I like to think of it as a reconnaissance mission...
We had mentioned the possibility of a meet up in Maun during my birthday weekend in the bush. As with most conversations that begin around a campfire you never know if these things will carry through. Dudu, V and I though it might be a great idea to make some friends with the bush pilots (a generally rough crowd of overgrown boys in planes who party hard and spend a lot of time in the clouds over the delta. At the end of the day they’re mostly male and have cute accents). Fast forward three weeks later and as IST (and thus the PC travel lockdown) came to a close V began the coordination of our efforts to meet for a weekend in the "big city". Dudu became incredibly ill and had to bow out, so it looked like it would just be V and I. She had found an empty flight in on Friday and I sat waiting for her in the little known area I like to think of as my own personal hideaway in the crow’s nest (that nobody’s ever heard about) at Bon Arrive (see blog about maun for the feel of this place).
We began our night at the Buck and Hunter, an unfortunately named bar (I’ll let you use your imagination for what beautiful rhymes can be made for that one after a few) that while ok fun, generally has the main advantage of being within reasonable walking distance from both P's house and the Bon Arrive. The Buck was a bit dead, so we caught a lift with my new friend Zeke to the Riverlodge, which was, as B says “bumpin'.” The ratio of men to women was exceptionally favorable, as it usually is in Maun at about five men to every woman.
I took advantage of these lucky numbers by fulfilling my stereotype as an American woman (and shamelessly exploiting what appears to be my “charming” American accent. Who am I to tell these people they’re wrong? I learned of this formerly overlooked little secret weapon later when some guy began arguing over nothing with me and his friend informed me that his buddy just wanted to hear me talk at any cost. Pretty lame. These guys seem to lack serious game, a result I’m sure, of living in the bush for too many months. I do have to say an American accent is exponentially more attractive than a particularly thick Boer Afrikaner voice, but whatever.) by striking up a conversation with the nearest decent looking guy. He ended up being exceptionally drunk and it was over before it started as he spilled his ecto-cooler looking drink (I found it was Cain and cream soda, a popular Afrikaner drink that is lethal in it’s sweetness) all over me.
Not to be deterred, I dragged V, ever the reticent wingwoman, over to another mixed group. Quickly realizing the new power dynamic of and possible blacklisting by the local women, as well as their potential irritation at the competition of V and I (she is seriously cute, and with a last name and pedigree that carries quite a bit of weight around these parts). I decided the best way meet the guys was to make friends with the girls. This also helps in screening for complete A-holes. I began chatting with some of the women near the bar, and was quickly intercepted by Hugh, the most genuinely nice pilot I've had the pleasure of meeting.
We had met on the house boat in Seronga the night of the cigarette lit adventure ride through the delta with Simon. I had learned at our initial meeting that Hugh was moving to Canada to be a bush pilot there at the beginning of October. I remembered this and asked how the planning was going. He mentioned that his going away party (along with that of three other pilots- it seems they come and go in waves) would be tomorrow and would I like to come? Hell yes I would like to go to what will likely be THE (as in only) party in Maun. We chatted for a while until I caught the eye of the man who will come to be known as “Rough”. (In the interest of anonymity, and my future potential book deal I've decided to come up with nicknames or use initials for many of the characters in the story, to protect both the innocent and the guilty. The exceptions to this are those whose characters tend to be too big for characterization or nicknames. Ie Simon. I’m sure you understand).
Rough was Scottish, his brogue worn away slightly by several years spent in America, a relocation he undertook upon turning 18 (more than a few years ago…) and having the realization that being born in America means he has duel citizenship. So he decided to take full advantage of that American passport. The slight loss of his accent was replaced with a certain American arrogance that faintly contradicted his British charm. Although he was tall, dark, handsome and generally clean cut, one could tell he was a little rough around the edges as are most of the men who choose to make their career in the bush of Africa.
He made a few initial flirtatious comments about how I was clearly an attractive girl who would be beautiful with hair, which turned me on my heel as I scoffed and tried to walk away, at which point he laughed and grabbed my arm and apologized. We settled into the sort of flirtatious banter that I realized I so desperately miss about the states. I’ve found most Africans don’t understand sarcasm, or dry humor, and thus my main ability to entertain and amuse is based solely on my inability to speak the language, and my intentions are all too often misconstrued. So after bit, post him storing my number in his phone with some notation of “Sinead” (that wasn’t in reference to her cover of the Prince song “Nothing Compares 2 U”) after my name we parted ways. He could have been everything I ever wanted in another life, before I had a good grasp on what precisely that was…
Moving on.
I went to retrieve V, who was deep in conversation with “Bruise” the pilot she had called dibs on previously. V, or the Queen as I like to call her, is so very lovely. She is strikingly gorgeous, exceedingly kind and generous, fiercely loyal and quite sharp to boot. I like her. She’s the best female friend I have in the vicinity of Seronga. Her family connections make her essentially an heiress of the delta, although she’d never act the part, or drop her name for her own benefit, although she can sometimes be convinced to do it for mine. All of these factors together make her a prime candidate to be a victim of these jackals that are the pilots. For Bruise is a flyboy, one of these Peter Pans of the Never Never Land that is the Okavango delta. They are young pilots from all over the English speaking world (accents! Everywhere, accents!) who have come to sow their oats in the wilds of Africa. They delight in a post collegiate extended adolescence; flying all over the delta by day and partying like it’s their second job at night. More than once I’ve had the pleasure of sharing a cockpit with a man who gave more than a suspicion of having been out partying the night before, although any one of them can and will readily quote you the regulation number of hours between last drink and take off.
So the flyboys are generally trouble. Interesting, well traveled, and fun, but trouble nontheless. They are much like modern day sailors. If one is the mature old age of 27 they have most likely previously encountered such trouble, it is rather easy to spot. ;-) However, at the tender young age of 22, the Queen is charmingly naïve in her assessment of the datability of these flyboys. So I try to watch out for her. But it’s still fun to witness the hunt in action. I mentioned it might be time to go and dragged V along towards a more sober looking pilot who was the friend of a guy who had proposed marriage to me earlier, and we were soon riding home with the wind in our hair.
In the darkish bar and with a few drinks under my belt, I took pause at the idea that Rough’s attractiveness could feasibly be caused by the ever present “Botswana goggles” that seem to be standard issue when one resides in the wilds of Seronga. I asked V about this and she was in no state to recall, having been cozied up to Bruise throughout the night. My theory was disproved the next day at lunch at the Buck when V and I ran into Rough and his (Irish!!! The accents!! Ahh!) friend who were in fact coordinating the very party we had been invited to that night.
Jackpot.
A few hours later…
We showed up at the pilot party in Z’s boss’s truck, as I had spotted the Z research emblem on the vehicle and immediately asked for a lift to the party; much to Z’s chagrin (she is notoriously shy). I had made it my personal mission that we were not paying for any taxis or combis (bus-vans) in Maun that weekend, and so we were relying on V’s good looks, Z’s charm and my assertiveness. It worked well. As we came through the balloons in the trees that designated the party house and went through the gate, I was extremely excited to spy a pool. Maun (and really, most of Botswana) is a notoriously hot place, and to know the location of a pool is better than gold. I decided that pilots and their tendencies aside, I needed to make very good friends with the inhabitants of this house.
As we arrived the dynamic was like a high school dance, a huge group of guys on one side of the yard, (except for the pig rotating on a spit) and a few girls were standing near some cars. By just walking in we had doubled the number of females at the party. These were again, lovely Maun odds. Hugh came up and greeted us warmly, being British and hospitable, and the other guys gawked at us from across the pool. They, being Afrikaans, lacked the same social graces without a little liquid courage. I preferred to sit by the pool. Which in the course of a half hour was entered gracefully by a few cannon balling young men. Being drenched already I of course decided if you can’t beat them….join them.
After the sun began to set more people showed up and it became a proper party. The pool was violated by both people and eventually a pig’s head, (after which I no longer felt like swimming). Throughout the course of the night Rough and Bruise showed up in another British invasion, and Z got to know Hugh a little better (which seemed appropriate as they are both leaving the country in the next month). Singing and dancing ensued, food and drinks flowed, and a good time was had by all.
Our Maun invasion was complete, and Z, the Queen and I all left the next day to give Maun a break and plot our next adventure.
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