Highlight of the week: A good save at work
Lowlight of the week: Two consecutive nights of disturbed sleep. The doc phone becomes hyperactive.
Maximum temperature: 32 degrees Celsius
Rainfall: None
Exercise is good for you. Laziness is not. Tomsk, a womble, is my childhood icon. He knows his stuff. I sing his song and follow his mantras. I am 6. Up in the morning for a five-mile run. Tomsk continues. Down to the river for a swim. My mother, also known as Madame Cholet, despairs.
Despite my proclivities, exercise is yet to be proven to be good for you in our Valley. Together with my friend Gid, I brow beat Keith into not buying a bike in Mfuwe. The balance of harms and benefits seem unfavourable. Elephants tend to take exception to 2 wheelers even more than 4 wheelers. Keith is my first husband. I’m not yet ready to interview for husband number two.
The roads around Kapani are not suitable for Tomsk’s five-mile run. And the river would take Darwinian selection to extremes. So, what else can a hyperactive womble do? In the presence of 2 functioning air conditioning units, indoor activities have been on the radar this year. Yoga. Oh-nos. And high intensity interval training. Doable. A viable balance between enjoyment and challenge. Sweaty, but not life-threatening.
Allegedly, there is a running route just near our clinic. If we chose, we could do circuits there. But, I hate running. The last time I ran was in 2002. I remember the day well. It was the second time we had completed the Great North Run. An iconic half marathon from Newcastle to South Shields. I ran all the way. Even over the finishing line. And have not run since.
It is last weekend. We are asked to help out at the Conservation South Luangwa (CSL) fun run. A misnomer if ever I heard one. How can fun and run ever appear in the same sentence? By good fortune our role in the event means that we are precluded from running. The two volunteer Valley docs gladly volunteer their services.
My tropical medicine exam is history. Friday night sees us putting together a rudimentary medical kit. We rack our brains to identify what essentials should be packed into our meagre 2 tonne truck. There is to be a 10 km race and a 20 km race. Starting at 0600 and 0700 respectively. It’s the coolest time of the year. Mornings tend to be quite crisp. We don’t expect too many casualties. Pain killers. Oral rehydration salts. Bandages. Antiseptic.
This all makes me think once again of the Great North Run. A race with over 50,000 participants. It is 2002 again. Ambulances are positioned along the whole route. Hospitals are prepared for casualties. At the finish line is a large medical tent. A friend of mine is working there. He tells me that, at one point, there are 10 people in the medical tent with a blood potassium level over 10 mmol/l. Potassium injected into a large vein is a favoured method of execution in many American States. A normal level is less than 6.5 mmol/l. Over-exertion, without training, is liable to send your potassium level sky high. Dehydration likewise. Inebriation, or illness, combined with exertion are other Geordie triggers for potassium elevation. Somehow, nobody dies between Newcastle and South Shields this year.
Back in the present day, we eschew the potassium analysis machine. We have the ability to test people for malaria, pregnancy and COVID. Not standard St John Ambulance issue. But they are what they are. Potassium is a nicety that will have to remain obscure. Besides, we have no access to effective treatment for hyperkalaemia. Our resuscitation paraphernalia is ever present in the Blue Beast. But the bare essentials of our race-day first aid kit fit in a plastic carrier bag. We have no stretcher. Instead, we decide to pack our collapsible camp chairs.
The alarm clock goes off at 0500. At least half an hour before we might expect baboons to beat on our tin roof. A lie-in out of the question. A quick breakfast. The Blue Beast heads to the airport. Not to the runway. But instead, the surrounding fields. We arrive before the 10K runners depart. The 20K runners are long gone. Friends mill around. A twinge of guilt. Should we join them? But then I remember. I hate running.
We clutch our first aid supplies. Craving a medical hub, we gravitate to the finish line. An obvious place to find battle weary athletes. But as we open our orphan stretchers to make camp, we spy the nearby massage tent. The Mfuwe lodge Bush-Spa team are at the ready. Fully equipped with massage tables and oil. Ready to iron-out cramps, and to provide massages to weary runners. Professional kit for a professional operation. Working de bono. Next to the massage couches lie two mattresses. On the ground. A make-shift medical ward. We set out our meagre kit. Make up a few bottles of orange flavoured oral rehydration salts. Introduce ourselves to the physiotherapy team from Kamoto Hospital. Also volunteers for the day. And wait.
We do not wait long. Number 300 comes storming home. 10K in 36 minutes. Drips. A trickle. A stream. A flood. The runners come in. Cross the line. They gratefully grab fluid. Register their time. Migrate to our tent. Cramp and aches are ten a penny. Perhaps an excuse for a free massage? Our mattresses become occupied by exhausted humanity. The physios jump in, to help them to stretch. Immune to the sweat and dirt. Gloved hands work magic. Agony dissolves. Massage benches fully occupied. But our sick bay lacks a little something. Sickness! We step back.
All change. Doc, we need some help. A steward calls me. I glance over to the finish line. A young lady has very wobbly legs. Unable to walk in a straight line. She somehow registers her time and race position. Faith, we later learn, is first in the ladies 20K race. Her legs give way. She falls face down. Still. People walk around her. I rush over. Airway: fine. Breathing: fine. Circulation: fine. Working diagnosis: alive.
A kind marshal, Moses, scoops Faith up. Carries her to one of our mattresses. The mass of bodies on our mattresses parts. Moses lives up to his namesake. Faith pants. Her pulse is strong but fast. My pulse oximeter details the stress in her vitals. 144 per minute. She gulps the rehydration salts. A sure sign that she needs ORS. But I temper her enthusiasm. Sips please Faith! Faith is a slip of a lass. Her temperature 35.2. A blanket now keeps her warm. Slowly, slowly her breathing slows. Slowly, slowly her pulse slows. Faith’s potassium stays in obscurity as the physios stretch her legs. After a quarter of an hour Faith stands and is promoted to a massage table. Keith captures Faith’s smile as she tells me she is number one.
More people stream over the finish line. Now a mixture of 10K and 20K runners. All smiling. A fantastic sense of community. People clapping. Cheering. Raising their arms. Suitably proud to have completed the run. At this point, I wish I liked running. Crossing the line looks fun. It’s just the preceding misery that troubles me. Dodgy knees my family excuse.
Simon, our only other significant casualty. Running barefoot. Part of the 20K race. He is hobbling. Unable to bear weight on his right leg. We suspect an injury to his bare foot. But his skin is pristine. Made of old boots. No damage there at all. He tells us he caught his foot in a hole in the road. About 1 km from the finish. He twisted his leg and fell. Determined and made of stern stuff he rallies and completes the race. But as the adrenaline of competition dwindles so does his stock of stern stuff. He hops to our tent with a steward’s support.
We steer Simon to one of our camp chairs and assess the damage. Very tender mid-tibia. But no obvious swelling or deformity. No pain with longitudinal pressure. But Simon declines to bear weight. Perhaps shin splints? Perhaps a spiral fracture of his tibia? Naproxen offered and accepted. A referral to Kamoto for X-Ray agreed. But our physiotherapy colleagues urge less haste. Monday will find staff in the X-ray department and a physio on-hand.
Hopping home is unrealistic for Simon. Keith decides to extend the lease of his precious camp chair. He even promises to ferry Simon home in due course. Despite the chairs being our most precious asset, Keith figures that Simon’s state of infirmity will ensure that the chair is weighted down against theft. We sally forth to check out the other sporting events. Simon is going nowhere we surmise.
The Conservation South Luangwa, CSL, sports day is an annual event. Cancelled for 3 years whilst the whole world held its breath. CSL are a vital Non-Governmental Organisation. Started in 2003, this is their 20th year in action. They work in partnership with Zambia’s Department of National Parks and Wildlife (DNPW). They have been integral to park development. Ensuring community engagement and involvement. Anti-poaching patrols; aerial surveillance; anti-snaring patrols; emergency veterinary work to release animals caught in snares. Rachel McRobb, their CEO is an inspiration. She leads by example today. The 10K race. And the tug-of-war. She certainly earns her stripes.
A full day of activities. There’s a children’s dancing contest. Won by a young lady who certainly knows how to shake her booty. Rhythm is born in Zambian bones. A corporate team relay. Shades of childhood school sports days sees the teams in sacks, three legs, bearing eggs and spoons or sprinting with visions of victory. Much hilarity. Community spirit. Teams scream. Competitive edges. Dropped eggs. Scuffed knees from 3-legged falls. There are no losers today.
After spending most of the morning on our feet, sitting becomes attractive. We opt to retrieve our seats. Spectator sports in store. But both our hopping casualty and Keith’s prized chair have evaporated. Simon says stand on your feet. Simon says hop it. We co-opt the race marshals into our search for the errant chair and the wounded rogue. With more than 6000 participants and spectators milling around, it takes some time to locate the wandering chair. Keith beams as he holds the red chair aloft. The relief on his face evident. Imagine the prospect of sundowners without a suitable perch. Particularly since our chairs have a wee slot for a gin and tonic. As to Simon. After a short game of Simon says, it will be 2 more days before we see hide nor hair. Simon eventually phones Keith to ask for the fare to Kamoto hospital. But without the magic words, Keith feels no compulsion to do what Simon says.
Tug-of-war. A combination of ballast and power. A team event with a smidgeon of technique. The spectacle is set to commence. The best seats are in a VIP tent. Very important people sit on sofas and armchairs. The front row is occupied by the local chiefs and important dignitaries. The tent is inviting and shady. The sun high. No chill is left in the air. Keith decides that we can sit in the shade of the tent. Well, just inside the tent really. On our VIP camp chairs. I cringe. Keith greets some important people. The battle commences.
The teams seem evenly matched. Ten-a-side. At least four women per team. Game faces on. There is pride at stake here. And crowds to impress. The first round sees some teams dragged flying over the line. But now it gets tight. Heaving from both ends. Round after round. Getting tougher and tougher. Rachel steps into the fray. She shifts the balance and helps her team to progress. The Zambian Air Force eventually secure a niggle match against the Zambia National Airports. And claim the title.
The Zambian Air Force are not the only winners today. Rachel awards us each a 10 km race tee shirt. We now have bragging rights, without having broken sweat. I guess that goes quite well with our pretender presence in the VIP tent. But the real success of the day is the esprit de corps. CSL are the figurehead of a Valley that pulls together to protect the environment and its creatures. We are honoured to be two small cogs in a ground swell of positive Valley activity.
We slink home. Our stamina flagging after a taxing week at work. In the dying embers of the day the Zambian Carnivore Programme sponsor a big local football derby. Malambo United secure the title after penalties. We miss the spectacle. Exercise is good for you. But Orinoco snoozes on Wimbledon Common.
Excellent as usual. In 2019, I saw a barefoot runner whose soles were flapping from his feet. I didn't use superglue.
Ian