safarhis

It was dark when we arrived back in Mogogelo so Onks escorted us and the French couple to our tents and said he would be back to collect us at 6:55pm. Claudine snorted at him.

When we approached the enclosed dining area, we could see that the tables had been removed and set up outside, near the fire pit. Looking at the empty dining area, I joked, “perhaps we’re having a twmpath.” Little did I know what was to follow.

We followed Feyn, the young waitress, to the tables. It was very dark with just a small, faint light on each table. Feyn placed us at a table for four and we looked in interest at the table set for 16 people. Were all the staff joining us? 

As Feyn brought our drinks, Claude and Claudine were escorted to our table. The dim light could not disguise their dismay at sitting with us. They moved the light so it was between them and we were in darkness. Feyn started to welcome them but was cut off with an “I don’t speak English.” Feyn looked very confused and immediately sought out Selly, the more experienced waitress, pointing in the direction of Claudine.

Rhiannon sipped her drink. She had asked Feyn for orange or apple juice and had been presented with a glass of fizzy cranberry juice. She discreetly pushed it to one side.

We sat, for a few minutes, in awkward silence when, without warning, a commotion arose behind us. We turned our heads and there, out of the darkness, processed 16 Japanese men and women, many of whom were dressed in extravagant, colourful outfits. As we looked on in wonder, they pushed past us, knocking into Claudine’s chair, and scurried around the long table, chatting loudly and switching seats until they were all content with the seating arrangements. No sooner had they reserved their seats, they were back on their feet taking photographs of each other, the table, the staff, the fire pit, the cutlery and the sauce bottles.

As they settled, I turned to Rhiannon who looked as astonished by proceedings as I felt. Then, we did the worst possible thing. We started to smile, then we started to laugh, trying desperately to suppress it, I felt very grateful for the darkness but, unfortunately, everything that happened from that stage made it worse.

Selly approached our table and delivered her prepared monologue: “Hello, my name is Selly, welcome! I would like to tell you tonight’s menu. To start, will be butternut squash soup with bread. To follow will be lemon chicken served with rice and vegetables. Then, we’ll be serving chocolate cake with vanilla ice cream.” Rhiannon and I smiled and thanked her. Claudine laughed, snorted and shook her head in disbelief. Thinking that I would have another attempt at Welsh-French relations, I started to translate the menu (not that I knew the French for ‘butternut squash’) but this warranted another laugh so I gave up. Selly asked if we wanted wine. Claude and I asked for white, Claudine communicated through Claude that she wished for red wine. Rhiannon still had a full glass of fizzy cranberry drink and was drinking water.

Having not picked up on the reaction to her delivery of the menu, Selly brought the wine and, after pouring a glass of white South African Sauvignon Blanc for Claude and for me without comment, she proceeded to deliver a small speech to Claudine about the South African Shiraz she was offering her. This monologue, clearly taken from the back of the bottle, ended with the words, “this wine is best served with red meat” which, as we were shortly to be served chicken, reduced me to literal tears of laughter. We were then treated to a scene common in every restaurant. Selly opened the wine, poured a tiny amount for Claudine who sniffed, swirled and sipped it before shrugging in reluctant acceptance of it. Selly then annoyed her by pouring too much into her glass and then asking if she should leave the bottle. “Non!” exclaimed Claudine. Selly nodded, smiled sweetly and left the bottle anyway causing Claudine to perform the most stereotypical Gallic shrug this side of Toulon.

When everyone was seated, the staff performed a traditional Botswana dance for us. The Japanese table dived for their cameras and started filming. When the staff had finished, the Japanese began singing and dancing themselves. One of their party took the opportunity to smoke a dubious looking cigarette at the fire pit.

As the soup (potage) was served, we became aware that most on the Japanese table were eating from a different menu. They produced pot noodles from their bags and started crying out for “Hot water! Hot water!”

I took a sip of wine. It was not the best. Claudine sampled the white from Claude’s glass and scrunched up her face in disgust.

“Not Sancerre or Pouilly Fume,” I said, making another attempt to communicate. This warranted a very definite “Non!” And that was the end of that.

By this point, as the French had commandeered the table light, Rhiannon and I were using the torch on my phone to determine what we were eating. “I’ve got a hack for this,” declared Rhiannon confidently, placing my phone behind my water glass …. and tipping the contents over the table and slightly over me. She was completely helpless from this point and, at one stage, collapsed into a jeep of maniacal, hyena-like cackles. She was unable to convey to me what had happened for several minutes before explaining, in a strange, high-pitched squeak, that the French man sitting next to her had lifted up his left bottom cheek and “let rip” loudly. I began to wonder if we had walked accidentally onto the filmset of a sitcom and looked around for the cameras.

At the end of the meal came more dancing, more photographs and general chaos. Claude and Claudine left the table wordlessly to sit by the fire pit. Rhiannon took advantage of the Japanese distraction to “subtly” dispose of her fizzy cranberry drink by throwing the contents over the fence in a most unsubtle manner. After a while, the Japanese contingent hurried away, leaving as abruptly as they had arrived, their voices dissipating into the darkness until the only evidence that they were ever amongst us was the pile of empty Pot Noodle containers.

It was becoming cold and we could hear activity at the watering hole so we moved to sit at the campfire with the silent French and Flo, the manager. She was sitting in one of the canvas chairs chuckling to herself. When we asked her what was wrong, she pointed in the direction that the Japanese had gone, “They don’t listen!” She said, “you tell them to go this way, they go that way. They are like children in school.” She covered her face and kept laughing causing us to join in. Even Claudine deigned to smile although I am not sure if she knew why.

After Flo and the French had gone to bed, Rhiannon and I were thrilled to hear a hyena for the first time. We were then treated to the spectacle of two elephants, two hyena and a jackal at the watering hole. We were very amused by a black cap lapwing who was “complaining” loudly and admonishing a jackal who, she felt, was getting too close to her eggs. Onks – who had joined us – explained that there was a dead buffalo within a stone’s throw of the camp which was attracting the scavengers (hyena and jackals).

As Onks escorted us to our tent, we felt full on anticipation for the next day.