I had seen the village once before when I was out in the bush with a local pastor. But this time I was on my own in the car, following meandering cycle tracks and cattle trails through the parched pasture, and I was lost. If my Fulani friends could have seen me, they would have been very amused. "Don’t you remember that tree there?" they would have said, but to me the trees in the north of Burkina Faso all look the same: short and prickly with a tinge of red Sahelian dust.

And so I continue on my endeavor to relocate this Fulani “wuro” settlement as I followed the various meandering cycle track and cattle trails through intermittent patches of parched pasture. That is until my path seemed to traverse what seemed to have been someone’s field and then on into a small Machube village made up of the typical Fulani slave class mud brick houses. It was at this point I thought that it would be a good idea to ask for directions, and so after locating a small gathering of Fulani men, going through the greetings with about ten of them, banging my head on the crude wooden construction, under which they sheltered from the sun, I asked if any one knew where I could find this village. As luck would have it several of these men actually came from the village and a couple of them very kindly volunteered to accompany me to where I had been endeavoring to locate.

For one of my elderly guides it was his first experience in a motorized vehicle and it was difficult to tell whether he was either fascinated by the whole experience or absolutely terrified. Panic only began to set in once we had stopped and he wasn’t quite sure if he would have spend the rest of his life in the car or if this strange white man would release him from this contraption. Needless to say, I showed mercy and released him from his anguish. I opened the car door.

Now I’m never quite sure whether I should feel honored or embarrassed at the way in which the white guest is often treated on entering a Fulani village. These days I have become very accustomed to sitting on grass mats in the dust, though at first it was a little on the hard side, but no, this apparently would not do for their new Tubaaku visitor. Therefore, off went one of the young boys, sent in search of the village chair which he dutifully returned with several minutes later. And so there I sat, on the village chair under the shade of an Acacias tree, elevated high above my host’s as they sat on the ground around my feet. I know their intent was to honor their new visitor by giving him what they felt appropriate, but the distance it put between us made me feel slightly uncomfortable to say the least. Besides, I would have felt much happier sitting where they were rather than in this esteemed position feeling a little like some kind of visiting chieftain from a foreign land. Certainly not the sort of image one wishes to portray as an ambassador for Christ but is often forced upon you as a missionary coming from the West to those living in the bush of Burkina Faso.

About forty minutes passed with general conversation on families, animals and how the locust had devastated peoples crops this year with ruthless efficiency, and all the while the Fulani men continued to arrive gathering around what must have seemed to them this strange white phenomenon sat on the chair. However, as the time ticked on there seemed to be the feeling as if someone were missing and that things could not proceed until this person, whoever he may be, appeared. And then the head of the village did. For the most part the men had been quite cool towards me, which is understandable being a complete stranger. The delegate, however, appeared to be a more receptive and at his arrival the others seemed to ease a little, and so we continued with the greetings and questions; “did you sleep well? Did you rise in peace? How is your family? Are they all well?” Each question being responded with either; Jam tan (peace only) or Baasi fuu wala (no problem at all), which are the general responses even if you didn’t sleep a wink and all your family had come down with malaria the day before.

Fitted out in a white robe and turban, the delegate, who was an older man, seemed to evoke the respect of the others as they sat around in apparent submission to his authority. To then be asked to share with these forty to fifty men the reason why I had come to their village came as a bit of a bolt out of the blue. My only intention at this point was to make an initial contact with these Fulbe men with the intention of building relationships with some and then in time sharing the gospel. But I guess in Burkina things don’t often go as planned. And so with a quick prayer I endeavored to explain to them that I had come to learn about the Fulani way and to talk to them of the news about Jesus (kabaaru Iisaa). I was quite taken a back when one young man asked; “if we become your garibous, or religious students, what will you want from us?” I immediately responded with; “your money”. To which many of the young men proceeded to role around on the floor laughing at such a ludicrous thought, ‘a Tubaaku to want money from a bush Fulani’. Spontaneous as my response was it didn’t seem to make any one too suspicious of me and even appeared to break the ice a little. And so, as we entered the heat of the day and the warm breeze whipped the fine dust up around us we continued to converse on the purpose of my visit. Saydu, the delegate appeared to be decidedly keen on the idea of my returning, which is more than I could say for the village Marabou as he stared uneasily at me thumbing his inlaid black prayer beads.

Making my way back through the scrub, following the network of cycle tracks and trying to recall the different shaped trees which I passed on the way in, I reflected on my time in the village. On the surface my initial visit seemed to be a quite a success. People seemed keen to hear what I had to say, my newly acquired language (Fulfulde) seemed to have held up reasonable well, and the road was given for my return. In many ways, after just two and a half years amongst the Fula, I still feel very green when it comes to interacting with these semi nomadic herdsmen of the Sahel. They appear to pride themselves on retaining an element of mystique towards the bairo (visitor), offering enough information as necessary, but never quite revealing their true intent or desires. I had the distinct feeling that much of what was said was less to do with a genuine interest, but more to do with Fulani protocol or Pulaaku in relation to their white bairo. Time will tell.