It’s not Christmas

Weather - Maximum temperature 36 degrees Celsius

- Weekly rainfall 60mm

Highlight of the week

Thomas sees us for post-operative care. Ten days earlier he presented septic with an acute abdomen on the edge of death. A perforated appendix the cause of his ills. Today he smiles and thanks us as we take out 20 stitches from his abdomen.

Lowlight of the week

Draining 100ml of pus out of a left breast abscess. No lentil soup for either of us for a month.

The land we once called home has excluded us. Our squatters remind us of the ideal home that we have left behind. Kwetu’s locks have been changed. They tease we hope. God’s own county is far away. The UK electoral register no longer counts me as resident. Even Boris black-listed us for a while. Until he realised that we were more pure than he. We find ourselves in splendid isolation in Kapani. Confined to our barracks by the rains. Mud at every turn. Constantly threatening to suck us under. Adrian and Gid Carr pulled us out of a quagmire after Sunday’s Christmas quiz. Keith had dodged an ocean sized puddle only to be taken down into quicksand.

It’s strange to see pictures of our erstwhile home on social media. Particularly at this time of year. Christmas trees and snowy vistas. Hearths lit with mesmerising fires. Families gathering. COVID threatening to put the kybosh on festive cheer again. Meanwhile, back in Zambia, we are far removed. In fact, I don’t believe it is Christmas at all. No shopping trips. No carols playing. No lists of things to buy and cook. No house to clean and bed linen to swap. No queue of guests. No negotiations at work. Should I choose Christmas or New Year? No last-minute shopping for stockings or gifts. No present wrapping. No pondering over what not to write in our Christmas message.

Our Christmas message usually holds no tidings. No news. No family journal. Instead we invite friends and family to unravel our cryptic writings. Our year in prose is usually so opaque that we barely understand it ourselves.

Instead this year. Welcome to our It’s not Christmas blog. More pictorial than usual. By popular request. We offer gifts of visual delight. From a faraway place, where few can now tread. Zambia’s star attractions. This is your chance to share our safari treasures. Not gold, frankincense or myrrh. But what your true love might bring to you on the 12 days of Christmas.

Ahead this week we have a plan. Work filled Monday through Friday. But on Christmas morning we will rise before the baboons for a professional game drive with friends. Byron will weave his merry way through treacherous trails in search of iconic creatures. I suspect the majority of his clients will be too distracted by gossip and mulled wine to notice the predatory eyes on us. If there are any survivors, Gid and Adrian are hosting a Christmas dinner. They have rounded up the Valley waifs and strays and have promised to ply us all with food, drink and merriment. I retract my earlier statement. Christmas is game on.

Feast your eyes on our very own 12 days of Christmas:

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me….