Being kind to my future self

Written by: Keith and Ginny Birrell

Highlight of the week: I spot a leopard. Four lions cross the Luangwa and thwart the crocs.
Lowlight of the week: A tragic accident in the north of the park. The valley reels in shock
Maximum temperature: 31 degrees Celsius
Rainfall: Seventeen drops of rain. Mostly felt on Keith’s bald head.

My nephew Hamish is a sharp pencil. That sharp pencil gives my sister Sam, his mother, philosophical tips from time to time. A favourite tip marked his transition to  genuine adulthood. Mum, I’ve started being kind to my future self: I’m now making my pack lunches the night before. I’m even tidying and organising my room, so that I can find things. I iron my clothes as soon as they are dry, so that I look sharp for work. Sharp and kind to his future self.

Hamish and I are clearly from the same stable. I believe in being kind to my future self too. I think it’s in my DNA.

Planning ahead probably addresses my inclination to catastrophise. This came to a head when I was running the department of paediatrics at James Cook from 2015. Keith would nudge me to write lists to put on my bedside table, so that I could park my racing mind overnight. That cunning plan kept me sane and rested throughout 5 turbulent years at the helm. Now the habit of writing lists is deeply ingrained. Indelible.

Crossing things off is now ever more satisfying. Allowing me to look back and pat my own back, as I over-achieve in retirement. Our pal Bruce gave us sage words on retirement. He pipped us to the finishing post by more than a year: In retirement you will find that you can only do one thing in a day. Don’t over schedule. Stick one thing in the diary. The plumber might just take all day, so keep the rest of your diary fallow. Wise council. But my lists tick on. And tick off.

In 2019 we move to North Yorkshire: My efficiency drive fits well with country living. We now have a 10-mile drive to get to the proper shops. Aldi and Tescos sit at arm’s length. Planning is vital to keep me on an even keel. At first, we toy with home delivery for our groceries. The lure of virtual Waitrose is tempting. But the decadence doesn’t suit us. After 2 weeks we seek excuses to head to civilisation, away from the cows. So now, once a week, I do a meal plan. Write a shopping list. And head into York to buy the goodies. Acting in this way, I am being kind to my future self. Weekly meal plans are virtuously looking after my future health. Created when hanger (sic) is far away. The cupboards are fully stocked with positive choices. Not junk. Choices from the Bible according to Joe Wicks. We have no corner shop, except for a post office a mile and a half away. To tell the truth: Come the apocalypse: we will ride it out. We are stocked to the gunwales.

I click my fingers and we are back in the room. Our kitchen diner in Kapani, South Luangwa to be precise. Maslow’s hierarchy helps me to prioritise in Zambia. Food is at the top of the pecking order. Without food I descend into despair. Curled in the foetal position. Hangry and unable to contribute to society as a whole. Previous tours of duty have been conducted without early meal planning. Add to this the uncertainty of being on-call 24/7 for 3 whole months and we have to admit that this particular army fails to march on an empty stomach. Emergency provisions need to plug the gaps. But meal plans now need to replace previous voids. Previous mini famines in Africa which have stemmed from supply chain issues or inadequate planning. Even the absence of electricity in bygone days has conspired to rot our food. The dodgy cold chain has stolen our thermostasis and our nutrition. Brain fog on brain fog. I would stare into a reasonably well stocked fridge and reach apoplexy. Unfit to choose lunch.

This week, our Reduce your chance of stroke and heart attack programme starts up again. We have 2 weeks before we start work in the clinic. We put this time to good use. Although we miss our first planned camp stay because of the antics in Qatar and Iran. Our Karma plays out well. We have 2 more days to get all our s**t in a sock. To sort out study books. Paperwork. Medication. Unpack all the bags. Do some shopping. Re-pack our bags. And then we head into the bush. To our first camp.

We are now old hands. Experienced with our programme’s mechanics. We meet with the staff. Explain the process. Set up two rooms. A waiting area. The scene is set. The hive starts buzzing.

Our first camp this year is Puku Ridge. And the adjoining Chichele Presidential lodge. Built for KK. Dr Kenneth Kaunda. The first president of Zambia. A man who truly loved the bush. He supported South Luangwa becoming a national park. With protection for wildlife. In return, they built him a lodge. The old lodge was decommissioned about 5 years ago. This year marks the opening of the newly built lodge. It is truly amazing. Beautiful. Stylish. Presidential. We are given a family suite to work in. This is still low season, so the lodge is almost empty. We set our kit up in all the splendour. Keith takes one wing of the suite. I take the reception area.

We join the staff daily meeting. Both lodges come together. It’s 07:30. About 60 people roll up. The meeting starts with a prayer. Christianity the norm. We then take the opportunity to preach. The managers pitch in. Healthy eating. Less salt. Less sugars. Nsima now taboo. Roller meal the new idol. Activity the buzz word. We discuss our programme. Screening a big part of it. We are asking people to be kind to their future selves. Protect your future. Choose from doable options that resonate. Sing our hymns. Pray to our Gods.

Soon we have a steady stream of parishioners. Many returning participants. It’s a pleasure to catch up with old friends. And make new friends. Our previous followers are doing well. Many have lower BPs. Slimmer tummies. Many are regular attendees at the BP and diabetes clinic in Kakumbi.

Invisible ills declare themselves as ever. 45% have BP. 5% have sugar diabetes. They join our church. Happy to take our communion wafers. Happy to accept the lifestyle Gospel. Almost homeopathic doses of drugs when needed. But smokers sit open mouthed as Keith shares the news of their expected future bedroom disappointments. Then, whilst they are trying to hide their discomfort, he predicts their early demise. Insult. Then injury. The ball is then left in their court.

In 3 days, we see 55 people. We work from 07:30 until 17:00. A short break for lunch. No time for game drives. But enough leeway to steal glances out of landscape windows. Perched on a hill. Looking down on the plains. Elephants march to the river. Under orders from The Colonel. Journeys of giraffe. Buffalo. Impala. Zebra. Puku. Unrivalled views from unrivalled offices.

At the end of the day, we retreat to our luxury bedroom at Puku Lodge. Just 1km away. Delicious food our reward for our labour. We fall asleep to the sounds of the bush. We reset ourselves for another day. After bottoming out Puku and Chichele we head further south. To the southern bushcamps. 7 camps in 2 days. Another 57 people seen. A brief reset at Kapani and our compass turns north. In 4 days at Tafika we see 93 more.

This is now the 3rd year of our programme. We have recruited 480 people, mostly aged over 40. And seen another 500, younger than 40. All have been screened for hypertension and diabetes. All offered treatment for their hidden ills. All now ably supported by our new BP and diabetes clinic at Kakumbi. Set up with your generous support last year. We care for those afflicted with old strokes but, touch wood, new strokes and heart attacks now seem rare. Could this be a fluke or a happy consequence of the new services? It’s hard to know, but it sustains and drives us.

Your generosity is what really sustains our programme. You support the hypertension and diabetes clinic in Kakumbi. Three staff run the clinic on 2 afternoons every week. You fund their work, and supplement the government provided medication. You ensure that people are offered treatment to normalise their blood pressure. Or control their diabetes. For that, we are truly thankful. For that, the people in the South Luangwa Valley truly thank you.

Our new mantra echoes inside my head, as I tap out this blog: What can you do today, to be kind to your future self? Hamish’s DNA imprints on our Valley. Our shared mantra reverberates around the Valley. People are planning to be kind to their future selves. Through healthier diets, and more active lives. Through kicking bad habits, and adopting good ones. Through consistently taking tiny doses of medicines, that ward off stroke and heart attack. Their kindness to their future selves will be harvested come rain or shine. Just as well, since proper rain is not expected here for quite a while.

The same. But Different

Written by: Keith and Ginny Birrell

Highlight of the week: We reconnect with our cats
Lowlight of the week: We crash the doc house power system
Maximum temperature: 30 degrees Celsius
Rainfall: Not a dicky bird

My nick name is Sloe Gin. The pun is intended. Not through sloth, I hasten to add. But on account of my pace on a mountain bike, or on skis. I’m not in a rush to die you understand. My tortoise nature contrasts with Keith’s Duracell bunnyness. Perhaps it’s that contrast that makes our marriage work. That slow nature is a transferable skill. It sometimes affects other aspects of my life too. But many of you will read this with incredulity. My default speed often seems to be full pelt. My speech. My work. My thinking.

Life in the slow lane might sound a little dull to some. But constantly being in the fast lane might just cause me to crash and burn. Along the same vein: I admit that I also like my fair share of orderliness. I find comfort in things being the same. But I also love the excitement of different. Should I look for a sweet spot, somewhere in between? A Goldilocks zone. A heavenly place. A land of milk and honey. Good in theory, but so so hard to find. Perhaps Goldilocks went too far? Always struggling to find that perfect existence. So, instead of searching for Goldilocks’ idea of heaven, we Birrells prefer to mix things up: with just enough different to spice things up; and just enough same to temper the spice.

Our travels can sound adventurous. Exotic places. Biking. Camper-van. Boats of various ilks. Backpacks or scuba gear. There’s a big world out there, and we see no reason that Mr Bond should have it all to himself. Still, we are yet to scratch the surface. We have a deep travel bucket list that holds lots of future gems. Places to go. Things to do. But we like to throw in a handful of the mundane. A little bit of same. A little less of different.

Yet, our list never gets ticked off. For ticking off might suggest that we can’t go back. It might suggest that we can’t do the same again. We find it hard to understand when people tell us they have done a country. What does that mean? Is visiting a country just a cursory thing? A stamp in the passport? Something to brag about? Or just something to gossip with the neighbours about across the garden fence? Either way a checklist is just not our thing.

Although we have previously joked about collecting an alphabet of countries, it held no joy. The missing X would have grated anyway. We have even contemplated collecting Stans. But we have got no further than Pakistan and Baltistan. There has to be some joy and some level of safety to make a trip pass muster. It’s not that we are total thrill seekers. Always chasing a new, better experience. We like a modicum of comfort. Less unknowns and more knowns. But so far, it’s fairly unusual for us to go back to exactly the same spot. Too much same same brings forth a quandary: An emotional impasse. Will it be as good as last time? Or will it be the same, but different?

This is the 4th year that we have returned to work in Zambia. The 8th visit if you count various holidays in the past. I must emphasise to our detractors that we are not on holiday now. Yet Zambia is a place that we keep coming back to. This time, we return to a familiar setting and to many familiar faces. But time has marched on. South Luangwa is the same. But different.

A week ago: We fly into Mfuwe International Airport. The sun is setting. The airport boasts International status because of a couple of flights a week from Malawi. They have a modest immigration team. It’s really just a small domestic terminal. A proper tarmac runway. The airport feels the same. Not much has changed here. It feels like home.

Lusaka International airport earlier that day: The airport has now come of age. It was built as a statement. It's opening, at the time of the last elections, no accident. Vote for me. It shouts. Look what I have achieved. Loans from China backed its revamp. The building feels decidedly unAfrican. Shiny and new. We are through immigration within 10 minutes of landing. Our bags arrive 15 minutes later. The customs team are undermanned and decide to go lite today. One bag in two passes through the scanner. We grab some Kwacha from the exchange booth outside and steer our oversized carts along the pristine corridor toward the domestic terminal. Domestic check-in is efficient. They decide to waive our excess excess 2 kilos of hold luggage. We have previously negotiated to have an excess of 75 kilos for this flight. Relieved we smile sweetly and walk away with our ridiculously heavy carry-on bags. Our connection was slick. A contrast to Manchester airport. Same but different.

We don’t just land in Mfuwe - we land on our feet, and we land a major coup. We have been very fortunate to move straight into the doc house. We can make it ours. Home for the next 4 months. Normally, when we come early, we have to camp out somewhere. Pam is always generous to us. Our resident favourite artist. Previously, we have stayed in her house. This year we had planned to stay in her rondaval. A little round house with a bedroom and bathroom. Her kitchen would have been our kitchen. A pied-à-terre but not our own foot space. But since the doc house is free, we score an upgrade. Our house has been extensively renovated since last year. It’s kind of the same. But different.

We approach our Kapani home from the airport. A journey of beautiful giraffes crosses the road in front of us. This road is a tad more wild than our Yorkshire ones. It is frequently crossed by all manner of wild beasts. Its name changes weekly. Today it becomes Giraffe Grove. Not quite the Wild Dog trail that Doc Ellie found on her arrival 3 years earlier. But special nonetheless. The road is as potholed as ever. Holes filled by stones and sand. Gradually worn away to be holes again. Kapani is familiar. Sandy roads branching off in every direction. But the car knows the way. We turn the corner. The doc house comes into sight. No longer the burnt orange colour we are familiar with. Now a subtle slate grey. It blends into the surroundings. The same. But different.

We unload our hoard of bags. A few journeys from car to house. The outside veranda looks spanking new. The cracked concrete removed. A new layer: smooth, pale and clean. Fresh. Inviting. Not yet fouled by the baboons and vervet monkeys. The outside furniture looks unsullied. A place to sit and deliberate. Somewhere to catch our thoughts. Inside the house, the transformation is more stark. Again, a new concrete floor. Pale. Clean. And fresh. No gaping chasm in the floor, nor up the wall. No termites determined on recycling the building back to dust. A simple wall hanging hangs on the unblemished wall. No cracks to hide this year it decorates rather than hides. The shower has been retiled. The house is amazing. It’s kind of the same. But really very different.

Our first night is spent unpacking. It takes a while to find a home for 153kg of luggage. We make good progress. Three bags full become 3 bags empty. The 4th bag, a bag too far for our first night. A 5th bag materialises too. Star Trek style, from Anna’s remote hideaway. Beamed down from Chipembele’s other-worldly store. We had stashed heavy goods, that we would not need in Yorkshire. Out of sight and largely out of mind. Our woolly memories have forgotten its contents, but our fatigue is shaken off with the excitement of opening this time capsule. It proves to be a treasure chest. 2 bottles of wine. Our collapsible chairs. Spices. Some tinned food. Yeast. Our stroke programme kit.

We settle in for our first night’s sleep. It's hot. The air con appears to be caput. But at least we have a new fan in our bedroom. And the power gods rally to our cause. A big white box sits blinking green in the corner. Our new inverter. Zambia still rations its hydroelectric power. But on day one, rather night one, we are oblivious. The same. But different.

05:30 Our first full day begins with vigour. Up bright and early with our morning baboon crashing alarm call. The baboons still like to jump on our roof at first light. The troop looks healthy and active. But the menacing male, who bothered us so much last year, is not in evidence. We do some morning yoga and weights. We make coffee. Have breakfast. Switch on the kitchen air con, in the hope that it will start working. Nothing.

09:30 disaster strikes. The lights go off. The inverter goes silent. The nice coloured lights are no longer blinking. Teresa, our soon to be ex-cleaner, tells us that there are power cuts every day from 06:00-14:00. We realise the error of our ways immediately. We have been using battery power since 06:00. Three boiled kettles and 3 attempts to run the kitchen air con have drained the battery. We need driving lessons. To learn how to drive the house. How to conserve our electricity. Lesson one is history. Never to be repeated. Our inverter takes hydroelectric power and turns it into precious electron fuel. This precious electron energy will run our essentials. The fridge. The lights. The fans. The internet. Anything else is a luxury. We message the electrician. He counsels that we disconnect the air con and kettle socket from our inverter circuit. We are determined to learn and move on. It’s the same. But different.

Other improvements to our Zambian existence impress us too. Our doc house has constant internet. Except for when we crash the power system that is. Ordinarily we might have made a play of railing against the ‘Merican axis of evil. But Mr Musk has offered us a bite of his apple and we have bitten hard. We toy with choosing mobil