We heard you fall over it.” She turned to her audience. “Not once, not twice, but three times, he fell. That’s how frightened he was.”
I looked to Gwynn to redeem my flagging honour, but she merely patted me on the arm. “Tripped over a fire bucket, huh? And you told me you’d driven the elephants out of the camp.”
I buried my face in my blistered hands, ready to cry.
Chapter 50
Andrew and I had just seen Agatha, Yvonne, and our other guests out on a plane that had brought us in nothing, not even a roll of toilet paper. Grinning with excitement, we watched as Morag, who was helping at Scops while Kyle and Milly were on their ten-day break, met her guests and started the trek down the runway with them.
An empty camp awaited our pleasure.
Even better, the heat had finally been broken by a week of cloudy weather. That meant the batteries attached to our solar panels were dead. We were completely cut off from the outside world. It was so bad, Joan had stopped calling, choosing instead to send messages in the mail. For the first time in the almost ten months we had been here, we were free to do exactly as we pleased. It was as if the universe itself had conspired to help us in the rebellion Matanta, Robert, Andrew and I planned.
Today we were going to Jugujugu in the motorboat Sean had sent up two months ago at the time of our short-lived guide strike. A mode of transport Sean had expressly forbidden we use, except in the direst of emergencies.
But a craving for sautéed bream, fresh from the river, constituted an emergency, didn’t it?
As soon as the departing plane cleared the trees at the end of the runway, Andrew and Matanta ran down to the lagoon at the far end of the strip to retrieve the carefully hidden boat.
I dashed into the CIM room to grab the fishing rods, while Robert manhandled two cooler boxes filled with food and drink. Heart skipping with delight, I loped to the bay, ready for our adventure.
I’ve never really appreciated motorboats. They’re too noisy and smelly for my tastes, but today the dulcet scream of that Yamaha was music to my ears. An operetta promising a broadening of horizons, grand new vistas, and freedom from the same endless questions asked daily by an ever-changing flow of people.
Who cared how deep the river was?
Or what the dining room chairs were made from?
I was so ready for this trip.
Matanta at the helm, Andrew waving and cheering, the motorboat roared into the bay. The jacana squawked, seeking cover. Matanta shot the boat up the bank. He moored the stern on the grass, just like the guys from Wildlife did every time they visited the camp.
Today I didn’t complain.
“Cool driving,” I said, as Andrew hopped off to help Robert heave our drinks on board. “Where do I sit?”
“Next to me.” Andrew claimed a bench in the middle of the boat.
Robert plunked down onto a spot at the prow, slapped on his sunglasses, and stretched out. “Me. I am a rich lekgoa today.”
Our staff gathered to see us off. They laughed, making derisive comments about Robert’s ludicrous bright green shorts, blazoned with black and orange palm trees.
Arms held open wide, Matanta shouted, “When we see you again, we’ll have fish this big.”
Uproarious laughter punctuated his brazen speech. The sound soon fell away, lost under the howling engine.
“Where did you learn to motorboat?” Andrew shouted, as Matanta steered us expertly into the main channel.
“Before I came to Tau, I worked in Maun as a motorboat guide. It doesn’t pay as well as feeding lekgoa.” Matanta grinned. “Especially for a man like me with so many mouths to feed.” Apart from one little boy whom he occasionally brought to camp, Matanta didn’t often mention his various offspring. But when he did, he always got a rakish look in his eye. It seemed fitting.
Skimming effortlessly over the water, we soon passed the swimming hole, the only place outside of Noga Island I regularly got to visit. I threw my head back, face basking in the sunlight, conscious of how small my world had become.
I knew Andrew felt it, too, the closing down of his life, as he called it. We still hadn’t spoken much about our plans after our contract expired in February, but I knew Andrew well enough to recognise his restlessness. Playing hooky today was a sign that things were changing.
“How far is Jugujugu?” Andrew shouted as he handed around some drinks.
“Less than an hour now,” Robert replied. We had been on the river for at least thirty minutes. “When another river, a big one, meets up from the right, then we know we are near.”
I was glad I didn’t need to navigate by those vague directions. A smile split my face. Today, it wasn’t my problem. I happily handed my life over to them. I was headed north, and that was all that mattered.
It wasn’t long before the familiar channel, so narrow near the camp, widened considerably. We roared around a corner and our wake washed up onto a little reed island. It swamped a resting crocodile. If you can imagine a crocodile spluttering, then this one did. Sean was right; motorboats were not the best way to see the Okavango. Still, this was fun.
Unexpectedly, Matanta slowed the boat, and then idled to a stop. I looked around, wondering at the holdup. Then I noticed Robert rubbing his hands together. “This is Jugujugu,” he said. “Let’s scare some fish.”
I don’t quite know what I was expecting, but whatever it was, it definitely wasn’t this. Apart from the confluence of the
rivers, there was nothing—no signboard, no human habitation—to indicate that we’d even arrived at a place with a name. Where Matanta had found all the nubile girls he boasted of after his leave, well, that was anybody’s guess.
I didn’t care.
It was fantastic just being here.
While the boys fished, I pulled out a book and settled back to get lost in some fantasy world, far, far away from the Okavango.
Every so often, when my sun-baked body threatened to spontaneously ignite, I dropped my book, and rolled out into the river. But swims in Jugujugu were not for pleasure: a quick splash to cool off and then back into the boat because more than one crocodile glided past us as the sun slipped across the sky.
Fish filled the bowels of the boat when Andrew finally reeled in his line. He looked at his watch. “Four o’clock. I didn’t realise it was so late. We should probably be getting back before the hippo start moving.”
“There’s no rush, Rra,” Matanta answered, casting his line wide. “This time we go with the stream. We’ll be home in an hour. Long before the hippo will be a matata.”
Deferring to Matanta’s superior knowledge, Andrew cracked open another drink, and settled down next to me. “Enjoying the freedom?” He offered me a sip of tepid Coke.
I waved the can away. “I could do this every day.”
He peeked at me from the corner of his eye. “Getting tired of chasing after guests?”
I glanced up at Robert and Matanta, not wanting to have this conversation in front of them. “I think I’ll feel more settled after Christmas when Jonty and Sarah visit.” Our friends, Jonty and Sarah, were coming for a short visit over New Year.
Andrew sighed. “I never thought I’d miss friends so much. Even Jonty.”
It was my turn to eyeball him. “You do realise that a year ago we were biting our fingernails to the nubs about getting this job?”
“True. And I don’t regret it for one second…” But—that unspoken word hung in the air between us.
Torn Trousers: A True Story of Courage and Adventure: How a Couple Sacrificed Everything to Escape to Paradise Page 28