EXTRACT | ‘Return to the Wild’ by James Hendry

About the book

Following on from his best-selling novels A Year in the Wild and Back to the Bush, James Hendry returns to the setting of Sasekile Private Game Reserve for another tale that takes the reader behind the scenes with the MacNaughton brothers, Angus and Hugh.

It is four and a half years since Angus’ last year in the wild when he was newly appointed head ranger at Sasekile. Much has happened in the interim.

In Return to the Wild there is drama, hilarity and close encounters with wildlife, fire and human incompetence as Angus unexpectedly returns to Sasekile train a motley group of would-be game rangers with his usual stark but eloquent honesty.

Alongside him, Hugh manages the lodge and its colourful staff with a varying degree of competence as events lurch from mishap to potential catastrophe.

Whether you are a fan of the MacNaughtons’ previous misadventures or a reader new to their story, Return to the Wild is an amusing, engaging and heartfelt read.

Extract
Chapter 16

One morning, when our decrepit Land Rover was due for a service — though I failed to understand what a month, let alone half a day, could do for the rattling, belching piece of engineering — we went for a walk around the Sasekile lodge.

Myriad walkways ran between the camps, the rooms and the back-of-house areas, around which, over the years, hundreds if not thousands of trees had been planted. The proximity to the river and a relentless watering regime meant that the camp gardens were always green (unlike wild vegetation in late winter, which can look pretty rough before the first rains). The greenery was great for the guests and, as evidenced by my near-death experience with Mitchell-the-elephant (who had nearly flattened me in the rain one fateful night five years previously), extremely attractive to herbivores when the bush offered nothing but sticks and dried pods to eat.

The gardens were also brilliant for learning indigenous trees.

Just as dawn broke, we left the Bat Cave armed with a few tree books. The camp was just waking and muted sounds emanated from the main kitchen as the chefs began their breakfast preparations. The security guards were walking around the camp waking guests — one of them, Willy, taking a slightly perverse pleasure and banging loudly on each door and shouting, ‘Wakey-wakey, guesty-guesty!’ before chuckling and moving on to the next room.

Our plan was to start at the camp furthest to the east, Tamboti Camp, and walk the path west all the way to Rhino Camp, learning the 169 trees as we went. We strolled through the rear of the Tamboti boma as the guests were making their way onto the deck for coffee. Down in the river, an irate hamerkop squawked about some perceived injustice while grey-headed sparrows chirruped at each other from various heretofore-unidentified trees. Way in the distance, a fish eagle called.

We began on the path leading past the Tamboti Camp rooms towards Main Camp. I stopped at a snuff-box tree and prevailed upon the trainees to name it. This was going to be a boring task because the trainees had to learn how to use the key in their tree books — a laborious process initially. I split them into three teams with rewards (one tenth of a beer or cider) for the team who identified the tree first, and punishment (ten push-ups) for the others. Jerome was delighted when I paired him with Franci. Katie went with Jasper, with Donald and Solomon making up the final team.

They set to the task of identifying the snuff-box tree while I looked for a bearded robin scrabbling around the base of a plumbago bush.

The first individual to come across us was Sliver, the security guard. The average camp security guard has no interest in security at all — the work consists of escorting incredibly rich people to and from their rooms in the dark, and then making them coffee in the mornings. It’s supposed to include patrolling the camp at night for marauding creatures (both animal and human) but, as the lowest-paid employment at the lodge, sleeping by the fire is much more enthusiastically embraced.

That morning I was to discover an exception to the rule. Sliver was about 23 years old, and possibly the most serious person I have ever come across. After the guests have been woken and their coffee made, tired guards normally drift back up to the staff village to have a shower and return to their slumber. Sliver emerged from the Tamboti Camp main area at a quick march. When he saw us mustered around a tree in the gathering light, he halted, stamped his foot, turned 90 degrees, stamped his foot again and marched up the path towards us. He halted in front of me, stamped his right foot again and then saluted.

I returned his salute, fighting not to laugh.

‘Good morning!’ Sliver shouted at me.

‘Hello,’ I said.

‘I am Sliver, security,’ he announced, staring over the top of my head to a point in the distance.

‘I am Angus, superhero,’ I replied more quietly.

‘What are you doing in my camp? I am in charge of safety here!’ Sliver bellowed and stamped his foot again. I came to attention and stamped my foot too.

‘We are here to learn about trees!’ I shouted back at him. ‘We do not intend to pillage any of the rooms or violate any of your guests!’

There was a pause as Sliver considered this.

‘Good, please proceed!’ he yelled, before turning on his heel and marching back to camp.

‘Oncoba spinosa,’ said Jasper, breaking the amused and stunned silence.

I wheeled around.

‘What did you say?’

Jasper looked up from Katie’s tree book. ‘This tree, it’s a snuff-box tree. Oncoba spinosa, bru.’

The others stared with faces as incredulous as mine.

‘Who told you that?’ I asked.

Jasper shrugged. ‘It’s in the book, bru.’

‘Is he right?’ his teammate, Katie, asked.

‘Against all expectations, yes,’

I said. Katie started to dance around the tree, ecstatic.

‘That’s one-tenth of a beer for us and ten push-ups for you, one tenth beer for us and ten push-ups for you ...’

‘Well, you heard her,’ I said. ‘Ten push-ups for the rest of you.’

‘Just ten?’ asked Jerome, whose face was soon the colour of beetroot.

‘You can do as many as you want, Jerome,’ I replied.

They all dropped down, did their push-ups and we moved on to the next tree.

Over the course of the next hour, Jasper Henderson and Katie Howley were the only ones to not take off their jerseys. They did not do even one push-up while the rest completed almost a hundred. I believe, on day, we found Jasper’s one true talent (other than being a marijuana-soaked laggard). He caught on to the tree key with confounding speed and, even more remarkably, remembered everything. By the end of two hours, he was walking in front of the group pointing out all the species we’d already identified, and searching for new ones. The others (except Katie, who made zero contribution to her team’s efforts) spent the time doing push-ups or taking frantic notes from Jasper of all people.

Just after 08h00, we came to the building site of the brand-new Hogan Camp, situated between Main and Kingfisher. There were great piles of building material and, while I am no authority on engineering, I couldn’t see how on earth the six-bed camp would be up and running by the time the Condé Nast people came to see it at the end of the year.

This, apparently, was an opinion shared by Nicolette Hogan.

We came upon a blue sweetberry bush just next to a pile of bricks and I set the trainees to it, instructing Jasper to keep his answer to himself this time. While they were busy, I observed the builders mooching around, chatting, haphazardly moving a few bits and pieces. Then, marching down the entrance to the new camp came Nicolette Hogan. She was moving with purpose, trailed by her personal assistant, a pale, thin young woman named Mary. Mary was carrying a clipboard and a pen in her hands, and the top pocket of her pristine white shirt contained another three writing instruments.

Nicolette was not someone given to shouting, but was one of those people whose anger can be felt at a hundred paces. When displeased, her mouth turned down at the sides and her voice became a deathly hiss. The object of her ire would feel a burning in their soul that manifested in a sense of impending doom. She was the sort of person who makes even the innocent feel like they are about to be found out for murder.

Nicolette nodded briefly at our group, thankfully engrossed with the tree and their books, as she flew past. Then she stopped and turned slowly.

My heart arrived in my throat. The group ceased their tree investigation as she regarded us, jaw working from side to side.

‘Angus,’ she said quietly.

I wanted to vomit. ‘Morning, Nicolette,’ I said with fake jocularity.

‘Who is that?’

Everyone looked at Jasper, who was looking at his tree book. I clipped him over the head.

‘Hey, bru?’ he complained and then looked into the face of doom.

There was no chance I was taking responsibility for him.

‘This is Jasper Henderson,’ I replied. ‘Um, he is the fellow Dennis found on the Wild Coast.’

‘Why is he dressed like he lives in a desert?’ Her jaw was working furiously.

Jasper was, as usual, covered in his sarongs for warmth.

‘He doesn’t have anything else to wear, I’m afraid,’ I replied.

Nicolette inhaled and then exhaled deeply. ‘Angus, do you think it appropriate that our guests see this ... creature?’

‘Well, I, um ...’ ‘

Yes or no.’

‘No.’

‘Then, why have you allowed it to happen?’

‘Eh, I —’

‘I’m not interested. If I see him looking like that again, both you and he will leave within the hour. Do I make myself clear?’

Mary made a note on her clipboard, looking at Jasper with an inscrutable expression.

‘Abundantly,’ I replied, feeling the size of an amoeba.

Nicolette wheeled and strode off towards the building site.

As we completed our identification of the blue sweetberry bush, once again deciphered by Jasper (who hadn’t bothered to follow the conversation with Nicolette), there was a sudden flurry of activity and shouting at the construction site. A builder ran past, pushing a wheelbarrow.

In theory, trainee rangers were supposed to clothe themselves. If they  qualified, then Sasekile would issue them with a uniform. I had connections, though, so I went to see Hugh after breakfast. He was at his desk, tapping furiously on a new laptop. He’d taken to wearing a pair of glasses that made him look much older than his 28 years. I observed as he picked up the phone and pushed three buttons.

‘Candice,’ he began, ‘find out when the new boma chairs are arriving.’

There was a pause as she, no doubt, gave some excuse as to why this was going to be a problem.

‘I don’t care!’ SB shouted. ‘This is a priority and when I say something needs to get done now, then it needs to get done now!’ He slammed down the phone.

I walked in and sat on the chair in front of his desk.

‘Good day, my lord.’

He didn’t look up.

‘I told you not to call me that. What do you want?’

‘Yes, good, I’m fine, thank you — and you?’

‘Oh God. Yes, I’m fine — busy, as you can probably see,’ he sighed, still tapping away.

‘I’ll get to the point then. I need a uniform for Jasper. He looks like a tramp, and Nicolette saw him today. He will not be able to afford any clothing until his first pay cheque — which, as I am sure you are aware, is little more than slave wage for a trainee ranger.’

Hugh sighed, pushed his glasses onto his forehead and squeezed the bridge of his nose.

‘This is not something I need to be dealing with, Angus. Go and see Kelly-Anne. She’s the new ops manager. She looks after small-picture stuff like this.’ He pushed his glasses back onto his nose.

‘You mean the unfriendly one who runs Main Camp with September?’

‘She’s not unfriendly, she’s efficient — now, please, I’m really snowed under here.’ He picked up the phone again and began bellowing something to an underling.

‘Thank you, my lord.’ I bowed deeply four or five times as I exited his office.

Next I made my way to where Kelly-Anne, Candice and Hilda shared a space. Mark was leaving as I approached the door — he barged out and didn’t greet me.

‘Morning, Mark,’ I said to his back. ‘Good chat, thanks!’

Kelly-Anne, like the Gruppenführer next door, was tapping away on her computer. Her desk was disturbingly neat, as was her dark hair, which was pulled into a severe ponytail that seemed to take the skin on her forehead to stretching point. Her mouth was pinched in concentration, and a pair of fashionable (I think) glasses rested on her straight nose. She was dressed entirely in black.

‘Morning, all,’ I said breezily.

‘Fok,’ said Hilda, looking up and shaking her head.

Candice, talking quietly into the phone, spun on her chair, showing me her back.

‘Morning,’ said Kelly-Anne, unsmiling, so I walked over to her desk.

‘How are you?’ I asked.

‘Fine thanks and you?’ This was said without a hint of interest.

‘Good.’ I thought it best to just get on with it. ‘I need some old uniform for one of the trainees — Nicolette’s orders.’ This wasn’t exactly true, but I seriously doubted Kelly-Anne would check.

She sighed heavily.

‘Can you come back tomorrow or the next day?’ she asked.

There was a mound of uniforms in the open steel cupboard off to one side.

‘Have you met Nicolette?’ I asked.

Kelly-Anne stared at me. She would have been good-looking but for the disdainful look on her face.

I pointed. ‘Just reach into that cupboard and hand me two shirts, two pairs of shorts and that old jacket.’

‘You know you can’t just come in here and demand things?’ she said.

‘We have a system here that falls apart if people just come in and take stuff.’

It was my turn to sigh.

‘Kelly-Anne, I am not asking you to build a rocket ship in your spare time. I need some clothes for an employee — this is part of your job.’

‘Don’t you tell me what my job is!’ she snipped as I walked to the cupboard and pulled out what I wanted.

This galvanised her. She shot from her chair, which went skidding across the floor.

‘You can’t just take stuff!’ she shrilled, grabbing me by the shoulder.

I feinted left and then swung right, my booty cradled at my midriff. This loosened her grip and I made for the door.

‘Victory!’ I shouted, and I could have sworn that Hilda cracked a smile.

Back at the BC, the trainees were sitting around the trestles with their tree books. Jasper was standing away from the group, examining a seedling growing where the ground was wet next to the bathroom wall.

I handed him the khaki uniform. ‘Jasper, please go and put this on. And don’t take it off unless you’re getting into bed or taking a shower. Savvy?’

‘Cool,’ he said, putting the clothes down on the ground. ‘So what’s this tree, bru?’

‘Looks like a tree wisteria,’ I replied. ‘Jasper, I’m not kidding — go and take off your glad rags and put this stuff on now. Nicolette Hogan is not to be trifled with.’

Jasper lazily picked a wilting leaf from the seedling, took his kit and headed for the tent — and not a moment too soon because something utterly unprecedented in the illustrious history of Sasekile was about to occur. The sound of approaching footsteps arrested our attention and Solomon, rocking on his chair again, got such a fright that he tipped over backwards.

Down the path strode Nicolette Hogan, trailed by Mary. She’d never visited the place during my previous stint at Sasekile.

They arrived in front of the veranda just as Jasper emerged from his tent. Typically oblivious, he was wearing only a pair of khaki shorts. These he had failed to fasten, such that his fraying cotton briefs protruded from the top, not entirely covering the thick hair of his nether regions. He had a new shirt slung over his shoulder, head still buried in the tree book. He rubbed his little pot belly with the hand not holding the book.

A small squeak emanated from the mousie form of Mary and she scribbled something on her clipboard.

‘Bolusanthus speciosus,’ he said, looking up and registering very slight alarm at the sight of Nicolette and Mary. ‘Um, howzit.’

Nicolette stared at him.

‘Um, I’ll just, I think, put my shirt on.’

‘What a very good idea.’ Nicolette’s voice could have frozen the sun.

But instead of returning to his tent, Jasper decided it was a good idea for him to dress in full view of everyone else. He put the book on the ground, whipped the shirt over his head, tucked it in and fastened the button on his shorts. Then he rearranged his package, grunted, wiped his nose with the back of his hand and retrieved his book from the dust.

Nicolette observed with a mixture of fascination and disgust. She then turned her attention to the BC and examined our little university. It was neat and tidy — Franci had been on post-breakfast clean-up detail, and she’d done an excellent job. I was standing in the doorway of the BC with a mug in my hand. When Katie looked at me, I pointed at my mug and indicated Nicolette with a frantic head nod.

Katie’s brow furrowed and then she understood.

‘Um, may we offer you some coffee or tea?’

Nicolette turned back from her examination of the tents.

‘No, I think not. Mary, do you want coffee?’

Mary shook her head vigorously. ‘No, thank you very much,’ she squeaked and wrote something down.

‘You can all sit down now,’ Nicolette said.

The trainees took their seats. Jasper just sat on the ground.

‘I came through here to see what was happening at this, um, facility.’

She paused and no one breathed. ‘It looks adequate, though I want those creepers removed from the window.’ She pointed at a fragment of Jasminum that had managed to make its way up the wall in the last few weeks. ‘Details, details, you must all learn to see details.’ Mary made a  note. ‘Angus, walk with me.’

Nicolette spun on her heel.

‘Angus,’ she said as we strode down the path. ‘At the end of the year, Condé Nast is coming — you know about that. They have decided, however, that instead of sending two evaluators, they are going to give Sasekile the honour of hosting their end-of-year congress. We were their second choice — actually, their third — but I am determined they will regret this. At the end of the congress, they will announce the winner of the Pink Flute and this year the ceremony will be broadcast live from Sasekile — from the Hogan Camp deck.’

She stopped and spun to face me just before the path opened onto the little clearing in front of the kitchen. Mary moved around her with a smoothness that indicated lots of practice.

‘I expect everyone at this lodge to ensure that we are awarded the Pink Flute — and I mean everyone, from Jacob in the conservation team to Hugh and all the way down to that apparition you are training. Understand?’

‘I understand the sentiment but I’m afraid I have no idea what the Pink Flute is,’ I said.

 Nicolette scowled and exhaled loudly. ‘The Pink Flute is a yearly award handed out by Condé Nast to the best hotel or lodge in the world.’ ‘

Why a flute?’

‘It’s not a flute one might play a tune on,’ she was getting exasperated. ‘It’s a ceremonial champagne flute.’

‘Oh, right, I see.’

‘Good. Now make sure your charges understand its importance.’

Extract provided by Pan Macmillan