Officially Out of Africa

Highlight of the week: We work on our carbon footprint. 40 trees go into the paddock.

Lowlight of the week: Keith stretches too far in pickleball – and has hobbled around ever since

Maximum temperature: A toasty 8 degrees Celsius

Rainfall: Plenty of that in Yorkshire

The ink in the tray runs dry. The stamps in our passports too faint to leave an impression. We leave Africa, but officials deny the reality. The Zambian department of Immigration says No. We are officially still in Africa. But more of that later….

 Our holiday is now half baked. A six-month slow cook. Light sprinkles of UK work satisfy the appetites of our appraisal master-bakers. My scone Fridays at the Friarage Hospital and Keith’s remote GP guest appearances seem to cut the mustard. So, the holiday bake contains a taste of retirement. Not sour. If anything, rather sweet. And enough dough to rise to the occasion.

 Our Zambian kneads are different. Well worked and full of grind. On call 24/7 for 3 months. Plus, the days before we start and the days after we finish. Visiting camps, screening staff for hypertension and diabetes. Educating and supporting staff. But we do manage a couple of days holiday before emigrating once more. Creatures and comfort our fixation. More glamp than camp. More boutique than bush.

In other news: We are now the proud holders of two shiny new Zambian work permits. Two year permits that do what is said on the tin. Permit us, nay compel us, to stay longer in Zambia. Ho hum. We can come sooner and stay longer. These permits mean that we won’t need report orders. No more sitting on the naughty step. Thinking about what we have done. No more begging for clemency, for outstaying our welcome. But we must be in Zambia every 6 months. We can’t solely serve as seasonal workers. Only for our safari-side patients. Our permits compel us to do more than just remote work for our Zambian patients. There is work to be done. Lusaka will see us in January ’27, but this time the ink must stain our passports and prove our bake.

Thank you for your patience as I speak in riddles. Our work permits came with a shaggy dog story: Those barely visible passport stamps caused our permit quest to simmer slowly. A watched kettle that never seemed to boil. Our date of exit a crucial catalyst to prove that we were good eggs and should be allowed back in. Added to that: our report orders from Immigration that barely allowed us to stray from the naughty step. This left Immigration not knowing, for sure, that we had flown the Zambian coop. We showed them our boarding passes, asked for a VAR decision, but asking nicely eventually did the trick. Legally out. Legal to come back in again. Bingo.

Permits in hand. The dominos fall. Flights booked. Medical licences printed. The sands of time shift. New lists replace old. Bags need filling. Plans need making. April looms and two new-but-old Valley docs must dust off their stethoscopes and pulse oximeters.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. We are still out of Africa. This tale is one of holidays and joining the dots. My title Into Africa usually limits my scope. Please forgive me as I digress. Stay out of Africa, as the dots wander. Please have patience. Wild Africa will soon pull me South. For now, another wild world holds my attention. I will whisper softly lest Zambia is listening.

Central America is a world away from Zambia. A new world. Guatemala. Still forming, as lava spews forth from volcanic earth. Fuego belches. The night sky crimson. Our proximity alarming. Previous pyroclastic flows have wiped out whole villages. We climb steadfastly. Salute the sunrise from the peak of Acatanago. But then we run away. Descending, as if on fresh powder. At a canter. Ash and pumice penetrating our footwear. Exfoliating our unbathed feet. We achieve a spiritual cleansing. Our insignificance and transitory lives contrasting with geological forces.

The force of water through limestone carves tunnels that man dare to tread. Man treads. Woman treads. But not me. I have no yearning to explore dark and dank recesses. They revolt me. Repel me. You won’t find me potholing or caving in any shape or form! Yet our itinerary suggests that we explore water carved stone today. It doesn’t appear optional. No one else shares my position statement. Team Fuego is potholing today! I have a touch of FOMO. I reluctantly accept the candle. Hold the rope. Tread through deepening water. Our lead guide, Joel, wears a life vest. But I have no safety gear. The tunnel swallows us one by one. Deeper and deeper we go. The rope proves key. My guide can’t swim. But the rope keeps us afloat. The candle proves neither use nor ornament. A distraction from my plight. Water torture. Waterboarding. The candle soon extinguished - symbolising what? My flooding therapy reaches a fever pitch, as I plummet blind down a limestone waterfall into a plunge pool of unknown depth. Expecting never to emerge. Tormented, I shed invisible tears into the torrent.

We rise well before dawn. Climb on Mayan heights. Patiently await the sun. But low cloud hugs the rainforest tightly and we miss the first flush. We berate the weather. We moan, not howl. But sensing the mood, howler monkeys join in our dawn chorus. They make no mistake. Their names onomatopoeic. One male communicates with his troop. They howl back at him. Our sacrificial high point gives us surround sound. Eerie and suggestive of echoes but doubtless the howlers outnumber us.

We luck out with a secret hideaway on the Pacific coast of Costa Rica. It appears that we have the best security detail. Hummingbirds patrol the perimeter. Doing their rounds. Nectar on their tongues. A peregrine falcon offers high aerial surveillance. A pair of screecher owls have eyes only for us. Our Tamarindo Airbnb has it all. Iggy the Iguana rules the roost from his Buddha perch. Iggy loans us the house but not the pool. Even the Pacific has its incumbents. Humpback whales show us their flukes. Two fingers up at Keith. Keith foolishly thinks that his hydrofoil might possibly compete.

The Costa Rican wildlife continues to deliver. My thoughts turn to new life.  Green turtles laying. Ping pong balls covered in mucus. Pleased with their girl-power the mums-to-be bury their young. Sixty vital orbs. Mum’s flippers shovel sand over the amorphous mass. But there is method. The deep balls are destined to be boys. Cool customers. The shallow ones incubate in relative warmth. Girly and already on top. A metre of sand protects them all from racoons and iguanas. We witness the oviposition. New life hanging in the balance and plunging into a deep sandpit. Mum turns turtle and heads back to the Pacific. Motherhood not her thing.

But here is one that another green matron made earlier. Fifty days earlier. A tiny flipper emerges. A palm sized reptile hurtles down the beach. Feminine and certain. The lapping ocean summons her. A rhythm that lures her in. Into safer deep water. Away from predating avians, mammals and their reptilian kin. In truth we are late to this party and only witness the boys. Stragglers and also-rans. Emerging like wind-up toys. Uncertain. Rotating their flippers against steep sandy rises. We watch in awe as 3 male hatchlings emerge from a depression in the sand. Making a bid for freedom. Scrambling up the sheer sides. And then unerringly stumbling their way to the sea. Following the sounds of the waves crashing on the beach. Less than 1% will survive to adulthood. The odds are against our triplets. But we live in hope. New life can find a way.

Back in North Yorkshire our barn owls are on sabbatical. Little owls hold our immediate perimeter. Kites monitor the airways. The cows take an unreasonable interest in the milk that we have on our table. Our blissful Kwetu existence is transitory. A holding station between magical wildlife haunts.

I make space on my laptop. Clean up the camera. Shop. Pack. Prepare for Zambia ‘26. Patients await. Friends to re-acquaint. Secretive wild creatures secretly crave the limelight. Flirt with my camera. Posing for my blog parade. Will Lucy’s twin cubs make the grade? Has Stumpy embraced motherhood? Might our Kapani leopard go cold-turkey? Offer an armistice to domestic cats and dogs? Are baboons still playing their dawn percussion on our tin roof? Although still officially out of Africa I rant, barely making sense. Clearly I am still Into Africa.

Sunsets in Costa Rica rival the Zambian ones

Racoon after discarded fruit

A cute little turtle emerges from the sand