Zambian Witch hunt

Imagine the grief of losing your husband, then imagine having to sleep with one of your recently deceased husband's male family members in order to remove the curse of his death from yourself. I can't imagine broaching this subject with my father-in-law, let alone getting it past my mother-in-law, but I am confident it would not end well for any of us. 'Sexual cleansing' is one of the many rituals practiced by the Zambians we worked with that, to me and I'm sure many others defies common sense. However during our three months in Zambia we were to learn that understanding these seemingly barbaric customs was much more complicated than judging what we saw according to the values or our own western society.

The majority of patients we saw at the On Call Africa clinics admitted consulting traditional healers first and were turning to western medicine either opportunistically or as a last resort. The traditional 'medicines' and treatments prescribed for their various ailments included cutting, tattooing, drinking or eating herbal potions, rubbing pastes over the body and prayer. Hamish and I were fascinated, albeit often horrified, by these practices and were interested to learn more about the healers behind these treatments so when our time volunteering for On Call Africa came to an end we headed bush in search of enlightenment.

From what we could gather there are three main types of healing in Zambia; traditional healing, faith healing and magic. Traditional healers mainly use herbs, cutting and potions. Faith healers, who most commonly represent the Church of Zion, use prayer and sometimes magic water, vinegar or cranberry juice. Magic is practised by Witch Doctors who in some circumstances use herbal potions and magic to counteract curses but, from what we were told, tend to focus more on cursing and killing people, at a hefty price tag. Should you find yourself cursed, a visit to your local Witch Doctor, which includes the previously mentioned hefty fee, is your only hope - quite a smart little business model for them, morals aside.

Hamish and I were lucky, or as my Mother would say; crazy, enough to make contact with and meet a variety of healers all whom were happy, to various extents, to demonstrate their healing methods. The biggest problem we encountered was convincing local translators, who were understandably terrified of the Witch Doctors, to accompany us. According to locals Witch Doctors can kill simply by visualising their subject in a mirror, even if they have never met them - the so called 'magic gun'. I had doubts about getting mixed up in this unknown world, but curiosity got the better of my fear and thankfully my name never got thrown into a mirror. If I'm honest the Witch Doctor we met in Katapazi was one of the most charming and entertaining men we met all year. But then again, perhaps we were just under his spell!

The one occasion I was genuinely frightened was during a session with a female traditional healer, Bridget. We were ushered into a tiny mud hut where she swayed around, eyes rolled to the back of her head, calling to the spirits through prayer. By calling to the spirits I mean really bloody yelling to them. There we were witnessing screaming Bridget's hugely personal encounter when the absurdity of the situation struck me and I developed the nervous giggles. My suppressed laughter was curbed when Bridget turned things up a notch by grabbing a knife and wildly flung it around the hut before stabbing herself in the palms. 'F@ck, she's going to kill us all' (sorry for the naughty language Granny!) was the thought that flew through my mind but luckily Bridget's performance turned out to be just that and not a drop of blood was shed. A couple of hours later, as my cross legged position and the lack of fresh air in the hut became almost unbearable, I considered taking the blunt knife to myself, while the morning had been fascinating it seemed that Bridget was reluctant to give us up and so stories and rituals were repeated two or three times before we were allowed to say our farewells.

Almost everyone we met in Zambia, black or white, educated or illiterate regaled terrifying first hand accounts of witch craft in action. Humphrey, the On Call Africa cook and handyman, came across a Zimbabwean Witch Doctor on his Uncle's farm near Lusaka in central Zambia who had flown using witch craft (not a local airline as I had first presumed) from Zimbabwe after the spirits had told him he needed to kill a relative in Lusaka then drink his blood so that he could save himself from dying. Our chats with locals revealed that killing and drinking the blood of a family member was a fairly common anti dote for curses. An English volunteer at an orphanage told how one of the children died within two hours of stepping over 'mutti', a cursed bundle of sticks, bones and animal tails. These stories were told with such faith and conviction that at times refusing to believe them was impossible.

Jess with 'Dr George'

It wasn't all ceremony and conspiring with the spirits. Many healers simply administer herbal medicines based on the ailment. These potions were often at best harmless but in a number of cases, like administering re-hydration drinks or steam baths for colds, quite useful. Other potions were unfortunately downright dangerous. A great example of harmful practise was administering ginger enemas through a bamboo stick for the treatment of malaria, which aside from not curing malaria causes severe, often fatal, diarrhoea and dehydration.

Cutting was a hugely popular treatment, used by almost every single patient we met, despite the fact they weren't able to report very positively on the benefits. The cutting is meant to release the disease or negative energy from the body and is used for anything from a headache, where cuts between the eyes are very common, to fertility where a female's vagina would be cut (whereas a man's fertility problems would be treated with a gentle herbal potion...go figure!). Seeing young babies with cuts on their bodies was particularly upsetting but it was a difficult issue to tackle as cutting is one of the only day to day health care options available to the villagers and deeply ingrained beliefs exist about the benefits. Thankfully word has got around that sharing razor blades can spread HIV and so patients are now required to supply their own which is a huge advance and a warming reminder that health education messages are getting through and that charity work can have a positive impact!

Reflecting on our time in the bush from the safety of our London flat it's hard to explain, or even comprehend what we witnessed or how I feel about it. Certainly if these, frankly bizarre to the western world, practices were going on in the context of our lives in New Zealand or England I would have no issue with labeling it all a load of nonsense, however being a part of it all in an area where, day to day, traditional medicine is all you have forced me to open my mind to the unknown. As for the Witch Doctors' magic guns, I'm not entirely convinced by their power but then don't care to be proven wrong either!

Thank you for having us Zambia, hopefully someday we will be back!

The greatly anticipated second music video

Apologies for the silence on the blog front of late. I promise to make up for that soon but in the mean time feast your eyes on our new music video travel blog filmed in Botswana, Indonesia, Malaysia and Burma. Watch right through until the very end where a little surprise awaits!

We trust you will enjoy...

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PMP-CBkkZoY

The end of Nurse Jess

Sitting in a hammock surrounded by westerners with a tummy full of pizza it's hard to believe that just yesterday we left our world of fried two minute noodles and donuts behind. Our month on Tello was a great adventure, one which I am sure I will wax lyrical about in times to come, but it was also a tough one. Growing up with my pony, jazz dancing lessons (believe it or not!) and five plus a day wasn't the ideal foundation for survival in one of the remotest corners of the earth but Hamish and I are still speaking and aside from the few extra kilos we have picked up I should think we will come through unscathed. 

Our time was split between the clinic on Tello and nearby islands where, with a sack of medicines over one shoulder, we would set up in a villagers front room and do the best we could with what we had. Most of the people we saw in these villages had never seen a doctor in their life (except for Dr Derek who has tried to make a yearly visit there since 2006) and in no time the room would be packed to the rafters. Like in Zambia patient confidentiality does not exist!

In the evenings, after burning our rice on the fire, we would bed down on the wooden floor, while the whole village sat around watching us, and pretend to be hardy. Come morning, with sore bodies and very little sleep had I would make an effort not to speak to Hamish for half an hour incase I should say something I might later regret. Patients came streaming through the clinic with all the standard ailments but here we actually saw a number of seriously unwell people also. Sadly there were many seriously ill patients that we couldn't help because the facilities were not available in Indo, had they been born in NZ or the UK their story would be completely different which was just so unfair. Again, many whom could have benefited from an injection seemed religiously opposed to the prick, while others who were not seriously unwell at all were desperate for a jab. One man wanted an injection to make him 'big and strong', another man came because his stomach hurt when he was hungry, while our last patient came because his eyes hurt when he looked at the sun. Sometimes I just didn't know if I should laugh or cry.

The washing rooms on the islands served a triple purpose as a bathroom, laundry and kitchen sink. While being economical on space it was rather awkward seeing the lunch time dishes drying on the floor less than a meter away from where you were squatting for a wee. For some reason the concept of a sunken loo hasn't caught on there so you simply do your business on the floor and then wash it outside through a hole in the wall where the pigs and chickens await. If this wasn't enough to put me off going to the toilet, or eating of the dishes (!) night time trips to the loo included visits from cockroaches and giant hermit crabs. Interestingly we didn't see a single person with diarrhoea (why is that word so tricky to spell?) and vomiting during our stay which seemed miraculous given the circumstances.

As the only foreigners on Tello everyone knew where we were during every waking, and sleeping, hour so there was no escaping the 24 hour on call. Our second night time home visit was to a sweet old man with suspected prostate cancer that Hamish had been dealing with in clinic. We arrived at the house to find the usual haggle of on lookers around as well as the christian missionaries strumming a guitar and singing along to a sad tune. The mans body lay motionless on the bed with a bible tucked above his head. My first reaction was 'shit he is dead, I am going to have to pull myself together for this one'. Hamish went in to check for a pulse and our man rose from the dead, thrilled that I wasn't going to have to witness my second death in so many weeks the bizarre situation became amusing. After a check up from Dr Hamish and some new medication we left the wee man sitting up in bed quite roused that he wasn't going to die that night, meanwhile the gathered crowd started to disperse appearing slightly disappointed by the lack of drama.

Our aid worker hats are now stowed in the bottom of our bags and the selfish adventuring/ a normal holiday truly starts. We have ten days in Sumatra chasing Orangutans in the jungle and floating around volcanic lake Danau Toba, before heading to Bali, Lombook and the Gili Islands for a few weeks - what a culture shock that will be after Tello! Cocktail's, beach massages, sun tanning here I come. Hamish can't wait.

Welcome to the end of the world

We have our aid worker hats on again, this time working with, Dr D, a Kiwi doctor who runs a medical clinic on Tello Island, a tiny island off western Sumatra. The journey to Tello consists of a two boat trips, one in a large passenger and car ferry and the second in a small cargo boat. Once here you really do feel like you are at the end of the world. Consultations take place on a picnic table out the back of a chap called Ben Hong’s place. Much of the medical stuff we are seeing is similar to in Zambia, paracetamol continues to be the most
distributed drug but the level of seriously ill people is far greater here, simply because the island is so isolated.

Mr Ben Hong is a totally wheeler dealer who has all sorts of dodgy, mainly illegal, money making schemes going on. Cock fighting is his current money maker, which judging by the state of his roosters isn’t going terribly well for him. He was also responsible for the giant turtle which was hacked up and sold on the black market much to our horror and disgust. We later found out that he probably got little over ten dollars for it, if only we had known sooner and we would have just paid to have it released. It is hard not to judge him but I try to remember that life is pretty cruel out here and maybe I would do the same thing to survive in his position. That said from my high horse I mainly want to punch him. 

We are staying with a very sweet local family in the wealthy part of town (at least we think they are very sweet however due to a large language barrier we have never actually had a conversation and this is just a presumption!!!) at just under three pounds a night we decided we could afford to have a fan in our room and so there we are living it up We also get pillow slips included.. Our new family consists of Dad, Mum, Grandma and two girls, Nella and Sasa. Sasa is around three years old and leaves our two year old, delicious but part time terrorist, nephew looking like an angel with her antics. Grandma, with no teeth, is besotted with Doctor Hamish who pampers her with antacids and generally we all have a jolly time.

Our second day of clinic saw me clutching the hand of a kind missionary as I watched Hamish try, in vain, to resuscitate a four year old boy whose poor little body had given up the fight. Three hours earlier we were called to his family home because he had been having trouble breathing, on arrival we were greeted by the entire Muslim community and a variety of other onlookers in the tiny front room who were there just because. With about 15 words in Bahasa Indonesia under our belt communication was beyond difficult but what we did know was that there was no way on earth they would let us inject the little boy. To make matters worse Dad, who needed to give us permission to treat or transfer the wee boy, couldn’t be located for a couple of hours by which time the wee chap was too tired to continue the battle. The scene and sounds as Hamish announced that he was dead was beyond haunting and the memory still makes me feel sick. I had no idea how sick the wee chap was or how quickly life could slip away. It has since been explained to us that the Muslims here believe injections let the devil under the skin so in one way I am thankful that we didn’t get the chance to be held responsible for the eternal damnation of their son, but on the other hand I wish we had been able to do more. On a lighter note, because we all need a lighter now now, the first patient I saw the next day was a 15 year old boy with a grazed knuckle. Still a bit numb from the previous evening I bathed this time waster in alcohol solution to make it really sting and sent him off with a plaster. That was very satisfying.

Language is a huge challenge for us here. We had presumed there would be a translator for clinics and stupidly didn't invest in a phrase book before we arrived which has led to some pretty amusing encounters. To make matters worse the small phrase book we do have is in Bahasa Indonesia which is the official language but here most people speak a local dialect ,Bahasa Nias. The younger children often speak both so we sometimes have to ask the child the question in Indonesian, they then ask the patient in Nias and then translate the answer back to us in Indonesian which we then have to translate back into English before we have a clue what's going on. I would be very suprised if even half the patients are getting the medication they need and even more surprised if they understand the instructions for taking the medication. Randomly some words can be understood in English if you add 'she' to the end of them, Injectshee and infectshe and top favourites. And aside from the Muslims everyone else is keen as mustard to get their hands on an injectshe no matter how trivial the ailment!

One thing that isn’t so satisfying is the food. Breakfast and lunch consist of the following options: doughnuts, piklets, fried two minute noodles, fried rice, fried banana fritters (despite the fact that fresh banana’s are almost impossible to buy  fried bananas are available in the hundreds all day every day!), fried cabbage balls
with chilly sauce and if we are really lucky a slice or two of fresh cucumber or tomato.  Every morning as we sit at a roadside stall eating something fried we watch an endless stream of school children trundle pass filling their lunch box's with doughnuts. This is no exaggeration, there is literally nothing healthy to eat on the island, it’s unreal. The evening meal offers a non fried option which is made slightly less appealing due to the fact it sits tepid in glass cabinets for hours before we get to it. Warmish rice with a luke warm fish curry is as good as it gets and after a day of fried food we are generally quite glad to eat the fly blown feast which will no doubt lead to a serious case of Indobelly before the month is out. The only thing, food wise, that Tello has going for itself is that some genius has opened a small ice cream shop which serves some of the nicest ice creams we have had anywhere. At just under 20 pence I find it hard to limit myself to one a day, plus the calcium is good for me...

There is so much more to report but already this blog has gotten out of hand. Tello is by far the most challenging place I have ever visited. Life here is tough and I have found out that sunshine alone can't always make you happy. Despite Christianity being the dominant religion it is culturally very conservative here so we spend every waking hour covered up and sweating. Hamish sweating abilities continue to baffle me! Everyone is so enthusiastic to see you and to practise there three lines on English on you to the point that if we want a quiet moment we have to sit in our room. Reading a book in public is an impossibility, even writing this blog I have had a variety of people come and stand by me watching what I am doing. Personal space doesn't exist and as foreigners we are public property. Everyone wants to know 'where are we going' but no one understands our response in English so we have started replying things like 'to the moon, paradise and the Spice Girls house' to amuse ourselves and feel that we somehow take a small victory, ahh the small things!

Bye for now. Just in case you were wondering I am off to the ice cream shop...

The Indonesian adventure begins

(Mis)adventure seemed to follow us around India and Africa like a bad smell, it doesn't look like Indonesia will be any different. I don't think we would have it any other way.

He slowly raises the cigarette to his mouth and draws on it seductively, looking me dead in the eye. The coquettish look makes me feel a bit awkward but not as awkward as the fact that he is about 12 years old and smoking. But it seems that he is not alone, everyone here from about the age of ten up seems to smoke. What they are not all doing however is speaking English. We have been spoilt for english speakers in every city and many of the rural areas we have visited over the last year that I had almost forgotten that the entire world doesn't speak my native tongue. No one is short on smiles and waves though and we have returned to the celebrity status that we experienced in India with every other person requesting a photo with the two sweaty tourists.

With no menus and no one speaking english we have had some interesting meal times. So far everything has been delicious but we have no idea what we have been eating should we want to order it again. I suspect this is probably for the best though so am keeping my fingers crossed that the tummy holds up.

On touch down in Padang, Sumatra we decided to investigate the local airline that was rumoured to fly to Tello, our ultimate destination, which is so far off the tourist track that it doesn't even feature on google maps. We made our way to the Suisse Air desk where a large sign greeted us with the promise that they were 'OPEN'. After waiting for an hour or two we concluded that the staff were either ghosts or that their definition of open differed to ours. We asked at neighbouring desks, all of which were open and maned by bonafide humans, if the Suisse Air desk was usually maned and the best response we could get was that 'someone was there earlier'. Never mind we thought, we will just call the number provided.

Approximately 25 phone calls to ten different numbers later, some conducted completely in Indonesian while I talked slowly and LOUDLY at them - because that makes foreign language speakers suddenly grasp the English language right!? - we managed to communicate our problem to the receptionist in our hotel who called the airline for us. After a few more phone calls she produced us with an address where we were to go to pay for the flight. We called a taxi and headed for Block D.4 number, 5. Forty minutes later as we dodged pot holes in a residential estate and finally found ourselves in front of Block D.4, number five it became clear that somewhere down the line the message had been lost. Greeting us curiously were three generations of woman from an Indonesian family who despite being very excited to have white people at their house had absolutely no idea what we were doing in their home. I phoned the airline and got lucky with an English speaker this time who told me that I needed to go to the airport, that is where the office is. Wetting ourselves with laughter we waved goodbye to our new friends in their little shack and the saga continued.

As it turns out the airline prioritise local passengers, a refreshing change compared to many countries we have visited over the past year, so even if we paid for three seats: one for Hamish, one for Cindy (my 6ft 7 surfboard), and one for myself then we couldn't all be guaranteed on the flight. With our tails between our legs we headed to the bus station where we came into possession of four seats on a 16 hour minibus that will take us all to a boat which 12 hours later will have us in Tello. The lesson: If coming to Indonesia with surf boards, go on an organised tour..

We have decided to wait a few days until we take the bus, to give us time to really let the excitement of the journey build, so tomorrow we are off to a local beach, Air Manis, where the only accommodation in town is provided by a man who according to internet research likes to get a bit touchy with the ladies. Should be a hoot. From there it will be off to Tello for six weeks where I don't imagine internet will be a big feature so if you could all keep your fingers crossed that I take to surfing like the babes in Blue Crush then I will give you an update in due course !

Reids vs Zambia

This Blog is in video format.

See: http://youtu.be/bBd1nKk3Kb8

While tripping around Zambia and Botswana we decided to capture the fun with a music video. Excuse the speedos...

A letter to the elephants of Chobe National Park, Botswana

Dear Bull Elephant, Sir.

I am writing following a recent visit to Botswana where I had the privilege of spending four days in Chobe National Park. The park exceeded all expectations, the list of wildlife we spotted from Cheetah through to the humble Dung Beetle was mind boggling and I would like to extend my thanks to yourself and the entire animal kingdom of Botswana for putting on such a show. There is however one, small, issue that I would like to resolve to ensure that it doesn’t remain ‘an elephant in the room’, if you will.

We arrived in Kasane, Botswana via the Kazungula ferry, an experience in itself. Picture a few pieces of wood tied together supporting a freight truck, a snazzy hired Land Cruiser and a bunch of foot passengers then push out across the Zambezi with a propulsion system resembling something from a science fair and there we were. I decided not to tell Hamish that the ferry had collapsed last year killing all on board, I didn’t think it was relevant, plus I really wanted to visit Botswana. Luck was on our side that day and we made the five-minute crossing unscathed.

The Kazungula Ferry crossing the Zambezi between Botswana and Zambia

Kasane proved to be an odd little tourist trap featuring little more than a fuel station, several safari lodges, a large supermarket and, much to my delight and Hamish’s disgust, KFC. We had been tipped off that the Chobe Safari Lodge, sitting right on the river front, had camping facilities so in we piled pitching our tents between the ‘beware of crocodiles’ and ‘beware of hippos’ signs. Awareness was one thing, but what we could have done about them should they have joined us for supper remains a mystery. 

Hippo's chilling in the Chobe River

After disturbing the peace of everyone in the vicinity of the pool we boarded a small boat for an afternoon safari river cruise. Our travel companions, American’s in khaki with camera lenses bigger than my arm, had managed to fill the downstairs space of the boat so we were ushered to the roof, where the views were hot and the sun was hotter. Three hours later we returned with fantastic shots of hippos, crocs, elephants frolicking in the water and a touch of sunburn.

Anyway I have digressed, let me get back to the heart of the issue. It all started when we arrived in Savuti. The combination of a severe lack of signposting and the worst map in the world didn’t help our situation and it became obvious that self-drive safaris are neither popular nor encouraged in this elite neck of the woods. Nevertheless, after a full day driving through the park spotting hundreds of spectacular birds, but frustratingly little game, we made it to our campsite just before sundown. Our campsite pitch was called Paradise, ironic in hindsight, and was in a beautiful setting among trees right next to a stream – we were the only humans in residence that night.

Paradise, in between elephant visits

Morning and evening drives are said to be the pinnacle of game viewing so at 6am we set off, pumped from the previous evening’s game drive when animals had been out in excess. Five hours and an ever-decreasing tank of fuel later we had circled the impressive marshes and pans to no avail and returned to camp. Bored from passing time in the shade of our tent Hamish and I went exploring the campsite and this is when the aforementioned incident took place. Between our tent and the ablution block one of your esteemed relatives, a giant bull elephant, was enjoying a vegetarian brunch. I admit at this stage the sensible thing to do would have been to quietly continue on our way, however, as elephant experts after our three days tracking your cousins in the Indian jungle we decided to stop and film a lip sync for a rap video we were making. Naturally.

All was going well until things started to go badly. I am not sure if it was the lyrics of Coolio’s Gangsters Paradise or our offensive dance moves, but one moment the big chap was happily destroying a tree and the next he was charging towards us, ears flaring. Hamish took the sensible route and headed for the safety of the fenced ablution block while muggins here raced further into the campsite to put a nearby tree between myself and ‘the reason I am now terrified of elephants’. With Hamish screaming at me to get to safety I whipped off my flipflops (note this must be why they suggest you wear sensible footwear on safari) and prepared for the fastest seventy-metre dash that these lanky legs have ever run. With bleeding feet I evaded Mr Angry’s teasing charge and made it through the gate.

From this moment a floodgate was opened, elephants wandered through our camp so regularly that we got the mobilising time from camp chair to car down to under five seconds. This was more difficult around meal times when the gas cooker had to be turned off and a boiling pot saved. Sitting in a roasting hot car, worried that an elephant is going to try to kill you with a steaming tagine on your lap isn’t ideal I can assure you.

At this stage the campsite also filled up with humans who, probably naively, made me feel much more safe. I attempted to form a friendship with some German tourists when a herd of elephants decided to take over our fire pit just after dark, asking if I could spend the night in their fancy car-top tent. They laughed thinking I was joking. That night little sleep was had.

Horse play

We had been treated to a smorgasbord of wildlife and set off homeward in great spirits. The Chobe riverfront, our last stop before the border was now pulsing with literally hundreds of your relatives. Blindly we trundled along, stopping every few minutes to let a herd cross our path en route to the river, trying not to get to close to upset those with young calves. Soon we were surrounded by what must be one of the most impressive populations of elephants in the world. Our close shave had left me absolutely terrified. Holding back a mouthful of vomit I burst into tears and asked if it was home time yet. With my eyes closed, praying for a quick death, we dodged elephants all the way back to the safety of the park gates.

Chobe National Park is described as ‘the land of the Giants’ and it certainly lives up to all the hype. It’s not a cheap place; camping is 50 USD per person, per night with animal visits at no extra charge, but the experience is priceless. The moral of the story here, Mr Bull Elephant, Sir, is that you elephants clearly don’t like Coolio, which is perfectly fair. I just wish someone had warned us. Thanks for having us, please pass on my best wishes to your extensive family.

Kind regards

Jess Reid – from relatively elephant-free Zambia.

Just like David Livingstone

The Zambian chapter

Pat, our ancient Land Rover, thundered indiscreetly into the Royal Livingstone Hotel car park. We pile out all glammed up. Well, as ‘glammed up’ as our backpacker wardrobe allows: Hamish is wearing trousers though and I have put mascara on so this is almost as good as it gets, but we are fooling no one. The doormen, in their outrageously colonial get up, smile politely knowing that one Mosi (Zamia’s local beer) will be about all that we can afford. One of them graciously pulls us aside to let us know that we forgot to shut Pat’s front door. Talking first and thinking second as always, I start to give an explanation about how the door doesn’t close and how funny it is when you are driving along and it flies open; Hamish meanwhile returns to the vehicle and ties the door shut with a piece of string. Surprisingly they still let us inside.

Once on the drinks terrace, with Pat well out of sight, I feel almost at home with the £900 a night guests. We are sitting a few hundred meters from the lip of Victoria Falls and the view is mind-blowing. Spray from the falls rises high in the air in huge clouds that give away the full power of the water. Beers, as it happens are 15 Kwacha, three times the price of most places but at just under two pounds a pop pretty reasonable given that we are on top of the seventh wonder of the world.

The spray coming off Victoria Falls as seen from the Royal Livingstone Hotel drinks deck

Since touching down in the country we have been amazed at how chilled the Zambian people are. Livingstone is a very touristy town so I guess they see their fair share of mazungas (white people) and so we are largely left to our own devices. Only twice have I been approached for money, both times by drunks, one who insisted if you stopped drinking at lunch time then you weren’t a real drunk, I liked his style and proceeded to engage him in conversation for so long that in the end he had to make an excuse to leave. I was sad to see him go, it was 11am and about 35 degrees, a beer would have been nice.

We spend three weeks of the month out in rural areas on clinic. Whilst away we sleep in a variety of questionable accommodation and eat more pasta than your average Italian (Humphrey our chef loves Pasta). Given that it is the rainy season, travel to and from clinic gets hairy but to date we have only been stuck in the mud once! Generally patients have the same complaints that you or I would go to our local GP with: on-going back pain, headaches etc. It is easy to get a bit jaded, waiting for some one with a real illness to come along, but then I have to remind myself that this is their once a month opportunity to have any kind of medical care and although their tooth ache might not seem like a big deal if they don’t get painkillers for it today then that will be them stuffed for another month. Many patients walk for three or four hours to be in line by 8am in the hope of being seen by a doctor, we currently have two doctors (Hamish and Anne-Marie) who get through about 60 – 70 patents leaving a large queue of unhappy customers behind as we drive off back to camp at the end of the day. We have tried various forms of triage but come hell or high water everyone will insist they are on deaths door only for the doctor to establish that Mr 77-year-old has knee pain, which he has had for 11 years, and back pain, which he has had for eight years. Arthritis is not a suitable diagnoses, in fact nothing is a suitable diagnoses unless it comes with medication.

To try and help out on clinic as much as possible Steve (Anne-Marie's husband) and myself do all the malaria and HIV testing and are in the process of becoming family planning experts. We have an unlimited supply of femadoms given by the government that we distribute often to the puzzlement of the ladies. Last week I saw an old women with a large giggling group huddled around holding up a femadom trying to make head or tail of the monstrosity. Someone asked me to explain how to use it, after reading the instructions several times I got flustered then pretended I was needed else where while in the back of my mind the words of a comedian saying something about the femadom being as inviting as a supermarket bag rang true.

This wee chap was tuckered out after his consultation with Dr Buckley

Home is a guesthouse on the outskirts of Livingstone that we share with Anne-Marie and Steve. While in residence we spend countless hours floating around the swimming pool, with Hamish sometimes treating us to a special appearance in his speedos, and few hours in our small gym. I have found the weights machine to be a great clotheshorse though so all is not lost. There is an extensive team of garden and security staff, headed up by the legendary Elvis, a kind, smiley and gentle African legend. We haven’t at any stage felt that security staff are at all necessary and often, perhaps naively, sleep with our door wide open on hot evenings. I think we all feel a little uncomfortable having these guys running around after us so try and make up for it with over the top thanks every time they open a gate. The final member of the security team is Samson, a massive mongrel of a dog who is terrified of lightening and to this day hasn’t barked once – God help us should there be an intruder during a thunderstorm.

And so this is Zambia, well the first month anyway. We are off to Botswana on a wee jolly in a few days so will hopefully report back with tales of Elephants and Lions, in the meantime we continue to drink glass bottles of coke, which as you are all aware by now is my version of living the dream!

Nu Zilland

The New Zealand chapter

There has been a long absence since our last blog and I would love to blame it on the fact that my husband and father have both been hospitalised in that time, or that I have been so busy trailing the miniature terrorist organisation which is my delicious, but archetypal two year old, nephew however the truth is that I have simply been living the high life in New Zealand. And what a frivolous couple of months it has been, one of machine-washing our clothes, one of sunbathing without an audience of men (this one applies a little more to me than Hamish), one of copious amounts of cold Speight’s and sparkling Sauvignon, and one of drinking water from the tap with careless abandon.

In early November I left Hamish in Nepal, to do a Mountain Medicine diploma, and flew back to NZ. En route I had my first taste of Hong Kong – what an amazing city but more on that in another blog – and packed to the hilt with clutches and handbags I returned to the motherland with summer social fever. After a particularly large weekend at the Christchurch races my hangover bravely marched into midweek leaving me in great fear that I had lost my game. Luckily this wasn’t that case and after a routinely frustrating telephone call to Hamish in Nepal he suggested I be tested for giardia and what do you know, the man must be a real doctor after all.

A few evenings later I got one of those telephone calls that you don’t want when your husband is climbing glaciers in the Everest region. “Hi Jess it’s Hamish, everything’s fine but I am in hospital”. Well everything must be fine then. He had been flown out at first light by helicopter and was being rushed into surgery with appendicitis. Since he didn’t die of appendicitis (I am not even sure if that’s possible?) or from a dodgy surgery infection I have taken up bullying him for getting a 12 year old boys illness, but at the time it was pretty bloody scary.

It hasn’t all been appendicitis and giardia though, there was a weekend soaking in the Hamner Springs hot pools, a tour of the South Island including penguin, seal and albatross spotting, not to mention the best blue cod either of us had ever eaten. Mum’s 60^th birthday and Christmas Carols were held in the Horse and Hound (for those of you who are not familiar with the Horse and Hound it is the pub Dad has built in the limestone stable on our farm). Hamish and I became godparents, shocking I know (!), to the gorgeous Dominic Newlands while his brother William, the previously mentioned terrorist, tried to drown him in the font. Many would argue that at two years of age a child isn’t sure of his or her religious orientation but after William’s show I am wondering if perhaps he is an atheist?

New Year was celebrated in the North Island with some of my university friends and followed by quick trips to the Bay of Islands and Waiheke Island where we stayed with friend’s parents who fed and watered us so well that we were both reluctant to leave. I have never given the North Island the credit that it is due, it has some stunning beaches and with the population about five the times of the South Island you are far less likely to have an awkward encounter with an ex boyfriend, should that be an issue for you.

And here we are at last, on the plane to Zambia for the next leg of our adventures. I really have no idea what we are getting ourselves in for and am swinging between excitement of the adventures ahead and full blown terror at the unknown. We will land in our new home, Livingstone, on Thursday and set off for our first medical clinic on Sunday. There is currently only one other doctor out there, sometimes there is up to six, so it really is going to be full on but luckily for everyone I have almost mastered using a stethoscope so I imagine I will be invaluable to the team.

We plan to be in Zambia for four months before travelling overland through Namibia, with Hamish’s parents, to South Africa. I promise to try and keep the blog updates a little more regular from now on. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all x