On the pulses

We are settling down for a quiet Friday evening after a lovely meal of lentils and spaghetti. It was all that was left in the cupboard. It would be wrong of me to imply that the dire state of our larder has occurred a result of local food insecurity; in fact, we had a trip to Shoprite in Lusaka only a week ago. The truth is that we are a pair of gannets who cannot be trusted to make a piece of cheese last more than two days. This unfortunate mutual character trait is problematic enough in the world of 24-hour supermarkets, here in the bush it gets a little more tricky. My repertoire of bean recipes is close to exhaustion - any suggestions gratefully received.

Anyway, enough of of my culinary crisis for now. More diary entries:

6th August 2006

The Bembas are taking on the Easterners at the school football field this afternoon and kick off is scheduled for 3 o’ clock. We walk down to the pitch at about 3.30 with Joost, Bernadette and Dineke, and find both tribes wandering around aimlessly. Apparently no one remembered to bring a football. We sit on the grass, waiting for something to happen. Someone spots us sprawling on the ground and runs over to the Christian Children’s Fund office to get a bench for us to sit on. We are all vaguely embarrassed by this display of solicitude, but to decline would seem rude somehow, so Chas and Joost relocate to the seating provided

Then three footballs arrive simultaneously, and there is an outbreak of anarchy on the pitch, with several games going on at the same time. The referee attempts to restore order, and eventually the two teams line up to shake hands before the kick off. Mr Mwanza, the dentist, takes possession of the ball early on, but loses his flip-flops in the process, to the amusement of the assembled crowd. It is a game high on enthusiasm and low on skill, and I am soon distracted by some kids practising high jump behind us. They are a collection of boys, about ten years of age, who are leaping their own height across a bar, with only hard ground to meet them on the other side. It is an astonishing display of athletic talent, much more impressive than anything going on over at the football pitch, but no-one else seems to be looking.

14th August 2006

A policeman arrives at the hospital in the afternoon. There has been a road traffic accident, and he has brought the only casualty to the hospital. On further questioning, it transpires that the casualty is, in fact, deceased, and my only duty is to verify her passing. He beckons me to follow him outside, where I find a pick up truck, and a small group of people milling around. Everyone looks at me expectantly. I am not sure what the right thing to do is, so I just clamber into the back of the truck. There is a crumpled body lying on the floor, wrapped in a chitenge. I kneel in the dust and tug back the bloodstained sheets. She is an elderly woman, and she is very obviously dead. Despite this, I go through the time honoured routine of checking her pupils and listening to her heart, not wanting to let my audience down, and then I jump out again. Examining the dead is always a slightly surreal experience, but never more so than today.

16th July 2006

We are back in Chimusanya for a second attempt at holding a mobile clinic there. There is a funeral in the church today, so we have been allocated two concrete huts to work in instead. My makeshift office is crammed with a table and two chairs, a rack bearing assorted altar boys’ cassocks, and a portrait of Pope Benedict. The walls only meet with the roof intermittently. Undeterred by the structural hazards, the patients file in one by one and obediently lift their T-shirts to be examined.

We have been given new forms to fill in for all our HIV patients, and I am attempting to record the required sociodemographic data for a couple who are attending for the first time today. Brenda is translating for me, and she is trying her best, but somehow the answers don’t quite fit the questions. It doesn’t help that many of the questions are ludicrous. I ask how long it took them to travel to clinic from home today, and the answer comes back “Sunday”. I rephrase, we try again, but somewhere in the chain of communication the question goes astray. On the third attempt I get my answer – they have no idea how long it took, neither of them have watches. I decide to skip that section. I didn’t come to Africa to tick boxes.

In the drink

Apologies to our mothers in advance for this one...

28th July 2006

Simon’s world tour is about to touch down in Zambia, and we are waiting in Livingstone airport for him. We hang around by immigration, debating whether he will arrive trailing his beloved mini suitcase on wheels, like an unusually hairy air stewardess. And then we spot him, nonchalantly handing his passport over to the officials, in the manner of someone who has done this too many times of late. Disappointingly, the mini suitcase is nowhere to be seen, and he is much more tanned than we are.

Ten minutes later we are bumping along a dirt road in a clapped out safari vehicle, heading for a mystery destination. I have arranged for us to stay in a posh lodge by the Batoka Gorge – ostensibly a birthday surprise for Chas and Simon, but in reality, a big fat treat for me. The drive there is not promising – all flat, scrubby bush – but the place itself is amazing, perched on the edge of the gorge, high above the Zambezi. We take in the view and nod at each other smugly, before settling down to the first beer of the day.

Later, we sit out in the darkness together, and Chas and Simon contemplate their imminence of their forties. And we drink to our friend Iain, whose funeral we didn’t go to today, and who, if he were able to hear us, might have laughed at our anxieties about ageing.

29th July 2006

It is early on Saturday morning and we are sitting in a draughty tent being briefed on safety procedures for our white water rafting trip. The instructor is berating the group for not responding to his greeting with sufficient volume, and like sheep, we all bellow “Good morning!” I look around at my rafting companions and realise that most of them look like gap year students. This activity was my idea, and I am starting to regret it already.

We clamber down a steep slope to the foot of the Vic Falls, where our rafts are lined up for us. Chas and I are put in a raft with a couple and their two teenage sons. The mother is chewing her lower lip anxiously. She tells me that she actually wanted to go jet boating, but was outvoted. Our instructor, who styles himself as Babyface, takes us through the various manoeuvres, the detail of which I forget instantly. Simon is the first to go, and we look on with some dismay as his raft tips over and he disappears below the surface of the Zambezi. He eventually emerges above the rapids and is hauled aboard.

Then it is our turn to take on the first rapid. I am in the water within ten seconds, and as I try to grab onto the raft, it flips over, spilling Chas into the river as well. I drift downstream, unsure what to do next, and then a man in a kayak paddles over and tells me to swim over to the rocks. I drag myself out of the murky water and sit there, waiting to be rescued. It is all rather more exciting than I had anticipated.

I climb back in the raft just before rapid number two, which is discouragingly named the Washing Machine. Somehow we manage to remain upright over this one, but we flip again attempting to take on the might of rapid number four. We are like human Pooh sticks, adrift in the downstream current. I have no idea where Chas is, or how I am going to get out of the water. The water crashes over my head intermittently, and then I bob to the surface again, gasping. Eventually I meet another man in a kayak, who directs me to a nearby raft. Two young American blokes drag me aboard. They beam at me excitedly, and I realise that they are having the time of their lives. I also realise that I am definitely not. Moments later, my raft hoves into view, with Chas clinging onto the edge. We agree that we have both had enough, and we abandon Simon to the horror of rapid number five, taking the long walk of shame back out of the gorge.

Simon stays to the end, and when he returns to meet us, he seems slightly uncertain as to whether he enjoyed himself or not. But we are all satisfied at having witnessed the making of another joint birthday legend, which will be told in bars around Glasgow for many years to come. Somehow, it seems only fitting that they should celebrate their 40th with another minor fiasco, after the 21st birthday party which was attended by one other person, and the 30th birthday trip to Loch Lomond where Tim pioneered a new technique for horizontal waterskiing. I think it’s definitely croquet next year though.