Strip Pan Wrinkle Read online

  Unfortunately, as implied in the above, a glitch in Brian and Sandra’s DNA meant that they had been cast into this world without this all-important info. All they knew was that there was a book to sign (because Jonny had told them of this yesterday) and they stupidly assumed that this book would be in the gatehouse office, which is why they passed a lady sitting on a chair outside the gate-house and texting with her mobile and climbed a flight of stairs to the said office. There was nobody there. Not until, five minutes later, the lady with the mobile had managed to elevate her burden of obesity all the way up those same stairs (by employing a slovenly shuffle that was so slow it looked like the onset of rigor mortis) to deliver a severe reprimand to her hapless punters. It transpired that she was the officer on duty today, and that she had a firm expectation that everyone should know the rules of this gate-house and, in particular, where her book was. Because that way she wouldn’t have to drag her bloated carcass up that steep flight of stairs…

  Brian and Sandra returned to ground level and, when Brian found the blasted book, he furnished it with the required details of their vehicle. He then contemplated furnishing the fat surly operative with his opinion on her behaviour and her demeanour. But Sandra counselled against it. So he never got around to pointing out to her that, whilst she was possibly not overpaid, she did have a job – in an area where the percentage of the population that was “economically active” was probably in single figures – and this job was not that demanding (in that it allowed her to sit in the sun and text all day). He was also never able to inform her that she should go and see how the greeter at Nunda Safari Lodge approached his job, and how, by adopting a sunny disposition in the conduct of his work, he was probably a far happier person than she was and a great deal happier than all those shop assistants, bank clerks, immigration officials and even pettier officials who, with only rare exceptions, seem incapable of being other than resentful and offensive in their dealings with the public. And why, in heaven’s name, couldn’t they all be as good-humoured and agreeable as Brian was himself? Not that he was a complete paragon. But he was never really surly – and he never shuffled his feet…

  And he would certainly never let a less than perfect encounter first thing in the morning sour his mood for the rest of the day. Especially when he had a new lodge to visit – and a new country to enter! Well, not new in that he and Sandra had been to Botswana before. But previously they’d always flown in. They’d never before driven in – through one of its border posts, like the one at Mohembo on the southern edge of the Mahango Reserve.

  They were nearly there now. They’d left the winner of Caprivi’s recent Miss Disagreeable contest, driven through the reserve and were now filling in emigration forms in the Namibian border post, before entering in its vehicle log, every conceivable detail of the Land Cruiser including its VIN number and the number of its engine. This would become something of a habit. And if proof were ever needed of this, it arrived immediately in the Botswana border post, where the same information was required, along with a completed immigration form. But at least the process on both sides of the border had been hassle-free and none of Miss Disagreeable’s fellow contenders had been involved. So, all in all, it was an easy crossing (with the only surprise provided by the Land Cruiser’s GPS device, which found its [American] voice at the actual border crossing moment to announce that ‘You are now entering Botswana’ whilst at the same time displaying on its screen a waving Botswanan flag). Isn’t technology wonderful?

  So yes, Brian and Sandra were now through the border and the Botswanan border post, and were for the first time driving on a Botswanan road. It was similar to a Namibian road. It had essentially no traffic on it and it passed through a landscape of scrub, with, here and there, the odd hut or even a small settlement made up of a number of huts. These were again similar to those in Namibia (or at least to those in the Caprivi Strip), albeit there were two distinct differences. In the first place, the huts were not surrounded by litter and, in the second place, all these little round, thatched-roof huts, whether standing on their own or within a small village, were standing well away from trees. Rather than building their homes under some shade, it seemed that the Botswanans much preferred their accommodation under the full blaze of the searing sun, despite what this must have meant for its interior temperature. (Outside today, it was already at a heatwave level again). Brian knew why they had this preference. It was because they weren’t that keen on snakes, and snakes can drop from trees. As he drove past these exposed huts, he thought that their owners should possibly rethink their views on these reptiles, and just go for the shade option. It was only later in the day that he rethought things himself.

  The next lodge on the itinerary was called “Nxameseri Lodge”, and it was located no more than one hundred kilometres into Botswana, just past the village of the same name. Here, the Kavango River is beginning to broaden out before it fans out into what is the incomparable Okavanga Delta (of which more later). So rather than sitting on the side of the river like the Nunda Lodge upstream, the Nxameseri Lodge sits in the river, or, more precisely, on an island where the river inundates the surrounding flat land. Brian was really looking forward to it, and to the ease of reaching it. Not a five hundred kilometre drive, but one of less than one hundred and fifty. And then just a sign by the side of the road, a quick whiz down a sand-track to a landing stage and, when he’d dumped the car there, an even quicker boat-trip to the island. Perfect.

  However… there wasn’t a sign by the side of the road. Brian had now driven twenty-five kilometres past a side-road that led to the Nxameseri village and there had been nothing, not even an arrow or a bent stick. So he turned around and then embarked on what were the less than straightforward procedures for locating and finally securing an arrival at the sought-after island-bound lodge. These, he discovered, were as follows.

  One first drives into Nxameseri village and, when in its centre, one then asks the lady owner of its singular shop as to the whereabouts of the lodge. She then produces a gentleman who directs one back to the main road and instructs one to drive south ‘a couple of kilometres’ to where one will see a pole in the ground, and the start of the sand-track to the lodge. One then thanks this gentleman, follows his instructions and then fails to find the pole, after which one drives approximately twenty kilometres north to put the same lodge query to a policeman at a police road-stop there. He recounts the same story about this mythical pole, and one is therefore obliged to drive south again, fail to find the pole again, and instead try an unmarked sand-track that has no pole at its entrance but is, at least, on the correct side of the road. After a few kilometres of difficult sand driving, one then discovers that this track is a dead end and one turns around, tries a side sand-track that is nearly blocked by a fallen tree but that eventually leads one into Nxameseri village again. Here, by approaching it on this sandtrack, one passes the house of the gentleman who supplied one with the original guidance who, having seen one driving aimlessly, rushes out of his compound and informs one that he will now provide himself as an escort. He climbs into the car, and directs one south once again, and takes one so far south (about ten kilometres past the village) that he is finally able to point out the pole that is often referred to as ‘the pole just a couple of kilometres outside the village’. One then takes him back to his house, tips him generously and then returns to the pole and proceeds down the sand-track. One then discovers, after seven kilometres of increasingly difficult sand, that the track becomes a number of tracks, so that when one finally gets stuck in the sand, one doesn’t even know whether one is stuck on the right track. One then panics for a moment until one’s spouse draws one’s attention to the diff-lock system. One then engages this (with only a modicum of difficulty) and one thanks one’s lucky stars when one’s vehicle drags itself forward, and ultimately arrives at the water’s edge and a little landing stage there, near to which are parked a couple of vehicles. There being no sign and no human in the vicinity,
one then backtracks to interrupt the lunch preparations of some local residents one has previously spotted beneath some trees, to check with them that this really is the right place to get to Nxameseri Lodge. Their nodded confirmation is reassuring but also mildly irritating, in that they accompany it with the hand-signalled suggestion that one should now ring the lodge – for a boatman – but one can get no reception on one’s friggin’ mobile. One therefore returns to the landing stage, checks one’s food and water supplies, has a beer, and contemplates how comfortable or otherwise it will be, sleeping in the car overnight. And when one has finished one’s beer, a boatman arrives and takes one to the lodge. And one feels mightily relieved…

  One also immediately forgets the challenges one has endured in locating the lodge, because the boat-ride to the lodge is a boat-ride through heaven. It is a huge waterscape edged with reed banks and tree-covered islands simply bursting with birds. And these birds are something special: slaty egrets, lesser as well as African jacanas, black crakes, white-faced whistling ducks, African pygmy geese, squacco herons, malachite kingfishers, pied kingfishers and even long-toed lapwings. This is the real thing – and in the middle of nowhere. Brilliant!

  Then Brian and Sandra arrived at the lodge and their hearts leapt again. For here, perched on a brick-built quay and framed by giant trees, was a charming lodge building that looked as though it had been there forever. In fact, it had been there for quite some time. Nxameseri Lodge (as with Nxameseri village, named after the bushman word for ‘the sound that the wind makes when it blows through the reeds’) is one of the oldest lodges in the whole of Botswana, and one of its “cosiest”. It can accommodate only a handful of guests and accordingly its open-sided lodge building is both modest and homely – and completely enchanting.

  Here, Brian and Sandra had a very welcome beer. “Socks” (their boatman and guide) had handed them over to Tiaan, the lodge manager, and, as they drank, Tiaan explained to them when breakfast was and all that sort of stuff. He was a young, white South African, but a little older than the assistant manager, Bianca, who was also white and South African but, furthermore, also the lodge’s resident pilot. (Brian and his wife soon learnt that virtually all the visitors to this slice of paradise were flown in, and that one had to be marginally mental to drive in. Hence the lodge’s indifference to the clarity of its signage.)

  Bianca had just flown in another guest. Or, as soon became apparent, the other guest. There were just three customers of the lodge today – and for most of tomorrow. Great! And it meant more than ample portions as these three visitors and their two hosts sat down for lunch.

  Here it was discovered that the third guest was a Zimbabwean by the name of John. He had a tidy beard on his ruddy (white) face, and a tidy number of years under his belt. He also had a sad history. For here was a man who used to be the director of Zimbabwe’s Natural History Museum until a monster in that country by the name of Mugabe destroyed it. It no longer exists. Neither does John’s principal technician who one day just disappeared… And now John sits in Bulawayo, remembering the past and resenting the present, a present of broken roads, broken water pipes and broken lives. And, of course, as he readily admitted, there was no way that he could now ever afford to leave his blighted country. Hell, if only that awful man could be forced to confront what he’s done – and how many lives he’s ruined. Or failing that, if only he could have a very unfortunate accident.

  Lunch over, it was time for Brian and Sandra to inspect their chalet. This was approached along a winding wooden walkway through the island’s giant trees and was positioned near the island’s edge where, framed by just a few of these trees, was a view of the water. It was, like the main lodge building, of a modest size and it had, at its front, a modest deck from which one could survey that view of the water. Indeed, one could survey this same scene from within the chalet itself, for the chalet’s front elevation consisted of a two-foot high wall where it met the deck with, at its centre and acting as its front door, a two-foot high wooden gate. One could reach in and touch the nearer of the two single beds, and presumably at night, lean out of bed and touch the outside of that very low wall. This was novel, and indeed something of a first for our travelling duo. Brian certainly couldn’t bring to mind anywhere in which the mosquito net around his bed had been the only thing between him and the African night.

  However, he soon came to terms with this rustic aspect of their accommodation, to say nothing of its resident spiders and bees and the need to keep everything packed away (as he was warned that the island’s vervet monkeys tended to visit the open-fronted chalets and make off with anything they could carry). In fact, even when he was sitting on the deck, in just his shorts, observing the river, and saw a long thin snake on a tree stump just a few feet away, he was not in the least bit concerned, and even had the presence of mind to take a photo of it. (And he didn’t admit to himself that he had recently read that snake bites are best dealt with if the identity of the snake that has delivered the bite is known – by having a photo of it.) In fact, it wasn’t until a medium-sized lizard dropped onto his bare thigh, turned around and looked at him before running off down his leg, that his equilibrium was perturbed. He immediately thought of all those Botswanans who don’t build their houses under trees, and the fact that if a lizard could drop onto him (from the tree above the deck) so too could a snake. And the snake had disappeared.

  It was clearly time to sit on his bed for a while, and it wasn’t until it was nearly time to prepare for dinner that either he or Sandra decided that they could have some more deck time. Even if it meant keeping an eye on those branches above the deck.

  Down at the lodge building, they then kept an eye on the branches above the evening’s log fire. Not only had the lodge guys created an enormous heat-giving conflagration on this hotter than ever night, but they’d placed it on the edge of the lodge’s quay, right below a tree whose low-hanging branches were now being seriously singed. Brian just hoped that it stayed at the singeing level, as he doubted that the island had a resident fire brigade. It did, however, have a very capable resident cook, who presented her five diners for the evening with some fantastic fare.

  It was a thoroughly enjoyable evening, as all five around the communal table discussed everything and anything, ranging from ichthyology, through snake identification to the origins of rugby (it being close to the final matches of the Rugby World Cup in New Zealand).

  The ichthyology featured because it soon became known that this was John’s speciality, and it was also the reason he was staying at the lodge. For at this time of the year, as the Okavango Delta diminishes in size and tens of thousands of prey fish swim upstream into the Kavango River, their predators, fish called “barbels” (or “tiger fish”), congregate in great numbers in order to feast on them, so giving rise to something called the “barbel-run”. This was unknown to Brian and Sandra, but is common knowledge amongst most fishermen, who also congregate at this time – to catch the barbels. Indeed, so well known is it that out on that water somewhere was a film crew on a house-boat, here to make a film of the barbel-run for the fishermen viewers of some world-wide syndicated fishing programme. And to provide this film with an authoritative, fish-expert commentary, John had been brought out of retirement. Like some dusty old book, he had been taken off a gloomy library shelf (somewhere in Bulawayo), dusted down, opened up one more time and put to good use – and all at the expense of the film company. He was as happy as could be.

  Snake identification centred on the identification of “Brian’s snake” – from Brian’s photo. Real dusty books were referred to, and the initial consensus was that the snake was a boomslang. This revelation made Brian consider an unscheduled but rapid visit to the loo. But fortunately, the boomslang was quickly downgraded to an olive grass snake. So not death in the night if it slid under the chalet’s front gate, but just some serious pain and suffering. And he could easily deal with that.

  Indeed, more easily than he could deal wit
h the revelation by Bianca that she believed rugby originated in ancient Greece! She was serious – as well as being seriously misinformed. Good then that not only did Tiaan break the news to her that she was embarrassingly ignorant – for a citizen of a famous rugby-playing nation – but also that the game was conceived not in ancient Greece (before the days of German funding) but in a town in England – called Rugby. And even better that Brian was able to confirm this correction in her knowledge by informing her that, as a true-born son of that very town, he was absolutely certain that Rugby was where it all started. (Although, like many people around the world with whom Brian had discussed this little piece of sporting trivia, Bianca was at first reluctant to believe that there was really anywhere actually called Rugby. After all, why would anywhere want to name itself after a rough and tumble field game?!)

  Ultimately, it was time for bed. It had been a long and tiring day and Brian was looking forward to a sleep. He was also looking forward to the olive grass snake having as much difficulty in locating his bed as he’d had in locating the lodge.

  Or, there again, as Brian had eventually made it here, maybe that should be “more difficulty” – and so much difficulty that eventually the snake would give up. (And, of course, not find his way into Sandra’s bed instead. And that is obviously “of course”… of course… )