News from the neighbourhood

I am writing this by the light of the laptop screen – another power cut.  It is humid, hot, and the power is therefore in scant supply as those with air con and such luxuries as fridges (like me) drain the resources.  I heard an amazing tale this week.  The power is generated by equipment so old that when it breaks down  spare parts have to be manufactured in Germany to mend the generating stations.  A man was once flown to Germany to get a part and was interviewed by the telly folks going out and as he returned with the new spare part.  No possibility of manufacture here.  The power is generated using oil.  The cost of getting power to your house if you don’t already have it is astronomical;  the national power company is heavily subsidised.  If you are remote from the network, each pole for connection is charged to you.  Like getting mains gas in Wales, I suppose.

Great progress this week! Last week-end I was finally introduced to the neighbours.  On the one side, folks living pretty much as they would in the villages around here – outdoor wood fires for cooking, water from the well, about 25 children between four households – scant French.  As usual I was left doing my French politesses and having someone else explain who I am in Djoula.  On the other side, the super-enthusiastic Christians with the goats, chickens, and crying children.  He teaches French in the local high school and is always out and about on God’s work, while his wife and family keep things ticking over at home.  When we turned up the women were giving each other a bit of pampering – fixing and painting glue-on toenails.  He arrived as we were leaving and gave me and my friend a 20 minute sermon on the importance of finding your individual Christ.  We stood politely;  she, Muslim, as is obvious from her name;  me, born Catholic but non-practising;  we were, I think, gracious given neither of us really wanted to be born again.  Kadi had even been eating pork over the week-end - she says she is a modern Muslim.

Then on to the pastor – who is simply lovely and keeps a beautiful cow in his courtyard.  He was very interested in where I came from – isn’t it always flattering to be the subject of some attention! – and the fact that I spoke any French was something of a miracle in his eyes.  Not a proselytising murmur for the clearly hopeless cases in front of him.  His quiet and kind wife offered us supper which smelled wonderful, but we withdrew s it was only a presentation visit.

The result of all this is that I am now a target for every 5-7 year old in the neighbourhood.  They visit.  They turn on taps because it is exciting.  They find my secret stash of biscuits and ask very politely if they can have one – as they come in gangs of 10, that means the packet.  They even found the camera and hence the miracle of photos they took of each other.  I am delighted.  Still cannot quite convince the babies that I am safe yet – but give me time!  I shall buy loads of biscuits and get them eventually – like the Child Snatcher.  The nearest they can get to my name is Sonia which is close enough.

This feels like quite a development.  One of the chaps on the ‘village’ side is a butcher in the market – more meat possibilities?