Strip Pan Wrinkle

by David Fletcher

  Nevertheless, the not-quite-so-young Zambian at the service station appeared to deal with them pretty well, and soon Brian was fiddling with his remaining bank notes, trying not to give the guy a tip that would double his pay for the day. And soon after this, he was ready for the off, ready to leave Livingstone and ready to commence the next leg of his loop. Albeit not entirely ready to engage with the Zambian authorities – and twice in fairly rapid succession.

  The first of these engagements was within a few hundred metres of the service station. Here, on some football pitches to the side of the road, was some sort of mass gathering of the local Livingstonians. And whilst Brian had no idea as to the purpose of this gathering, he had a very good idea of the problem it posed for his progress. Because on the road itself there was now a very lengthy ad hoc linear car-park, and this was completely blocking his out-of-Livingstone lane of the road. No traffic could pass it, and the only traffic that was moving anywhere was that which was streaming towards him in the other lane in an unbroken procession. He was stuck, along with all the other traffic heading out of Livingstone, and there looked to be no end in sight to their predicament. Even the presence of a chap up ahead who looked like a car-park attendant didn’t hold out much hope. He seemed to have some responsibility for traffic control. But, whilst he may have been discharging this responsibility with both diligence and energy, its actual controlling-of-the-traffic component wasn’t working well at all. He seemed to have no understanding of the necessity of attending to the needs of traffic in both directions, or, alternatively, he was completely oblivious to the existence of Brian and his co-non-movers. The result was inevitable. The driver of the first vehicle in the obstructed queue (a taxi) pushed the nose of his vehicle into the centre of the road, and then just kept on pushing it. This had the desired effect. The oncoming vehicles didn’t stop, but they pulled over, just far enough to allow the taxi driver to squeeze forward between them and the line of parked vehicles. And this was the signal. Almost immediately, the driver of the second car in the stationary queue followed him, and behind him came all the other frustrated drivers.

  Now, the driver of this second vehicle was Brian. And as his vehicle was noticeably larger than the taxi in front, its navigation between parked and moving vehicles was something of a challenge, especially as Brian was intent on keeping up with the taxi and following its every move. However, he rose to the challenge and was even able to lurch through a gap in the oncoming traffic – just like the taxi had done – when the opportunity arose. And he would then have followed the taxi down a dirt-track on the opposite side of the road, had not the car-park attendant – who had now metamorphosed into a Zambian police officer – commanded him to stop and then pull off the road.

  What followed led Brian to believe that the officer in question was suffering from a lot of stress. He had within him a tangle of angst, brought on, no doubt, by his honest intellectual appraisal of his own shortcomings. Quite simply, he knew that when it came to effective traffic control, he was absolute shit. And now he simply had to externalise this trauma – in the only way he knew how. Yes, by picking on some foreign sap with too big a car and giving him a severe verbal battering, he would secure some much-needed relief. And the fact that the idiot being battered would also be aware that the leading taxi had gone through unhindered by police intervention, and that all the other cars which had recently been behind him were now being similarly ignored, would make the tongue lashing that much sweeter – and accelerate the process of anxiety mitigation really quite significantly.

  It was done. The policeman had been predictably aggressive and Brian had been suitably supine, and he was now able to proceed. Not down the road – as this was still blocked – but down that dirt-track which had been used by all the other vehicles and which ran past a cemetery. It was now completely clear, save for the odd overhanging branch and the odd perambulating pedestrian. But Brian managed to avoid all these impediments to his progress and finally rejoined the metalled road on the outskirts of Livingstone. Here he made two resolutions. One was not to return to this town and the other was not to be quite so embarrassingly supine in a similar confrontation with a representative of authority in the future. Little did he know that he would be putting this second resolution to the test within only a very few minutes…

  It was a road block a mile or so out of Livingstone on the road to Sesheke, and it was manned not by a policeman but by a man with a clip-board. Brian’s heart sank. This might not be a guy with the power of arrest, but when, if ever, do men with clip-boards provide an experience that is even marginally edifying and not instead just downright depressing?

  He pulled the car to a halt and wound down his window. The man approached and looked at the vehicle. He was clearly taking in not just its foreign registration but also its size and, on his salary, its infinite un-affordability. Brian feared the worst. The man then spoke, not to identify himself or the ministry for which he worked, but to demand a document. Brian had no idea which of his collection he should proffer, so he proffered the lot. And from this bundle, Mr Clip-board selected the small one, the four-inch square of yellow paper that had cost next to nothing. Good. He could inspect it and Brian and Sandra could then be on their way. But no. There was a problem. Brian could see it in the man’s face. And then the man spoke.

  ‘This is not from Kasane. You need it from Kasane.’

  Now, Kasane is the site of another border post, just down the road, where one can exit Zambia directly into Botswana across the Chobe River. This exit point, according to popular and reliable myth, is actually worse than the one at Sesheke, as not only does it have Sesheke-standard facilities, but it also has an unavoidable ferry. This is a vessel that is designed to float on water, but for which there is no absolute guarantee that this primary design objective will always be achieved, and that instead it might not sink, overturn, split in two or be swept downstream. Understandably, therefore, Sesheke, despite all its dismal credentials, had been chosen in preference, and Kasane avoided. But here was this clip-board idiot demanding one of its own squares of yellow paper…

  ‘We came through Sesheke,’ started Brian. ‘And that’s where we’re going to now.’

  ‘You need a Kasane voucher,’ parried his antagonist. ‘From Kasane.’

  Brian was building up pressure.

  ‘How could we have got a Kasane voucher when we came through Sesheke? That’s nonsense.’

  ‘No. Kasane,’ insisted the official. ‘It must be Kasane.’

  The pressure was now into the red…

  ‘We came through Sesheke. Get it? And that’s where we got that voucher from – and paid for it. So how in hell could we have got one from Kasane as well? And I’ll tell you something. I am not going to pay for another bloody voucher – as, apart from anything else, I think I’ve already paid a bloody fortune to come into this country – and I won’t be doing so again. It’s a bloody rip off and I’m not having any more of it. Understand?!’

  The man’s clip-board seemed to droop, and Brian immediately felt a heel. He had won. But not only had he won, he had also completely annihilated his opponent – and so easily. All it had taken was a reddening face and an explosive address. So when the nice man with the clip-board immediately abandoned his interest in yellow vouchers and instead asked Brian how he had enjoyed his stay in Zambia, Brian could only respond with an almost sick-making and incontestably over-effusive reply – along the lines that this country had been one of the most wonderful places he had ever visited and, despite what he’d said earlier, he would soon be back. But at least he hadn’t been supine…

  One hundred and ninety kilometres and a similar number of potholes later, Brian and Sandra were at the Sesheke border post again – and fearing the worst. But it wasn’t too bad. There were no more documents to purchase and, having completed the vehicle registration log one more time and having had their passports stamped, they were soon heading back into Namibia. Here the border formalities would have been equ
ally uncomplicated, had not those Zambians had one last stab at Brian’s equilibrium. For when he and Sandra presented their passports to the Namibian immigration official, it was soon pointed out to them that their documents contained no exit stamps, and that they therefore needed to attend in his office!

  This was unbelievable, especially as Brian had observed the stamps being impressed into their passports just minutes before. So they examined every page of the passports in minute detail – until they found them. Only they weren’t so much “stamps”, but more feint watermarks that would have foxed even a forensic expert. Yes, the Zambian border post had stamped their passports using an ink pad that had no ink in it! Or maybe you had to pay extra to get them to use a pad that did.

  Brian grumped on about this final insult all the way through Namibia. Which wasn’t quite as bad as it sounds, as his transit through this country was only through the width of the Caprivi Strip at its eastern extremity, and within twenty minutes of entering Namibia, he was about to leave it again – and pass into Botswana!

  Three countries in less than half an hour. It must, he thought, be some sort of record. But, inevitably, before he was properly into Botswana, he had to negotiate another Namibian border post and a Botswanan border post and, between the two of them, a “dip”. Not a depression in the road, but a vet-dip, where, by driving through a shallow bath of some sort of disinfectant (after stepping onto a mat soaked in the same liquid), one could leave any unwanted animal diseases back in Namibia. This process also entailed an inspection of the onboard fridge to establish it was free of meat products – and the attendant opportunity for the responsible official to invite Brian to inspect her knickknacks. Yes, they were on a homemade stall by the side of the dip, a modest demonstration of local entrepreneurship that was designed to take advantage of the passing traffic and no doubt to supplement her official income. Well, Brian was impressed, but not impressed enough to make a purchase. All he was in the market for was a cool Windhoek Lager, and the stall contained none of these.

  So, when through the dip and then the border post (with minimal hassle), Brian pressed on quickly to locate their next lodge, a place called the Muchenje Safari Lodge, and rumoured to be within minutes of the border. It was and, with only a minimal amount of guidance from a local inn-keeper, Brian found it – although not quite within minutes. It was lovely. It consisted of a huge vaulted lapa, housing the lodge’s restaurant, lounge and bar, and just ten imposing thatched chalets. And the lapa and all the chalets were set on the very edge of a huge escarpment overlooking the floodplain of the Chobe River, which was simply teeming with water-birds, waterbuck, zebra – and cattle(!). It really was an idyllic place in an idyllic setting, and it had an unending supply of cool Windhoek Lager.

  It also had a small swimming pool in which one could stand and take in that view of the river. And, as it was now mid-afternoon and frighteningly hot again, this is what both Brian and Sandra did, before they then retired to the deck of their chalet to take in the same view while sitting down. And then it was time for an aperitif and a much-needed dinner.

  The lodge, it transpired, had just ten guests. Brian endeavoured to introduce himself and his wife to all of them during the aperitif stage of the proceedings, and then engineered seats next to those most promising as companions at the communal dining table. He could be a bit of a sneak when he wanted to – and he knew it. But he consoled himself in the knowledge that those he chose would then have the benefit of his and Sandra’s company. This might not be perfect, but both of them knew how to use their cutlery properly, ate with their mouths closed and didn’t use their elbows as offensive weapons. And these commendable behavioural credentials constituted, on their own, a set of highly desirable qualities that would be welcome at any dinner table anywhere in the world. There was no question about it.

  So, undeterred by such preposterous reasoning, Brian got stuck into his dinner – and, with Sandra, into his selected co-diners. He and his wife had sat opposite each other across the table, and had to one side of them, a very pleasant German lady and her family (who, of course, spoke exquisite English), and on the other side, a couple from Houston who rejoiced in the most American of names, for he was Rick and she was Cindy. To start with, they were harder work than the Germans, and Brian soon found himself listening to German reports about the beauty of Liverpool (the German family had been there recently to watch an international football match). But then the Americans warmed up, and disclosed that as well as being rather staid, they were also rather bright, interesting, interested (in lots of things), and they knew about the world beyond America’s borders. Their only real drawback was that they both worked in IT, which meant that from Brian’s perspective they might as well have worked in palmistry or phrenology. He understood nothing about any of these disciplines, had no interest in them, and certainly no desire to discuss them or even acknowledge their existence. He was therefore obliged to steer the conversation away from IT and into, for example, American society and, in particular, its attitudes to taking vacations.

  Well actually, Rick and Cindy had almost invited him to steer the conversation towards this subject – because they were thoroughly sick of being “stranded”. As they explained, living in Houston was a little like living on an island. You were so far away from anywhere that, if you didn’t get on a plane, you could find yourself preparing to return from wherever you’d gone almost before you’d got there. And even if you did get on a plane – and maybe came to a place like Botswana – there was still an expectation that you would soon be coming home. Because if you were in any form of employment, that was the established expectation, and it was an expectation that wasn’t ignored because it was rooted in a climate of fear!

  Rick was quite adamant on this point – how job insecurity, as well as the work ethos in America, meant that employees were genuinely fearful of taking extended vacations. Not only would this be seen as “un-American”, but it could also mark you out as being a prime candidate for redundancy if a business had to “downsize” and “let people go”. Indeed, this fear factor was why he and Cindy were doing their current African adventure at something of a gallop. South Africa, Botswana, Zambia and Houston all within a couple of weeks, and therefore just about acceptable to their respective employers. Although maybe not for next year as well.

  How strange, thought Brian, that such a powerhouse of a nation still imposes these sorts of constraints on its citizens, especially as a proper, relaxed break from work can only improve a person’s performance. It had always worked with him (or so he liked to believe), and it was just as likely to work for Rick and Cindy and millions of other Americans. If only they’d see the light. And if only everybody saw the world through Brian’s eyes and with Brian’s perceptive mind. It would be such a wonderful place…

  Yes, it was that time of the evening, a time when Brian’s cognitive compass begins to veer from true north, a time when the full impact of fighting dehydration with alcoholic beverages finally catches up with him – and then plays havoc with his magnetic flux. So, with the encouragement of his wife, Brian decided to call it a day and return to their chalet. There they could enjoy a good night’s rest in readiness for a “full-day safari” in the morning. It sounded really attractive, and apparently it entailed no policemen masquerading as car-park attendants, no men with clip-boards, only a few potholes and, for tips, only a few pula (the local currency) and not a few million kwacha. And no border posts either. Hell, what more could one want…?

  12.

  …Well, that promised good night’s rest to start with – and not a night that was an exercise in endurance… It was the chalet. It was beautiful, it was well-appointed, it was spacious – and it even had a seat in the shower. But it also had two very significant drawbacks. One of these drawbacks was known as papio ursinus and the other had the title of mellivora capensis. These guys are more commonly known, respectively, as chacma baboons and ratels (or honey badgers), and they had earned their drawback status
from their persistent desire to invade Muchenje’s chalets and cause havoc within. There were a great number of both species around the lodge, with the baboons constituting the threat to the chalet interiors during the day and with the ratels taking over for the night shift. Consequently… it was a lodge rule that as far as possible the chalets were sealed against intrusion (for a full twenty-four hours a day) either by keeping all the windows closed or by deploying heavy screens when the windows were left ajar. This regime may have worked in cooler weather, but in “normal” weather (when it was bloody hot), it didn’t. It simply reduced the interior of the chalets to an airless, steamy hell, in which it was just about impossible to sleep.

  However, it wasn’t normal weather at the moment. No, it was considerably hotter than normal. And this was certain. Because, according to the lodge staff, the whole of northern Botswana (together with Caprivi and southern Zambia) was experiencing an official heat-wave. Daytime temperatures were consistently in the forties, and they weren’t much lower than this during the night. So the sealed feature of Brian and Sandra’s chalet was reducing its interior not just to an airless, steamy hell, but to something even worse – where sleep was completely impossible…