Death by Chocolate

One of the other effects of the cocoa harvest (see below/earlier entry), is that funerals for people who died 3 or 4 months back take place with the knowledge that the mourners are finally able to give a decent ‘tribute’. We were invited to a joint shebang last weekend for both our librarian’s aunt (deceased since August) and a General of the Ghanaian army. As his son is also a serviceman, there was a big troop of camo-clad types come from Accra to our backward little nowhere for the occasion. They stayed in the Community Centre next to our house, and made a right old racket, I can tell you. At one point I was in half a mind to go up there and, and, and, well cower as they pointed a big gun in my face, I expect. The Scruff on the other paw, always ready for a scrap, was looking at me expectantly all night.

Still, there’s something pleasantly familiar about being woken by a trumpet at dawn playing a salute to fallen comrades. The funeral itself was the usual noisy affair with much hand and booty shakin’. Most of the day, you just sit there in a big circle as people take turns to walk round and greet everyone else. Because of what seemed to be a game of musical chairs, I was at one point in the position of Linguist for the chief of the village, much to general amusement. One thing I like is that everyone still proudly wears their traditional dress, and the variety of cloth is pretty impressive. There must’ve been over 300 people there and pretty much everyone was wearing a different pattern. I particularly enjoy the happy-clappy groups of singers from the respective churches. We went to the Catholic church (the librarian’s aunty was a papalist) before the funeral began and then joined the procession down to where everyone else was sat, on the footy pitch as a matter of fact. This was funny for the observation that everyone was walking and dancing with the brass band but nobody had to resort to the half skip, common to British weddings, that Peter Kay skits so well.

As we’re obruni, they expect big things from our donation to proceedings. So, after coughing up a larger-than-most-but-not-as-much-as-some sum, we thought it prudent to get the hell out of dodge before the announcer was informed. Cheapo sods you might be thinking, and well, you’d probably be right.

Black Magic

The cocoa harvest has begun. As I’ve mentioned before, cocoa is the main cash crop for the villagers and so previously empty pockets have started to (comparatively) bulge. This has a variety of knock-on effects. For instance, the Libya bar is open a little longer and the music played a little louder; the churches start appealing for funds “to guarantee their congregation a place in heaven”; prices seem to creep up etc etc. The effect even dribbles down to the kids. In recent evenings, the peace of the village has been broken by gangs of youths wandering round with firecrackers, teeny red torches, whistles and, weirdly enough, cheap harmonicas. Good job its too hot for hoodies, I say.

Yours,
Disgruntled of Humjibre

PS. Only joking, its obviously good for the village to have more cash sloshing around. Things that have been on hold for months, if not years, finally get done and people are understandably happier with life. Families can finally afford to send their kids to school and the market stalls sell more than the usual tomatoes/stale fish/plaintain/bread offerings. Earlier this year, GHEI set up a Cocoa cooperative that gives the local farmers access to improved methods and agric inputs such as fertilizers and pesticides. Advice was the only thing provided free of charge, so the farmers had to take micro-loans with the Agricultural Bank to implement changes. The hope is however that, weather permitting, the cocoa yield will be improved to an extent that payment of the loans should take place next year, if not this. The Humjibran Green Revolution starts here.

Scruff Lives!

The following is an update on our chief source of entertainment, the mangy pup known as Mr Scruff. Now, I understand that this makes me sound like a gushing parent, but we’re very proud of the little runt, since when we took her under our wing she was barely able to walk straight and had a glassy dazed look to complement her swollen worm-riddled belly. Now, she’s been taught a few tricks and has been successfully discouraged from chewing chair legs, although she still likes clamp her jaw on to sub-ankle level clothes like trousers/skirts/shoelaces. Due to the free-range system in the village, there’s always things to chase, and she especially likes to scare sheep. This seems to make her feel all dogly but when they turn around and stamp, there is the inevitable scamper home, tail between her legs and ears pinned back in terror. Her arch enemy is a ginger chicken who used to peck around trying to steal her food when she was very weak. Now she has the sense to growl the prowling fowl away but since the kiev-in-waiting is bigger than her, it’s not always the best plan. Seeing as this chuck is a cheeky little clucker though, I think I might help the scruff win the war by buying and eating it for Christmas dinner. (‘Course the carnophobic I doesn’t like this plan one bit).

The other day we invited the mobile vet round to give her a rabies jab. The guy seemed to be more interested in looking round our house than administering the shot so the first time he tried, the scruff sprung a leak and blood oozed from her shoulder. After much struggling, she was finally subdued long enough to be injected with the virus. The vet drove off on his vintage motorbike stocked up with tales of bizarre obruni behaviour (dogs as pets! who’d have thought!) and we were left with a very sullen looking mutt. Despite giving her some conciliatory biccies, she continued to eye us with suspicion and, to be honest, we started to do the same when her head started swelling up and her behaviour veered on the erratic side. She was scratching furiously and rapidly wandering aimlessly, with head bowed meekly low, around the front of the house in the odd but hilarious way she does following a wash. As we watched, the swollen bonce got quickly worse and large lumps started sprouting up on her forehead and under her eyes. What’s next, we wondered, frothing at the mouth? Perhaps 2 jabs for such a scrawny little mutt is a little more than she can cope with... She then went to hide under some foliage and we retreated indoors. A couple of hours later we heard a scratching at the door. With cutlass in hand, we gingerly edged the door ajar. Thankfully however, we were met simply by a sorry-looking pup, and not a growling, gnashing hound. Phew!

Other than chewing on crusty sheep crap and greedily lapping up our toothpaste spit (there’s no sink so its gobbed outside), the Scruff likes nothing better than a nice supper of medium-sized bugs. As we’re not exactly fans of ‘roaches, this is fine by us. She has met her match more than once though. One night, we went outside with her and saw a stag beetle (gigantic foot long insect) harassing a toad. Never one to be perturbed by finger-sized pincers, the Scruffbag trots over to investigate. The toad sensibly sees this as its opportunity to do a runner and let the stupid dog deal with the enormous invertebrate. The Scruff sniffs, is snapped at, then scurries between our legs, whining in pain. Another lesson painfully learnt, but then, everyday’s a school day.