Soar with me, gentle reader, to the heights
Of Mount Olympus, seat of heavenly bliss,
Where bright-eyed Paeon is apprenticed to
Asclepius the wizened herbalist.
When Heracles’s arrow finds its home
Among the raging veins of Hades’ neck,
Young Paeon plucks th’intruder from its nest
And stems the blood with ginger turmeric.
If artful Diomedes’ singing sword
Should pierce the golden abdomen of Mars
Tis Paeon’s agile hands will heal the rift
with fennel juice and hippocratic calm.
Within the crystal mansion on the mount
Young Paeon salves each wounded titan pride,
Whilst in the shadows old Asclepius
Is not so much green-fingered as green-eyed.
One moonlit night young Paeon stays up late,
To top and tail sweet chamomile roots,
The oak door groans, the artful intern frowns –
There in the doorway stands the bride of Zeus!
Mysterious Leto goddess of the moon
With burnished diadem and silken hair
Cries ‘Hail Paeon, healer of the gods,
Olympian gold in tender loving care!
I’ve watched you gather poppy seeds and dill
and squeeze the flesh of orange bergamot
I’ve seen your ferox resin sleeping pill
and inhalation of forgetmenot,
Yet there is still one secret which evades
Your flowering encyclopedic mind
One fertile shrub which unbeknown to you
Can dull the pain of labouring womankind.
Below the crest of this Elysian Mount
Among the emerald fields of Spileos,
A flower in a crinkly velvet gown,
Lies blushing pink atop a bed of moss.
Within the textured folds of its embrace
Flow limpid springs of blissful pain-relief
More mellowing than any lotus fruit,
More potent than a eucalyptus leaf.
Pluck its petals, pulverize, infuse,
Then rally the midwives of labouring Greece,
Let Hermes wing his sandals with the news:
“Tears in childbirth evermore shall cease!”’
Up starts the youthful healer of the gods
And breaks into a Myrmidinian run
Like hope unfettered from Pandora’s box
Fleet-footed in the rosy-fingered dawn
On Mount Olympus Paeon’s footsteps flow
Past purple debutante and wild sage,
Spring gentiana – queen of alpine plants –
Pale lilacbush and silver saxifrage.
Through prostrate speedwell Paeon carves a way,
Heeds not the colonies of coralroot
Nor jankaea rosettes of felted grey
Nor tiger orchids trampled underfoot.
To wintergreen and Greek fritillary
Swift Paeon does not give the time of day
But reaching Spileos, Beauty stops him short
A bough of French lime blossom bars his way.
Prodigious Paeon shuts his eyes and breathes
That subtly tantalizing citric smell
whose loveliness is vividly inferred
from memories of Loveliness herself.
And where else must his anaesthetic grow
But in the shadows of this sensuous tree.
The herbalist entreats the silken-haired
High queen of all things hidden, ‘Help me see!’
Delight comes on his heart, and looking down
Asclepius’s apprentice comes across
Ten flowers wearing crinkly velvet gowns
And blushing pink atop their beds of moss.
Young Paeon plucks a bloom and holds it high:
‘I name this veiled treasure Paeony,
I dedicate it to the bride of Zeus,
To motherhood and femininity!’

More than two years ago I blogged enthusiastically about the work of FAVL (Friends of African Village Libraries) in Burkina Faso and elsewhere in Africa. This morning I had the pleasure of finally meeting Michael Kevane (pictured above right) and Krystle Austin, and seeing the new RWA (Reading West Africa) books which are now available for distribution.

Michael has collaborated with talented Burkinabe artist Ezequiel Olvera to produce Ou est ma poule? which is a simple tale about the quest to find a lost chicken, illustrated very expressively in watercolour. Also passing by the FAVL stand were Alison Wallace and Christopher Davis, who put together this wonderful book about the Moringa tree. Their book has been translated into three local languages and will inspire many Burkinabe readers to discover the many and varied uses of the so-called ‘tree of heaven’. Beautiful photographs and a profoundly useful message.

FAVL do great work in promoting books and literacy in Africa. The FAVL blog is always a good read, and they also tweet under the name FAVLafrica.

I was happy to be launching DON’T SPILL THE MILK at the International School of Ouagadougou because (a) I have very warm memories of visiting ISO eighteen months ago and (b) I wrote the book just across the road from the school, in the SIM guesthouse.

The launch consisted of a few brief anecdotes and a lot of carrying bowls on heads…

“Steady, Penda whispered to herself, gently does it, girl.
Don’t wiggle, don’t wobble, don’t try to rush it, girl.”

“Don’t slip, don’t slide, girl, don’t fall over,
Don’t let a single droplet drop on the sand…”

“Walk tall, walk steady, eyes on the horizon, girl,
Don’t even think about spilling any milk…”

Thanks to Miss Angel for organizing the event, and to all Elementary staff and students at ISO for making the morning so enjoyable.

And, of course, a huge thank you to Christopher Corr, whose mindmeldingly colourful illustrations really make the book come alive.

Great ‘Viewpoint’ piece by Daniela Papi on the BBC website this morning, entitled Is ‘gap yah’ volunteering a bad thing? At the time of writing, Daniela’s piece is both the ‘Most Read’ and also the ‘Most Shared’ article on the BBC site. Her criticism of the gap year industry has clearly touched a nerve.

Papi argues that gap year volunteering is designed to make gappers feel good about themselves, that the opportunities to serve are contrived, and that we are encouraging unskilled, inexperienced, clueless volunteers to dabble in development work, with results that are at best neutral and at worst damaging. We are setting ourselves up for monumental failure.

The article is well argued, a devastating critique of the ‘gap yah’ abroad. As a one-time ‘serial volunteer’ herself, Papi does not doubt the good intentions of those volunteering. But she thinks it could be done better if the emphasis were on learning to serve rather than on serving. “It’s a small change in vocabulary,” she writes, “but it can have a big impact on our futures.”

Here are a few disjointed comments by way of response. I write as someone who took a ‘gap yah’ myself, and now as a long-term crosscultural worker in West Africa who regularly receives and mentors ‘gappers’.

• I once talked to a lad who grew up in Mexico. He said he dreaded the arrival of gap year volunteers. When they left, he and his friends would have to tear down the wall the gappers had built and build it again – properly this time!
• British nationality – or any other kind – does not qualify us to save the world. Being an influence for good is more about your heart than your passport or your education.
• Cross-cultural exchange is valuable in and of itself.
• I like receiving gappers. They bring energy, inspiration and fresh perspectives. Nothing keeps me on my toes like continually being asked ‘Why did you just do that?’
• My friends and neighbours in Djibo like receiving gappers. It’s true. Koyngal woni endam (lit. The foot is fellowship – Being visited is honouring).
• The best gappers have been those who helped with the washing up and played tag with kids in the yard and asked millions of questions, many of which I couldn’t answer.
• All the long-termers I have met in Burkina Faso started out as short-termers. Clued-up-ness grows from cluelessness.
• Effectiveness is born out of uselessness.
• Gappers who come humble leave wise. Those who come wise leave jaded.
• As Daniela says, training is essential. Often this means learning how to learn. The World Horizons training programme (brief plug!) is excellent for ‘learning how to learn’ language and culture.
• I question those in the comments section below the BBC article who say ‘Stay home and donate your gap yah funds directly to charity’ – it seems like wisdom, but it is monochrome, reductionist, armchair wisdom of the worst sort.
• A woman once anointed Jesus’s feet with expensive perfume, and Judas (of all people) got upset and said ‘That perfume could have been sold and the money given to the poor.’
• Perhaps we need to develop a theology of waste. Perhaps we should we smile a little less knowingly and talk a little less condescendingly about those bright-eyed young things washing cars to raise money for their plane tickets.
• Knowledge puffs up. Love builds up (1 Cor.8:1). ‘How will it look on my CV?’ puffs up. ‘How can I stay involved?’ builds up.
• Not one of our gappers have ever said ‘And then I chundered everywhere’. Yet.

It starts with the man and his friends/uncles turning up at the mother-in-law’s compound and being served a cornflour drink with lots and lots of salt in it. The man and his comrades have to demonstrate their good intentions by drinking the calabash dry.

Then a series of women are brought out, covered by a big piece of cloth. The man has to say whether each one is his girl, or not! For each wrong guess, he has to pay 5000 Francs.

The sun is getting hot, and the man has still not found his loved one. He remonstrates with one of the girl’s aunts, who says ‘Not my problem!’

More decoys…

Finally, the girl is guessed correctly and revealed for who she is. Now the real negotiations can begin.

The friends of the man go to the formidable aunts on bended knee to beg on the man’s behalf for the girl’s hand in marriage.

An accord is struck, and the dancing begins.

Finally, the happy couple can be said to be engaged. The wedding will follow in a few months, and this time the cornflour drink will be sweet, not salty.

Today’s all-Russian encounter between Peter Svidler and Alexander Grischuk was a feast for the eyes – a game that I have replayed three times in the last half hour, each time with increasing pleasure. The piece sacrifices which both these men employ would be daring under any conditions, but to play them on the biggest chess stage in the world with so much at stake is mind-boggling.

They say that if your novel in progress is ever in danger of getting boring, you should have a man walk in the room and shoot someone. Well, this Russian extravaganza provides a comparable jolt on just about every move from move twelve onwards!

Even if you are only a casual player, play through the game (click on the P button below) and relish it. Games this good don’t come along very often.

At the dedication of the Fulfulde New Testament in Ouagadougou

We have been back in Africa for nearly two months now. The troubles in nearby Mali made us decide to leave Djibo, so we have moved to a town in the south of Burkina Faso.

We never intended to live in Djibo the rest of our lives – we probably would have relocated sometime this year war or no war – but I’m missing it all the same. I miss the sand and the cows and the rounded grass houses. I miss our friends and neighbours. Most of all, I miss being able to understand what people around me are saying.

For the time being I am still working as West Africa coordinator of Christian mission movement World Horizons. And I’m still writing. Currently working on two adventure books – one set in Dakar and one in Victorian London. Very excited about both of these projects.

Meanwhile my wife Charlie is working hard finding wonderful bags and jewellery for Jam Shop – take a look.

Light wood 4 drawer desk for sale: 25,000 CFA

The desktop is 55cm wide x 120cm long x 77cm high

Drawers are 35cm wide x 41cm long x 11cm deep

Click thumbnails for large photos:

This item has now been taken

It’s always nice to see a library at the heart of a school, and the Regis School library is the most central and accessible school library I’ve ever seen, situated in a sunny atrium just beyond Reception. It is a well-stocked, busy library with fantastic staff. I spent a very enjoyable morning visiting some Year 7 groups at the Regis School and talking with them about the essential ingredients of a good story. They have clearly followed up on this theme – here’s a pic of Mrs Coleman enacting them in a wonderfully dynamic way! Many thanks to all at the Regis School for their warm welcome.