Bearing Fruit

I’ve had a few different jobs in the past but my last paid one was four years ago, as a Fashion Editor for a national newspaper. As a missionary, one of the hardest things to lay down has been the privilege and satisfaction of having a good job and being paid for it. In Burkina, I have sometimes longed for the structure of a day in the office or the satisfaction of finishing a job well done. There, it can take a whole day to get the groceries and post a letter but even that doesn’t always go to plan. Living in a foreign-speaking, relationship-based culture in 45 degree heat tends to slow things down.

Now that I’m well into my second trimester of pregnancy in lovely cool England and have the energy and time, I’ve been looking for a job. It’s been a little disheartening; I’ve been turned down for work that I am more than qualified for – quite probably due to my now-noticeable bump. Still, this has left me available to work on things that I really care about; namely the accessories enterprise (which I hope to get going in Burkina on our return), helping out with the organisation SOS (www.sos-saveourskills.org) and contributing to a great young women's Christian magazine called Caris (www.carismag.co.uk). I've also been looking for a place where Steve and I can live for a year. Thankfully we’re now sorted and are going to rent a cottage near my Mum’s house and church in Lavant, near Chichester. It was through her church that I did in fact land myself one local job; as a human fruit machine in the village fete last weekend. Well, there’s a first time for everything!

Although unemployed and missing Steve, I am very grateful to be here during this time. England really is a beautiful place and I feel as though I am lying in the green pastures and being led beside quiet waters of Psalm 23. The baby seems to be growing well – the 20 week scan showed nothing abnormal, other than exceptionally long legs, which is quite acceptable especially as Daddy is 6’6”! It is starting to use them too, and judging by the kicks I think it likes the Tim Hughes track ‘Happy Day’. I say ‘it’ because I don’t know if we’re having a boy or girl – we’ve chosen to keep it a surprise. The Fulani will probably esteem Steve more highly if we have a boy, but we will be glad for whatever God gives us. 

In the Comfort Zone

I'm just over 18 weeks pregnant, which means my tummy is now big enough to look like I've had too many pies, but not quite enough to guarantee a seat on the bus. However, in cyberspace my news has clearly been travelling, and I have been bombarded with bumpf – with things I need to know, to think about or to buy. I've been ignoring most of the catalogues, and (perhaps wrongly) assuming that it is largely uneccessary stuff and hoping I'll get by on cast-offs (one cot, one changing mat, some booties and cardigans so far!). The most recent leaflet to hit the bin was for a 'Transcutaneous Electrical Nerve Stimulation' unit, which has electrodes and batteries and is designed to provide 'drug-free pain relief for labour and beyond'. Here in England, it feels as though there is a common goal to get through life with maximum comfort, convenience and minimal pain. Whether or not this is a good thing, we have become very good at it. I am fully expecting to give birth in a well-equipped hospital with gas-and-air and drugs on hand. 

Fulani women don't have it so cushy. But it's not so much to do with a lack of resources, as tradition and the stoic pride of pulaaku, which means true 'Fulaniness'. While women in maternity suites all over the world are free to wail at the tops of their voices, fulani women are expected to give birth swiflty and silently. There is a rule that women in labour may hold a handful of sand in their fist and scream only when it turns to oil. A friend of Steve's told him that his wife had given birth in the house in the time it took him to brew a pot of tea outside.  

Fulani culture is tough and often admirable. One of the things I love the most is the sense of community and family; the importance of visiting, greeting and spending time with each other is paramount. That's one of the reasons we think that it will be great to bring up a child in Djibo. If all goes to plan, Steve and I hope to go back next July (to avoid hot season) when the baby is 8 months old and fully vaccinated. I've had a few negative reactions to this news, from mild bemusement "Are you really going to take a baby back to Africa?", to the less gracious "that's cruelty, that is". 

True, these comments were from people who aren't Christians and don't fully understand Christian mission, but it's still something that Steve and I have given a lot of thought to. We've concluded (with advice from people who've done it) that bringing up a child in West Africa is not only do-able, but a brilliant start to life. Sure, there is additional care to be taken over health and hygiene, but we think the advantages far outweigh the disadvantages. How wonderful to be brought up with a community-based, outdoor lifestyle, with animals and adventure instead of tv and toys. To understand that not everyone has running water or electricity, let alone a Nintendo Wii. To grow up speaking two (maybe even three) languages, and to know muslims as friends, not enemies. Sounds good to me.

Full of Beans

When the women in Djibo boil beans, they always add potassium to the water. Without this, the beans are hard to digest and cause the stomach to bloat. Hence the expression, 'mi nyami nyebbe' which means 'I've been eating beans', or in other words, 'I am pregnant'. I am happy to tell you, therefore, that I have been eating beans now for approximately 12 weeks. We're back in the UK at the moment and have been visiting family and friends to give them the news. 

It wasn't really necessary to tell anyone in Djibo, apparently. As one lady put it, 'you don't need to tell anybody; everyone can see it in your face and by the way you are standing'. True, I was much hotter than usual, had less energy and felt nauseous in the weeks before we left, but I didn't know it was that obvious, or that I was standing strangely. Fulani intuition can be astounding. 

Never have I been so relieved to feel a cool breeze as I was when we stepped off the plane coming home. I don't remember being so pleased to put on tights and a jumper and say 'I'm cold'. England is good. It is also incredibly clean (my white clothes from Africa don't look white here), orderly (post office queues are wonderful, believe me), and comfortable (carpets really are a marvel). Having become acustomed to an outdoor, community-based lifestyle, it is a little strange though, and kind of sad that people here live so segregated by walls and weather. And that there is so much packaging on the food.

I have been amazed at the standard of healthcare I am already receiving; a midwife is coming to see me and I am even given a choice of where and how I would like to give birth. In Djibo, most women give birth at home with their mothers as midwives. I recently heard of one lady 100km away in Mali, who was having a difficult birth and so had to come, while in labour, on the back of a motorbike to the hosptial in Djibo for help. We don't know how lucky we are. We have heard devastating news of an outbreak of measles back in Djibo too; apparently several children have already died (when combined with malnutrition, measles is particularly lethal). 

It's been decided under the circumstances that it is better for me to stay in the UK until after the birth. That means I'll be here for at least a year. Steve is going to return in May to finish up radio project work amongst other things, and hopefully come back at the end of July in time for HTB's annual church camp.

I'll be sorry to be away from my friends (and animals) for so long, but I shan't miss the heat. I will be wondering if the neighbourhood children are ok, of course, and looking forward to the day when we can return with our own little girl or boy. They were often asking us when we would have kids of our own and would peer into the car on our return journeys from Ouagadougou, to see if we'd come back with a baby. Next time we will, if all goes well.

In the meantime I'll be staying with my Mum in Chichester until Steve gets back and we can find somewhere to live nearby. I've brought back with me a ton of Fulfulde learning materials (I'm determined not to lose what I've already learnt), and have work to do on compiling a book and exhibition on traditional Fulani horse tack. That's Husseini pictured, a local reins-maker, riding Silale in full Fulani garb. That's the last photo you'll be subjected to of the horse, by the way – he's sadly had to go (to a good home though, thankfully). I will also be continuing to develop a bag/accessories collection while I am here and learning to knit so that I can continue with a creative enterprise on my return to Djibo next year. 

Let it snow

This morning I took the horse out and was guiding him through an alleyway when a turban-swathed Fulani stepped out in front of me with a wide grin. I've heard that bandits do exist around here, but thankfully this man's only weapon was a camera-phone. He got the shot he was after and went politely on his way. After years of having foreigners capturing their culture on camera (and then making lots of money abroad from their photos, as is commonly believed here), it is good to see West Africans finally getting the chance to shoot back. 

Here in the Sahel it isn't easy to keep track of the latest gadgets and trends, and that's one of the pleasures of having visitors. This month a good friend from London came to stay for 10 days. As well as having the chance to spend time with someone well-missed and hear about our home culture it was refreshing to see Burkina through new eyes. She brought a couple of space-hoppers too; not exactly new technology, but to the neighbourhood kids they were the best thing ever. We wondered what they would call them; in the end it was 'fuufuley' which comes from the Fulani verb fuufude meaning 'to blow'. Toys are a luxury here; most of the time children are left to invent their own entertainment. I recently caught the kids in the photo making the most of a cotton harvest – it looked as fun as any bouncy castle!  

For the last three days of her trip, we decided to take our guest on safari to Nazinga, a 700km² park in the south of the country. We've not been there before but heard that it was worth seeing, despite the fact that everybody who has been there seems to have been chased by an angry elephant. We went, saw the elephants and experienced the obligatory chase. It was quite scary but exciting to hear a wild elephant trumpeting. It really does sound just like a trumpet. 
(For the record, we didn't provoke them on purpose; we just came too close as they were hanging out right by the road we were driving on).  

Adrenalin aside, one of the highlights of the visit there was a freak downpour which broke the stifling heat. Hot season is settling in and afternoons are the worst. Our house and yard in Djibo become like an oven and the streets like hot plates; even the wind is like the blast from a furnace, choking the air with dust and sand. Call me a cheat or a wimp-of-a-missionary if you like, but I am deeply thankful for the air con unit that Steve put in our bedroom. At the time I thought it was excessive (we don't even have running water) - now I'm just relieved.

I am also very grateful that the painful leishmaniasis sores on my legs and ankle are finally healing; they were caused by a parasite transmitted by sand-fly bites, are untreatable and can take up to six months to heal. I've had them since November and they weren't getting any better until two weeks ago, just after I posted the prayer request. So thanks if you responded to that!

Steve and I are heading back to England in two weeks for a month's holiday and to avoid the worst of the heat. Please keep praying for the people here and for His grace to keep us working with them.  

 

 

Telling a Yarn

It's easy to get lost in Djibo. To new-comers, the streets may seem a labyrinth of mud brick and pot holes, punctuated by water pumps and mosques, every street adorned with discarded black plastic bags and millet husks left over from the pounding women. Even the not-so-new, like myself, are often disorientated by the new buildings that regularly spring up while others crumble away. The streets have no names and the houses no numbers; the town is merely divided into secteurs, each about as large as an English housing estate. It would be a nightmare for a postman, if there ever were such a person.

It has been something of a challenge, therefore, to start a new project for fifty women who live all over town. As well as keeping track of their names, I need to know how to find them and "over there, next to the lake" is typical of addresses I have been given (half the town lives next to the lake!).

This has come about as the organization SOS (www.sos-saveourskills.org) are enabling me to create work for women who can hand-spin organic cotton into yarn that will later be woven and sold in Burkina or exported. I am really pleased to be able to do this; my desire has always been to provide creative work for women who are so poor here, and this is an answer to prayer, even if I have to do it without an A-Z of Djibo. 

Spinning cotton into fine yarn is no mean feat and seems to be mainly the preserve of women over fifty years old. Although it was once something almost every Fulani and Mossi woman would do, hand spinning has been mostly abandoned as the market has become flooded with factory produce. I spent one morning with the lady pictured, trying to get the hang of it but barely even managed to spin the kewel on its end correctly (the stick onto which the yarn is spun). It is a special skill and the women know it; you should have heard the chatter and excitement the morning they came to collect the first installment of cotton. Steve said he thought the house was actually shaking with the noise levels they were emitting.

There is something wonderfully liberating about doing what you are good at and I am enjoying organizing work for these ladies who are in turn so glad to be taking up their old skills again. I believe that good, satisfying work is God-ordained, and in an ideal world it is something we would all have. I know we are not yet living in an ideal world, but sometimes I look around Djibo and try to imagine it restored as God would have it. In my mind I can see it; no plastic bags and no potholes, but plenty of mango trees, abundant water and lots of women spinning cotton.  

In a one horse open sleigh

I like Christmas trees, despite their dubious pagan roots and the environmental issues surrounding them. I like them real, bushy and with fairy lights - the full works. This Christmas, however, I have been happy not to have one. Our festive decorations instead have consisted of a plate with five candles and a sprinkling of bisaap (the dried red flowers of a local plant) and a string of last year's Christmas cards (we'll add this year's to our collection when they arrive in January).

Incredibly, we could have had a five foot inflatable Santa Claus if we'd wanted one. The week before Christmas, the streets of Ouagadougou were awash with plastic trees and the bobbing face of the red and white blow-up foreigner. He looked uncomfortably far from home, sweltering in the African heat and being largely ignored.

Back in Santa–free Djibo, surrounded by cattle-a-lowing and donkeys-a-braying, we celebrated Christmas Eve in a more traditional style. Under the stars and a large straw shelter, we gathered with friends and neighbours for preaching and worship followed by a meal. I ferried friends to and from the church in our (recently repaired, praise God) pick-up truck and had to make three trips to take everyone who wanted to go from our neighbourhood alone. For many it was the first time they had set foot in a church compound and we were amazed at the response to our invitation.

Children weren't invited to the evening so instead we threw a party for them on Christmas morning which was great fun. We played games and then showed them the beginning of the film Magdalene about the birth of Jesus. It must have been a special time for them as they said thank you, shook our hands and left quietly afterwards. If you knew how naughty they normally are you would understand the significance of this!

Djibo has a serious lack of retail options when it comes to buying presents, so it pays to have a creative husband like Steve. My gift this year was a horse jumping course around the lake – complete with stripy poles and a map. As poles make ideal firewood, there was no way of leaving the jumps set up for any length of time without them being filched so it was a kind of build-as-you-go jumping course. We got some odd looks, but it was worth it.

In my teens I was a pony club member and loved show jumping and gymkhanas, so while my current 7000 acre back yard is a good space to ride in, there's nothing quite like a bit of a horsemanship challenge. That's why I couldn't say no when I was invited to participate in the Independence Day's horse race earlier in the month. I didn't know what to expect – apart from that I would be galloping at top speed through a narrow street with four other horses and thousands of people. My stomach churned for twelve hours beforehand but as soon as the race began, my fear departed and I couldn't help but whoop loudly as we tore up the track – a very un-Fulani thing to do.

Initially we had reservations about getting a horse. But the benefits have outweighed our doubts and the joy that he has brought us and others is greater than we imagined it could be. I am still being congratulated on my participation in the horse race, and the women and girls in particular seem to have enjoyed seeing a woman enter. There is also something about the sight of a horse that strikes deep into the heart of the Fulani as they were up until relatively recently so much a part of the culture here.

As the horses have been replaced by motorbikes, so the traditional craft techniques for making the beautiful traditional saddlery are quickly disappearing. I've begun to document these techniques with the remaining craftsmen in the hope of retaining this information before it is lost altogether. As well as making new friends along the way, I've been inspired to develop a collection of bags and accessories using their leather skills, incorporated with traditionally woven fabrics.
The combination of horses-fashion-mission is not a likely requirement for a job description but it seems to suit me well. I'm happier now than I've ever been in Djibo and more excited about the prospects of being here longer term.

A Slice of Life

Toast is one of the things I miss the most from home – of course there are plenty of other foods we can't get here but if I could have just one of them I'd have toast. The small baguettes baked in brick ovens around town are pretty good but there's nothing quite like a slice of toast. That's why I was so excited this month when a Swiss friend gave us a breadmaker. It had arrived in the same shipment as the loom - a gift from some Swiss people to Africa, which has now found its way to our house in Djibo along with - quite surreally - some silver cutlery and a few porcelain plates. It feels reassuringly homely to have afternoon tea here in the heat of the day!

Please understand that my aim is not to create a little England here – I want to be as culturally integrated as possible, but I will never get away from the fact that I am English and white. Every time I walk up the street, adults and children call out 'tuubaaku' or 'le blanc' to me, reminding me of the colour of my skin. The fact is that whatever I wear, however I speak or however dark my skin turns, I will never completely blend in. As the Fulani proverb goes, 'fay si leggal booyi ley ndiyam laatataako nowra abada' (even if a log stays in the water a long time it will never become a crocodile).

God created and delights in the different cultures of the world. Jesus came for all people - of every nation, tribe and tongue. As His followers I believe we are called to love and respect other cultures and not try to change them to become like more like us, but rather to encourage them to be more fully themselves - that is, the people who God made them to be.

Of course it is not easy to convey Christ's love to a foreign culture without your own culture confusing the issue. Especially when there is a burning desire to give or help people in need, it is easy to think of solutions that actually aren't in fact totally respectful of local culture and don't help in the long term. I've learnt that myself from my misguided early attempts to create work for Fulani ladies by embroidering things to sell back home. I am now discovering that there is an incredible wealth and knowledge of traditional crafts here, and this is what I am now looking into with the hope of developing something more profitable and sustainable.

Much of my inspiration to do this has come from meeting the founder of an organization called Save Our Skills (www.sos-saveourskills.org) which has recently started working here in Burkina.
It feels right to be following this path; the people I have met seem to be delighted in an outsider taking a real interest in their craft and for me it is as though I am uncovering hidden treasures. It is a little like detective work as there are so few craftspeople still practicing nowadays, mainly due to imports dominating the market and environmental change. The lady pictured is from a local Tuareg family who specialize in leatherwork; I am also doing investigations into weaving, spinning and raffia work. Who knows where it will lead.