Charlie's News

The Shock of the New

2009-10-02T17:18:00.003+02:00

I haven’t written for a while. Time flies when you have people to catch up with, places to go, things to do and a nice cool temperature to live in. I’m trying to make the most of this time in England before the baby comes, and along the way I’m having to re-learn how to ‘do’ life here again.

Although I’ve been back since April, I’m still not entirely back into the swing of things having lived in a developing country for over four years. Reverse culture-shock can be a slow-burner, I concluded after our first NCT group a couple of weeks ago. The ice breaker question was ‘tell the group something odd about yourself’ and all I could think was ‘where do I start?’

These classes have been a good way to meet new people but Steve and I have had to battle to shake off our apparent Fulaniness. The idea of men in Djibo even talking about the process of childbirth is unthinkable, let alone a room of them gathering with their wives to look at explicit photographs, bounce around on gym balls and learn about massage and bowel control. We’d never be taken seriously by our African friends if they knew.

Coming to the UK from a country as poor as Burkina, the place where most people get reverse-culture shock is apparently in the supermarkets. Homecoming missionaries and foreign visitors are said to have fled their trolleys at the mere sight of an aisle crammed with food or sent into a spin by the sheer variety of tomatoes.

Reverse culture-shock aside, British supermarkets are bizarre places. Such choice and abundance in a world of need, and apparently 40% of it often ends up as waste. Tesco is now burning 5,000 tons of unsold meat a year to make biofuel. Some people might think they deserve a pat on the back for this but I cannot personally reconcile it with the realities of world hunger. Since I’m not accustomed to shopping much at supermarkets, I’ve been more easily able to live by my convictions and chosen not to start. It helps that Chichester has some great farm shops, a local market and we have some generous neighbours with an allotment.

I’ll admit that I’ve been mildly obsessed with the whole subject of ethical and eco-friendly consumerism for the last few months – how to make choices that don’t exploit workers in Africa, Asia or even on our own turf, and to do it all on a budget. It is both fascinating and frustrating, and it makes grocery shopping at the market in Djibo seem blissfully uncomplicated. I’ve been inspired by some great talks by Shane Claiborne and James Odgers, founder of the Besom Foundation, and his discussion course Simplicity, Love and Justice. And I’ve really enjoyed compiling ethical fashion pages for Caris Magazine. In case you haven’t heard of it - it’s a great Christian magazine for teenage girls, and I thoroughly recommend any 11-15 year old girl to subscribe to it (www.carismag.co.uk).

It’s now less than 6 weeks until the baby is due and we’re pretty much prepared, I think! By small miracles of providence, we have a fully furnished house now, including a baby room with virtually everything we could need. We’ve hardly spent anything; just said ‘yes please’ when family and friends have asked if we wanted various hand-downs from them and people in their churches. A huge thank you to everyone who has helped us in this way.

Bearing Fruit

2009-06-29T16:46:00.004+02:00

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

2009-05-30T10:42:00.004+02:00

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

2009-04-27T16:26:00.003+02:00

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

2009-03-25T09:09:00.002+01:00

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

2009-02-17T16:56:00.001+01:00

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

2008-12-30T20:23:00.003+01:00

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

2008-11-27T19:04:00.001+01:00

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.

Spilling the Beans

2008-10-31T18:34:00.002+01:00

It was past eight in the evening and we were clearing away our supper dishes when there was a knock on the gate. Unlike British summertime, there are no languorous sky-streaked sunsets this close to the equator; here it's a quick nod and the sun is off to bed by about 6 pm - although sometimes this is preceded by a change of light so dramatic that it gives the place an almost radioactive glow for a few minutes. By night fall, the correct greeting will have changed to Jam hiiri (did you pass the evening in peace?), although very few people are out greeting at this time and there is a hint of suspicion about those that are.

So we were a little surprised to hear visitors rattling at our gate at this late hour and went to investigate. In the darkness I could just make out the figure of a girl, and lurking around the corner were two more. With an air of espionage she timidly approached and spoke quietly. I've read about this sort of thing with bible smugglers in China or Vietnam and prayer teams in North Africa, but never here in Djibo. It was quite exciting. What could they possibly need that required the cover of darkness?

Actually it was pretty simple. She wanted to know if her friend could join the Saturday morning sewing group that I have just started for surbaabe (girls aged from about 12 to 20). I was glad to welcome her along, of course, and was discovering that this under-cover-operation approach to asking was just one more lesson in my education in the perplexing habits of Fulani teenage girls.

I had decided to start the group the week before, after a group of neighbouring girls kept coming and asking if I would teach them to embroider. We had set a day and they were clearly looking forward to it and greeted me in the street a couple of days before confirming their excitement. I bought the ledde teme (wooden sieves used as embroidery hoops here), prepared the materials and a Fulani lady from church came along to help on the day. From ten until noon was the agreed time. We sat and waited for the group to appear but by half past eleven realized that no-one was coming.

As if this wasn't puzzling enough, I was further mystified by the cool reception when I visited the girls' yard to find out if there was a problem. I never did get to the root of it, but I suspect it may be due to pressure from their religious father not to be involved with Christian activities. It's a shame for all of us but not altogether surprising. We think the same thing is happening with the Thursday kids' club that we run; numbers have been dwindling and the other day a lively eight year old who has never missed a week came and said that she wasn't allowed to come anymore unless we were giving away free food. You can see how the term 'rice Christians' has derived.

Such frustrations are all "perfectly natural", according to my pseudo-psychologist husband, and will help give me character and hope, if the apostle Paul is to be believed. And I know that no one plants and harvests immediately – the process requires patience, if not always understanding. (Incidentally, I found Graham Tomlin's talk on Learning Patience very helpful, and would thoroughly recommend this and other podcasts from our home church, Holy Trinity Brompton, which can be downloaded for free at www.htb.org.uk/audio )

We may not get to harvest what we sow, but sometimes we may harvest what we haven't planted. One of our neighbours has recently started going to church with his children and I know that this is the result of years of missionary influence and God's timing; it's not been grown overnight. Even still, harvesting is the most fun, and there's nothing quite like holding your first fistful of beans.

Fevers & Weavers

2008-09-23T19:12:00.002+02:00

It's not every day that you come across a ewe giving birth, but it's hardly surprising when you live in a town where the livestock rules the streets. In this case of this sheep, it had been brought into town for help as the birth was problematic – she had mated with a sheep of a larger breed and as a result the lamb was too big to deliver. I thought sheep were all the same, but no, and now several people took turns at rummaging around in its innards before the lamb was finally extracted and the ewe could recover. The whole operation drew me in with a fascination that I guess every ER telly-addict understands. Personally, I am intrigued by animal anatomy but far too squeamish for human biology. I only have to think about the red stuff and my head starts spinning – as demonstrated when I once fainted while waiting for my blood pressure to be taken.

Having a week in a Ouagadougou hospital at Steve's bedside was not what either of us had planned for this month. There is no time for sqeamishness when your husband is writhing around in pain from both typhoid and malaria. I hope, as he does, that he is never that ill again. Thank God, he is now making a remarkable recovery – the day after I sent out an urgent prayer appeal, he made a real turn for the better and has been getting better since. Thank you so much for your prayers.

In between leaping up at every potentially malaria-injecting mosquito and spending a luxurious amount of time on the internet and reading, I have been able to continue with my language studies even while we are away from Djibo. A former missionary in Burkina devised a brilliant language course, grammar study and Fulfulde-English dictionary so I have been working through these. It is incredible to have such a resource available. We are so blessed in many ways. As Steve pointed out – a Fulani out in the bush with typhoid and malaria would have no hope of receiving the treatment available to us. They would have to depend on God alone.

This month has been my first experience of Ramadan here in Burkina, although being in multi-faith Ouagadougou we have missed many of the side effects. Muslims are notoriously grumpy during the daytime, when religion requires that they neither eat, drink, or even swallow until sunset. Here in the city, the only noticeable evidences of it are the food and drink billboards advertising special offers for the festival. Fasting during the day is apparently made up for by feasting at night which makes it seem more do-able, although I am thankful not to have to go even an hour in this heat without water.

It will be good to get back to Djibo at the end of this week. I am mostly missing the children and the animals and I wonder how the ladies are getting along in the shop. I am looking forward to putting plans into action for the girls club and for the weaving project. While in Ouaga we've taken a look at the loom available to us – it's pretty big, as you can see from the picture. I'm not sure quite how we'll get it there but when we do it will be an exciting venture.

Umbrellas at the ready

2008-08-28T16:16:00.000+02:00

Every Wednesday, hundreds of villagers, cattle and merchants descend upon Djibo for the weekly market. On one side of town the herders, cows, sheep and goats congregate in a huge iron-railed compound for the day's negotiations. Elsewhere, the streets are lined with piles of aluminium pots, plastic shoes and second-hand clothes for sale. These piles of jumble come courtesy of clothes banks in America and Europe and are the reason why Oumarou might be wearing an Oxford University t-shirt and his daughter a pink flowery outfit from Next. It's not very traditional but it's an affordable way to dress.

It's not just the fashion that has been affected by imports. Traditional crafts and skills such as weaving and leatherwork have all but died out with the onslaught of cheap Asian replacements.
There are a few local craftsmen here and there but even the ubiquitous African printed wax cloth is apparently of foreign origin. That's the sad state of things here but I had to laugh one market day when I found a group of children enjoying one of Asia's latest blessings; paper cocktail umbrellas. They hadn't the faintest idea what they were, but they kept them amused for a morning anyway.

The children here are a real source of delight but hard work when they are trampling through our gate from morning to evening, so Steve and I have started a weekly 'party' for them on Thursday afternoons. These have been a real success and probably the single most enjoyable hour of my week. We play games, sing songs and tell them bible stories. They seem to love it, as they laugh and squeal and come around every other day asking when the next one is. We have a home-made puppet, called Baasi Fuu Walaa who helps with the presentation and they are very fond of him too – especially now that they understand that he is in fact controlled by Steve's hand and not some form of witchcraft.

There has been sadness for me too this month as I have learnt that Precious Girl Magazine in Cambodia is to end in October. Finances have dried up, the Art Director is leaving and the publishing licence is due to expire then so it seems like the time has finally come for it to close. I am very sad that this should be so, as it is now established and quite well known in the garment worker community. However, I am confident that I have done all that I can with it, and that the 3- years worth of magazines will continue to bless and encourage the workers for a long time to come. Thank you to everyone who supported that work in prayer and finances.

I have realised that my heart is still predominantly to work with young women and so as Precious Girl ends I am considering starting up a work with the young women of Djibo. Not a magazine, as many of them can't read – but a club probably. Several teenage girls have asked me to teach them sewing and drawing so I am thinking of doing something weekly – not a business effort but more of a recreational thing, with bible teaching too. The church here is supportive of new outreach ideas and have also asked me to head up a weaving project as they have been given a loom. This is an interesting prospect for me, not least of all because it means working with local people, materials and skills – no cocktail umbrellas required.

Digging It

2008-07-23T20:57:00.003+02:00

For as long as I have known it, Djibo has always been orange. The houses are orange, the ground is orange and as a result my feet are often orange too. If left alone, the books on our shelves turn orange and there's orange between the letters on my laptop keyboard. It's generally a very orange place.

For this reason I have been quite excited about rainy season, as I am seeing Djibo in green for the first time. The dusty football pitch has turned into a cow pasture and the hills are alive with the sound of cultivating. There's quite a buzz in the air, and it's not just the mosquitoes. Rainy season is farming time and everyone and his donkey is out in the fields, planting beans, millet, corn and peanuts. There isn't a tractor in sight; this is all back-bending, hands-and-hoe work.

It was with a little trepidation, therefore, that I accepted my friend Dikore's offer to help work in the fields. "It's fun to give the white person a field to cultivate" she said. Fun, or funny – I'm not quite sure which she meant. This is a woman who pounds millet all morning, carries a two year old on her back and can walk miles with a bucket of water on her head. I get worn out watering the garden twice a day.

Nonetheless, I accepted and so have recently been out in the fields ploughing and scattering. I was amazed this morning as I rode out of town (I take the horse out to graze at the same time), at the number of people who knew I was going cultivating. If there was a local rag it would be in the gossip column "tubakku sows beans!"

As well as earning me a reputation, stomping around the fields in bare feet has given me a good workout, a farmer's tan and a lot of pleasure. It feels so…well, earthy. Meanwhile I am also learning more Fulfulde words, such as 'lamdam gertorde', which is a small grub and literally translated means 'salt for chickens'. I'm picking up other more useful words too, mainly about farming. Hopefully I'll soon have enough to tell the Parable of the Sower.

Language learning has really been my main focus of the last few weeks; I am now desperate to be able to communicate properly as I have so much I want to share and understand. I see the ladies from the sewing group regularly, although we only meet to sew together once a week now. We're going to start meeting in the shop so we can sell at the same time, but we're not expecting much business this month as most people are out in the fields. I have recently had some new contacts and ideas concerning working with more traditional crafts such as weaving and raffia-work which interests me greatly. More on that later!

Thanks for your prayers and emails, they mean a lot.

Back in the Saddle

2008-06-29T22:14:00.002+02:00

'Praise the Lord, O my soul; all my inmost being, praise his holy name. Praise the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits - who forgives all your sins and heals all your diseases, who redeems your life from the pit and crowns you with love and compassion, who satisfies your desires with good things so that your youth is renewed like the eagle's. 'Pslam 103 v 1-5

This verse comes to mind when I look for some way to express how I'm feeling since my last sulky newsletter - much, much better!Thank you to anyone who prayed; I feel so different it is quite remarkable.

For two weeks in England, I nattered my heart out with friends and family, ate copious amounts of toast, bawled my eyes out in church and stocked up on books, DVDs and marmalade. My trip home came just at the right time. I feel refreshed, rejuvenated and ready to get back in the proverbial saddle. Hallelujah.

To our great relief, too, the rains started this week, and it is as though the baker has finally opened the oven door. The hens weren't quite so delighted to see their eggs floating around the chicken house, and the ground has turned into a mass of squelchy, slippery yet flip-flop-adhering mud, but it's great. Walking through the market after a downpour is a bit like competing in 'It's a Knockout' but without the goofy costumes.

Another door has opened, too, it seems, as the Ladies of Djibo have acquired a place to sell in the market. My sales efforts in England and on-line shop have been virtually fruitless, so the timing of this is spot-on. For now, I have decided to channel my efforts with the group into making business for them locally. I pray that it will be a success - they are mainly making disaaje at the moment - sarongs with colourful embroidered designs that the women use to carry their babies. Later on, I hope to teach sewing-machine skills so we can launch into children's and babies' clothes.

The Tuareg refugees that have set up camp on the edge of town serve as a reminder of how much we have to be thankful for. So what if my laptop has just packed up, and we have barely any vegetables to eat right now (being the end of dry season)? We have a house to live in and plenty besides. Most precious of all, we have the hope that is in our loving and compassionate God - and that's a hope that never disappoints us.

Sulking & Milking

2008-05-27T18:10:00.003+02:00

I've just passed the six month mark of being here in Djibo, and I have probably just officially hit level four of culture shock. I mean the one when everything seems more difficult and it feels like my sense of humour is hiding behind a cloud. So please excuse the rather sulky tone to this newsletter!

Of course, many things about living here have become easier since my arrival in November. I now know exactly where to buy groceries, how much a handful of aubergines should cost and what I can do with them. I can communicate, albeit basically, in Fulfulde. We have our own egg supply and a couple of kittens who are as entertaining as French & Saunders, which is good when you're living on the edge of the desert without a telly.

Other things have become harder – I miss having girlfriends with whom there is a mutual understanding. With local people it is hard to talk about anything much deeper than the weather or the washing with my limited knowledge of verbs and nouns, and some days it feels as though the omnipresent orange dust has finally filled my head where my brain should be. I think the sun's potency is enough to have even the hardiest of us English longing for the green grass of home.

I am ashamed to admit that while we live in Sector 1 of Djibo, surrounded by people who can barely afford to buy millet to make nyiiri for their family, millet makes my stomach turn; we live on pasta, meat and vegetables instead. I am supposed to be sharing the love of Christ with these people but we have so much compared to them, that I often feel no better than the rich man with Lazarus on his doorstep. I am frequently unsure of how and when to help. I want to create work and life skills for people, not dependency. I want them to see through us a God who loves and cares deeply for them, not just white tubaakus who give stuff away. It's a constant struggle to do the right thing.

The embroidery club is a success in one sense – seven ladies who couldn't sew can now embroider and one of them has just sold a piece of work locally. That's me with a group of them pictured here. Mariama (in the front row on the left), who suffers from a debilitating illness and finds it hard to earn a living, has appreciated being paid to embroider insects onto napkins for me – one quirky idea I am hoping will sell in the UK. It's been two steps forward and one step back a lot of the time though as I've had to redo some of her work myself.

I am happy to say that I am about to head to England for two weeks. As well as seeing family and friends, my plan is to approach some retailers, in the hope of getting commissions for the products I have designed that the ladies can produce. The new products will be on the Ladies of Djibo webpage next week if you would like to see them. I'd love your prayers for the success of this project please.

In case I've left the impression that I'm finding life here unbearable, I had better explain that there are aspects of it that are unbeatable – riding my pony out in the bush, the animals to-ing and fro-ing, bleating and crowing all day long (I helped milk a cow the other day) and the neighbours who always say hello. And when we fantasize about moving back to Battersea, the thing that pulls on our hearts the most is the fact that there are still hundreds of people here who have never heard about Jesus, who know nothing of the hope and freedom that comes with following Him. There aren't churches or Alpha courses here like there are at home; people don't realize they have a choice. As it says in Romans chapter 10v14, 'How then, can they call on the one they have not believed in? And how can they believe in the one of whom they have not heard? And how can they hear without someone preaching to them?'.

That's what keeps me going. Please pray for His grace and strength for me to do that.

Stars

2008-04-25T12:43:00.004+02:00

It gets dark early here in Djibo. By about 7:30pm every day, the sun has disappeared and so have all our visitors, back to their yards to eat Nyiiri and drink tea. The heat of the day has lost its edge, but being April, it is still like being in an oven - only with the grill turned off now. This makes sleeping indoors unthinkable, so we've been dragging a mattress outside and hanging a mosquito net from the washing line to sleep under. I never had any of those luminous star stickers on my bedroom ceiling, but I have thousands now.

I didn't have to look up too long, therefore, to find inspiration when I was invited to preach a couple of weeks ago. I kind of fell into it unintentionally when the ladies at church were given responsibility for the service one Sunday. It was a challenge (my French would still appal my A-level teacher) but quite a satisfying one. I took Philippians 2v14-16 as a starting point 'Do everything without complaining or arguing, so that you make become blameless and pure, children of God without fault in a crooked and depraved generation, in which you shine like stars in the universe as you hold out the word of life…'

It's difficult to feel satisfied when there are hundreds of people around you who aren't hearing the message of the gospel. And I find it hard not to complain - especially when it is 42 degrees centigrade. However, I've been reading the biographies of Hudson Taylor, David Brainerd and Don Richardson lately and that helps me keep my perspective. At least the Fulani aren't head-hunting cannibals. If they were we probably wouldn't be sleeping outdoors.

Thankfully, the Fulani that I have come to know are much friendlier than Don Richardson's neighbours were. I now have ten ladies doing embroidery with me. We sit on the veranda in the afternoons and there is much laughter, although I gather that most of it is at my Fulfulde. If it's not me saying words that sound like something rude, it's my regular announcement at 6 o'clock that 'I'm finished'.

Their tenacity to learning has been impressive so far, but we're still a way from producing really good quality work. There is just one lady so far who has been embroidering sarongs that I am ready to sell. She is Haybata, pictured here wearing one of the sarongs she embroidered. If you would like to see the detail and colours of others, you can do so on the Ladies of Djibo webpage. I am selling them for ₤10 each (postage excluded) and would love to know what you think (or if you'd like one). I'm hoping to use some of the profits to start a market stall to help the ladies to sell their work locally. It's a small idea but one that I hope will make a big difference to this particular group of stars.

Pony Tales

2008-03-22T16:42:00.001+01:00

I've been dreaming of having my own pony for several years. Up until the age of 14, horses were my main obsession; my bedroom wall was plastered with rosettes and when I wasn't mucking out at the local stables I was reading Pony Magazine. At the age of 10 I was lucky enough to have my own, until GCSE's, boys and fashion put equestrian pursuits on the backburner, but I never stopped hankering after the beautiful quadrupeds. All the time that I lived in London and then in Cambodia, the longing was there but the horses were not.

I'm painting the picture so that you can understand a little bit of how utterly thrilled I am, therefore, to find myself living in a culture which has a rich equestrian heritage. Earlier this month, Steve and I travelled to the West of Burkina to spend a few days at a special festival for Fulani and their horses. The bumpy, arduous journey there was absolutely worth it; there were dozens of horses, hundreds of Fulani and more colourful tassels than at a Dolce & Gabanna fashion show. It was a real feast for the eyes, and a brilliant time of meeting new people who were fascinated to come across white people who speak Fulfulde (mine is still very basic, you understand, but Steve's fluency gained him instant local celebrity status).

Now we're back in Djibo and one of my dreams has become a reality, as we have acquired our own pony. Psalm 37v4 says 'Delight yourself in the Lord and he will give you the desires of your heart'. I've clung onto that verse through difficult times, but never thought that it would extend to God giving me a horse one day. But there are no bounds to His generosity it seems, and I thank Him every time I go out riding around Djibo – there are hundreds of kilometres of beautiful landscape here and nothing quite like exploring it on horseback. It is a wonderful way to go out greeting people too – the women and children have been particularly excited to see me riding, and a few have had a go themselves. Traditionally, equestrianism has been the preserve of the marabous – Fulani religious leaders, so it is the first time that most of them have ridden.

We've also been able to share this month from the fruits of our garden – the lettuces, tomatoes and eggs have been abundant, praise God. It has been a real blessing to have salad on tap, as hot season has now begun. As well as the soaring temperatures, the daily power cuts have been a challenge – early afternoon seems to be the worst time, when the heat seems to overwhelm all hope of achieving anything physical or brain-taxing.

So it is in the late afternoons that I have begun to run the embroidery club. So far, I have six students of varying levels of ability although most of them have never done any sewing before.
It has been a great way of making friends and improving my language – I now know many useful phrases such as 'keep it tight', 'they need to be all the same' and 'it's wonky'. I'm hoping not to have to say 'it's wonky' too much as it would be good to have some marketable produce soon. Hot season is also known here as hungry season, so I hope to be able to give them a means of earning an income to help them get by. For now, the women are enjoying learning and more are asking to learn every week. It's an encouraging start.

A Happy Easter to you all and your families.

Look Back In Wonder

2008-02-20T18:50:00.002+01:00

I'm not big on camels. They worry me, with their sheer size and legendary ability to scalp a man or at least spit at him. Nevertheless, I do admire them - from a distance. You see them often in Burkina, loping alongside the road to Djibo, a turban-swathed rider perched on top. Sometimes you come across them grazing out in the bush, doing their best to demolish prickly trees while pitifully hobbled. Or my personal favourite – pulling cart loads of people through the town, formidable as double-decker buses next to the usual donkey carts. I always give them a wide berth.

I was surprised, then, to find myself not in the least bit intimidated by the lofty giraffes of Niger. These elegant creatures are the last left in the wild in West Africa. Their snake-like necks, sloping backs and legs like sculpted bar stools give the animal an alien-like demeanour, which is enhanced by the pair of funny stumps between its ears. Maybe it's their huge almond eyes and long, feminine lashes (apparently used to protect their eyes from prickles) that make them seem friendly. Anyway – I was very pleased to come within just a few metres of them recently on a trip to Niamey.

I'm glad to be a missionary in Africa. The wild giraffes and camel buses are just part of it. Sometimes I wake up in the night and feel so happy to be alive that I can't get back to sleep. It's that serious. I guess that's how people like me got nicknamed happy-clappy. I don't mean that I go round smiling all the time and think that everything is great. To my shame I do grumble a lot and have moments of self-pity. But when I stop and think about my life with God, I get quite excited.

Mostly it's looking back that makes me reel. I became a Christian nearly six years ago, after I found myself in the most traumatic circumstances of my life. Since then, my life has been divided into two parts – before and after I gave my life to Jesus.

The catalyst for the big change of direction was when my ex-husband announced he was leaving me for someone else. It broke my heart. But that was just the last heavy straw. Before that I had been starting to wonder if there was more to life than met my eyes. By the time I reached 28, I had everything I thought I wanted – a rich husband, along with a house in London, a cottage in the country, a great job and designer shoes. But I had this haunting feeling that something was missing- something I couldn't quite put my finger on. So when I was suddenly and involuntarily faced with a big life change, I decided to make it a good one. I hated being miserable and wanted to find the key to happiness that didn't depend on my circumstances.

Christianity was the option I most wanted to avoid. I thought it was soft, and far too obvious. I'd much rather have found happiness through Buddhism or even better, no religion at all. So I tried to avoid it. But it kept coming up in ways that seemed weirdly supernatural, as if I was being called. If I was going to be genuine in my search, I realized I'd have to grit my teeth and give it a chance, so I went to church. Throughout the despair and pain of divorce, there was nowhere else that I felt as much peace as I did there, even though I didn't know anyone. Most Sundays, I would hide behind a pillar and quietly bawl my eyes out.

I look back and remember the pain. It was awful. But I know it was also one of the best things that ever happened to me, because it propelled me into the arms of the Lord. I gave up caring what people would say and how my credibility in the fashion industry would probably plummet. And it felt good.

It's since then that I've had this irrepressible sense of joy and peace. The two words sound like clichés that are smattered on Christmas cards, I know, and no one but Christians seem to use the word 'joy'. But there's no other word for it – it's deeper and more rooted than happiness. And it doesn't depend on circumstances to exist.

As far as circumstances go though, I know mine are good. I now have a wonderful husband, a home on the edge of the desert with a colourful people group, the privilege of working for the Lord and even the odd giraffe. I believe that God is real and He calls us to know Him, invite Him in and let Him show us life in all its fullness. It's a risk, but it's one I recommend taking.

On a Wing and a Prayer

2008-01-24T11:17:00.000+01:00

"He's in a bad way, I'm afraid", said Steve, carrying the patient across the bus station. Six hours of dust, fumes and bone-rattling on the road from Ouagadougou had clearly been too much. His head was limp, his whole body flaccid. We laid him out on the ground and a crowd gathered. Instinctively I stretched out my hand, gently laid it on his chest and prayed. As I did, he shuddered and took his last breath. It was a sad moment.

This was the first time that I've ever prayed for a dying cockerel and I hope it's the last. I suspect that Jesus didn't do it in His lifetime, but I'd heard about a sick donkey in Djibo who sprang to life when a local missionary prayed for it. Sadly it didn't work for this chicken. The man who helped us with our bags back to the house was pleased, at least. It was a big bird and enough to feed his whole family that night.

Thankfully, the other seven French hens were fine and have been settling in nicely to their new accommodation. It's a deluxe straw and wire-domed enclosure with ensuite clay waterpots for nesting. In a few weeks we're hoping to have eggs to share with the neighbours so we'll be able to return the gestures of milk and nyiiri that they have brought us frequently.

It's amazing how generous people with very little can be. It's easy to give away when you've got more than enough for yourself, and I've never been really poor. The testing comes for me when my supply of English chocolate is nearly up and we've got English guests (I'll confess now that I've failed badly in that area).

But in all seriousness, giving is a complicated issue. I'd be happy to hand out rice to everyone in the neighbourhood but it would create an unhelpful dependency, I'm told. So I've been wondering how I can best help those in need around me.

I believe that faith in Jesus Christ is the answer to personal and social transformation for the better. Without Jesus I'd probably still be wasting my life away, more miserable inside than ever. I'm so glad I'm not, and that's only by God's grace. Christ is so good that I am compelled to share what I know of Him with others. And unlike the chocolate, there's enough of Him to go round.

I'm not the kind of person to stand on a soap box and preach. And that would be an especially weird thing for a woman to do here even if I wanted to. I like the St. Francis of Assisi quote that went something like "Preach the gospel – use words if you have to". I do intend to use words (once my Fulfude is up to scratch) but I also want to live out the gospel – which means doing good, sharing my wealth, loving and living with integrity. I want to use the gifts that God's given me to bless others if I can.

I wish I could dig wells or perform life-saving surgery but that's not going to happen. An ex-fashion editor isn't the most likely candidate for benefiting a developing community on the edge of the desert, I know. But hey – God's creative and He knows what He's doing.

So I've got a plan brewing, and I'd love your thoughts on it. I'm going to set up a sewing club to offer to teach embroidery and basic sewing skills to local women who are interested. I have some ideas for some simple accessories – sarongs and bags, which I think would be fairly simple to market back in the UK, and I'll make sure the women get paid well for their work.

The club and label will be called Ladies of Djibo. I'm hoping to establish it as a local charity called The Ladies of Djibo Sewing Society, because it sounds kind of English-retro and I like the idea that it will be something sociable as well as income-generating for the women involved. I've started running up samples and sourcing local materials already…so any ideas are welcome! I'm excited about the plans – I thrive best when I am able to be creative and have a tangible task to work at.

Most days I am still in contact (via a very temperamental internet connection) with the Precious Girl Magazine team in Cambodia. Since I left last June, they've been carrying the vision forward and have been doing remarkably well. I still quality-check all of their articles before they go to press and help them with ideas. The 9th issue has just come out and they recently ran a high- profile dress design and song writing competition in conjunction with some other NGOs so the magazine is more popular than ever with Cambodia's garment factory workers. However, the project continues to exist while teetering on the edge of an empty bank account and so my prayers are frequently for its funding. They also need more staff – a Khmer writer and sales person to keep going. If you are at all interested to know more about the project or to help support it, the website is http://www.preciousgirl.co.uk/ . Since I left Cambodia, international support has been non-existent but their needs are as great as ever. It's hard for me knowing this – a bit like having a struggling grown-up child in another country. Praying for the situation seems to be the only thing I can really do now. I only hope it turns out better than it did for the cockerel.

Togo? Oh no!

2007-12-31T22:00:00.000+01:00

Well Christmas has been and gone and I'm sorry to say that I virtually missed it. My plans of nipping back to the UK the week before to attend a close friend's wedding, then being back in Djibo for Christmas Eve, were scuppered. The second leg of my return flight was overbooked and Afriqiyah bundled me off to Togo for two days, sending my bags on to Burkina four days later. C'est la Vie, people kept telling me. Grrrr, c'est bad management and I was heartbroken to miss the most important event of the year (my own wedding aside).

Of course, when you are stuck with four strangers in a foreign country for two days you can't help wondering if God has a greater purpose in mind. For sure we were a curious bunch – an unlikely throng comprising a Burkinabe businessman who lives in Norwich, a Muslim returning from Mecca, a French backpacker and a Islamic religious leader who pioneers Mosques around Burkina. All were very friendly and we got on remarkably well, united in our grievances and swapping cards and email addresses at the end of the ordeal.

Thankfully Steve made it to the meeting in Djibo and the Christmas message was explained to a crowd of 200. Our Christmas Day party for the neighbourhood kids went ahead too, albeit 3 days late. They didn't seem to mind though, and about 50 turned up for games and story telling. Apart from the mobbing incident when Steve started handing out balloons, it was great fun and good to be able to relate the Christmas story to this young generation of Fulani.

Most of the last month has been pretty pedestrian by comparison. I've been plodding on with learning Fulfude and cultivating the vegetable patch, which is now attracting more than just the neighbours' interest. The lettuces no sooner appear than vanish – courtesy of several hungry lizards and a few red birds. The tomatoes and carrots are doing well though, and, also on the domestic front, I'm thrilled to have discovered how to make ice cream.

Occasionally I have dreams about being back in London doing my old job as a Fashion Editor. Of stylish clothes, a clean desk and bags of free beauty products. Of streets with pavements, shops with windows, and houses with loos and baths. But then I think about my goat, my husband and how good it is to be living in a community where everyone knows each other and keeps donkeys and sheep outside their front door.

One of my favourite things here is watching the cows come home at night. In their hundreds they return from the bush, following the herder down to the lake for a sunset drink. Then, one by one and without instruction, they each make their way back through the town and into their own yard for the night. It's a heart-warning sight and just one of the things that makes being here really special. I wouldn't be anywhere else.

November 2007 - Lettuces and Lingo

2007-11-25T18:23:00.003+01:00

My diary tells me that it's been only been a month since I got to Djibo but it feels like at least three already. It seems like a year ago that I last walked on a pavement or ate a crunchy salad.
Letting go of England and diving into deepest Africa has been a bit of a shock. Not that I hadn't been expecting it – I've been thinking about it for years. But actually doing it is a bit like putting down Vogue and picking up National Geographic. It requires a whole new mindset to take it all in properly.

Firstly there's the people – lovely, jolly, smiley (usually) people everywhere, calling out to me wherever I go – every morning it's 'Jam Waali Sama' (Did you sleep in peace, Sama?) which requires a ping-pong-like round of answers and reciprocating greetings. Everyone in this town seems to know me already. I'm 'Sama, jeyoowo Sambo', which means, 'Sama, the owner of Sambo'. The women in particular like repeating this over and over to me which is quite amusing and perfectly forgivable at the moment when any real conversation with me isn't an option. It hasn’t stopped them trying though, and I don’t know who gets more frustrated when barrages of questions are all met with a polite shrug and a 'Mi nanata Fulfude'.

Thank God for non-verbal communication is all I can say. Smiles, nods, head shakes, nail polish and football are trans-global languages. The last of these is not one I'm all that familiar with, I hasten to point out , but being faced with fifteen Fulani kids in your yard with no translator around requires desperate measures. They all just trickled in one afternoon and sat down on the bench opposite me expectantly. It was a good five minutes of being stared and giggled at before I remembered I had a blow-up ball in the house. By the time Steve got home, the yard was consumed in a cloud of dust, we’d had one hurt arm and a wailing baby. I hadn't noticed the poor thing was strapped to his sister's back until she went flying in a scrum. Accidents aside, it was great fun and a relief to be able to engage meaningfully with some of the locals.

Evidently, I have my work cut out for me trying to learn Fulfude over the next few months. I'll be piecing it together with the help of Steve and a local lady, Haoua. And quite a few neighbours too, no doubt. It shouldn't be hard to find things to talk about. Almost everything I've set my hand to do here has become a point of discussion. There's not a person within a five mile radius who doesn't know I'm trying to grow lettuces, and there are various opinions going around about whether I'm feeding the goat properly. Judging by the size of his belly I think he's doing ok, although it has been said that he's on the skinny side.

Apart from getting to grips with the language, I'll keep on grappling with the challenge of just being in this new, dry, rural place. I'll do my best to get used to having feet that are always dirty and a loo that's the other side of the yard and just a hole in the ground (the biggest challenge yet, I think). I'm looking forward to keeping chickens and hearing the comments on Steve's new ground-breaking chicken house design which we hope will be a success and an inspiration (after it's been the inevitable butt of a few jokes). I'm anticipating a great Christmas (we're planning a feast and outreach for the neighbours with the local church) and we're looking forward to seeing more of God's power at work in this place. It's encouraging that some of the people who have asked for prayer have been healed of their sicknesses, and I am sure that there is much more from where that came from. Between that and the lettuces, there's lots of sowing to be done and a harvest to be reaped, so that's plenty of gardening to keep us busy.

October 2007 - Leaving England

2007-10-11T12:18:00.000+02:00

I feel very privileged to be posting on Steve's website now that I'm his wife. Come to think of it, I feel very privileged to be his wife! Contrary to the impression that the title of this blog may give, I am also very much looking forward to being his wife in Africa.

Over the last couple of months in England I've met people who are horrified to learn that I am going to live in a place where the temperature gets to 48 degrees, there's no running water and they eat millet for breakfast, lunch and dinner. These people have read The Poisonwood Bible and they've seen The Painted Veil – "it's all going to go horribly, tragically wrong!".

Well by God's grace it won't, and I'm actually rather looking forward to having bucket showers and seeing the sun again. The millet, though - that'll be the difficult one, I think, because I love food – I mean good, nutritious, yummy food. I've got more recipe books than Steve thinks is morally right and my idea of a good evening is cooking up a three-course feast for friends. The idea of sitting silently around a bowl of rancid milk mixed with millet doesn't sound like my cup of tea at all, if you'll pardon my Englishness.

If I'm beginning to sound spoilt it's probably because I am. I've only ever gone hungry out of choice and I've more or less been able to eat what I want, when I've felt like it, for most of my life. The idea that there are millions of people living in this world without enough food and without any variety in their diet is really hard for me to grasp. It's just not right. It breaks my heart and I know it breaks God's heart too.

He spoke to me clearly in December 2004 when I was in Wales, on a training course with World Horizons to prepare me for my move to Cambodia where I was to start Precious Girl Magazine. One day I was fasting, and it was about 4pm. I was intending to break the fast at 6pm and was suddenly tempted to break it early by a food stall in the market I was walking through. As I wondered if it would matter to anyone if I broke it, I looked up and saw a sign that clearly read 'AFRICA IS STARVING'. The words sliced straight into my conscience. I looked closer to see what the words referred to, but the sign dissolved into nothing – there was no such sign, just a whole mass of commercial signs in the market. As I walked away and drove back home, the phrase kept repeating in my head, pummeling my conscience because I knew it was true. People were dying of hunger as I contemplated breaking my fast for the pleasure of a pint of prawns. People are starving while I am feasting. AFRICA IS STARVING. The phrase haunted me for days. When I walked around Asda and saw the heaving shelves, the trolleys piled high with food, it went round and round in my head. I cried a lot that week over Africa, and I prayed too because that was about the most useful thing I felt I could do.

Later that week in Wales, Steve came to talk about his work in Burkina Faso. He talked about his plans for the radio station, and also about the swarms of locusts that were destroying crops and causing famine in his region. I went to talk to him during break-time but I didn’t say very much before I burst into tears – I couldn't actually say "Africa is starving'' out loud to anyone then without falling apart.

So that was how I met Steve. I thought he was interesting, he thought I was weird. But we stayed in touch and the rest is history. Just how God managed to bring us together when we lived on different continents with different callings is beyond me but it was apparently easy for Him and a testimony of His goodness. I don't know what His plan and purpose is exactly for me in Burkina but I know that it is to be there with Steve and share Christ with the people there. He came to be with the poor and the hungry, and that's where I know I'll find Him.