We currently share the main house with a brigade of enormous red ants known in fulfulde as pucci naange - literally 'horses of the sun.' These fearless creatures gallop around the floor every evening, commentary to left of them, commentary to right of them. They have a remarkable sense of loyalty - when one falls, another comes along straightaway and carries it off to safety.

Keith is in the States this month, speaking at a missions conference. Please pray for him. I tried to get myself an invite as his porter, chauffeur or bodyguard but was turned down. So I'm Home Alone for a few weeks, settling into Djibo and planting carrots in our yard.

On Wednesday I manned a stall at the Djibo market with Conea. (Conea is about my age and was with me at Christmas when we were stranded on the road between here and Gorom. His friendship is one of several good things which have come out of that bizarre experience). Wednesday is the main market day here, when everyone within 30 km pulses into town to buy millet and torch batteries. The air is filled with the dust of a hundred donkey carts and with shouts of "Foti foti!" (How much?) and "Al barka!" (I don't suppose you could give me a discount on that, could you?).

At the stall, Conea and I showed pictures of gospel stories, played cassettes and took it in turns to preach. At any one time there were between twenty and fifty people gathered around listening to the stories about Iisaa Al Masiihu.

Those who stop to listen are very diverse: old men in immaculate white robes and prayer-hats, young men sporting sunglasses and Ussama Bin Laden T-shirts, Fulani women in bright blue robes with silver coins hanging from their hair and earlobes, beggars with their plastic bowls, shepherds leaning on their staffs, children leaning on each other, commerçants carrying aloft their trays of soap or sandals - almost all of human life is here, not to mention the occasional goat.

When I returned to the market-stall after lunch there was a young chap waiting there. Most of his face was covered by a black turban and the design of his T-shirt showed Bin Laden mounted on an angry-looking camel and brandishing a sabre. I recognized him (the boy) as one of those who had listened to the preaching practically all morning. His name was Amadou; he was very shy but he said he had come back to hear more about Iisaa.

Jim Harrington from New Zealand is the SIM Djibo team leader; I think I mentioned him and his wife Helen before. I met with Jim on Tuesday to discuss our work here, and he showed me on a map of the country an area north-west of Djibo where Keith and Imight start something, si Alla jabbi. There is a small town called Baraboulé about 30 km from here, which was visited by a missionary in the early 90's. Beyond that there are many Fulani settlements which are, in traditional mission jargon, unreached. All the way up to the border with Mali, and across the border up towards the Dogon cliffs, there are thousands of people who have never heard the gospel. There's a first time for everything, though.

Please pray for Baraboulé and the other Fulani villages of north-west Burkina Faso. Just an idea, but perhaps you could pray for Baraboulé and for one other settlement from those listed below. Pray for the people there, that God would prepare their hearts to receive his love and forgiveness (remember that in this culture he often seems to use dreams). When Jesus sent out the seventy-two in Luke 10, he suggested that whenever they enter a town they should find a house where there was a 'man of peace', and stay with him. Perhaps you could ask God to lead us to a 'man of peace' in each settlement.

Here are the names then, not a complete list but enough for now - pick one you like!

Pétégoli, Ouangardé, Tassonga, Débél, Kouyé, Bossébango, Doundoubangou, Gassél Giam Diodo, Vindé Boki.

Oh, and on Wednesdays I will continue to do the Djibo market. Pray for Amadou and others with ears - that they might hear.

I appreciate your prayers, emails and letters very much.

Love to you and your families.

Alla beydu jam.

Steve