Chic Shack

15/3/13

Our hut is tiny. 

Cozy would be a friendlier term. 

It's a kleenex box of corrugated iron, painted with a gritty gray protective coat against the sun's glare—though that simply turns broil to convection-bake.

Upon our first arrival, its previous occupants glare suspiciously at us. Then we duck in under the low doorway, and they scatter, disappearing to wherever geckos go. Our living flypaper.

We get to work moving the two rough-lumber twin bedframes together against the wall, which leaves just over a meter of smooth concrete floorspace to the next wall, which we soon fill with a pair of fold-up camping dressers and a dorm-style laundry hamper.

One narrow window lets in a puff of air every now and then. Brooke hangs an open-weave orange scarf as bug screen and privacy curtain. Within seconds, it's bleached pale by the sun.

Each night we climb in under the mosquito net, like kids in a make-believe tent in the basement. Our solar-charged lamp casts a blue shadow as backdrop for ghost stories.

Each morning we wake with the sun, with about ten minutes until the preheat cycle really gets up to speed. After the equinox, we're up before dawn, which means a nice cool breakfast before the day begins.

Over the next weeks and months, we add to it bit by bit. Candles for romance, binding-wire coatracks, runners for the narrow stretch of floorspace, a magazine tear-out of a rhino, a save-the-date photo of our silly Detroiter friends. We add more blankets as the nights get cooler, and a couple of throw pillows, which will look great on a future couch. Brooke puts together a squadron of dragonflies from a handful of cuckoo feathers she found and some bobby pins, and hangs them on the walls.

A burly airgun loiters in the corner, along with several hundred pellets. Target practice, mostly, tink-tinking into a rusty tin cup. But when baboon gangs venture too close to camp (BOGG'um! BOGG'um! like the devil's own town crier) I gleefully pop deterrents their way, with a cricket bat close at hand. If they make it to the common area, all is lost. They'll even shred the thatch straw on the roof.

The open-air shower and toilet around the corner is ours alone. A neat little square of stone-and-mortar walls, just over head-high. A dry-rotted door that we never close, since it's blocked by our hut. That plus our location at the very end of a row of volunteer tents affords us some privacy, for moving in and out of the shower in the buff. Not that we'd care. But it's nice not to offend anyone by accident.

In the rain—dwindling now, as we saunter into the dry season—the tent becomes a kettle drum. The roof stays intact, but there's a leak under the door. Brooke spends a sleepless night dripping candlewax into the breach, waking me up periodically to trumpet a moment of success. She eventually gives up and turns to her bush-knowledge reading, trying not to chew her nails.

The runner is soaked. The dog doesn't mind. I grumble tardy congratulatory platitudes. She looks at me with her red-filter headlamp, shaking her head and delving into the difference between a tawny eagle owl and a spotted eagle owl. I drift back off. I'm still on much-needed vacation, but tomorrow I have to go early to town to sort out something with the curriculum, which we still don't have, though Term 1 is already history.

At the end of each long day, we skip, walk, or shuffle down the path toward the setting sun, hoping not to stumble over scorpions or puff adders, hoping the water in the donkey boiler near the hut has been warmed sufficiently through the day to provide a bit of heat. It's a chore to build a fire underneath, but a hot shower gives a good sense of clean. A sense of relief from the dust and sweat and grime of game trails, of red sand, of grubby kindergarten fingers.

After a long drive along dreadful but adventurous roads, heads roiling with thoughts and stories, we grind up to the roundabout in front of the common area. Switch off the key. Roll up the windows. Collect our accoutrement. Duck under the wicked thorny branches. Head for a shower.

Home.