Torn Trousers: A True Story of Courage and Adventure: How a Couple Sacrificed Everything to Escape to Paradise Read online

  “Maybe ‘visited’ is a bit of an exaggeration. My guide said it was a no-go area to Scops Camp visitors. Very classy. Definitely not friendly to uninvited guests.”

  Disappointed at his lack of info, I chewed the inside of my mouth, my tell that I was beginning to overthink things. “An island in the middle of a delta? I wonder how we’ll get the Landy there?”

  Andrew’s jaw set into a hard line. “I refuse to even think about that hurdle.”

  * * *

  For the next two weeks, the ringing phone caused agony, equalled only by a medieval torture rack. Despite my jitters, no one by the name of S. Pieters called. I had almost stopped flinching at the sound when, on an ordinary Wednesday morning, the pesky thing rang.

  Andrew answered. I poked my head around the door to listen. He wasn’t giving away any clues, so I mouthed, “Who’s it?”

  He ignored me, chatted some more, and then hung up.

  “So, don’t keep me in suspense. Who was it?”

  “Sean.” Andrew grinned. I frowned, trying to think of a Sean we knew. When I shrugged, he taunted, “We’re meeting him today at Hyde Park. For lunch.”

  My impatience got the better of me. “Sean who?”

  “Pieters,” Andrew added with a serenity that could calm an ocean. “We have a job interview.”

  My heart threatened to chisel its way straight through my chest. “What? You’re joking?”

  “No. He wants to meet us today.”

  I succumbed to panic. “We need to dress up. Tie. Nice shoes.” I started throwing wardrobes open, snatching at dresses when Andrew grabbed my arm.

  “It’s an interview for a bush lodge, not a bank.”

  He was right. My blood slowed to a manageable rush. We agreed on smart casual attire and arrived in the restaurant parking lot an hour later, just a tad nervous.

  Okay, very nervous.

  Andrew turned to me, his blue eyes dark and serious. “I think I’ll leave my cigarettes in the car.” He wasn’t a heavy smoker but liked one after a meal. Going without them was out of character.

  We walked into the swanky establishment, not knowing what to expect. Barely ten seconds later, a dark-haired man ambled in. He looked us over and announced in a clipped tone, “Andrew. Gwynn.”

  I didn’t realise I was wearing a sign. But regardless of how distinctive we appeared, we were no match for Sean Pieters.

  He stood six-foot-five inches in his bare feet. Yes, Sean was bare-footed. And Hyde Park in Johannesburg is not unlike, well, Hyde Park in London. I tried not to blink, focusing instead on the rest of him.

  Reed-thin, he wore a baggy, once-white T-shirt and ragged jeans.

  Not what I expected.

  Not even close.

  Even the maître d’ looked startled. For a moment there, I thought we’d be refused service. But, seemingly oblivious to all reaction, Sean pushed past the disapproving door guard and headed for a table with a reserved sign. We followed.

  Sean fired his first question before we even sat. “Why do you want to live in the bush?”

  “We hate Johannesburg and love Botswana,” Andrew said.

  From then, I don’t remember anything else Sean asked. But Andrew and I had tons of questions: the staff, the guests, the pay, the leave, all of which Sean answered with brevity. Finally, the deal breakers: the Land Rover and our small, bad-tempered Siamese cat.

  Coward that I am, I let Andrew raise the subject of Darien before I mentioned Woodie.

  It turned out Sean’s eccentricity went beyond the superficial. The word Luddite springs to mind. I mention this because, apart from airplanes to ferry guests and food into the camp, plus a couple of water pumps, Sean was virulently against anything with an engine or wheels on his island. Gas, muscles, and sunlight powered technology on Noga Island.

  Darien would have to stay in Johannesburg.

  Glumness passed like a summer cloud across Andrew’s face. He soon brightened as Sean launched into an explanation of runway maintenance, a crucial part of the manager’s duties. As a pilot with his own airplane, keeping the dirt strip in tip-top condition, along with chatting to bush pilots, would be Andrew’s version of heaven.

  Darien’s fate was sealed. Andrew agreed to mothball her while we were at Tau Camp.

  If we got the job, of course.

  Now it was my turn to ask about Woodie. Because mothballing wasn’t an option, I dug my fingernails into Andrew’s thigh as I waited for Sean’s answer. He didn’t seem to mind. Much.

  Sean’s answer was quick but curt. “There’s already a cat there. Tom. I employ him to catch rats. You can bring yours, too. Plenty of work to go round.”

  I almost gave a whoop but restrained myself. Sean probably wouldn’t appreciate a manager who shrieked at meal times.

  As we drained the last dregs of our Cokes, Andrew and I made plans with Sean to visit the camp in December. That was one month away.

  “An LSD trip,” Sean called it. “Look. See. Decide.”

  For me, it was pretty much a done deal. I leaned back in my chair with a triumphant sigh. Then, I saw Andrew reach for a cigarette.

  Sean’s eyes widened. “You guys don’t smoke, do you? I can’t have camp managers who smoke.”

  “No.” Andrew lied, dropping his hand onto his lap.

  I didn’t say a word.

  Chapter 3

  Maun, in northern Botswana, had been known to register the highest temperatures on Earth. As impressive as that sounds, it paled into insignificance when stacked against Maun’s other great accolade: it was the gateway to the Okavango Delta, a UNESCO World Heritage site of note. Ask any of the locals, and they would tell you that Maun’s real raison d’être was to provide clientele for The Duck Inn.

  Ah…The Duck Inn.

  Many of Africa’s great white hunters have drank there. Many fell over there, too. But before I wax lyrical on that honey trap, let me hasten to tell you about Maun’s two other high spots: the airport and the shopping mall.

  The airport was little more than a mismatched collection of prefabricated boxes dumped in the desert. Here, uniformed men and women sat around in the shade, engaged in desultory conversation, swatting flies. They only moved about four times a day, when a plane arrived. With the setting of the sun, they’d wait for one of the pilots to say, “I’m off to The Duck Inn.” Then, with an alacrity that belied their almost moribund state, they’d leap to their feet and vanish off to the shopping mall.

  Maun’s mall was unique amongst malls. Women had to remove their shoes to walk through it because their high heels sunk deep into the thick sand between the shops.

  As for the shops…

  For the most part, they were little more than outdoor vendors selling anything from freshly slaughtered meat—blood and guts attracting flies in a bucket behind the plank that served as a counter—to dried mopane worm, a local, but quite revolting, delicacy. Visiting was a real treat—unless you were hungry.

  But none of these attractions brought Gwynn and me to Maun on New Year’s Eve. We were here for our LSD trip.

  Sean told us to meet him at his office. Two hours earlier, we’d parked outside the building in the diminutive shade of a scrawny thorn tree.

  He was late. Very late.

  After driving two days to get here, one spent almost breaking our teeth as we rattled across one of the worst roads in southern Africa, we were not happy. Then, just as I thought we were victims of a cruel practical joke, we heard a vehicle grinding towards us.

  It was Sean.

  Gwynn and I exchanged looks mingled with relief, frustration, and trepidation.

  His vehicle pulled up next to us, and he hopped out of it without a word of apology. He wore an almost white T-shirt, a faded kikoy, and bare feet. For those who don’t follow traditional African fashions, a kikoy is colourful, striped cotton sarong, worn like a skirt by both men and women in East Africa. Somehow, the fashion had wowed the Maun fraternity, who now also sported kikoys.

  I shook my h
ead in wonder. Sean and his beat-up, colourless Ford four-wheel-drive pickup were a perfect match. Both looked as if they had endured way too many miles. A thirty-something woman climbed out of the other side of the truck. Although probably once attractive, her face was etched with dissatisfaction. She wore an almost white T-shirt, a faded kikoy, and bare feet.

  Sean introduced us. “Sandy. Wife and business partner.”

  I stuck out my hand while Gwynn grinned. Sandy looked at my offering as if it held mopane worms. I was about to drop my hand to my side when she gave it a limp shake. Her lips cracked a smile but neglected to tell her eyes to join in.

  “Come.” Sean gestured to a building bearing a faded sign: Okavango Safaris, the headquarters of their empire, I guessed.

  By Maun’s standards, their offices were large and plush. Three of the four walls had deep cracks, and a tidemark ran two feet above the floor around the reception. Pretending not to notice, enjoying the Africanness of it all, I sat on a rickety chair in Sean’s private office. Gwynn sank into an armchair that threatened to swallow her whole.

  “We had a flood. Almost took the building away,” Sean said, gesturing to the stains on the walls. I think he was about to make more apologies when Sandy cut in.

  “I’m sure they want to get into camp and see their new home.”

  Despite being an LSD trip, it sounded like we’d got the job. I shot Gwynn a happy look, only to see her grinning wildly.

  Sandy’s next comment confirmed my suspicions. “I’m counting on you to do a better job than Barbara and Rodney.”

  I was so excited, I barely noticed Sandy’s nose puckering as if a nasty smell had wafted into the room.

  “Barbara and Rodney? The current managers, I assume,” Gwynn replied.

  “Managers?” Sandy spat with startling venom. “Managers manage! They don’t. All they do is complain. Sean, tell them about the oven.”

  With an air of tiredness, Sean obeyed. “Rodney can’t fix a damn thing. My camp is falling to pieces.”

  “And Barbara never cleans anything, so now my camp is filthy,” Sandy interrupted. “She had just put the turkey into the oven on Christmas morning when the door fell off. We were unwrapping presents with our kids when we got these frantic radio calls. What the hell were we to do, miles away in Maun?”

  “So I told them to barbecue the damn thing,” Sean added to what was supposed to be his story to tell.

  “Just what our English guests don’t want. Barbecued Christmas,” Sandy interrupted again, almost drowning him out. “And then the stupid woman tried to blame us. She said it was our fault because the oven was old.”

  More looks passed between Gwynn and me. Troubled ones this time. Trashing the old help in front of the new help didn’t sound like a productive management technique to me. I wondered what Sean and Sandy would say about us when we resigned from Tau Camp.

  That’s if we even took the job.

  Who was I kidding? Even if Sean and Sandy were the worst bosses in the world, nothing would stop me claiming this prize. All I wanted now was to get the preliminaries over and to move onto the camp.

  An hour later, with holes drilled through my ears from more horror stories featuring Barbara and Rodney, Sean stood and grabbed his car keys. “Come. Plane’s waiting.”

  Sandy grabbed my arm as we followed him from the office. “I know Barbara gossips about us, but I don’t know exactly what she says. Keep your ears open so you can report back to me after your visit.”

  Yeah, right. Like I’m in the espionage business. The minute we left the office, I flushed her order from my mind.

  A six-seat Cessna 206 waited on the tarmac at the airport. A crowd of people ringed it, the most conspicuous being a rotund black woman with a cheery face. Amid much laughter and cackling in Setswana, the local language I didn’t understand, she supervised a young lad loading bags of toilet paper, a pallet of bread flour, stacks of canned goods, some tired vegetables, and half a dozen trays of eggs into a pod under the fuselage.

  Sean didn’t bother introducing us.

  Pod bulging, the pilot slammed the hatch, flatly refusing to allow another tin can on board, much to the lady’s consternation. He gestured to Gwynn and me, his only passengers, to climb on.

  “Name’s Mick,” he drawled in an American accent as grizzled as his face. “Fifteen minutes, and I’ll have you at Tau Camp.” He guided Gwynn into the backseat.

  I hopped into the prime spot next to him as I introduced myself.

  Mick whipped through his cockpit checks, crackled into the mic, and we were soon airborne over Maun.

  Gwynn let rip with a wild whoop, loud enough to be heard above the roar of the engine. Mick smiled at me, a conciliatory one, as if he sympathised with my plight. I grinned back and settled into my seat to soak up the view.

  From the air, Maun looked even dustier than it did on the ground. Its sprawling suburbs consisted primarily of tin shacks, many with brand new cars glinting in their yards. Hundreds of vehicle tracks weaved across the flat desertscape, going nowhere in particular. Soon the commuter belt (if you could call a drive into Maun a “commute”) gave way to gray patchwork, dotted with tiny mud and grass huts. Thorn bushes, stripped from the over-grazed desert, surrounded each hut.

  Long before I got bored watching tiny cattle and goats drifting aimlessly across the drab landscape, we reached the Buffalo Fence. This controversial barrier ran the length of the southern perimeter of the Okavango, dividing the burning drylands of the south from paradise in the north.

  It was a paradoxical blessing.

  These few strands of wire had singlehandedly protected that wonderland from the exploitation and destruction so evident everywhere in Botswana. But the price was high.

  Designed to keep foot-and-mouth from spreading from the game to the cattle, it prevented cattle herders turning avaricious eyes to the lush green of the delta. The flip side was the game’s traditional migratory routes were cut off, locking the wildlife into a vast, almost artificial game reserve in northern Botswana.

  Beyond the fence, the view changed again, revealing shimmering water, grassland, and bush in opal-like greens, yellows, and blues.

  Water only covered the southern expanse of the Okavango during winter, when the flood was at its highest. Now, in midsummer, thousands of small islands, some no larger than anthills, rose from the grassy floodplains. Like spider webs, animal tracks trailed through the grass and reeds onto each island, where stately palms stood sentinel.

  Another five minutes, and we soared over the deeper waters of the permanent swamp. In the deeper channels, the water was a midnight blue. Lilies threw an emerald mantle across the shallows and lagoons. Pink and blue flowers trailed like streamers in the wake of passing hippo and elephant.

  It was truly breathtaking.

  The Cessna’s engine changed tempo.

  “There it is. Tau Camp airstrip,” Mick shouted above the roar.

  Something kicked in my chest. Fear? Maybe. Excitement? Definitely. I peered out the window to spot the strip. All I saw was ubiquitous water, bush, palm trees, and tiny islands. I frowned, staring harder at the scenery. The runway had to be somewhere, but for the life of me, I couldn’t see it.

  That was embarrassing.

  I suppose I could have asked Mick, but pilots don’t like letting other pilots know they’re lost. It just isn’t cool.

  Mick babbled into his microphone, announcing to the regional air traffic that he was starting down. My ears popped, and I still couldn’t make out where he intended to land.

  Then I saw a streak of white sand in the bush. I immediately thought of a cricket pitch.

  “You mean that pitch down there?” I asked, half-seriously.

  “Yes,” Mick replied, pushing a small lever. He studied the ground ahead as the flaps on the wings dropped.

  I appreciated his concentration as we plummeted on a collision course to where the cricket stumps and the game umpire would stand—a distance, in the cricketing world,
of about twenty-two yards.

  Mick cut the throttle and pulled back on the stick. The Cessna hit hard, bouncing once before settling.

  “Kilo, Yankee, Bouncer,” Mick shouted as my head hit the roof, despite my seatbelt.

  Since Bouncer wasn’t a call-sign I’d ever heard of, I asked, “Sorry, what was that?”

  “K. Y. B. The plane’s registration. We nickname it the ‘Bouncer’ because it was in an accident.”

  Bemused, I watched him coerce the Cessna into a straight line as it clattered along the strip.

  “It was fixed, but has never been the same since. Just flying this thing is a challenge. Landing is like trying to train a rabid Doberman. One slip, and it jumps up and bites you.”

  I’d wanted bush planes and pilots. Now I had them. A grin spread across my face—one that definitely reached my eyes.

  We rolled toward a clump of tall trees. A group of about twenty people stood on a giant anthill, easily six foot high, hogging the shade.

  “Landing reception committee ahead,” I shouted to Gwynn.

  Mick kicked full rudder and opened the throttle. In response, the Cessna flicked its tail out and spun, covering the waiting throng in a cloud of dust and leaves. They turned in unison, shielding their faces.

  Pilots obviously did this a lot.

  The aircraft came to a stop, now facing down the strip from where we had come. Mick uncoupled his seatbelt and opened the door, letting in a draft of the sweetest smelling air I’d ever gulped.

  My first encounter with Tau Camp—and I would never forget it as long as I lived.

  Chapter 4

  I pushed out of my seat, only to be pulled back by the fastened seat belt. Once freed, I stepped onto the runway. A dozen smiling faces surged forward to greet us.

  None of them looked anything like a camp manager to me. Disappointed, I walked to the other side of the plane to find Gwynn and to retrieve our luggage. A middle-aged black man, dressed in crisp khakis, hefted our two bags. He said something to me, but I didn’t understand a word. He could have been asking who owned the bags or just as easily could have been selling them to the highest bidder. A Germanic-looking chap strode up to him, holding out a fifty dollar bill.