The same. But different

Photo or the week: Who is watching who? Lucy makes a guest appearance

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 4^th year that we have returned to work in Zambia. The 8^th 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 4^th bag, a bag too far for our first night. A 5^th 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 mobile phone masts again. But succumb to temptation: we connect to the world through Starlink. Justified by the excuse of patient accessibility. Different league, same continent.

Today, we borrow the doc car from Doc Andre. He has his own car here too. We head into the park as the sun rises. Keith on strict orders. No close encounters with elephants. And let’s avoid Riverside Drive. The scene of my and Baby Ellie’s near death experience, 2 years ago. We have a tip off that Lucy is in Wamilombe. With her cubs. Two boys.

We are not disappointed. We last saw the trio in October. The 3 months old cubs. One timid. One brave. But both vulnerable. Potentially on borrowed time. We feared they would not make it. The attrition rate for leopards is high. Especially for twins. But Lucy is an experienced mother. This is her 3^rd  litter. All boys so far. Their survival is welcome news to us.

The 11 month old boys are playing in the open. We can’t get super close. Mr Ranger, Sir, is parked up, protecting their personal space. We respect the rules. And wait. And watch. They chase. They climb. Boisterous boys doing boisterous things. We are entranced for 2 hours. Then they find some shade. And sleep.

At this point the baboons start alarming across the plain. A sure sign that their mum, Lucy, is around. We head towards the barking. And sure enough Lucy materialises. In a gully. Resting. But she is a little put out that the paparazzi have disturbed her equanimity. She strolls off. We follow slowly. Lucy provides us with the money shot, with a male impala watching warily.

Let’s go back to the twins. She’s headed that way. Keith suggests. The twins are now awake and alert. Sure enough, after 15 minutes they head up into the bush. Mum is calling them. Our ears fail to pick up the invite. At a fork in the road we can head toward Lucy, or towards the boys. Keith’s gut says right. Another vehicle seems to be near Lucy. Keith votes with the steering wheel. He navigates by the ranger’s car.

Pay dirt. The juvenile cubs lie on our dirt trail. They are ours. To cat sit for a while. We purr. We have the cream. The kittens eye us without apparent concern. But, the spell is then broken. Another vehicle approaches from the opposite direction. The brave cub strikes forth. Straight towards his new cat sitters. I bravely leave my window open. The gallant cat is within stroking distance. I resist the urge. As his brother image fades in our rear view mirror the bashful brother follows his footsteps. Timidly at first. And as he passes my door he breaks into a trot. Both of our feline wards fix me with a hard stare. Then they vanish into the deep bush. Looking for mum and the prospect of brunch.

Now Keith decides not to heed our earlier plan. He persuades me that we should go home via Riverside Drive. Against my better judgement, I agree. It is all going swimmingly. Until we round a corner. Right by the point where we almost met a watery end 2 years ago. And there in our path: is a 6 tonne elephant. We quickly realise that we are almost completely surrounded by elephants. Keith beats a hasty retreat. Flooding therapy does not work for me. My 2 biggest fears. Elephants and imminent drowning. At the same time. I am frantic. But Keith backs up lickety split. And gets us out of trouble once again. We sensibly retrace our steps and leave the park by an altogether safer route. The park is the same. But different.

And so we are settling in. To our same, but very different life. We have caught up with friends. Quick snatches of chat. Firmer plans made to meet, when we have our own wheels. When we officially become the Valley Doctor team again. South Luangwa really is the same. But different.

We catch up with Lucy's cubs. 2 boys

A leopard cannot change its spots. 8 months of growth and development