Books
Extracts from the Amazon readers'
summary of the book:
In rural Mali, women grind grain for seven hours a day. Children fall out of education. Healthcare depends on what you can afford.
When John Hedge agreed to support a small Malian NGO, he began a twenty-five-year partnership that would challenge everything he thought he knew about aid.
I Ni Che (Welcome) is a compelling narrative of long-term grassroots development in Mali.
Blending memoir, cultural observation and development analysis, Hedge examines the realities of post-colonial Africa, the challenges of aid dependency, and the delicate balance between external support and local ownership. I Ni Che is both a tribute to friendship across continents and a thoughtful contribution to debates about ethical development practice.
For readers interested in African studies, NGO work, global justice and community empowerment, this is a grounded and deeply humane case study of what sustainable development really requires: patience, respect and partnership.
Available now from Amazon, The Great British Bookshop, by request from all good book sellers or by contacting me
ISBN number 978-1919380773
About the book
Writing the book involved looking back over many documents, a great deal of personal memory and, of course, the recollections of many of the people most closely involved, including our closest Malian colleagues, all of whom contributed their thoughts to an early draft. It meant recalling many highs, but some low times when things went wrong or the task seemed too much to cope with. The book is dedicated both to Sue Upton, who inspired us in the first place, and the memory of Violet Diallo, a staunch fried of Mali for many decades, who died last year.
Special thanks are due to Sue for her helping with several rounds of proof reading, and a great deal of advice. Many thanks also to Andrea Hewes, Mali Development Group’s designer for so many years. She sourced and collated the pictures, all by MDG members, in the book, including the striking cover picture by Adrian Moyes of one of our village meetings. You will find maps to help you understand where Mali is, and where our projects took place. I hope they will contribute to your understanding and enjoyment.
Endorsements
I have not sought endorsements for previous books, but it seemed a good idea this time, and I am very grateful to the three who are cited in the book. What they said:
John Hedge recounts the journey of Mali Development Group with the eyes of someone who has witnessed it all, from its inception to this day. The events are described in it without complacency and each paragraph makes you travel to a different place, whether it's the harsh conditions of rural Mali, the dedication of the people trying to change things here in the UK and on the ground in Mali, or the bonds of friendship and mutual respect that were created over the years. One thing this book teaches us is that development is possible differently. Wilfred Willy, linguist, translator-interpreter, former head of the Malian Community Council-UK.
It is a beautiful book about grassroots efforts to help people to help themselves. It is a great description of bottom up development. John Hedge has written an inspiring as well as an informative book. It describes how volunteers are offering their time, resources and love in the service of a community. Anyone and everyone who is interested in the authentic experience of development should read this wonderful testament. Satish Kumar, Editor Emeritus, Resurgence & Ecologist
A perceptive reflection which exemplifies some of the joys and challenges of development work – whether at the macro-level of geopolitics, climate change and (post)colonialism, or at the micro level of forging positive relationships, clear communication, robust governance and agreed principles and values. Mike Harrison, Bishop of Exeter
Poems from the two collections
A Publican
The landlord surprised at his clear head
After an evening’s work with noise and drink
And then the long late wine and dice with friends
In easy talk, not stilted Roman words
As country couples went off to their beds.
He meant to stroll round calling at the barn
To give that desperate couple half a flask
And hear their story better than he had
When shouting ‘yes’- too busy to say ‘No’.
There was a story there, perhaps some risk,
Helping a worried man with that young girl
About to drop a kid and far from home.
His wife slept on, unhindered in her sleep.
He watched the rushing continents of cloud
Moving above the sharp white tavern walls
The big star hidden and then bright again
An unexpected sight through these tax days
Which paid him well for all the pain they caused.
He heard soft country voices in the yard
And three tired horses walking in the dust
Then turned against his wife’s broad back and slept
And missed it all until the morning came.
As years went by his tale changed with the times,
A landlord must take care with politics.
He never thought he’d go down in the books
For one small piece of hurried careless good.
A Village Church
The lambs of old St James are few
At our small village church
Our usual gate is only eight.
Important to attend
To keep the numbers there
And guilty when you don’t
As if you broke a chain.
Not that we look like lambs
Older a bit than that
But each one plays a part
And reads or does the prayers.
We love those brightsome times
When others join us there
On starry Christmas nights
Or mist fresh Easter morn.
Our good old organist
Who plays the best he can
But wanders from the way,
Makes tunes quite hard to spot.
So, when we work one out
A verse or so along
We join in then with joy.
Some bastards stole the lead
And not just once but twice
November time and wet,
So Dorothy and Sue
Put buckets all around
And we had vengeful thoughts
Not Christian in the least.
We had a time- shared priest
With six St Elsewheres more
Around the Suffolk Heaths.
Disorganised but kind
She sometimes got confused
Misnaming those who’d passed
At funerals more than once.
And if no vicar’s there
We sometimes turned to Clare
Our ‘elder’, though she’s young,
Well young compared with us.
She’s cheerful bright and strong
Finds fun in everything
And tells the gospel well
But knows she cannot sing.
I love this quiet church
Within its flint knapped walls
Eight hundred years of prayers
Have added to the peace.
I love to see the signs
Of locals great and good-
The Doctor from this place
Who died in Africa
Beloved physician there
The shining brass plaque says
The story now untold
The living matter more
Its people make a church
And though we are so few
So few
The light does not go out,
As we keep walking on
In faith’s slow relay race.
And Dorothy and Sue and Clare
In many deeds of unsung care
Reach to the village and the village knows.
The Paddington Band
Westminster Cathedral - December
Held in a huge darkness
I watch the candle banks,
The piling pinpoint flames
Like small bright ships in line
At anchor for the night.
There is no silence here
The blackness sings above
And back on earth the hum
Of shuffling whispered prayers.
I sit and stare at cosmic dark
Stretching to a roof
Which might not be
Time waits
And in this time machine
I look inside my head
No angels there and yet,
Angels or not this is a holy place.
Life, Death and Football
No more the chimes at midnight
We heard the chimes at midnight my good friend
And parted warmly in a fug of ale
Singing of beer and football, life and love,
You in a cab and me to Paddington,
But many, merry rounds missed me my train.
I took the last one heading for the West
Though not my stop, alas, I learned too late.
Too soon to Swindon and a cold, meshed bench
To pierce the anaesthesia of the drink
With no train back until the morning light.
I phoned home then to tell all and explain
Hoping perhaps that you might rescue me,
But ‘get the first train out’ was all you said
And not unreasonably at ten past three.
Few things so quiet as stations in the night
Only a freight train’s rattling to a fade
From time to time as minutes tiptoed by.
I looked inside my workbag for a book.
This week’s improving read for my commute
Was Langland’s Piers the Plowman- no laughs there.
With nothing else to do I hunkered down
Until at last a dawning chorus came
Of early risers trotting for their trains
And ‘See it, say it, sorted’ nagged again.
I boarded dozily and found a seat.
Soon back at home I had a bath and ate,
Then kissed you and went off to work again,
My matchsticked eyelids fighting me to close.
So zombily I wandered through the day
And bluffing hard I felt I’d make it through.
And all was well until you phoned to check,
My love, that I was still O.K. and then,
Of course, my cover blew, and they all laughed.
And now, those chimes at midnight I’ll forsake
So never more to Swindon by mistake.
Road Closed
The cuckoo calls, and Hockings comes
From hibernation long,
The rushing clouds crowd on the hills
The garden’s full of song
Time now to fix those potholes deep
Along the still drenched ways
Diversion signs grow everywhere
In yellow springtime haze.
Diversions, diversions
Are everywhere to see
The day we went to Ilfracombe
By way of Umberleigh
As snowdrops come, the roadworks too
With cones and lengthy lights
The road is closed the next sign says,
Though who knows if that’s right.
You drive on wishing hard for luck
Still hoping for a clue
And scan both ways along the banks
And then, Oh Hell it’s true!
Diversions, diversions
Are growing far and near
The day we went to Appledore
By Langtree and Shebbear.
So many Devon roads there are,
Through hamlet, village, towns
A weaving, winding network strong
That links green hills and downs.
We should not moan.
We want them fixed
Needing to drive each day
But when you’re through,
please move the signs
So we can know our way.
Diversions, diversions
Please move them when you’re done,
So we can come from Bideford
straight home to Torrington.
With apologies to fans of G.K Chesterton
Breaking Butterflies on Wheels
Breaking Butterflies on Wheels
Is what the state now does to activists
To vicars, teachers, smart old Quakers too
Whose main crime is to try and wake us up
By dreadful deeds like stopping traffic flow,
Scaling of gantries, lots of things with glue.
While in the south in Mali, India, Spain
The temperature climbs up beyond belief
I think of far Sikasso and our friends
The women planting crops in gardens fair
And digging wells deep down for water scarce
Now facing much worse fate than being late.
And in the far North where there should be ice,
The noble Polar bear still tries to live
On floes which fade so fast that life must end,
And lonely bears in Zoos and history
Is all we’ll know of them and many more.
Ironic shame to break a butterfly
This lack of vision desperate and sad.
An irony for our depleted land
Where soon our butterflies will be
On cards and pictures only, memories.
Recent Poems
Current projects
I am now back to concentrating on poetry and well into a third collection. As ever ideas for poems come into my mind at all sorts of odd times, and it is important to make a note when that happens. Since I never manage to remember a notebook I rely these days on the ‘Notes’ section of my mobile phone, which is really useful! The themes this time are very wide ranging, but as ever nature, North Devon and the issues of coping with age all feature strongly! I hope to publish the collection next year so plenty of additions and revisions to come. If you would like me to do a reading, in the meantime, I’d be very pleased to hear from you.