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.