Here’s the deal: because Cathy is the main breadwinner of the Winn family, when in London, she’s in charge.
The woman slaves over a hot restaurant for fifty-plus hours per week while I sit at home chewing my nails and fretting about things like, oh, say, whether this entire blog is ultimately necessary. Sure, aside from toiling on the Great British-American novel, I work weekends at the Farmer’s Market selling absorbent, artisan Italian bread in the stereotypical English drizzle— an experience that rewards me with a decent wage, excellent barter opportunities and bi-monthly head-colds. But these exploits are nothing compared to the hour-upon-hour Cat spends listening to overweight, nasal American tourists asking, loudly, whether the blood-orange pudding contains any actual blood and, if so, what type. But hey, she’s great at what she does and what she does pays the rent. Therefore, and rightly so, the wife gets to decide:
How the flat is decorated. Whether and where we’re going for lunch. What time the alarm is set for the next morning and, sadly, when I have get off my ass, put down the computer and clean the cunting refrigerator already.
The exception to this chain of command occurs when we’re on holiday. In effect, this equates to six weeks out of the year. See, I pay for holidays. And when we’re on holiday I am IN CHARGE. Not to put too fine a point on it but holidays start the moment Cat receives a cocktail on our outbound flight.
Only, on this particular voyage we arrived in Johannesburg— one of the most vibrant, turbulent and crime-ridden cities on the planet— where unless you know your way around, when it’s safe to open your car window and which streets not to take, well, you’re better off handing over the reins to a knowledgeable local resident. Therefore, in the name of gathering bearings and not being car-jacked, Bruce and Mark, our consummate hosts and good friends, were most definitely and completely in charge for the first several days. We ate, travelled, shopped, explored more or less on their louche and boozy schedules. We slept in. We stayed up late. We drank, ate and chatted copiously. Which was fine. Wonderful even. Though secretly I was chomping at the bit.
Unfortunately this dynamic was only to get worse. During the week of our walking safari, since we were not allowed to leave our camp due to the very real danger of trampling, predation and poisonous snakes, our guides and tracker were, clearly and necessarily, very much in charge. They woke us up at five in the morning. They chose which trails to take. They hustled us out of impenetrable bush when the elephants started trumpeting. They fed us when the food was ready. All told, twelve days into our trip and I was still a bloody passenger. Grrrr.
After the safari, we rented a car. I unfurled the map and got ready to start barking orders. Only it was noon and Swaziland, our next stop, was six hours away and we had to make it by dark. Not only that, it turned out that the fat, alcohol-reeking, bribe-soliciting, corrupt KwaZulu-Natal traffic police were most definitely in charge of my speed. They even shook me down for 200 Rand (about 15 pounds) for the privilege of travelling ten miles over the speed limit. This, they had the nerve to call a “special discount favour for me”.
Long story short, by the time we got to the World Heritage St. Lucia wetlands, home of five seperate and distinct ecosystems (savannah-thornveld, papyrus-reed swamp, brackish estuary, forested dune and marine) I had been in charge for a grand total of sixteen waking hours. What’s more, Bruce and Mark were arriving the following day at which point I would surrender not only the rental car but all presumption of control. This was decidedly not okay.
At five-thirty the next morning, snugly ensconced in the lovely, well-appointed Zulani bed and breakfast I woke my tired, over-safaried, menstrual, tonsillitis-fighting, incredibly patient, sun-deprived wife to show her out the window it was raining. No, we were not going to lie on the beach that day soaking up rays, even though that’s what I had promised we’d be doing during our time in St. Lucia.
“Change of plans, darling: given inclement weather and the fact that my days of in-chargedness— for the year— are not only insufficient but numbered, you will be rising post-haste, putting on rain-trousers and being frog-marched, literally, across a damp, wind-swept estuary in search of crocs, hippos, flamingos and any other crepuscular critter I happen to find interesting. I am a nature boy, goddamit, and even though I love London and I love our life in London I am fucking sick to death of starlings, squirrels and pigeons!
“Now, now, don’t cry. Here, I made some instant coffee. Why don’t you put your contacts in the right bloody eyeballs this time, pack your glasses just to be sure, grab the binos, stuff your hooves into the wretched, hated hiking boots— the ones you’ve tried to leave behind in every hotel since 2004— stop muttering, get in the car and move-move-move-move-move!”
After much sulking and a quiet, uncomfortable ride to the trailhead, the Winns were rolling and I was in charge. According to the park map, we weren’t allowed on this particular trail without an armed park guide, but seeing as there was no-one around to help us and, well, since we were all dressed up… Within ten minutes, thanks to wet grass and windy drizzle, our hiking boots were squelching with muddy swamp-water. After an hour we came to a fence. An electrified fence with a sign picturing deadly creatures. Four of the big five to be precise. Plus crocodiles. And hippos. Who kill more people than any other creature in Africa. Cue a rarefied whimper from Cathy.
“I just want to soak up the sun and have a lie-in.”
“That’s nice. Remember the time we had tickets to the theater but you were poorly and tired from work so we gave them away and I stayed in and made you curry and watched that crappy Kung-fu movie instead? Over the fence, woman!”
Less than a quarter-mile later, we (okay, I) lost the trail in the wet, waist-high grass.
Then we saw Cape buffalo.
