“And now?” I asked.
“It’s Christmas, and I’ll be damned if something as insignificant as a few wasp stings stop us from decorating the table.” The second time in one day he’d been my hero.
He stomped back outside and I wondered if the wasp venom had addled his brain. It could, couldn’t it? What else would explain the insanity of going back to the same bush, dangling the same nest?
Muttering under his breath about bruised egos and confounded insects, Andrew opened the blade on his Swiss Army knife and, in one quick swipe, levelled the branch. He then hacked off an armful of palm fronds, all before the wasp could react. We then beat a hasty retreat to the dining room.
* * *
Our Christmas dinner was served promptly at seven-thirty.
Morag joined us, smiling at our festive table. “Very nice.”
Our guests weren’t so effusive. To a man, they stopped and stared, mouths gaping. Finding no fault with my tinsel and chilli-covered palm fronds, paper hats, and Christmas crackers, I guessed the blankets draped on the back of each chair puzzled them.
“I figured we could all do with the warmth,” I said by way of explanation.
“The blankets are wonderful,” Miriam, one of our Nigerian guests, said, throwing hers over her shoulders. “But what’s that stuff on the table?”
My heart sank. The words Christmas Philistines flashed through my mind. I pasted a smile. “It’s … you know, Christmas decorations. Make the place look cheerful. Get into the spirit, and all that?”
“We don’t celebrate Christmas,” Miriam said, wrapping her kids in their blankets, as if the cuddly fabric would protect them from an evil cult threatening to ensnare them.
“Us neither,” Thembi added, speaking for both herself and her husband Sipho. They had been our best hope.
Naoki the Japanese man, who spoke very little English, looked bemused.
Morag smiled at me, an oh-what-the-hell kind of look. She was right. On the one hand, my instinct was to serve my guests. But, on the other hand, I felt wronged. Why shouldn’t I celebrate my ancestry, my culture, and my religion in my own home? Why should I let this lot of ungrateful sods ruin my day? I’ll show them Christianity! I unrolled a yellow paper hat, and put it on my head.
Andrew immediately followed, and, pleasingly, so did Morag.
Andrew then announced, “We celebrate Christmas with good food, good talking, and coloured hats. I welcome you to join us in any part of the festivities you wish.”
Naoki’s eyes widened even further at the three of us wearing our absurd crowns. “Camera,” he declared, and dashed out.
Undeterred, Andrew opened a bottle of wine. “We begin with a very good South African wine.”
Not one of them wanted any.
But Morag said, “Yes, please.”
Andrew went over to do the honours. By the time he had finished pouring, Naoki had returned. He snapped off a dozen or so shots of the three of us in our hats.
The rest of the guests, looking uncomfortable, would have to put up with it. I went into the kitchen to order all the waiters to wear silly hats. But I needn’t have. They were already brightly decked. Even the scullery staff, Matanta, and Robert had joined in. Matanta wore his hat upside down. Robert, who was molesting the Christmas pudding, wore his on his sleeve, probably because his head was too large.
Back at the table, everyone began to settle. Even the Nigerians seemed to relax a bit.
Suddenly Naoki yelled, “Film.” He dashed out again, just as Andrew and I were about to pull our second cracker.
Naoki was the best part of Christmas that year. His smile stretched across his round face as, again and again, he reloaded his Pentax.
“Do we have film stock in the shop?” I asked Andrew, sure Naoki must be running out of supplies.
“Oh yes. Out of business hours, with limited stock and a mad Japanese photographer on the loose, we’ll make a killing.”
The Nigerians, who had been mostly keeping to themselves, laughed. They were human after all.
Naoki rushed back, pointed at me, and smiled at Andrew. “Bang. Again.”
“Didn’t we do that earlier?” Andrew smirked, holding a fresh cracker.
As we pulled it for him to photograph, I made sure I didn’t look over at Morag. Years later, I wish I had, because, for the first time ever, I heard her guffaw with laughter.
Andrew then took a huge risk by reading the appallingly lame jokes sprinkled onto the table from the crackers. “Who hides in the bakery at Christmas?” he asked no one in particular. Without waiting for an answer, he said, “A mince spy.”
“Andrew!” I laughed, holding my side.
Morag was laughing out loud now.
“Maybe that’s a bit too on the nose. Let’s try another one.” Andrew found another joke amongst the litter. “On which side do chickens have the most feathers? The Outside.”
He was embarrassing me now, so I kicked him under the table.
“But that wasn’t even Christmassy,” he said, feigning obliviousness. “Don’t worry, I’ll try another.” He waded through more scraps. “Ah. This is really lame. One that everyone will understand. What do you call a penguin in the Sahara Desert? Lost.”
Not a smile for a thousand miles. At least, not from our African guests. Our Japanese friend’s grin hadn’t changed one jot since he sat down, got up, sat down, got up, and sat down again.
For all that, the carnivores amongst our guests seemed to appreciate the meal, if not the silliness. They polished off an entire turkey and ham before the night was done. Aside from the vegetarians, no one seemed to notice the tinned vegetables on the side.
Needless to say, it wasn’t a late night. It seems traditional English Christmases are definitely an acquired taste.
Chapter 54
The Met office had been right about the foul weather. It only started to lift a few days after Christmas. Getting planes in and out of the camp over the past week on the rare occasions the Maun runway opened had been a challenge. On more than one occasion, Gwynn and I joined the maintenance guys and the kitchen staff out on the runway with brooms and rakes, clearing great puddles of water in advance of an incoming plane. Landings were hair-raising and take-offs spectacular.
Now the sun was beginning to break through enough to evaporate the sodden ground. But despite the rain, with the Okavango’s unique contradiction, the water level continued to drop. Our little bay began to look a little sad. The depressing spectacle of cracking mud and brown water lilies stood in sharp contrast to the air of excitement that buzzed around us as New Year approached.
Our good friends, Jonty and Sarah, were in camp with us. Wonderful as it was to have them, their presence was unsettling. It reminded us both of what we missed back in Johannesburg.
January the first dawned. Exactly one year had passed since we first visited the camp. With our contract due at the end of February, we had to decide whether to renew or not.
I was torn. I loved being here, but I missed ‘real’ life with telephones, working with film, my car, and shops, although I loathed shopping. Most of my limited free time had been spent writing my very first book—A Complete Guide to Four Wheel drive in Southern Africa—and I was close to completing the first draft. I wanted to find a publisher.
Added to that, I knew Gwynn was keen to start a family that didn’t include just a Siamese cat. The prospect filled me with dread. If a cat was a challenge, then what would real babies be like? Thus far, we had skirted around these issues, neither of us ready to broach the subjects. So, it was with conflicted thoughts that I set out to attend to my early morning chores on New Year’s Day.
The whole camp, including Gwynn, was sleeping. Glad to have the morning to myself, I breathed in the wonderful, fragrant air, sweet after the rains.
A sudden crashing above my head broke into my musings.
Surprise, surprise, the baboons were cavorting in the canopy. This was the first time they’d breached the camp since
the rains. My mind dashed to Sean’s shotgun, waiting in the CIM room. I had to kill a couple of them. Dread plummeted like a rock through my chest. I hated baboons, but I hated killing things more.
My head jerked around in time to see three baboons bolting straight up the pathway towards me. One of them was the troop beta. Robert had named him Saddam Hussein. He was only marginally smaller than Idi Amin, the alpha. The other two baboons were not small either, each easily as tall as my waist. Fangs glaring, they darted closer, stopping a couple of feet away from me.
One baboon I could handle, maybe two, but three? Especially with the rest of the troop waiting in the trees behind me? Those didn’t feel like comfortable odds.
Heart racing, I stood my ground. Then, realizing I had to show no fear, I ran at them. This was almost as scary as my encounter with the hyena. The three bolted up trees, barking hysterically.
And then it happened.
Baboon crap. Foul, stinking, stringy, disgusting shit hit me on the head, splattering in my hair, on my arms, my shoulders, my back, my face. It was everywhere, flying thick and fast. I ran. And so did they, tracking me as I weaved along the paths.
Then I understood.
The bastards had ambushed me! This was payback for sending that idiot Mishak after them. Idi Amin, the master strategist, had used three of his meanest henchman to literally herd me under the trees, where the rest of the troop waited to pelt me with faeces.
He had just declared war. I was going to learn how to shoot Sean’s shotgun if it killed me.
Retching in disgust, dodging fistfuls of the stuff, I charged for the CIM room. Seconds later, shotgun and ammo in hand, I tore back up the camp, waving the weapon at the baboons.
That got them.
Shrieking like banshees, they scarpered, flying across the tree canopy out of the camp. But I knew they’d be back. I sprinted to my cottage to plan my counter-offensive.
Gwynn lay awake, her face expectant. “Ooh, what is that disgusting smell?”
“They crapped on me, the bastards! They waited and attacked me.” I bolted for the shower, stripping off before I even got there.
Gwynn’s head peered around the door. “Jonty. Jonty can shoot anything with anything.”
What genius! Why didn’t I think of it? Jonty armour-plated cash-in-transit vehicles for a living. He had been playing with guns when other kids his age were vrooming around the playground with their Dinky cars. If anyone could shoot them, he could. Dead they’d be. Dead and buried. Desperate to get him awake and shooting, I sloshed great fistfuls of shampoo on my head. It didn’t seem to help much. I still retched from the smell.
Then I heard Gwynn laughing. Laughing? How was that possible? Whose side was she on, anyway?
“What the hell is so funny about being crapped at on New Year’s Day?” I raged.
“Comfort yourself,” Gwynn said through her mirth. “Your year can hardly get any worse.”
* * *
Ten minutes later, I handed Jonty the gun and ammo. He read the label on the ammo box and nodded his approval. “This will do fine.”
I agreed, although I had no idea what it said that was so was vital to killing baboons.
He broke the barrel, ready for loading. Although outwardly serious, I could see that if he tried any harder not to laugh, he’d have a hernia. What was the matter with these people? Didn’t they understand the affront I had just borne?
Jonty wedged two cartridges between his fingers and pushed another into the barrel. With the gun still broken, he said, “Let’s go.” Then he started humming Danny Boy.
That raised a smile despite my fury. Yesterday, he’d watched me and Thekiso unblocking the toilet in number one, serenading us with an endless refrain of, “Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling.”
I punched his arm. “Take this seriously because if Wildlife find out, they’ll probably have us both—”
“Shot?” Jonty’s eyebrow quirked. “They’d probably miss.”
“Jonty, no one can know you were responsible for the massacre. And if we can, Idi Amin and Saddam are the first prizes.”
“Relax, Andrew,” he said. “I’m all over this problem. Your crappy honour will be avenged.”
I led him to the anthill next to the runway.
We crouched low to reconnoitre. Just down the way, our bachelor herd of elephant cavorted around like kids, but I didn’t spare them a moment’s notice. All my attention was on the baboons sunning themselves across the strip.
Then we saw and heard them.
The patter of feet scampering across the runway towards us.
Idi and Saddam were on the move. They loped purposefully across the runway, headed our way. Saddam stopped, but Idi continued forward, skirting to the left of us. Sensing another ambush, I nudged Jonty. He nodded, slid in a cartridge, and gingerly closed the weapon.
Although he made no sound, the baboons bolted.
Jonty sprang, aimed, fired, reloaded, and then relaxed—all in less time than it took me to blink.
Saddam hit the ground in a ball of dust.
Jonty swung around to find Idi, but he was gone. He handed me the shotgun. Only then did I notice that he had already broken the barrel, removed the cartridges, and closed it. I admit to being a bit stunned at how quickly it had all happened.
Saying nothing, we walked over to inspect the corpse. A small, round entrance wound penetrated Saddam’s temple, with a thin line of blood leading from it. The baboon never knew what hit him.
“I knew you were good, but this is ridiculous,” I said, knowing my words would go straight to Jonty’s head.
He grinned down at the corpse. “Payback’s a bitch, huh?”
“He’s just a henchman,” I said. “An important one, but he didn’t call the shots. For real payback we need Idi.”
I didn’t add that this wasn’t just about revenge because I didn’t need to. Jonty knew very well there was more was at stake here than my pride. It was only a matter of time before these fearless animals mauled someone.
He turned to me and grinned. “Idi’s toast. But we will have to change tactics first because he’s also smart.”
I nodded. How Idi heard the soundless click of the shotgun remained a mystery. Also, I realised, shooting outside the camp would not get the message through that Tau was not a safe place for baboons. Idi and his troop still had a vital lesson to learn.
And so our plans were laid.
Climb Mount Niitaka—tomorrow at sunrise.
We had just finished scheming when we heard shouting. The morning shift ran toward us, cheering and clapping. Matanta and Dylos reached us first, skidding to a halt at the fallen baboon.
Matanta knelt down and poked the hole in Saddam’s temple. “What a shot! Chief Andrew, you are incredible.” He gazed at me standing nonchalantly, holding the smoking gun as if I had just sprouted a halo and wings. The Chief had done something all the local camps, the village, the next village, and probably half of Maun would hear about before Saddam even got a decent burial. I reckon I went up eight million percent in their eyes. But, as much as I wanted to give Jonty the credit, it was out of the question. Not even Matanta could know what we had done.
“Lucky shot,” I said. “Let’s leave Saddam here until Alfred arrives. He can bury him on the other side of the runway.”
The rest of the morning staff had reached us. As one, they threw up their hands in shock at my words. I looked at them expectantly, but as usual, it was left to Matanta to explain.
“Alfred won’t touch a baboon, Rra. Bad juju. Evil spirits. I’ll get Letabo to do it. He doesn’t take notice of the spirits.”
Letabo was a very slow-witted chap who had been helping with the runway sweeping during the rain.
I nodded. “Get him on it as soon as he gets to work or else we’ll have the hyena back before we know what happened.” Already vultures circled the sky. The other scavengers would quickly follow.
Matanta gave me an oversized grin. “I can’t
wait for Robert to come on shift. We had a bet. Twenty bucks. He said you would never shoot a baboon. That you were too kind. I said he was wrong. That you could do it.” He rubbed his hands together, gloating. “Twenty bucks! And, even better, now I can tell him that he can’t read people as well as he says he can.”
Guilt bit. Twenty bucks was a lot of money for Robert to lose over Jonty and my deceit, but I could say nothing other than, “Still, Robert is a very smart man.”
“No, he’s not. He’s a poor man.”
* * *
Not surprisingly, at a little after five in the morning, the sun was about to rise. It was January the second. A day of infamy was about to unfold. Mount Niitaka was about to be scaled. This time we would stalk the baboons in the camp.
Jonty, holding the shotgun, and I crouched behind the curio shop next to reception, waiting for Idi and his raiding party. I admit to being a bit doubtful whether they would come back after the loss of Saddam, but Jonty was leaving that afternoon, so this was our last chance.
I needn’t have worried.
Barking and squealing as if nothing had happened, the baboons strolled into the camp. I ignored them, waiting for Idi.
Finally, swaggering like he owned the world, Idi loped down the path towards us.
I felt Jonty tense next to me. Idi must have sensed something because he spun to the left, and bolted up the sycamore fig tree that dwarfed the kitchen. In the same moment, Jonty stood, snapped the weapon closed, and fired.
Before I even knew if he’d hit anything, the shotgun was in my hands.
An instant later, there was the crash of a very large body falling through branches. It tumbled until the fork in the tree stopped the free-fall.
A stab of triumph jabbed me. A hit. Idi, who had plagued and tormented me for almost a year, was finally gone. The surviving baboons shrieked their protest, and bolted out of the camp.
Next thing I heard were running feet. Kekgebele and Matanta sprinting down the path towards the kitchen.
Kekgebele clambered up the tree and pushed the baboon down with his foot. As nonchalantly as I was able, I trotted over with Jonty to check the damage.
Torn Trousers: A True Story of Courage and Adventure: How a Couple Sacrificed Everything to Escape to Paradise Page 31