Chunk and Check
Written by: Keith and Ginny Birrell
Photo of the week - we find Lucy out hunting
Highlight of the week: 500 recruits are now in our stroke prevention programme.
Lowlight of the week: A late night call saps our energy.
Minimum temperature: 11 degrees Celsius
Rainfall: Still waiting
Before you master the stethoscope, you’ve got to master the art of connecting with people. As a medical educator who's been around the block a few times, I’ve learned that the earlier you reach them, the better. Nowadays, as soon as the nappies come off, students get a diet of ICE. Ideas. Concerns. Expectations. We waxed lyrically about this in 2023. On graduation, the patter becomes refined. Forget it at your peril. Resurrect it to leap those little hurdles as you progress through your medical career. It’s a framework that keeps the chaos at bay. Omit it and you risk unhappy punters and confusion.
When a sick child is admitted, we carry the parents and the family with us. Inform. Be honest. Update. Avoid jargon. Sometimes be guarded. But always communicate. And check understanding. Students are taught to chunk and check. Break it down. Bit by bit. Medicine is complicated. Explaining illnesses and treatment is vital.
Zambia is rather behind the times. Communication the except. Not the rule. Involving patients in decision making, almost unheard of. We would like to buck that trend. Our efforts may seem token to some. This week Keith and I see William, a 67-year-old man. We have a room full. Family. Patient. Three clinicians. William’s problems need unpicking. He has been told that he has prostate cancer. Yet his prostate feels normal. His prostatic ultrasound is reassuring. Keith spends some time explaining his thoughts. The possible diagnoses. Chunk. And the possible ways forward. Chunk. Keith then checks. Do you have any questions? Silence. William slowly turns to the clinical officer and states: I don’t know what to ask. William has never been asked if he has any questions before. No-one has ever tried to explain his illness, or the possible investigations with him before. Let alone the possibility of him being able to share decisions about his own care. Dumbfounded, William smiles. He likes this approach, but William is not quite with the programme just yet. The family sigh with relief. They have been unhappy with clinician centred care that has given no clarity.
Our first week back in the clinic is heartening. Old friends greet us warmly. New colleagues look on with interest. I choose to spend my first morning in the clinic with Agatha. A new nurse. We aim to see paediatric patients. It’s winter here. I lose count of the number of children with viral colds and flu. Only one child today has malaria. Our needle in a haystack. Every child with a history of fever really needs a malaria test. A finger-prick blood test. If we are lucky, a result within 10 minutes. At the moment we are waiting 1-2 hours for those results. No rapid tests today. Just old-fashioned blood films. For staining. Examined meticulously under the microscope. We have to limit our tests. Hedge our bets. Our haystack is taking a while to process today. I pray for respite. Something to break the monotony. Answering my prayers: Keith comes to find me. Can you come and see a child? I’d like you to do a developmental assessment please. There is no need to ask me twice!
Peter is 11 years old. He is with Janita, his stepmother. Janita worries about him. He is not doing well at school. She would like to know why. I probe a little further. He only plays with younger children. Girls. He can be giggly. He often wets himself. Needs help on the toilet. He is in year one at school. He has been in year one for 3 years. His teachers say he’s not ready to progress. He is not learning well.
I put my paediatric hat well and truly on. I decide to start at the beginning. The pregnancy. His birth history. Janita looks at me blankly. He only came to live with us this year. I have been with his father for 6 years. He had a nasty divorce from his ex-wife. I didn’t know him then. I have no idea about his early life. But mum, Caral, will help.
Caral comes on the phone. She speaks fluent English. I explain who I am. I offer to help to find some answers. She appears to remember all the details. Peter was born on time. Normal pregnancy. No infections in pregnancy. No drugs or alcohol. Peter cried at birth. Fed well. Grew well. Walked and talked at the expected times. There were no issues. He changed when he was 8 years old. I’m puzzled. How odd! No further information is offered. No history of head injury. No accidents. Caral fails to mention his epilepsy and the new medicine that has stopped his unmentioned fits. The trail seems cold.
I scratch my head. What is going on? I decide to stop asking open questions. Perhaps a few closed, yes/no answers are needed? Has he ever had a severe infection? Like severe malaria or meningitis. Caral answers: Yes, immediately. He had severe malaria when he was 7. He had lots of convulsions. He was in hospital for a couple of weeks.
Eureka. Finally, a breakthrough. Of course, Zambian hospital care is nothing like we are used to in the UK. No large multidisciplinary teams. Peter was admitted with his malaria. And given treatment. But the condition was never explained to his parents. No assessments after he got better. No clinic follow up. No community support. He started to have fits shortly after this episode. But these were looked at and treated in isolation. The epilepsy team probably never even knew that he had had cerebral malaria. Notes rudimentary. Dots not joined. He was doing well at school until the age of 7. Then he dropped off a cliff. No educational assessments. No educational psychology. Peter’s teachers just reported a lack of progress.
This surely must be the smoking gun. I explain to Caral and Janita that I think Peter’s episode of cerebral malaria has damaged his brain. Janita phones Andrew, Peter’s dad. I share the situation with Andrew too.
My crystal ball comes out. In truth, I have no idea what Peter’s future holds. But I have no doubt that understanding why he is having difficulties will be really useful to the family. I reiterate the importance of continuing with his education. I ask them to seek out a special education needs teacher in the valley. I guess that someone in this special Valley has relevant skills. I urge Andrew not to punish Peter for his apparent failures. But to celebrate his successes. To concentrate on self-cares skills. Help him to find a hobby. Something he loves.
Peter may well find a manual skill at which he can excel. He is never going to be an A* academic pupil. But there is no reason why, with gentle support and directed input, he shouldn’t be able to live an independent life. Perhaps he might farm. Thrive. Be accepted. Embraced. Become part of a community that can make invisible disability able. Putting ability in capital letters and dissing the lower-case impairment.
I sum up my day with a high and with a low. With a rose and with a thorn. The contrast emphasising any victory and any setback. My thorn today, that Peter has been left not the full shilling. My rose today, that understanding Peter’s deficits will allow his parents to reset their expectations. Peter’s future is what it can be.
Remember to click the link below to view some incredible photos!
Chunk and Check / BLOG | Into Africa
Lioness bring it home
Written by: Keith and Ginny Birrell
Photo of the week: Amalgamated lion
Highlight of the week: The lionesses break the English jinx. Penalties are no longer an impossible barrier.
Lowlight of the week: Immigration issues strike again. Our plans to return to Zambia in April 2026 come a cropper.
Maximum temperature: 31 degrees. But we record 15 degrees in Chipata.
Rainfall: Not a drop
Sunday. A day of rest. Our one day off. If you can have a day off, when you are working 24/7. 7 days a week. Because medicine has never been a 9 to 5 job. From 5pm on Saturday until 7am on Monday, our prices double. If you want to see a doctor here on a Sunday your pockets have to be deeper. Or you have to be particularly unwell. The higher price discourages nuisance calls on a Sunday. At least.
It’s Sunday. 05:00. Pitch black outside. The baboons are still asleep in the trees. An unwelcome noise emits from the phone. Not a phone call warning us of impending work. But an insistent alarm call. To wake us up. We have a game drive booked. We rise groggily. Move about the house with practiced ease. Shower. Dress. Make coffee to go. Pack up breakfast in a cool bag. Binoculars. Camera. Warm fleeces. Sun glasses. Hats. Phones checked: Doc phone. Keith’s phone. My phone. Nothing is brewing. Thunderbirds are go.
Perry is waiting for us at Tribal Textiles. A 2 minute drive from the park gate. Perry is a dear friend and a star guide. He has some study time off guiding duties. His walking guide exams around the corner. Perhaps we are doing him a favour? He maintains that we are. Giving him a break from the books. Respite. Perry will share his office with us this morning. Doc Ellie and Crispin (the football saviour) join us to learn from the student and master guide. Perry has an adventure planned. But the plan will take shape as we roll.
We sit in an open game viewer. Arriving as they open the park at 06:00. The sun rises slowly. The dark landscape taking shape. The shape of our drive emerging.
Perry has a tip that hyenas are making noises at Mbangula lagoon. Whoops and giggles. Let’s go there first and check it out. Mushroom loop can wait a bit. An 8 vehicle self-drive convoy precedes us. The park looks busy at this point. We eat their dust for a minute. But soon find our own groove. Inside knowledge of the park finds us alone again.
Perhaps the self-drivers are chasing their own tips and rumours. We thank the hearsay. Rejoicing that we can only now hear more natural bush sounds. For now all is quiet. The lagoon is still. We approach a large bevy of wading birds. Pelican. Marabou stork. Egret. Hadeda ibis. Yellow-billed stork. All digging in the mud and water for fish, snails, tasty morsels. Fish in their ever shrinking water courses seeking to estivate. To bury themselves in deep mud. To see them through until the next rains. We leave the birds and panicking fish to it. And direct ourselves toward Mushroom loop.
The peace is broken by baboons barking. In the distance, over to our left. A predator for sure. Could this be a leopard? Perhaps lion? Wild dog? Or hyena? Any, or all of the above. We follow the sounds. Along a rough path. Some bumpy bush. We see the baboons. Still barking. The baboons look in the same direction. Towards an open area. A giraffe also stares intently into the distance. What can they all see?
Another noise. A strangled, throttled cry for help. An animal in distress. Perry turns round excitedly. A buffalo. Being taken down by lions. Hold on! He fixes the source of the noise in his head. And then follows a torturous route to get us there. In and out of mopani trees. Dodging the dead sharp mopani stumps. That stick out like spike strips. Conspiring to halt our progress. Slashing at our tyres. We find a graded track. Round a corner. And there they are: A pride of 10 lion. Goading a buffalo. The bull buffalo sits. Having lost face. Quite literally. Defeated.
Our comfortable, self-delusional narrative, that lions kill first, eat later is destroyed. The feasting has already begun. No Lord’s prayer. No pause to respect the recently departed. No initial suffocation, nor throat embrace. These lion show no respect for this magnificent, but soon to be ex bovine. Disney doesn’t get a look in.
The back legs already paralysed by some well-aimed bites to the spinal cord. This hard-hearted pride is ruthless. Gripping but sickening. An imposing beast is outnumbered and outmanoeuvred. His 3 male companions look on forlornly. Nothing can be done. They stand there. Hapless. Helpless.
Two guilty lionesses do the right thing. They take hold of the buffalo’s mouth and neck. To suffocate the doomed ox. To put it out of its misery. But the rest of the pride can’t help themselves. They resume their premature feast. Relishing really fresh meat. They lick the hide. Gnawing through the tough skin. Penetrating with claw and tooth, with innards in mind. The guts. The prime cuts. Heart a favourite. And liver. Little will go to waste. The buffalo loses consciousness. The ghost is given up. There is a constant low growl. Ecstatic purrs. The lion content. Punctuated by snarls and teeth baring. The whole carcass covered by continuous amalgamated lion.
Ten lion our best estimate. This means 6 are missing in action. Surely 6 grown lion can look after themselves? We can’t see the familiar curtained tail of Stumpy. Nor the swollen teats of Stumpy’s pregnant sister. We park our unease. And saviour the exclusivity that Perry’s skills have provided. A most precious siting. Our first lion kill in 13 years. As rare as super-fresh buffalo steak. Perry’s senses have guided us to the sharp end of South Luangwan wildlife.
Another friend and guide, Yotam, arrives five minutes into our private viewing. Yotam was nearby when we followed the cries and barks from the baboons. He went off on a tangent. Also a productive trajectory. Yotam shares his news. Another lioness has been injured in the buffalo hunt. She lies in a thicket licking her wounds. Buffalo horns so deadly. The thicket hides her identity. Her prognosis unknown.
The bush telegraph clicks and clacks into action. Morse would be so proud. Mr Alexander Bell would raise a glass. As we leave the melee of joyful lion, our swift exit is impeded by car after car, all bearing expectant safari goers, bearing long lenses. This is as close as it gets to a rush hour here. All mediated by instant messaging. Old style and new.
Perry resets the agenda. Mushroom loop our next arena. En-route a baby African Crowned Eagle screeches for his mother. Mum close by choosing to play deaf or dumb. Controlled crying we decide. This mother now has his measure. The attention seeking brat needs tough love. She hops around, but ignores his sobs. He will soon learn to self-soothe.
Mushroom loop is devoid of mushrooms. Too dry. Too bright. We stop by a drying lagoon to break our fast. Our breakfast needs no fungi. Oats, seeds, nuts, fruit and yoghurt suffice. We five gathered omnivores can admire the feeding habits of our fellow diners. The carnivores that gorge on ill-fated buffalo. The nearby hippos that munch on Nile cabbage. The gathered assorted birds that snatch insects and grubs from ground and air. Crocodiles bide their time, and perhaps digest last night’s prey. Silence is golden. A gravitational pull of dining lions provides us with absolute solitude. Aside from the chuckling hippos.
As we digest, Perry drives. But his enthusiasm infects us and we are pulled back to the river. A journey of giraffe are nearing the river. A never event is about to occur. Perry has an inkling of their intent. He divines their plans and bisects their route. We park on sand, across the river from the 7 impossibly tall ungulates. They look nervous. But determined. Purposeful. 6 females and 1 male. Slowly. Cautiously. They dip their toes. Nothing like the frenetic scramble of the lions crossing the Luangwa a couple of weeks ago. Their long gracious legs wade through the water. Barely coming over their knees. They cross the river in a line. Queueing. Unhurried. But watchful. Perry has only witnessed this once before. Giraffes rarely cross rivers. Almost never.
As we wend our way back to the gate, we pass another vehicle. Perry pauses to share. Tell of our route and our sightings. The guides exchange reports. Nyanja. Coded but packed with recent history. The tourists, in the back, tell us excitedly of nearby lions eating a buffalo. Have you seen them? They crow. We nod and smile. Yes. We were there as the buffalo said its last goodbyes. We outbrag. (But of course our guide is the best in the Zambia. Possibly in the whole of Africa.) We say without words. Our Sunday morning place of worship has delivered again.
Sunday has hallowed ground worshiped elsewhere. Football even reaches our deepest darkest corner. Somehow we witness the ebbs and flows. The wounds and victories played out in Basel’s green temple. A draw and stalemate impossible. There must be a loser.
There must be a winner. The Spanish bull stumbles. Then falls.&
Windows 11 - Software Update and how it affects you
Written by: Freya Keith
Important Update: Windows 11 Compatibility for your ECG, ABPM, Spirometer, Holter ECG Software Requirements
At Dene Healthcare we work closely with the team at Seca who have provided the below information to help you prepare for the upcoming retirement of Windows 10. This information is relevant to all Practices using equipment software compatible with Windows 10. We know it's a long read, but please take a few minutes to read through the information so that you're ready for the changes.
From Seca
We’d like to inform you about an important change that may impact your ECG, ABPM, Spirometer, Holter ECG, particularly if your current systems operate on Windows 10.Important Update: Windows 11 Compatibility for your ECG, ABPM, Spirometer, Holter ECG Software Requirements
Microsoft has officially announced that support for Windows 10 will end in October 2025. After this date, devices and software running on Windows 10 may face functionality, compatibility, and security issues. This change is especially relevant for clinical environments such as GP practices, where reliability and compliance are critical for these essential diagnostic devices.
What This Means for Your Diagnostic Equipment
All seca diagnostic products and related systems must operate on Windows 11-compatible software beyond October 2025. This includes the seca CT330/CT331 ECG machines, seca Screen 300 ABPM, seca Spiro, and seca Holter ECG systems. To maintain compliance and continued use:
• Devices currently using legacy software must be upgraded to the latest seca Diagnostic Software.
• New Seca devices purchased in 2025 will be pre-licensed and ready for Windows 11.
• Existing devices require the purchase of the new software package and may also require installation support.
• All products have full integration with EMIS, SystmOne, and Medicus.
About the seca Diagnostic Software
The seca Diagnostic Software is a modular, Windows 11-compatible platform that supports multiple seca products across one central system. This software:
• Supports integration with EMIS Web*, SystmOne, and Medicus.
• Provides compatibility with seca ECG, ABPM, Spiro, and Holter ECG.
• Can be expanded with add-on licenses to enable additional device functionality over time.
What Should I Do?
• Check Your System:
Verify if your existing diagnostic equipment is currently operating on Windows 10.
• Plan Your Upgrade:
Prepare to upgrade to Windows 11 and purchase the appropriate seca Diagnostic Software licenses by October–November 2025.
Contact Us Today
We’re here to support your transition to Windows 11 with minimal disruption and maximum compliance.
Get in touch with our team to:
• Review your current setup
• Recommend upgrade options (software and hardware)
• Provide quotes for Windows 11 compatible solutions
• Improve your workflow with EMIS, Systmone, Medicus integration for ECG, ABPM, Spirometry, Holter from an all-in-one software solution
Mud, mud, glorious mud
Written by: Keith and Ginny Birrell
Highlight of the week: We receive a warm welcome from our colleagues and friends at Kakumbi Rural Health Centre.
Lowlight of the week: Our Sunday afternoon peace is shattered by an emergency call. South Luangwa is not a holiday for us, despite rumours to the contrary.
Maximum temperature: 29 degrees Celsius
Rainfall: Nil
Choose your metaphor. Your name is mud. Sling mud. Mud sticks. Never a compliment. Humans seem to have an aversion to mud.
I’m watching a male bushbuck rubbing his horns in mud. Cooling. Therapeutic. Even allegedly borderline erotic. No sign of negativity here in the broader natural world. Mud is the word. Flanders and Swann echo this. There’s nothing quite like it….
But the consistency of mud is key. Too wet and mud becomes simple, dirty water. Too dry, and it loses its animal appeal. Unable to cool, or to trap parasites. Too dry, and it becomes a potential death trap for unwary buffalo. And then it dries further, to become solid unyielding earth.
2025 is breaking all sorts of records. But not the sort we crave. The hottest, the coldest, the wettest, the driest….. none of them remotely desirable. It starts as early as spring. The warmest spring on record. Followed quickly by the hottest June on record. Oh, and it’s already the driest start to the year for the past 100 years. But what effect does this have on us?
In England we are rather good at whining. Previously, wine has not been our forte. Yet 2025 will be a bumper year for the vineyards. A vintage year perhaps? Still, most farmers are now worried about their livestock and crops. Food prices are likely to reflect this. We are not allowed to water our gardens. Or to wash our cars with hoses. The UK weather is sadly grabbing the wrong headlines. Global warming constantly occupies our thoughts. And whilst the grapes flourish, we all gripe about the heat. Whine about wine weather. And even consider getting air conditioning. But our weather, in all probability, will soon turn on its head. Become cool and over-wet again. All this doom mongering may be forgotten. We may even look back on this year with fond memories. À la 1976. The year of the drought.
We jump 10,500 km south. To the heart of Africa. Zambia. A country being severely affected by climate change. Here, we are in the second year of drought. But the rainfall patterns are not linear. It seems to be all or nothing! Some parts of the country actually had good rains this year. The rains started well in our Valley. At the expected time. November and December. The ground soaked up the moisture. The farmers planted their crops. Even rice was sown. And then the rain stopped. For 4 weeks - nothing. Dry cracked earth. Crops ruined. Yet all was not lost. There was a second bite at the cherry. More rain came. Planting resumed. But the hard ground needed hand drilling. Less seed in. Lower crop yields. The rice harvested in June was half the usual. Pretty impressive from the paltry land planted. 598 mm of rain graced South Luangwa. Not far from our average rainfall. Just at the wrong times and in the wrong places.
But our current problem really lies in a different place. The Luangwa river is filled by the hills and mountains to our north. An area still in drought. The water levels rose a little during the rains. And then quickly fell. All the water in the park comes from rivers. Direct rainfall makes no impression. Standing water is hard to come by. Lagoons are drying out way too fast. Our own lagoon by Kapani can no longer even be called a dambo. Dambos are seasonally waterlogged wetlands. Our wetland is rapidly drying. Now should be a time of plenty. Winter of a sort. But summer is coming. Temperatures are rising. No rain is expected for months. What could possibly go wrong?
South Luangwa is home to more hippos than any other river valley in the world. They lounge around in the water in family groups. Cooling off during the day with mud baths. They muddle along together. Fights break out as males try to sneak into the group. On the lookout for unsuspecting females. Babies and juveniles wallow around blithely unaware of the testosterone driven tensions. At night, the hippos leave the confines of the river. In search of food. Often walking huge distances to find some ungrazed Eden. At daybreak, the river level seems to rise as cartesian forces displace thousands of tonnes of water. A day of sloth might usually beckon. But as the water levels recede, the hippos are forced into ever smaller pools. Squeezed together all day long. Superficially like piles of boulders, until they move. Water no longer visible between them. Pods of up to one thousand in some regions. No longer are their conversations good natured, cheerful banter and laughter. The noise levels increase exponentially. Hormones too closely packed. Fight club without rules.
This year, the hippos will suffer. The parched land is providing little fodder. Their catering is woefully inadequate. Their daytime digs are scandalously overcrowded. Their leaders are constantly bad tempered. Battles between hippos have more losers than winners. The losers are cast out from the pods and the river. The losers have no pools, no home, no future. They dig deeper into dry mud. Kicking up dust. The dust deadly. Holding anthrax spores for digestion and inhalation. Losers die and share their loss with the greater community.
Anthrax in many minds, equates with biological warfare. Anthrax was a worthy candidate to investigate during the war. Desperate times. Desperate measures. In 1941 Gruinard Island in Scotland, was used as a testing station for potential germ warfare by our Porton Down boffins. In the end, anthrax proved unsuitable. There would have been too much collateral damage. Forty five years later, in 1986, 280 tons of formaldehyde and 2000 tons of seawater were launched at Gruinard. Yet the island is still off limits.
Anthrax spores sit dormant in the soil. Awaiting their next victim. Most deadly if inhaled. But still toxic via gut or skin. Hippos inhale or ingest the pathogens. Desperate for nutrition they crop what remains of vegetation way too low. Imagine a mis-set lawnmower gouging into your lawn. And removing the roots and topsoil to boot. Hungry hippos going too far. The dry earth releases spores. Only too easy to breathe in, as the portly creatures pant and grunt through the bush at night.
Anthrax has an attitude. These bad bugs aren’t fussy. They don’t discriminate. They will get up any snout, or into any gut, big or small. They are only too happy to exist. And to thrive. In fact anthrax is so happy to exist, that it is considered to be one the hardest bugs to kill. With im
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