The leaving of Humjibre

So, sadly, after 13 amazing months we have to depart. sniff.

I'll be so sad to leave this place, my friends, my dog and the warmth of the air and the feelings.

Enchantingly, these things are normally written in a cafe sitting next to some dude downloading some ropey skin flick. As I wait for the pages to download with about the same alacrity and sense of purpose displayed by the drowsy fat flies that buzz around the room a spirit of ennui infuses my ponderings like someone elses' fart. Well not today, today i'm feeling mawkish and sentimental.

For those who can be bothered to stay with me, I'll try to get at what I like about Ghana and the other bits of Africa we've been to in the last 18 months. It's the unexplained sights like a grown woman carrying a 4foot plastic bag of wotsits down the road, or the DIY signs that make you question the sanity of the author enticing you into a shop, the elongated greetings which snap your fingers like an arthritic pianist, the way you can become a brother in the time it takes to crack a cheesy joke, the way people will laugh with you even though they clearly don't understand what it is you're whittering on about.

Habermas, a dead German fella with rubbery lips and a line in arcane Frankfurt School social commentary, talks about the feeling we get when life is subjected to the efficient, predictable, calculable and controlled clutches of the machine. The way we feel when we're talking to a taped voice on the phone, punching in numbers and swearing at another waste of a lunchtime. He talks about the feeling of anomie that results. Africa, in contrast, always in contrast, feels like a last refuge of glorious chaos.

Of course, this comes at the cost of an often calamitous unpredictability. People are rightly very suspicious of the institutions we in the West cling to. Oral property rights, kleptocratic police, uncivil self-servants and telephones that work when they feel like it make everyone cynical and distrusting of authority. Good on 'em, I say.

We had one short term volunteer with us who wondered why we were doing 'development' since the people were so happy. In response, I told her 'Bollocks', I mean they'd be even more chuffed if their kids weren't at constant risk of disease and had a decent school to go to etc etc. But village life does have its consolations. I've never had so many people who know when I'm ill or that pray for me when I'm travelling in my entire life. And I was a teenage villager in Wales. I guess that would change if every farmer got into their 4x4s and drove to their plots each day instead of renewing those communal bonds by walking and waving their way to work. But then, I'm sure that the 4x4s would be individualised in some unexpected way, so that's cool with me.

So, in our tiny way, we'll continue to work with GHEI and try to find other ways to contribute to lifting the people of Humjibre and others like them out of poverty and into shiny new Hummers. Though we hope they'll be painted orange and green stripes and have a sticker of a baby in a straw hat in the back window.

The Abeyie House

Having left the village at the end of September, we are now staying at Ishmael's house in Accra. The house sums up much of what contrasts between life in Ghana and that in the UK. Its therefore a great way to celebrate our time here before we push off.

In a nutshell, the atmosphere in the house is open. The windows and doors are always open. The windows let in a sea breeze which makes the blinds dance and the doors swing open to new visitors every couple of minutes. The courtyard is the heart of the house. This is where a crowd is always gathered to cook, sit, pray, and chew the fat. Yesterday we must've met half a dozen 'Aunties', as well as another dozen friends and neighbours including a seamstress, a masseuse, a cobbler and a government minister. There's always movement but nothing is ever rushed.

My blood being Scouse, it's the banter I like best. The hand gestures are great and would even put a Venetian to shame. I love the way you look your fellow banterer up and down to indicate the taking of measure before attack. It's mostly repetition of course, but I've been howling with laughter at the many ways people find to say the same things. The performance is the whole thing, the result is unimportant since the dispute is nearly always irresolvable abstract. Among the things up for discussion yesterday were whether King Arthur was pissed off with Lancelot, whether Ronaldinho is as good as Zizou, whether its better to shake the hand of, or hug an old friend. As I was brought up fighting four older brothers, I know how to barney and have the advantage of surprise so I can hold my own.

Talking to Ishmael's mum last night, the matriarch of the family who laughs longest, loudest and usually last, listed the eleven people who currently live under her roof. Mostly friends or relatives from the north, she epitomises the sisterly solidarity which helps up (and sometimes drags down) the African family unit.

The women wear beautiful gowns in every loud colour. Many of them have facial scarification and some have semi-permanent blue colour on their lower lip. Some of them even have gold caps on their teeth to denote that they have been to Mecca. The men squeeze their bodies into suits, the boys into clothes which hang off them like they would any teenager in Brixton. There are the occasional touches to flip the script like tying laces at the bottom but in general they look like any kid on MTVBase.

The house is fasting for Ramadan. That doesn't stop them trying to be hospitable and cook for us during the day but we normally make ourselves scarce till its time for them to break their fast in the evening. We're planning to stay with them until Eid Al Fitr on Friday or Saturday to help with the ritual scoffing. That will be our last day in Ghana but we will go with good memories and full bellies.