Torn Trousers: A True Story of Courage and Adventure: How A Couple Sacrificed Everything To Escape to Paradise by Andrew St.Pierre White & Gwynn White

Author:Andrew St.Pierre White & Gwynn White [St.Pierre White, Andrew]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: 4xOverland LTD
Published: 2015-02-20T06:00:00+00:00

Chapter 32

A week had passed since Sean’s visit. I was alone at reception, doing my paperwork, when Morag singled me out for a private chat. I’d avoided being alone with her since Matanta’s and Gwynn’s assertions that she was after my body. I steeled myself for this engagement.

“You know Robert came back from his leave today?” she asked.

My grunt was non-committal.

“Well, he brought me a letter from Sean saying I’m in charge of running CIMs.” When I didn’t reply, she added, “Overnight safaris to Chief’s Island which Sean sells as Chief’s Island Mokoro-trails. Anyway, twelve Canadians are arriving in a couple of weeks and Sean wants me to take them out with the guides.”

My adventurer juices began to bubble. I dropped my pencil and calculator and looked up at her.

“Sean says KD and I have to do a high-speed recon to find the best places to take them. I’ve already spoken to KD, and we’re leaving tomorrow.” Morag leered at me. “You can come too, if you like.”

I cleared my throat, and then stuttered, “Um…nah…maybe some other time.”

Cringing at her obvious disappointment, I escaped into the lounge, grabbed a topographical map, and some aerial photos of the delta from the bookshelf, and laid them across the coffee table.

“So where are you planning on going? Chief’s Island is a big place.” Actually, Chief’s Island was a vast place, a bush-covered sand island stretching some one thousand square kilometres in the heart of the Okavango delta.

I shoved sleeping Tom off the sofa and sat. Morag sank down next to me, thighs rubbing mine.

I shifted a bit.

With a resigned sigh, she said, “The Canadians have booked a seven-night excursion, so we can go quite far, even by mokoro…”

The next thing I knew, we were being called for lunch. At least two hours had passed, spent doing what I love most: pouring over maps, plotting routes to places with strange sounding names. Still deep in conversation, Morag and I made our way to the dining room. The guests—six unmemorable couples and a family complete with noisy kid—had already assembled.

Gwynn gave me a deeply questioning look.

Realising how my morning must have appeared from her perspective, I wrapped my arm around her and whispered so only she could hear, “Good news. Morag’s leaving us for a few days. And I’m doing all I can to help her on her way.” Gwynn raised her eyebrows in yet another silent question. “Tomorrow, she’s going on a camping trip.” Then I added a warning. “So I’ll be busy all afternoon helping get her stuff together.”

Gwynn bounced off to pour the wine.

That afternoon, Morag and I assembled cooking grids, paraffin lanterns, tents, roll-up mattresses, and all the other gear needed for her trip. I left her to pack and went to raid the kitchen for some cooking pots.

Matanta was there with the usual stragglers.

“Hey!” he shouted on seeing me. “Waiters, scullery ladies, and everyone else hanging around here hoping for kitchen scraps—out. I need to talk to the Chief.”

Half a dozen grumbling people vacated the kitchen.

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