Cornwall.

I spend a lot of my time in Cornwall. I don't consider myself 'cornish' but it's definitely more a home than anywhere else. The beach is like a familiar friend; I know every cave and cliff walk; I can tell you what rock-fall is new, every different tideline or where a sandbank used to be. As a child I was dragged round on a surfboard through each little puddle, as a teenager I jumped off nearly every rock-face. It's private, small, England's undiscovered treasure, and I fully intend to visit it's beach every year of my life. Walking on the cliffs, I feel closer to God than I do anywhere else in the world; watching the sea is like watching Him breath. The landscape is incredible. I struggle to NOT believe when I'm stood there, cold toes, wind on face, inside the world. But what is really beautiful about it, is what it doesn't have. There is no internet, and almost no signal. When we escape to Cornwall it's like we burrow beneath the world and lay there in hiding for a few weeks. Looking back I don't know what I would have done without that space to run to. It's like a pocket of air. It's family too. Tradition. It's the old and new mingled together; I sleep in a bed I've slept in since I was five, in a room that still has the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck up on the ceiling. Yet at the same time I'm living in the present, making new memories inside the walls that hold my past. Cornwall is definitely a home like no other; and a great spot for some photography too......

Who are you?

I recently re-wrote the summary of myself over at The TeaHouse. And decided to post it on here, because as I was writing it got a little bit (a teensy bit) philosophical...! And I thought you all should hear what I have to say about defining yourself...

Who am I?

It's something I, and every other person who has ever been a teenager, has been trying to work out for a good while now. Who actually are we? And I've worked out that most of us take our identity from the things we DO. For example;

A social-bee defines him/herself by the amount of friends they have.

A work-a-holic defines him/herself by how good they are at their job.

A religious person defines him/herself by how 'good' they can make themselves.

If you fall into either one of these categories, or even another one, then you are in danger. Placing who you are on what you do is like balancing a priceless and fragile ornament on a tower of matchsticks. It's a silly thing to do, as I have learnt only too well. Because it will definitely come tumbling down at one point or another. The moment you loose a friend, fail at work, do something bad- you are thrown into crisis and have to desperately search for something, anyhting to regain your sense of self-worth and piece yourself back together. We've all been there, haven't we? So it's a dangerous question, but a vital one:

Who am I?

I think what christians have discovered, and myself among them, is something wonderful. We acknowledge that we WILL do bad things, we WILL mess up at work and in relationships. We know that the tower will crumble and we can't draw our identity from something that keeps on smashing, keeps on letting us down. It's ultimately self-destructive. But so is gaining your identity from the fact that you will always fail, which is what happens eventually to a lot of people: Who am I? I am a failure, I am a failure, I am a failure. NO. Christians defy this. They define themselves like this:

I am a failure, but God has redeemed me.

God has made me whole. God has picked me up and put me on my feet.

I am who I am because He is who He is.

And there's the truth of it.

I can go around and live my life; working hard because he wants me to, making relationships to show just a little bit of that love which he gives me, trying to be 'good' not for my own sake, but for his. I can live my life BETTER, and TO THE FULL because of God's love for me. If I lose a friend, mess up at work, do something bad; I can take it back to the cross. I can know that I am defined by God's love. And God's love is something that will never change; it is as constant as day and night and THAT is what I base my identity on. So in whatever situation, whether I'm friendless, penniless, sinful, alone, hated, segregated, I can always always say:

Who am I?

I am Milla, loved by God.

(Cheesey. But it packs a punch eh?)

Meet my friends.

Meet my friends. The most hilarious bunch of nineteen year-olds you have ever seen or heard. You may be thinking: I've never encountered these girls before in my life! But trust me, you have. If you have ever heard an orchestra of screaming and giggling further down the street, behind you in the cinema, on that other table in the restaurant, ahead of you on a walk, somewhere in a museum, in church, in a swimming pool- that was us. That was definitely us. We ARE those girls that everyone finds so PAINFUL to deal with on a train, aeroplane, bus or any form of public transport. I wouldn't say we delight in this destruction of peace, more that it is an unconscious side-effect of our explosive friendship. We are used to the glares from strangers, and do, believe it or not, try to stifle the laughs and quell the jokes- it doesn't often work. But our flammable and eruptive relationship makes us friends as well as enemies. The waiters, for example, at our favourite restaurant in Croatia (for some reason we thought it would be a good idea to take such anarchy overseas) became such 'chums' that they bordered on joining in with the camaraderie. Suffice to say- we gave them a large tip. We even began a conga on the street with a few more kindred spirits! So these are my friends, and for a long while I genuinely believed them integral to my identity. But university has stretched us thin, pulling us all to different places across the nation; proving that though my I don't DEPEND on them, I miss them immensely. I can only wait for the time when we eight are reunited (maybe Cornwall this year; a student has to budget!) and the ear-defeaning, scowl-winning, side-splittingly chaos may continue.

Faces of Tanzania

Pascal

We called him Pascal. Our English ears were not accustomed to the tang of Swahili so it was a long time before we realised his real name was Pasiko. He was the face of Tanzania before I even realised it.  This picture is on our very first day to the Church site, where we would be building for the next three months, and he was the only soul around. I saw him as a lanky child, wild, climbing about these hot, snake infested African rocks watching us with wary eyes and undisguised curiosity. We were the first foreigners he had ever seen, and he was the first person from Kyamajoje I had ever seen. Getting to know him later- him sitting with us in the truck, catching balloons, colouring in tracts- I didn't recognise him as the lonely observerer on our first day, it was only when I looked back at this picture that I realised he'd been there since the beginning. He remains in my memory as one of the main faces of Tanzania, and it's with pain that I remember visiting his house and seeing the thin rag of a mattress he slept on, knowing we had not enough money left to buy him one.

Two days old...

I didn't notice the baby at first. We were in the hut only to erect a much needed mosquito-net over the bed, and as we fiddled with the packaging and our eyes adjusted slowly to the dinge, the mother began to gesture wildly. She leant over, as we watched, and picked up a tiny bundle of clothes. Inside, lay this baby. I cannot remember his name, only that the mother was frantic at the boils errupting on it's tiny, shining forehead. Can you do anything? Was the silent plea. This baby was was one of first patients. Thankfully he was fine.

Johnny-boy and Farida

Johnny-boy was our favourite from the start. I laugh when I remember him. He was elder, an obvious leader amongst the children, and his bright eyes and easy, loud laugh would soon bring him close to the whole team. His arms were so skinny, his legs unbelievably thin, but what we remember Johnny for most were his quirks, his patent personality. He had the habit of wearing one shoe. In a landscape of thorns and shrubbery and snakes this was not only a bold move but a risky one- our own legs, clad in thick boots or trainers, were soon ripped to shreds. Yet perhaps my favourite peculiarity of Johnny's was the pink whistle hanging around his neck. As our van would trundle through the village in the early morning you could often hear it being blown frantically and if you looked through the back window he would be seen chasing us down, closely followed by his friends and, as we would discover later- family. I vividly remember Andy teaching him how to blow the 'Match of the Day' theme tune...

Jackson

There's too much to say about Jackson. If you really want to read it, you can see the blog I did on the teahouse........ But essentially he was our translator, driver, guide, teacher and friend. Jackson probably is THE face of Tanzania for me. He helped us bridge the divide between gap-year team and the 'real africa.' He was invaluable to all of us.

Anna

She was always the clingiest. Always the loudest. Individual. Dependent. I don't know what the typical physcological state of a two year old Orphan should be, but watching Anna filled me with pity. She needed so much. She would push at you, climb on you, hug you and scream at you to the point of irritation. For me she was not just the face of Tanzania, but the face of it's need. Her eyes, so wide and clamorous , her loud voice and demanding personality could be said to echo the cries of the poverty in Tanzania. 

Alexi

Alexi was an Orphan too. His cheery smile and boisterous character would come rushing to greet you as you took off your shoes to enter the orphanage. He was much like Anna. His story is one that stuck with me though. He'll be too young to remember it, but abandonment is always a hard thing to bear, even at one year old. A part of me feels guilty as we, gap-year teams, come and go. Bond and break. Because Alexi's family packed up and left when he was just able to walk, leaving him alone in their house, wondering where his mother and father had gone.

Sofia

She was, at the beginning, just one of many people who were bundled in the back of a truck to be taken to hospital. They came at us slowly at first, wary, uncertain, and yet soon people were walking for miles to grasp desparately at the charity we offered. Sofia was one of them. And yet somehow her story became entwined with ours and we set out on a journey to heal her. First, we took her to the coptic with three others- Maria, I should mention, a young girl who we taught to play Uno who had something wrong with her eye, a mother and daughter, and Sofia. The Coptic, the local hospital, confirmed her ill-founded suspicions of the demons of her ancestors, and told her to see a witch doctor. We, christians, were horrified. At church the following sunday we took her aside and prayed with her and I remember how powerfully the tears stole down her cheeks, and how she thanked us with a clasp of the hand and a baleful look in the eyes. We were determined to help her. Once we did get her seen at the Government hospital, x-rayed, and kitted out with an array of pills- it arose that she had at least five things seriously wrong. Billherzia, lungworms, neurological (brain) issues that meant she shook incessantly, peptic acid and an amaeba. But by the end of our time with her she had transformed completely. I'll never forget her running in circles in front of us and laughing, free, as if some dark invisible shadows had been lifted from her back. Her shaking had almost stopped. Her energy was impressive and she no longer hunched as if in constant pain.

Masuri

Masuri was always there. His face formed a natural scowl, his eyes deep and penetrating. I did manage to get a photo of him smiling, but this one sums him up in one snap. He, with Johnny-boy his brother, would clamber up the large and looming rocks that formed the backdrop of Kyamajoje. They would observe us from there until we, being filled with the sense of adventure Tanzania brings, decided to join them. We trekked upwards and walked with them through the rocks. They would throw smaller stones as far as they could and Masuri had an incredibly long arm for how skinny it was. I remember how they refused to make the jump to the rock that jutted out on the edge, and how we did anyway and laughed at their fear. Naieve perhaps? Masuri, and his brother, would carry around with them a machete. They would wander around, mere children, with knives in hand, and to be honest, it is a good thing they did. Because we were up there climbing with them once, when they spotted a snake. They yelled and set about frantically trying to see it and scare if off. Our little protectors. 

Obede

You aren't meant to have favourites. It's a basic rule. And yet by the end I couldn't help the fact that this little boy, probably three or four years old, had stolen my affection! He had a stupidly round head, skinny arms and legs, a round protruding belly and large shining eyes. Him and his brother didn't speak swahili, or english, but spoke enough with their actions. After the initial fright, they wouldn't leave us alone. They would beg us to pick them up,  give them a little snack. They followed us around. We taught Obede a little song and he repeated that one line over and over and over until we were all sick of it. My favourite memory is when they were watching us build, taking in every detail. We would get a pencil, draw a line using the back of the saw, and hack off the correct amount of wood. When our backs were turned one day, Obede grabbed the saw and his brother Mwembe the pencil. The sight of them drawing a wiggildy line and attempting to saw makes me smile even now! He had malaria once while we were there, and we were desparate for him to get better. Thanks to God he did, and we all swamped around him and laughed and chatted with his family when he arrived back from the clinic. I remember the tears in his eyes as we drove away for the last time. Obede is one of the faces I miss the most.

Diana

Diana is the last face. When I think of Diana I remember how she loved to be tickled, how I could sit her on my lap during church and she would prove a wonderful distraction from a service all in swahili. She couldn't sit still. And yet, she wasn't always so loveable. We picked her up and took her with us, and yet when she saw the car she shrieked and shrieked and demanded to be put down again. She was the sweetest face, and embodied the love and fear of the unknown.

There are SO many more faces I would love to put on, people I would love you to meet and stories I would love to tell- but I think I'll have to stop here because it's looking dangerously like this will turn into a novel otherwise. In short: I miss every single face- which faces sum up your year??