Abidjan Fauna

Today I ventured out of the office (and air conditioning) to the pharmacy around the corner to get some drugs for the cold I picked up at the weekend. Walking there, I noticed a relatively normal looking man walking in the same direction as me, with a dead rat on a string that was attached to his wrist. This was not a newly aquired piece of meat (they eat rats here too), as rigor mortis had set in and the poor creature bobbed up and down uncomfortably like an old shoe. I mean I just what exactly was this man up to? And he didn't even look embarrassed, or particularly mad. Dead rats on strings are just a bit too medieval for me. As was the pharmacy, come to think of it, which was about as well stocked as a Moldovan chemist in the 70s. I did, however, notice a leaflet advertising a lotion that is guaranteed to sort out your varicose veins, acne and stretch marks, with its unique ingredient – snail saliva. Yes, indeed. And the pharmacy assistant looked a bit blazé and bored when she explained what it was. Well i decided i'd stick with the ibu profen and nose spray and try the 'bave d'escargot' another time. So I set off again and finally made it to the post office after several attempts at asking for directions followed by blank stares (I don't think Ivorians are big letter writers). The place was deserted and having been redirected to about 4 different counters which were all without queues and within ear shot of each other, I finally purchased my stamps. That French model of public administration was super imposed here as I well know, but I didn't realise this extended to customer service without a smile. I might add that the 3 giant stamps required for each post card were about ¼ of the surface area of each bloody postcard. Those of you lucky enough to receive a post card should be grateful of the effort it entailed just to send the things off, and those who didn't, sorry but I won't be trying that again!

Yamoussoukro

The last few weeks have been busy ones at work, but I did manage to get away and do some fun things in the process. I spent the day in Yamoussoukro, which is the official capital of Côte d'Ivoire, although all political and economic institutions, the head quarters of all the international organisations, embassies and banks, are all based in Abidjan. Yamoussoukro is basically a village that in 1900s had a population of about 500 people, and subsequently underwent development of monumental proportions in what can only be described as a fit of megalomania by Félix Houphouët-Boignyhimself, prostrate and holding a bunch of palms, as well as the architect and a few other notables. Pure tack. Although someone did point out that Louis XIV forked out on the Palais de Versailles despite the abject poverty faced by the majority of French people, and we are quite glad of this national treasure today, but there is still something perverse about the money spent on this enterprise when you consider the average living conditions here. And I wouldn’t mind only the Basilica is no Versailles, it must be said. In fact once you get over the initial impressiveness of the scale of the thing, it has more similarities with a Versace gilded celebrity interior you'd find on MTV Cribs than a renaissance treasure. I forgot to mention that while it seems takes an age to get anything done around here without running into about a million constraints, the Basilica was completed in a tidy 3 years. It's worth the detour though, and it will be interesting to see how the capital evolves and if the migration will ever happen. Also applicable to the phantom elections which have yet to take place. We also visited the Ecole Polytechnique, which is equally massive and in fact would put UCD campus to shame. And we stopped off to say hi to the crocodiles who inhabit the moat-like reservoir around the presidential residence.

Friday I joined Dervla and we went Abobo Baoulé, a 'quartier' north of the city, to watch a rehearsal of a new play being produced by the theatre company "Ymako Theatri" for the Wild Chimpanzee Foundation. The troupe travel around the country and put on plays in local villages to raise awareness and basically tell people not to kill monkeys and co, not to destroy the national parks, and not to sell or buy bush meat. God, I saw two flattened, mildly smoked, fly-infested 'agouti' (giant bush rat-type things) on a plate being sold on the side of the road back from Yamoussoukro. I politely declined the offer to purchase them. Apparently there is also a maquis in Abidjan called 'Le Zoo' (slightly perverse) where they sell bush meat and monkeys, despite the fact that it's totally illegal. Anyway, the play was really good, and explained things in a very relatable and funny way, with some music and dancing. We met the group before they started and they were very nice and curious about Dervla's 'camarade', and couldn't get over how pale I was. A lot of people have actually said to me 'oh you haven't been here for long, have you, judging by the colour of your skin!', and don't really seem to believe me when I say that I will in fact remain this colour, or a varying shade or red, no matter how long I stay in the sun. Actually I detected a note of jealousy, dare I say admiration, when one of the actors asked me 'Comment tu fais??". And they kept on saying, 'ah cela elle vient des pays des glaces!' 'oui, de l'antartique, des océans glacés!', without a notion that might not be received as a compliment. And despite the unwanted attention my epidermis has afforded me over here, I suppose I have come to reconsider the Irish/European notion that white is crap and only tanned skin is pretty. Bring back the Elizabethan fashion, I say! Perhaps not. Well, I shall try to hang on to this tentative proudness of my 'pale and interestingness' when I find myself lying on the beach in Barcelona in a few weeks in a sea of lithe, caramel Spaniards. (the first president of Côte d'Ivoire who served for about 30 years). Yamoussoukro is known for its odd ghost town quality, since it is an entirely artificial construct, with opulent buildings and grand hotels, but very few people actually occupying them. It was made the official capital in the 80s, but the administration and life-force of CI contained in Abidjan has yet to be transferred there. The greatest display of emperor's new clothes-ness is the Basilica, which is the biggest and likely most expensive cathedral in the world. It's HUGE and weird, and surrounded by nothing. It was designed by some looper of a Lebanese architect who modeled it on St. Peter's in the Vatican. Why not, indeed? It's entire circumference is adorned with huge stain glass windows, and one of them depicts a procession of faithful followers behind Christ on Palm Sunday, featuring none other than Houphouët-Boigny

Soirée Poule à Rue Princesse

Last Saturday night I experienced my first ever Hen Night – and it happened to be Ivorian style. Let me preface this by stating that Hen Nights are not a prominent feature of the cultural tapestry of Côte d'Ivoire. In fact they don't really exist. But the bride and groom to be, Vincennes and Zoro, are close friends of the German director of the Wild Chimpanzee foundation where Dervla works (as does Zoro – the groom) and so Ilke (afore mentioned German) insisted on introducing this rather European tradition into the country. We went for dinner in this nice Ivorian restaurant in Blokauss facing onto the lagoon, and I met for the first time the bride-to-be and 3 of her friends. So over our meal of poisson braisé (I powered through the multitude of bones), attieke (that tapioca stuff), some sort of yam-type thing, and good old fashioned chips, Ilke produced a document containing the tasks for the Hen to complete over the course of the night. Activities included putting on a t-shirt onto which a selection of sweets had been carefully been sown, and approaching random, unsuspecting men and asking them to eat them off the tshirt, with of course, no hands. Dervla had mentioned that Vincennes was quite religious and that she wasn't sure how game she would be for partaking in typical hen activities. Luckily the classic devils horns/penis shaped hair band that are usually seen of a Saturday night in Temple Bar, where not available to purchase in Abidjan. But Dervla need not have doubted the extrovert character of this particular hen, for no sooner had the tshirt been handed over to her, was it swiftly pulled on, and up she got and shimmied sexily over to the next table where an unsuspecting couple where quietly enjoying their dinner. I might add that it was only around 9 o clock at this point and no alcoholic beverages had been consumed - yet. Vincennes was totally unfased as the poor punter bit off a marshmallow from her chest area, and in about 20 minutes she had done the rounds of all the tables and almost completed her first task. Next, she had to reply to an advert that Ilka had seen (and photographed) advertising a 'garçon a louer pour femmes célibataires'. She rang up the young gigolo who was looking for a 'Tantie' to look after him (his words) and we all listened on in complete surprise/hysterics as she arranged for him to get a taxi straight to the restaurant. The poor fella, we were long gone before he ever arrived. So by now we were all in high spirits and hopped into the car for the next leg of our journey. For a concept that is not native to this country, the women were doing a great job at keeping up, I must say. And the general slagging off and laughter at the expense of masculine race on the car journey ("ah non, il est MOISI celui la!") confirmed interculturalness of the theme. And so we arrived in the first bar of choice, a relatively subdued and slightly sleazy 'piano bar' (I didn't know they still made them like that) which was reminiscent of somewhere that would have been cool in France, in the 80s. It was totally overpriced, and populated with old and (again) sleazy white men, and rich looking Ivorians. But this did not deter our Hen posse in the least, and soon Vincene was up and about, looking for some more candidates to help her out with her sweet task. Ilke followed closely behind with a camera to carefully document the evening's proceedings, and after an initial grace period, the owner 'had a quiet word' with her and asked her to stop taking pictures with the punters. Apparently many of these businessmen were here with their 'copines'. (and not the ones they had been joined in holy matrimony to before the eyes of God) and would not appreciate pictures of them circulating on the information highway. So after some expensive drinks (I didn't mind, I was only too happy to feel the rare touch of vodka on my lips after a weeks of effing 'sucreries' and crap wine) we parted company with the seediness and headed for the famous Rue Princess in Yopougon. It's basically a very long road lined with maquis, night clubs and 'bars climatisé', with lots of people spilling onto the streets and loud music blaring out into the night air. Actually it reminded me of Benidorm or Mykonos, or those hideous tacky holiday destinations that you see on British reality TV programmes, where the guys all wear Ben Sherman shirts and have spikey gelled hair and the girls are, well, basically half naked. So we settled into our club, and were seated at one of those low tables and couches, just like in the Hills. Sort of. Minus the Veuve Clicquot. But we were treated to a bottle of Cava (ah sure, its practically the same..) by a nice punter who felt obliged to help us (and indeed accompany us) in our celebration. So there was much dancing (word interchangeable with arse-shaking) and finally when I could no longer put the moment off, I said goodbye to shyness, self-consciousness and all forms of dignity, and unleashed my hips. This undoubtedly attracted a certain amount of attention and I'm sure the sight of the white girls trying to dance 'à l'Africaine' will have provided much comedy value to the evening. Well, when in Abidjan… Luckily we were given an expert demonstration of the 'mapouka' (the arse dance) by Vincène, for a solo dance was another of her tasks. Of note also is the fact that the people dancing over on the little dance floor actually all dance facing the mirror! It’s the weirdest thing, I had actually been fooled into thinking the place was much bigger because of the mirrors, but apparently not. Dervla confirmed that this is a regular occurrence and that, indeed, people like to watch themselves dance. At one point I looked over and noticed to my great amusement, that one of the guys was wearing a tshirt with a 'Cork Rebel Army' logo…?! Honestly, I'm seeing the strangest things over here, and these bizarre little connections to Ireland. Not to mention the bloody flags, which still make me do a double take every time. I managed to get a picture of him, which of course led to the request of a phone number. I've noticed over here that if you so much as accidentally glance over at someone, then this is interpreted as in invitation for digit-exchange. But it seems that some of the people go around competitively collecting numbers, without very much interest in the actually owner of said number, but with a steely determination and focus on the collection process. And so we danced, for many hours, and with much cackling involved. And soon my hangover was already kicking in (I hate when that happens) from the substandard fizz. But Vincennes remained focused on her tasks (although I'm not sure how, having at this point consumed wine, beer, baileys, champagne, gin, in that order) and so it became clear that I would not be going home until all 10 names and phone numbers of single men had been collected, and until she had completed her final task. This consisted of heading out onto the busy street (its was now around 3:30) and coaxing one of the on-street sellers into letting her make and sell an odd salamy/paté sandwich. We went for a final drink in a giant maquis, where at this point I declared forfeit. A hilariously entertaining night altogether, filled with lots of craic, slagging, dancing, and alchol (the Irish connection again!) and great to hang out with some Ivorians for a change.