Do you believe in miracles?

We both kept journals during our time in West Africa; which is a habit I'd like to continue.

I'd prefer to call it a journal rather than a diary, because I think the word diary conjures up images of a pink book with a Barbie lock on it.

Either way, we both found writing about our daily experiences therapeutic...and having a record of our time abroad has helped remind us of the daily answers to prayer we received.

Here is an entry I almost forgot about:

June 19, 2008: Do you believe in miracles?
Two missionary friends went out to a village in Burkina Faso to help fix a well. It had been broken for two years, which meant villagers had to walk 3km to the nearest water. The missionaries bought new parts to replace the broken bits, and they started pulling up more than 30 metres of piping. It was all going well, until they realised the entire system would not work because they were missing one, special bolt. It was a big bolt that at best may be found in a capital city. More likely, it would need to be imported. But it definitely couldn't be found in a rural African village. The local African pastor said he'd have a look around for one...so he hopped on his small motorbike. Twenty minutes later he returned with a brand new bolt, which met all the specifications. The missionary said: “He found it where God put it.” Now the village has water.

Jon

One of our favourite African pics

Overwhelmed by dust, vultures, stray dogs and poverty, it took us a while to find beauty in sub-Saharan West Africa. And then we saw it.

The seven deadly fears of a missionary

Missionaries in West Africa fear neither disease nor isolation, neither persecution nor loneliness, neither poverty nor heartache. But they are really scared about returning home to Australia.

During the past 12 months, we've spent a lot of time speaking to our brothers and sisters serving for extended periods overseas. One elderly Canadian was into her 50th year of service.

I would have thought that their trips to their native homes (usually once every 3 or 4 years), would be a time of great joy and respite. But instead, more than a handful of those we spoke to found coming home very difficult.

[As a sidepoint, we've had the best group of supporters we could have ever hoped for (or prayed for)...and I've learnt through them how we can then go and support other missionaries more faithfully.]

Here are 'seven deadly fears' long-term missionaries face when they return home, either at the end of their overseas service, or for periodic home assignments. My hope is that we can help serve them better by understanding their hardships. Please add some more comments if you've had some insight into this area.

* (1) I used to be a trained accountant/doctor/engineer. But after 20 years of service on the mission field all my qualifications have lapsed. (From the missionary's point of view, they've just gone from conducting exciting and influential work overseas, and found themselves with no apparent employable skills back home. Aside from the financial implications, the impact on that person's feeling of selfworth is extreme.)

* (2) I've planted churches, sat on councils and have a lot to offer my home church...but there's no role for me. (This is especially difficult for women serving on the mission field who may not be able to find a suitable position at their home church, or related churches, to use their amazing gifts to continue their service.)

* (3) No-one knows, or cares, what I've been doing these last 25 years. (There is actually a ministry among mission agencies to visit retired missionaries and just sit and listen...although I'm not sure this shouldn't be the responsibility of the local church.)

* (4) Friends in Australia just talk about home extensions, investment property and superannuation. (It was probably just a random remark at a BBQ...but a missionary I once spoke to came back to the field very depressed because he was made to feel like he wasn't a good husband or father because he hadn't accumulated a house, nor substantial superannuation.)

* (5) My supporters think I'm lazy when I'm on home assignment? (I previously had many misconceptions about home assignments. I thought that a missionary spends 3 or 4 years overseas, and then receives a 1 year supported holiday back home, before going back over. I think it's helpful to think of home assignment as a continuation of the mission work...just that it takes place in the home country. Usually we, as outsiders, are unaware of all the work they are actually doing during this time.)

* (6) I'll scream if one more person says "How was your trip?/How was your holiday?" (It can take missionaries returning home several months to lose the bags under their eyes after a tough month/six months/year/three years...so the notion that it was a 'holiday' stings.)

* (7) Even my Christian friends think I'm a bad parent for having kids on the mission field? (We've met some of the most delightful and switched on missionary kids during our stay...it's hard to think of a better upbringing than being exposed to the languages, cultures and social structures evident in the field, not to mention their spiritual refinement that takes place.)

Jon

Barretts not in Burkina

Technically this blog name is no longer true, since we got back to Australia on Saturday. So, some thoughts on our time 'there'...and coming back 'here'. What we're adjusting to:

* the power staying on all day (it's amazing!)

* being able to wash an apple under the tap and then eat it... no bleaching or peeling

* ditto brushing our teeth with tap water

* going outside without slathering on the insect repellant

* sleeping with no mosquito net

* walking on footpaths

* being clean! Dust here will never have the same meaning

* not shaking hands with every person we greet...in fact, not greeting people on the street at all

* things workly smoothly - transport, supermarkets, customs inspection at the airport...

* having lots of 'stuff' in our lives again - that we lived just fine without for a year (except maybe the coffee machine...)

* the time difference...I'm writing this early morning after sleeping for just 3 hours in the night. I'm waiting until my body gets ready for sleep at northern hemisphere bedtime.



Cathlin

Goodbye is the hardest word

It's just after 7 in the morning and there's every possibility the guard will soon come round to tell me that we have a visitor.

It has been interesting living in a society where, for the most part, relationships take priority over just about everything else. Running late for work, being generally busy, or even having a pain in your stomach caused by that questionable meat aren't good enough reasons to cut a conversation before its natural end.

When we arrived I got to know several people on the bicycle route to work. After a couple of weeks I found that the 15 minute bike ride had just turned into a 30 minute ride, because I was obligated to greet everyone en route. If I was running late, I'd go a different way to work...but those extra streets would add 15 minutes to the journey anyway.

We started to really enjoy this part of the Burkinabé culture, and we thought we'd adjusted to it...until we started trying to say goodbye. We leave in a couple of days.

Last night we had a few of our students over for dinner. We had a great night...and the guitar and djembé made an appearance after the food. When they left, we tried to say goodbye.

'I'll come by tomorrow to say goodbye,' one of our students said. (Thinking of how many people we will say goodbye to tomorrow, we hinted that this was 'goodbye'.) 'No, no...first thing tomorrow.'

We've had this same experience over and over, with the final act of saying 'goodbye' delayed to the last possible moment, even if it comes at a great inconvenience to the person, who is willing to trek back out to your place to say 'goodbye', again.

We will miss this outward show of affection, even though trying to get everything organised today and tomorrow will be next to impossible...because relationships take priority over packing.

One great benefit, however, is that the handshake is the only acceptable way to greet and say goodbye...so there won't be any awkward moments.

Jon

Teaching in Burkina

With just a couple of days left in the country, we realised that we only had a few pics of our students and of us teaching, so we remedied that the other night. This photo is of Cathlin teaching on the enclosed patio. This "classroom" has had a few issues. It seems impossible to have both the light and fan working at the same time...so it's a choice between being comfortably unable to see, or uncomfortably able to see.

I think I read something about making English lessons relevant to your students...so I used the djembé to teach the rhythm used in English words and phrases. We've met some very, very good djembé players here...including one of the workers at the office. Since many grow up playing it, it looks very natural...and impossible to replicate.





And here are some of my current students, pictured on the left...listening intently I might add.







...and a handful of Cathlin's students, who either can't see (because the light isn't working) or are incredible hot (because the fan isn't working).

Up close and personal with African elephants

This weekend we took a trip to a safari park called Nazinga, a 4-hour drive south from Ouaga. We went with 4 other missionaries, all women, prompting this question from the 'welcome guy' upon our arrival: "Are these women your wives?" Fair enough question, thought Jon, when a guy turns up in a car with 5 young women, in a country where polygamy is accepted and practised by many.


Burkina Faso has the largest population of elephants in West Africa, and so the real attraction of Nazinga are the elephants (there are about 700 in the park), although you can also spot baboons, various types of antelopes and gazelles and the odd warthog (whose name in French is equally silly). The only thing on the menu the night we stayed was antelope stew, so that's what we ate. It didn't taste too unusual.

We did the sunset tour and the early morning one, driving around the park a respectable distance behind the other tourists and their 4WDs. ("Where did all these white people come from?") Most of the animals ran away from us as we approached, but not the elephant as it has the size advantage. Our first elephant spotting took us by surprise, as we'd been driving around for a while without seeing any animals, and we were starting to wish we'd stayed in bed. Then we rounded a corner, and there was an elephant chomping away on bushes, right next to the path. I was riding on the luggage rack on top of the car, so had a great view. However, this position turned scary when the elephant decided he didn't like us being so close during his meal time. He flapped his ears and stepped towards us, prompting our guide to shout "avancez, avancez!" (go forward). I had visions of the elephant reaching out and plucking me off the roof with his trunk, although Jon says that this only happens in children's story books. So I also yelled at our friend to drive forward, as we'd been told of missionary friends' visits to Nazinga where they'd been chased by elephants.

After this sighting we decided that we'd now only stop for elephants, as the other animals weren't nearly as exciting, or willing to stand still for our cameras. We came upon a group of 3 males, and watched one powerfully snap a large branch with his trunk and stuff all the leaves into his mouth. We followed these guys back to the lodge where there's a large waterhole the elephants go to each morning to cool off. The water's pretty dirty-looking, so we're not sure they actually get clean in there, but they have a lot of fun playing with each other. We had breakfast while watching the elephants link trunks and play a game of 'push and pull', while others submerged so that they looked like large rocks...until a trunk came shooting out of the water.

It was so special to see these amazing creatures up close in their natural habitat. Even better was the surpise on the way home to Ouaga, 50km from the safari park, when we had to stop to let 6 elephants (mothers and their babies) cross the highway. A truly African experience.

Cathlin

The Djibo bounce

I wore the obligatory flip-flops, pin-striped suit pants and button-up white shirt.

Tennis anyone?

We spent a night in the northern town of Djibo (pronounced jib-bo) early this week, to have a look at the work being done in the area. All I can say is that it's tough out there; the extreme poverty and extreme heat offer no respite. We were really encouraged to learn about the missionaries serving in this desert area where some locals eat one meal every three days (for months at a time) until annual harvests provide some relief.

Upon our arrival, I was somewhat surprised to hear that I was due to play a game of tennis later that afternoon with the family we were staying with. I had never seen a tennis court in the towns before...this country is all about football.

I was told, however, there were a couple of potential problems. First, there were no lines on the court.

"Fantastic," I thought. "As long as you clear the net, you can't lose." (I really needed a court like this during my playing days.)

The second problem was a little more serious. A team of missionary drillers had been to Djibo recently and were convinced there was water under the court...so they dug a 300 foot hole in the middle of the court. I had visions of running for a forehand, only to fall into a bottomless pit.

As the sun went down (but humidity remained), we went to the tennis court, which is in the grounds of the local hospital. We found out the missionaries didn't find water there, and that they had filled the hole.

I had never seen a ball bounce in so many odd directions after hitting the mix of sand and rock. I affectionately named this the Djibo bounce. I can't say my tennis attire was well suited to these hot and dusty conditions...but it is a conservative region where it is unheard of for adults to wear shorts.

We enjoyed the game...however, everyone would have preferred that they had found water there. Tennis is of little importance to those living in one of the driest places on earth.

Jon

Avoid faux pas, speak French

I’ve found many advantages to learning a new language, but none so great as avoiding the dreaded faux pas. Learning French can also help avoid unthoughful comments, foot-in-mouth and a range of other word-related diseases.

Because I have to think harder before answering a question, and there is an extra second or two delay in my response - and I can’t always make the ‘witty’ remark which just popped into my head - I’ve hardly said a thing in French I’ve regretted.

There are of course the humorous language mistakes I make, such as getting the words for donkey (ane) and soul (ame) confused. "Jesus will save your donkey," gets a few strange looks. But these mistakes are humorous at best and a bit embarrassing at worst…but not serious.

I knew my French was improving some months back because my tongue started answering before I had a chance to think. This represented an improvement in language but a backwards step in avoiding unthoughtful comments.

Several months ago we went out with a group of missionaries for dinner. Going out for dinner is always an experience which you have to prepare yourself for. It's not unusual to place an order, only to be told 30 minutes later "C'est fini" (It's finished). You then place another order and hope for the best.

This particular night out was exceptionally frustrating, because it included a 2-hour wait...and to rub salt into the hungry wound, we received our bill before our food.

As we left the restaurant, the staff called out, "La prochaine fois" (See you next time). Before I knew it, I responded "C'est la dernière fois" (That was the last time).

It's amazing how quickly the tongue works, and it is no wonder the Bible refers to its harmful potential so frequently (...angry tongue, foolish tongue, complaining tongue, gossiping tongue etc). The tongue really does need taming.

So, here's my conclusion: Speak French, and avoid unthoughtful comments for about six months. When the tongue starts answering for itself, switch languages. Problem solved.

Jon

Daily power cuts and 45-degree heat

Picture on right: effects of the sudden heatwave on my hands - prickly heat rash. It's itchier than it looks!

Every day for the last 5 days we've had 4-hour power cuts in 45-degree heat. We started our ESL classes last night using gas lamps and candles to light the rooms, while students used their mobile phones to read the books.

Now, I know that it's hot back in Sydney, Australia, and apparently NSW will be the hottest place on earth this Sunday....but have news reporters ever heard of Niger or Mali? As it's been in the mid-forties here every day this week, it's certain that the more northern cities are at least a few degrees hotter again (One explanation is that on many of the meteorological sites we check, the temperature is only being recorded in a handful of major cities in northern Africa).

Competitions about maximum temperatures aside, veteran missionaries here have told us that power cuts are more the norm, so last year when we didn't get many during hot season it was unusual.

We'd been told that the cool season lasted until late February, and since we're leaving BF in early March we figured we only had to endure a week or so of intense heat. Two weeks ago, it was still 19 degrees when we woke up, and we had to wear socks around the house to keep warm.

Come 1st Feb, the heat arrived and the power departed. Apparently, the electricity company did not plan for this early arrival of the hot season, and so power cuts are shared among the various 'quartiers' because there isn't enough juice to power all the air conditioners and fans that are suddenly being used au maximum.

We are thankful that the power has come back on each night by 10pm, so we can actually put our fan on and get to sleep. BF didn't want us to leave without another proper taste of the hot season. I'll be ready for our three-day stay in icy-cold Paris on the way home.

Cathlin

Blondes have more fun

I guess we were the only English speakers in the neighborhood, because we were the only ones who couldn't help chuckling when a Burkinabé walked past with the words 'Blondes have more fun', in big lettering on her T-shirt.

That shirt was one garment among the hundreds of thousands of tonnes of Western excess clothes that gets dumped in Africa, and sold at a fraction of their original retail value.

They are known as "dead white-man's clothes", because Burkinabé believe only a dead person would give up such nice garments. It is unfathomable that the clothing wouldn't sell in the West.

One of my adult students once wore a T-shirt covered with the face of Britney Spears, that even a die-hard fan would probably be uncomfortable wearing back home. I asked my student if she knew who Britney Spears was.

"Elle est une actrice?" she asked. (Is she an actress?)

"C'est discutable," I replied. (It's debatable)

There have been some other very amusing sightings. One national was seen in a Pizza Hut uniform, despite the restaurant chain not existing in this country. There have been several sightings of women dressed in full flight attendant gear, complete with pointy hats.

But you must feel for the pastor who got dressed up in his new t-shirt to deliver the sermon. The shirt read, 'Drunk as a skunk'.

Jon

Monsieur Harmattan comes to town

Photo: Le monsieur never offers to clean up after a visit










Monsieur Harmattan came to visit while we were away. In fact he always comes to visit when we are away, regardless of whether we leave the doors or windows open or not.

Apparently he comes from the Sahara, but at this time of year makes his way south. Many people don't like him because he is said to carry germs and gets up peoples' noses.

I don't mind him. To me he is kind of a breath of fresh, cool air. When Cathlin hears him coming, she usually dresses up. She'll often put on a coat and socks, because it would be inappropriate to welcome 'Le Monsieur' bare-footed.

He does, however, have a few bad habits that need fixing. He somehow gets into closed cupboards and drawers, and worst of all, he never cleans up after himself.

Jon

Shaking hands with poverty

It’s hard to ignore poverty when you are shaking hands with it.

It’s unusual that my fingers don’t bash out a quick post on an issue that comes to mind, after having worked on tight deadlines in magazines and newspapers. But I haven’t been able to finish a diary entry tackling this issue which I started in November. The reason is, it’s complicated, and each situation we have faced has been different, and we’ve had to respond accordingly.

It hasn’t just been the nine months we’ve spent living in one of the poorest countries in the world that has shaped my views. As I started reading through the Psalms and Proverbs in the Bible last year, I took out a piece of paper to make some notes on verses linked to poverty and wealth. My piece of paper was soon full.

This is a snapshot of my personal thoughts, which has shaped the way we have responded to the people we shake hands with everyday.

I have been confronted by how destructive it is when people become reliant on handouts. I have seen numerous examples of poor people – as opposed to destitute – who have the opportunity and skills to break through the poverty barrier, be discouraged by the existence of a system that provides enough ‘free’ support that it becomes an easier option to stay put rather than strive for freedom from poverty.

This is hardly a criticism of any one particular people group or class. I know, personally, that I’m most productive when I’m busy, and least productive when my situation dictates I have lots of spare time (just thinking back to those university holidays and 10-hour a week communications degree).

‘A little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to rest – and poverty will come on you like a bandit and scarcity like an armed man.’ (Proverbs: 6:10-12)

Perhaps worst of all, this poverty mentality – I’m poor so you should give me a handout – helps corrupt people’s personality, as they strive to take advantage of any situation which may provide a free gift. On our recent trip to Ghana, the entire children population of villages would mob us and start repeating the two words of English they had memorised. ‘Please, money.’ Their parents used the same phrase. The kids were poor, but not destitute. The worst possible thing we could have done, I surmised, would be to give them money.

Now, time for the balance. It would be very easy to walk away from poverty there, and say giving doesn’t help; 'they' must learn to help themselves. But… ‘He who oppresses the poor shows contempt for his Maker, but he who is kind to the needy honours him.’ (Proverbs 14:31)

So, I gather, we should not be the cause of someone else’s poverty (that's an easy one). Anyone want a nice cup of ill-gotten coffee with some chocolate produced from cocoa farmed by people not paid a fair wage?

Also, it would be hard to describe ‘kindness’ as walking away from poverty. Does kindness drive past a man slumped on the middle of a highway, propped up against traffic lights, barely able to lift his hand as he pleads for something to keep him alive.

Or how about the uneducated worker, who was born into intense poverty, and is paid a few measly cents a day to use a cart and donkey to pile and dispose of stinking rubbish. Does kindness show her where the garbage is kept, before bidding her ‘good day’ and retreating to the comforts of a home? Are her conditions just?

‘The righteous care about justice for the poor, but the wicked have no such concern.’ (Proverbs 29:7)

These are my thoughts in progress. Apologies for all that is lacking.

Jon

'Coke for Jesus'

Picture: A popular name for Ghanaian fishing boats

Ghana is an overtly Christian nation, despite a strong Islamic influence in the north of the country. As we travelled from the top to the bottom of the country by bus, we noticed that the further south we went, the more Christian shop names we saw. It really is as though the shop owner, when deciding on a name for the shop, has grabbed a Bible and plucked some wise words from scripture.

Thus we saw 'Powerful Jesus Enterprises', 'Repent Hair Cuts', 'Jesus is Lord Supermarket', 'If God say yes who can say no' and 'Noble Character Ent.' We're wondering if the Coke rep in Ghana is aware of the small store that has the official red Coca-Cola sign out front, with 'for Jesus' tacked on after the trademark name.

More reassuring, perhaps, was the bumper sticker on the dashboard of the rickety mini van we rode in, with 20 other passengers (it was a 12 seater):'Relax, God is in control'. And taped across the steering wheel of yet another tro-tro (mini van): 'Only Jesus can save.' Amen.

Cathlin

"I speak small-small English"

This is the phrase that makes us cringe when we ask Burkinabé if they speak any English. "Oh, yes, small-small." Most of last year we were wondering where they got that phrase from, coz in French they would say "un peu/a little", yet they don't translate it as such.

Then we went to Ghana, and all was explained...they speak a special kind of English there. So "small-small" is quite common, as is "you are welcome" when you arrive somewhere (not just "welcome!") 'Fine' is a favourite word and can be used in place of 'yes'. And some words just don't get used at all. We were waiting for our bus to leave Accra for the 3-hour journey west to Cape Coast. The driver made an announcement from the aisle (no microphone) but we couldn't hear him above the noise of his radio. So he came closer, and explained that as it was a short trip we would not have a rest stop on the way. "So if you want to free yourself please come and tell me and I'll find a suitable place to stop." Huh? "So you can free yourself." We and the other (mostly) white passengers looked at him blankly. I decided to clarify to speed things up.

"You mean if we want to go to the toilet?"

He looked very embarrassed at the mention of this word...but at least everyone understood.

The accent is another thing. It's very much influenced by the rasta 'vibe' (they love Bob Marley just as much in Ghana, as in Burkina). When we returned to our hotel on the first evening of our stay in Cape Coast (pictured) and met the very friendly night guard, he asked us a question. "Do you like geckos?" is what I thought he said, prompting me to think that he was about to tell us that our room was in fact over-run by these icky little creatures (Jon actually likes them). I was formulating a reply in my head, something about how I didn't like geckos at all, and could we possibly change rooms, when Jon replied "yes, we like Cape Coast."

Geckos. Cape Coast. I played the 2 words over in my mind. They kind of sound the same, depending on how you pronounce 'cape'.

Cathlin

15 days in Ghana - Triangular trade

There was something about standing in the five by five metre dungeons, where slaves were stored in chains in preparation to be shipped overseas. At any one time, up to 200 slaves were crammed together in the tiny cells.

There was a small crease in the cement floor sloping downhill, which served as a sewerage system to gather the urine, faeces and vomit in one corner. Most West African slaves who made it to the Americas (and other continents) spent a couple of months in these cells, one of which we saw in Ghana’s Cape Coast.

Many died in the cell, or on the journey. Those chosen to be sold overseas went through a gate leading to the ships, nicknamed the ‘Door of No Return’. The dungeons under the fort were protected by cannons (which also served to protect the important trading routes), with several nations, including Sweden, England, Portugal and the Dutch taking charge at various times during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.

The forts along the Ghanaian coast were part of the Triangular Trade of slaves, sugar and rum between West Africa, the West Indies and the Americas. Slaves grew the sugar, which was used to produce rum, which in turn was traded for more slaves. And so the cycle went.

Our Ghanaian guide told us there was plenty of blame to go round, including the Arab slave caravans, Christian countries and the African tribes which raided and sold fellow Africans into slavery in exchange for cloth, beads and rum.

As a side point, I’ve been reading about some of the key abolitionists of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Along with the well-known British politician William Wilberforce, it’s worth having a look at the role of James Ramsay and David Livingstone (from ‘Dr Livingstone I presume’ fame), for those interested in this sad period.

As I mentioned, there was something about that five by five metre cell. But mere words on a blog would never do it justice.

Jon