Brian had lain in bed for what seemed like hours (and it was hours). He was naked save for a film of perspiration that covered the whole of his body, and he was debating in his mind whether this all-embracing slick was the worst feature of his present condition, or whether the real pits was the sense that he could hardly breathe. The atmosphere in the room wasn’t just steamy; it was also deeply oppressive, something like a suffocating theocracy blended with a blanket of smothering pillows… Anyway, in the end he settled on the atmosphere. He just had to get out of the chalet.
Well, it was a little bit cooler out on the deck (at two in the morning) – and a great deal less stifling. Sandra agreed with this conclusion, even though when she’d joined Brian outside, she’d arrived with some clothes on. Brian had been less modest – as he wanted to air his entire person. And he thought it rather more likely that they’d have the company of a ratel on their deck than that of any of their fellow guests. And ratels didn’t give a fig. As far as they were concerned, you could wear nothing, a tutu, a sandwich-board, a suit of armour or an ostrich on your head, and they wouldn’t give a damn. And, in any event, not one of them arrived, and Brian and Sandra were left in peace to enjoy a reviving interval in their truly sweltering night. Eventually, of course, they did return inside – when it seemed exhaustion held out the promise of some further respite. And whilst they might not be able to sleep very well, they could at least lie on their bed (with, beneath them, bath towels soaked in water) and drop into the sort of semi-conscious state that would enable them to pretend that they’d slept.
And it worked. In the morning they felt amazingly rested and, despite such a dreadful night, ready for a safari!
The only guests remaining in the lodge were the German family and Rick and Cindy. (Maybe Brian’s failure to select the others as table companions on the previous evening had caused them to leave.) But no matter. It meant that the safari could now proceed with the Germans on one vehicle and Brian and Sandra together with Rick and Cindy on the other. And with room for nine people in the back of each of these open safari Land Rovers, that meant plenty of room for all. And plenty of room for the water. (The temperature was still ludicrously high, and to avoid dehydration, the occupants of the Land Rovers were required to swig from a water bottle about every ten minutes.)
Muchenje Safari Lodge is situated just a couple of kilometres from the north-western gate of the Chobe National Park. So, very soon the convoy of two was in the park, and its multi-national occupants were in observing mode. They didn’t have to wait too long to find something to observe.
It was a group of ground hornbills. The title of these endangered birds didn’t signify that they were a result of any grinding action, but instead that they spent virtually all their time not in the air. They were very much ground-living creatures, possibly as a result of their being the size of overfed turkeys and their having a huge (horn) bill, which, when taken together, must have reduced their aerodynamics to somewhere around the level of pure aerostatics. Brian rather liked them, although he doubted this affection was in any way reciprocated. In fact, they never even looked in his direction.
The elephants did. But there again, elephants always take an interest in their observers. They are always wary – and always enchanting. And here in Chobe they were everywhere. Brian had never seen so many before, especially down near the river… For both Land Rovers had now left the main route through the park and had driven down a testing sand-track to the Chobe flood plain. It was elephant city. They were all over the place. As were water buffalo. Hundreds of them, lying in the shade of bushes and probably contemplating why they had been dealt such a crap hand. Big bodies needing copious amounts of fodder (and leaving very little time for any more appealing diversions), bodies that were far too attractive to passing lions (with whom one could never come to any sort of accommodation), and then, towards the end of their life, the prospect of a solitary existence and terminal suffering. No wonder when they got to this point of their existence they were so angry and so dangerous, and so dangerous that they accounted for more human deaths in Africa than any other creature. And then they had to carry around those ruddy great horns as well. They really did have a rough deal.
There again, it wasn’t a picnic for many of their neighbours. The warthogs were on the lions’ set-menu as well. The giraffes spent their life worrying about the next time they’d need a drink, and the consequent obligation to bend over in the most ultra-vulnerable pose imaginable. And the impala were constantly being pecked at by oxpeckers, one of the few birds that Brian found really creepy and that put him in mind of a “bird out of hell”. They would never, he was convinced, make good pet birds, although they might just find a home with one of those shaven-headed dumbos who think that owning a pitbull terrier makes up for their having halitosis and an undersized or misshapen penis.
Fortunately, there were none of those sorts here today, but just the ever-pleasant Rick and Cindy and then, when the convoy stopped for lunch, the similarly pleasant Germans, and, of course, a pair of great guides. These chaps had driven all morning and had found all sorts of stuff for their respective guests. But now they were about to have a rest, because, directly after their lunch-in-the-bush, all eight guests were to be delivered to another guide. This one had a tiny tin boat, and this boat was moored on a small jetty on the outskirts of Kasane (the very same Kasane where one could purchase small squares of yellow paper and risk one’s life on a ferry). For during the morning, both Land Rovers had been travelling more or less east and, in doing so, had followed the course of the Chobe River to where it passes Kasane. And apparently, as well as being the home of small yellow vouchers and scary ferries, this place was also renowned as a wildlife hotspot, where the wildlife in question spent its life in or around the river. Hence the new guide, his tiny tin boat and the imminent prospect of a cruise on the river.
It was fantastic. The new guide, who wore a cowboy hat and looked more like a Country and Western singer than he did a boatman and guide, soon found for his passengers a whole treasure trove of creatures. There were permanently obese hippos, both in the river and on an island within it. There were enormous crocodiles, either grinning on the shore or being ominously disconcerting in the water. And there were more elephants than ever – along with herds of red lechwe, groups of waterbuck, and even a few of a very uncommon antelope in Botswana called a puku, which Brian and Sandra had never before seen. Then there were the birds…
There were jacanas, which are known as Jesus birds from their apparent ability to walk on water. There were open-billed storks, which are known as… open-billed storks – from their possession of bills that are never quite closed. And there were goliath herons, which are known as… well, as the biggest herons in the world, and which are a great deal bigger than giant African kingfishers – which were also about, and, although tiny when compared to the goliath herons, are still pretty big for a kingfisher. And whilst on the subject of comparative zoology, there were also very big fish eagles, medium-sized sacred ibises, relatively small pratincoles and very small bee-eaters, to name but a few. And many of these charmers were happy to sit within just yards of the boat. It was all really quite thrilling.
And there was more. Because their cruise had taken the Muchenje party all the way around a small island in the river (where the hippos had been grazing and where there were crocodiles and water monitors) and, according to their guide, this island had been the subject of a case in the International Court of Justice in The Hague! Yes, as improbable as it sounds, this tiny scrap of land had led to a serious dispute between Botswana, on the south bank of the Chobe River, and Namibia, on its north bank. For here the river forms the border between the two countries, and Namibia to the north hasn’t quite disappeared into Zambia. Anyway, both countries claimed the island, and only after the court case, when it had been ordered that the depth of the south and north channels around the island be measured, was custody awarded to the Botswanans. And just in case the Namibians
ever forget that they were the losers, Botswana has now erected a pole on the island from which flies its blue, white and black flag, to which the hippos and crocodiles appear entirely indifferent. What a world – and what a load of nonsense. Two countries with absolutely huge land areas and the thinnest populations in Africa, squabbling over a miniscule patch of land that has no economic or strategic value and of which the overwhelming bulk of their populations will only ever be aware through a silly court case. What hope for the rest of the world? It even makes what’s going on in the Middle East seem mildly rational. At least there, there are genuine economic and strategic considerations… as well as all that out and out lunacy.
Brian had all these thoughts while afloat. But as soon as he regained dry land he also regained his senses, and remembered that he was on a safari and not on an away-day on international relations. So he soon forgot about disputes and got back to observing. The party was on its way back to the lodge now, but that didn’t mean that there wouldn’t be anything more to see. And, as if on cue, after only a few kilometres of driving, a small herd of sable hove into view. These antelopes deserve a word to describe them that hasn’t yet been invented. So, for now, it is necessary to get by with “exquisite”. And if that fails to convey their true beauty, then one might want to add the word “stunning”.
The lions by the side of the road were pretty handsome as well. Although, of course, they don’t have a sable’s long horns…
It had been a great day. Brian and Sandra both felt enriched – and very privileged. But even so, they now wanted more – in a glass and at the right temperature. Yes, it was drinking and feeding time again, and time for another unavoidable encounter with Richard…
Richard was the husband of Kim. And Richard and Kim were the joint managers of the Muchenje Lodge. Kim was fine. She was personable and extremely amiable. Richard, however, was rather hard work. He was very well-meaning and as amiable as his wife, but he had done so much in his fifty years on this Earth and he was so keen to tell all his guests exactly what it was that he’d done, that he was simply exhausting.
After just twenty minutes of his company the previous day, Brian had been fully acquainted with the circumstances of the accident through which he had shattered his feet. He also knew the full details of how his knee had been damaged in a judo attack and, if challenged, he could have repeated with ease all the main elements of Richard’s CV, which included lodge management (of virtually every lodge in southern Africa), lodge design and construction, a management role with Coca Cola, running a medical communications outfit, rebuilding and maintaining Land Rovers (on a professional basis) and delivering cars in the United States – as a sort of holiday entertainment. And Richard had met everybody and had an opinion on every subject. Oh… and he didn’t seem to need sleep. He was apparently up every night – doing things – and presumably fretting about not having anybody to talk to. Or maybe he talked to Kim – whether she was awake or not.
However, despite this demolition description of this chap, Brian still liked him. It was impossible to do otherwise. He was therefore prepared for another session with him, and another few chapters of The Life of Richard in ten chunky volumes. Maybe tonight he would learn about his stint with MI5. But he didn’t. Instead he learnt a little gem, another insight into national characteristics, a subset of the more general topic of human behaviour that never failed to arouse Brian’s interest.
It stemmed from Richard’s long association with safari lodges, and learning along the way how to deal with a problem chalet. Because there is often at least one chalet in a lodge where the cistern has a leak or the fan won’t work or there is some other minor glitch… and if the lodge is full, it is the lodge manager’s job to decide whom to put in it. Well, one apparently never chooses Americans. Americans will immediately demand that the problem be fixed and keep on demanding until it is. Germans are out as well. They will want to move to another chalet – immediately. That, as often as not, leaves the Brits. And it is the Brits who are, without fail, chosen to be the occupants of the duff chalet. As Richard explained, they rationalise things – along the lines of: ‘Well, we’re only here for two nights, dear. We can manage it for that. And they’re such nice people. It seems a shame to make a fuss… ’
It rang so true. Brian was quite sure that Richard was being deadly serious, and that it really was the Brits who got this special form of special treatment. And hell, it even reflected how the whole of Britain now deals with the rest of the world. Yes, our confidence is now so shot to pieces, that we don’t just tolerate dodgy rooms but, as a nation, we also tolerate a whole raft of dodgy behaviour. Whether it’s rolling over in the face of an onslaught on our indigenous culture, bending over backwards so as not to offend a whole slew of people who richly deserve to be offended, or caving in to the egregious demands of a load of tossers in Brussels, we’re more than up for it. And the quicker we can roll over, bend over or cave in, the better. It’s so dispiriting – and so obvious to the rest of the world. No wonder they put us in dodgy chalets…
Nevertheless, there was a crumb of good news in Richard’s insight into national traits, and this was that, if at all possible, you don’t put Argentinians into any of your chalets! He was adamant. Whether a chalet is dodgy or perfect, the Argentinians will regard any of its contents that are not fixed to the chalet itself as part of the all-inclusive deal, and they will remove these contents when they leave. This all sounded rather jingoistic to Brian, but Richard assured his audience that he had seen it with his own eyes. And not just towels and bathrobes disappearing, but also bedside lights and pictures, indeed anything that could be squeezed into their overlarge cases. He even instituted a case-search at one lodge. The chalets were being stripped of everything but the beds.
Well, Brian was quite prepared to believe this, and was confident that Mrs Thatcher would have as well. And the Falklands aren’t even really portable…
And so, with this further revelation on the nuances of human behaviour tucked firmly in his memory, Brian moved on to dinner with his wife and with a crop of new guests. None of them was from South America, and accordingly no cutlery or crockery was removed from the table. In fact, the only thing to disappear was Brian’s energy and alertness. As well as being a splendid day of wildlife observing, it had also been a very tiring day, especially after last night’s intermittent dozing – and he was ready for bed. He just hoped that this night wouldn’t be quite as enervating, and that tomorrow he would have some energy back – so that he could properly enjoy his sixty-something birthday…
13.
It was a remarkably better night. It was still sticky and oppressive, but maybe exhaustion, alcohol and Richard had together done the trick, and both Brian and Sandra slept very well indeed – despite the ambient conditions. And Brian dreamt. In the morning he was even able to recall the main feature. It had been a new Carry On film – where the original characters had been usurped by a new crop of comedians. So Sid James had been replaced by Lord(!) Sugar, Hattie Jaques by Sarah Ferguson, Kenneth Williams by Alan Carr and Barbara Windsor by Anne Robinson – whose body had undergone a further bout of medical rearrangement especially for the role. And Brian could also remember the title of the film; it was Carry on being Really Embarrassing. He also remembered it had nothing in the way of a plot. It was just the new cast of characters acting as themselves, and clearly not realising how they were regarded by the public. Inevitably, it was not very good.
Well, thank god, thought Brian, that he was here in Botswana and not in that world of lunacy back home, where talent has been overtaken by self-promotion and where merit now takes a back seat to money, connections, hype and profound mediocrity. And thank god, thought Brian, that today was his sixty-something birthday and not his forty-something birthday. It was all going downhill so quickly that he didn’t think he could cope with the idea of being only halfway through his life. Much better to have the end not so much in sight but at least perceptible through the haze. (Albei
t he had no plans whatsoever to follow the lead of that redoubtable South African professor, either in the choice of his footwear or, more pertinently, in the choice of his lifespan.) And anyway, he had a birthday to enjoy, and what better way to enjoy a birthday than by writing a few postcards?
Sandra and Brian had acquired some in the lodge’s curio shop, which contained not just postcards but the usual assembly of tee-shirts, safari shirts, books and “artefacts” – where “artefacts” is a generic term for hand-made wooden animals, hand-made bead jewellery and miscellaneous hand-made handicrafts, much of which is unsuitable for both hand luggage and hold luggage and transportable back home only as an untidy package in an overhead locker. (And never really worth the trouble when you’ve done it.) But anyway, they had decided to have a relaxing morning on their chalet deck, taking in the local birds and all those animals down on the flood plain below whilst writing said postcards. And what a strange, not to say completely bizarre, convention…
It’s not just that postcards are somewhat prehistoric in their nature and have now been overtaken by a whole string of newer and faster communication technologies, but it’s also the whole idea of informing people – who know more or less where you are – of where you are, and who, if you’re somewhere in the depths of Africa, will only receive this information shortly before or even after you’ve returned home. Indeed, Brian and Sandra had been the recipients on a number of occasions of holiday postcards posted by their senders in England only after they’d returned from a “difficult” overseas destination ‘to ensure you received it’. Hell, that’s the sort of behaviour you’d expect from a government department, not from advanced sentient beings. But, there again, was it very much different from what Brian and Sandra were planning to do themselves? Because not only did they believe that they might be home before their postcards were, but they were also far from certain that their postcards would ever get home at all. (They had never seen a post-van in Botswana in their ten years of coming here. Or, for that matter, a post-box.)
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