What have I learnt? Well apart from some basic knowledge of tropical diseases, I don't really know where to start - perhaps with a lady volunteer for PF called Zele who gave up 3 days a week to minister to prisoners despite going through really difficult times financially and with her family, or John a 'special stage' prisoner who had been on and pardoned from death row, or the men who wanted prayer for 'surviving' AIDS until they could see there families again, or the children in Chipulukuso, or condemned prisoners in maximum singing praises to God with more conviction (pun not intended), reverence and gusto than I would of believed possible especially in their situation - so many people who challenged me day by day and week by week. Or perhaps I should talk about my God - who gave me strength when I was close to tears examining a man who had been beaten with an iron bar, who quietened my thumping heart as I stepped into an enclosure of 260 condemned men, who allowed me a sense of peace even as we prayed for those with none - who showed me that I truly can do nothing in my own strength, but in whom all things are possible. And I still think I have much to learn, a lot to get my head around, much to think about how to put what I've learnt into practice.

Perhaps I could leave off with some thoughts I scribbled down part way through the trip, that went in my diary...

'... it's been a real challenge the last couple of weeks to recognise and cling onto the belief that God is good, for I think if I lose that I might as well not be trying. There's a temptation to breeze in and out of the prisons. Sometimes I find myself going through the motions, taking an air of clinical detachment (isn't that what we're taught to do?), letting the rows upon rows of prisoners, just melt into one, a big ugly blur, just a number, another complaint ... and then I get a 'kick up the backside' (which I can only assume is God), my eyes focus again and I see need and helplessness all 360o around me - an open sore needs a bandage, a man cradles his head in his hands, a man the same age as me admits to being abused at night in his cell, a child is malnourished and feverish, a woman unjustly imprisoned - and something inside of me wants to fight for each one of them. I set to work again, more purposeful this time, I can keep going, I know there's food in the fridge and a sleeping bag waiting, and God promises to give rest to those who wait on him, and I seek to pray for each that passes, even if only for a fleeting moment. Give this one your strength, Lord; protect this man, Father; embrace this one with your love; show this mother your peace. I wish and I dream that I could do more, that I could give them some hope, reassurance, joy, light at the end of the tunnel - and I get frustrated, wound up, want to strike out, blame someone... I've got to stop. I can't do anything. So I like to think I'm tough, can handle stuff, work my way out of problems, but I'm not really, in case anything I could do, even in a decade wouldn't make a dent, so it's a good job it's not about me ... it's about my God ... and a God who gave his only Son, on a cross to die for me, can only be good.'