Varanasi and general ponderings about India... in general.

How can one begin to describe Varanasi?  Well Mark Twain did, in his now ubiquitous quote: "Benares (Varanasi) is older than history, older than tradition, older even than legend, and looks twice as old as all of them put together".  Quite.  Well my stab at summarising this most intense of cities is that it's a bit like if Manhattan had a baby with Kabul.  A really brash and rebellious baby that doesn't take any shit from anyone but also likes to have it's own way and will crawl over all the other babies to get his favourite toy.  Intriguing and completely infuriating at the same time.  Indeed, Varanasi is one of, if not the holiest of Hindu cities, and the overpowering religiosity is present with every breath you take.  This is weirdly juxtaposed with the fact that everyone is basically trying to hustle everyone else: be it tourists or Indian pilgrims, or the average man on the street.    Another example of this strange mix of the mundane with the spiritual and existential is an average day by the Ganges.  The river Ganges flows through the city like a main artery, pumping life into the city, and creating a hub of activity and gathering of people by the 'ghats' or steps that lead down to the water.  A typical Ganges-side 'tableau' might look a bit like this:  someone having a good scrub in the holy water in the morning, someone else washing their clothes, a dog having a frolic in the water, someone else performing some religious ceremony, and dead bodies being ritually washed in the water before being cremated.  Or just dumped in the river if they do not fit the criteria of those who get to be cremated.  The burning ghats (the ghats specifically designated for cremation) I found somewhat disturbing.  Although in theory I am all for the idea of pragmatism and the de-mystification of death, and indeed I'm sure it is a far healthier attitude, actually seeing people go about the cremation in such a matter-of-fact manner and the fact that bodies are lined up and burned 'a la chaine' just felt weird.  Also the lack of outer manifestations of grief (women are not allowed to attend, as it is believed that if the relatives cry the soul of the dead person will remain in some sort of limbo) and presence of punters who seem to be just hanging around for the craic, means that it is an utterly prosaic atmosphere.  

There are plenty of elements of the surreal in Varanasi, not least with the complete free range of cows (sometimes sporting pretty flowery decorations on their horns), casually dotted around the narrow streets and sometimes having a bit of a rest in an air-conditioned saree shop (spotted last week!), nonchalantly going about their business without too much preoccupation for others.  Their business, by the way, seems to consist mainly of foraging for scraps left for them in the street, getting in the (my) way, and pooing every two metres.  Oh, and being holy.  Incidentally, that could be another level in my India computer game: avoid stepping/slipping and breaking your neck on cow poo whilst walking down a narrow alley which has been submerged in darkness due to an unannounced power cut.

Ah.. the powercuts.  Yes.  They are frequent.. daily, in fact; and usually lengthy.  The electricity is controlled by the regional authority and is basically switched off when 'the powers that be' decide that the city has used too much and needs to be punished.  Well, not quite but it feels that way!  As I lay in bed bathing in my own sweat for a few hours every night,  I silently curse that little man who sits there and flicks the switch..  And you never know when the cut is going to come, so that only ads to the feeling of utter powerlessness..  While the power is on you know that it is ephemeral and could, hypothetically, go at ANY second..  Ugh.  Seemingly Uttar Pradesh (the state in which Varanasi is located.. also quite trendily known as 'U.P.'..) is one of the more corrupt states or India.  Last week we magically didn't have a single powercut for the whole day.  I thought, wow, cool, but secretly feared the moment when it would inevitably come.  Then the guy from the hostel told me that there was probably a 'VIP' in town.  You know you're in a developing country when you hear this sort of thing..  I couldn't help but be reminded of when I was in Cote d'Ivoire and that one of the two bridges that connects one part of Abidjan with the rest, would regularly be closed so that Gbagbo could cruise along and avoid the traffic jams...  I actually saw him once, with the window of his swanky car down so that everyone could see him.  He might want to reconsider his security arrangements whilst traveling...(?!!)

This brings me to a question I have been asking myself since I arrived in India over two months ago: is India a developing country?  I know these geopolitical terms go out of fashion very quickly and I believe (according to the Economist) that we should use the term 'global south'.  But of course we are told everyday in the papers and by CNN that India and China are the new 'Superpowers' who are poised to take over the world any day now.  But I cannot reconcile this picture of fast-paced progress and technological development, with what I have seen with my own eyes, and with the people I have met.  There is a huge disconnect between the overwhelming hand-to-mouth existence of so many, and the image portrayed in Indian Vogue of the Mumbai/Delhi-based, pale-skinned, Dubai-shopping fashionistas.  Or even the films and TV.  Obviously I'm not suggesting that Indian Vogue is a hard-hitting, gritty true life publication.  Even it's European/American counterparts are designed to be aspirational.  But clearly these swanky people who take the pill, work in advertising, and have (it must be said) really nice clothes, do exist!  I would love to see where though.  And I would love to know how they manage to live in a parallel world and ignore all the poverty.  I know we are equally guilty of this in our own countries, but the scale of poverty here is just overwhelming and so much more in your face.  It's just harder to ignore.  From powercuts and corruption to Indian Vogue and social injustice...?  But I have to say that from my short time here this point has struck me over and over again: the apparent contradictions and the fact that people seem to live side by side, whilst existing in entirely different worlds.  Even different centuries!  And at the moment in Varanasi, I'm stuck somewhere in the Middle Ages..

Bollywood

Whilst staying in Jaipur, I had the opportunity to partake in one of the most well loved Indian leisure activities: an afternoon at the cinema.  And when I say 'an afternoon ' I mean just that: we were there for a good three hours, including an intermission for the purpose of snack purchase and socialising.  The cinema itself was impressively huge, and the purchasing experience an interesting sociological metaphor.  As with every thing else in India (it seems) the cinema experience is hierarchically divided, with different prices for different classes of seats.  And weirdly the seats actually look like old-fashioned train seats.. or barber shop chairs.  Recycle, reduce, reuse?  So for a couple of rupees we purchased our 'average class' seats and settled down to watch Kites.  Kites is the latest summer blockbuster.  It's an epic tale of star-crossed lovers, which in true Bollywood style also contains elements of action (just about every type of transport was utilised/blown up.. including a hot air balloon..), thriller (quite a few unnecessary deaths including the shooting in the head (at close range) of an unsuspecting train station employee and other random passers by), gratuitous dance choreographies (involving unlawful white denim and matching waistcoat by the main male protagonist.. very Clockhouse circa 1990..), and some fairly 'comic' moments (it seems active audience participation is encouraged, as we discovered when five minutes into the film the crowd started whooping and cheering at the 'punch lines'.. the punch lines which defied acceptable societal norms of cheesiness). Yes, there's something in there for everyone, folks!  Oh, I forgot to mention that the film was mostly in Hindi, but since the storyline featured a Mexican woman as one of the main characters who didn’t speak Hindi, there were also bits in Spanish.  And it seems to be quite fashionable for the middle class hiptsers to throw in a few English words or phrases into the mix.  e.g.  "Hudu hudurrr, puddur pudud, just cool it man, okay?"  All these exciting linguistic elements and the fairly minimal amount of dialogue meant we could quite easily follow the entire film.  So we spent a very enjoyable three hours, with music, laughter, action, romance... all culminating in a double suicide.  Family fun!  I hope I didn’t ruin that for anyone who’s planning on renting out Kites?  As we left the cinema, lots of people stared at us curiously and called out at us “Linda! Linda!  Linda!”  Yes, it's true that I do bare a striking resemblance to a Mexican woman.  It must be that long dark hair and those green eyes…  Or perhaps it was the Versace-esque gaudy wardrobe?

Goa

From the stone-splitting heat of Rajasthan we made our way south to the tropical enclave of Goa. Goa is known internationally as a hub of nocturnal beach parties, trance music and alcohol and pill-fuelled hedonism. So far, so Bray.. However, off-season what you find is a peaceful laid back haven away from the madness of the proverbial Indian city, and the bustle of traveling around and moving location every few days. There is a completely different atmosphere here and the Portuguese/Catholic influence is omnipresent. On the bus journey into Margao (one of those little toasters on wheel that don't inspire much confidence..) there was a multitude of Jesus-related paraphernalia at the front of the bus and brightly coloured religious stickers dotted around the interior of the bus. There was even a Child of Prague! Although you do see women in sarees, there are also a lot of women dressed in those sort of old-fashioned housekeeper-type dresses that you see older women wearing in the south of France or in Italy. And many of the women also have short hair, in contrast to the ubiquitous long tresses you see everywhere else. There are also plenty of holy medallions knocking about and a multitude of shrines to Mary and Jesus, every few metres in fact. Because it is surrounded by rough and hilly terrain, Goa remained relatively closed off from the rest of India and it's not difficult to imagine that it remained part of Portugal until the 60s, when Salazar finally threw in the towel. Yes, there is definitely more of a tropical, Caribbean feel here, with idyllic beaches lined with leafy palm trees leaning over under the heat of the sun and weight of the wind. We stayed in Palolem, one of the quieter and more independent resorts, away from the wealthy Mumbai families who come and holiday in Goa. We basically had the place to ourselves, as for most people they were wrapping up the season. We stayed in a little beach shack, basically ON the beach, which meant we could pretty much roll out of bed into the sea. The sun shone and the waves rolled, and in the tropical heat there is nothing more to do but abandon oneself to total 'farniente'. Perfectly fine with me. Relaxing, reading, napping, swimming, eating, sipping Mirindas, and sweating. A lot. It was all going swimmingly (apart from the presence of some nasty bug in my intestines which made me poo ACTUAL water for a week..) when one evening, as we sipped our drinks at a bar further down the beach, the sky cracked open and unleashed it's fury. We pegged it down the beach to our shack and discovered once inside that there was very little separating us from the elements. Becky remained utterly unfased, while Tori and I began to give into our inner disaster movie impulses and decided to 'emergency pack'.. Just in case. In our defence it was bloody noisy and quite scary, with the shadows of the palm trees and flashing lightning every 3 minutes, and a whole host of nasty bugs trying to claim asylum in our shack. So after packing (by the light of my TK Max €5 pig-shaped dynamo torch...which, I might add, has come in handy in more than a few powercut-enduced pickles) we attempted to sleep. Me on my mattress on the floor and the others under their mossy net. I had just about been managing to fend of the bugs, but finally declared forfeit when a big fecker of a RAT slipped in through a crack in the wall adjacent to my head, did a little jig, then disappeared back from whence he came. The cheek! I'm not particularly bothered by rodents in general, but in such close proximity to my face.. I draw the line. So under the net I hopped, and had a few stolen moments of sleep. We awoke to find the sun shining as if nothing had happened!

P'tit chameau, va!

From Jodhpur we made the long bus journey to Jaiselmer, on the fringe with a desert beyond which lies Pakistan.  Not a particularly comforting thought.  In fact it seems to be a bit of a running joke in these parts - being sold off to Pakistan for a couple of camels or a handful of rupees.  We stayed in a guesthouse run the well-spoken Papu.  Isabelle, my sister, had stayed there during her visit to India a few years ago and Papu had later stayed in her flat in Barcelona during a trip to Europe.  We were very well hosted and Papu even treated us to the best lassi I've ever had, in a small quarter of the town where fewer tourists venture.  Well we all like to think that, don't we...  But given the looks of wonderment and bemusement by the local punters slurping down their Kulfis, I'd be inclined to believe that they don't get visits from gringos on a regular basis.  The lassi was thick and milky, perfumed with saffron, cardamom and raisins and we used spoons to forage for the good bits at the bottom.

At the end of our stay in Jaislemer, Papu arranged for us to go on a camel treck - a must for those who have come as far as the desert.  So with some (a lot) or trepidation we clambered into the jeep and embarked on our journey about an hour from the town into the desert.  We passed gypsy settlements of make-shift tents, and women in brightly coloured saris carrying big steel water pots on their heads.  The contrast of the bright colours against the monochrome sand was stunning.  

Finally we arrived and saw our new form of transport and companionship for the night, which would take us the rest of the way out into the desert: le chameau.  I managed to bag myself a fairly small one (a baby allegedly.. I'm not so sure..) which I named Sanjay.  The most frightening part of maneuvering a camel is getting on and off.  When the camel stands up he stretches out his freakishly articulated hind legs first, which sends you tobogganing forwards, and then woop.. You fly backwards again as he stands on all four limbs.  This happens in a few seconds but the effect is quite startling.  And with lumpy, bony backs, I wouldn't say these beasts were designed with comfort in mind.  Having said that, I was quite amazed to see our guides clamber on with practiced ease and ride bareback no bother; not least the miniature little boy in scruffy clothes who bopped up and down on his over-sized camel and  bossed the animal around with confidence.

And so we plodded along through the sand for an hour, the surroundings growing more breathtaking with every hoofed step we took forward.  And finally we arrived (though how they had any clue which direction we were going is beyond me..'just left after the shriveled shrub and a couple of metres right after the sand dune!'..)  and set up camp for the night.  Our guides set to work on dinner and worked away for about an hour.  Chapatis made from scratch on a campfire.. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Jamie Oliver with your pseudo-rustic cooking on Andalusian campfire tv sets, and your 'bashing up' of this and that and incessant use of your hands to mix ingredients..  And so we lay on our blankets chatting the hours away, the sun began to set and the light changed.  And then all of a sudden in was dark, yet incredibly lit up from the light of the moon.  And then the stars began to pop out one by one.  And apart from the slight irritation of the intrusion of some shameless (and very large) beetles who tried to join our party by scuttling onto our blankets uninvited, we spent an incredible evening chatting and listening to some tunes.  We enjoyed a hearty and properly rustic dinner of some kind of courgette-oid stew, lentil daal, rice and of course the chapati.  After such a huge feed, we fell asleep under the stars to the blissful sound of silence.

Hair

One of the striking features of Indians, I have noticed, is their hair. It seems to be a most important aspect of their personal grooming and aesthetic appeal, with considerable effort lavished upon this precious asset. I would argue that Indian hair is perhaps the finest quality hair I have encountered to date. My tangled sandpaper-like tresses (although my hair cannot so much be classed as long, since I opted for the chop before my departure... a new found empathy for Samson ensued) could not even begin to compete with this kind of caliber of hair. This hair is of a startling thickness, and I cannot help but stare in wonderment at the women's thick plaits that tumble down the whole lengths of their backs and which are the same width all the way down. No tapering out or split ends here, I can tell you. The colour is a rich and shiny ebony, and the nourishing perfumed oil they treat their hair with glints in the sun. And that's just the women! The men's hair is equally thick and lustrous and they seem to lavish almost as much, dare I say, more attention and coquettishness on their hair than the women. Crew cuts and shaved heads don't really fly here (except for the odd baby with a strange undercut) and the standard hair-do is a somewhat old fashioned, slicked back, short-back-and-sides, reminiscent of 1940s Hollywood movie stars. On a recent bus journey I was amazed to witness the man in front of me take out a nifty little pocket comb from his breast pocket (in fact a common occurrence)and proceed to comb his hair for a full five minutes! There wasn't THAT much there to comb in the first place... And the Bollywood actors (male) seem to set the standard, with their thick mane-like hair in bouffant 'brushings' plastered on giant billboards on every boulevard, endorsing any number of 'must have' products.

The Blue City

From Udaipur we now find ourselves in the Blue City - Jodhpur. Most of the buildings were painted with paint tinted with indigo, the colour of the religious Brahman class, which also had the dual purpose of repelling insects and creating a cooling effect {allegedly}. This time we opted for a bus to take six hours away from Udaipur to Jodhpur. As we ventured out through rural Rajastan, the scenery became more and more arid and desert-like. In fact with it's stone walls and crispy looking trees, bits of it reminded me a bit of Provence. Well perhaps Provence after some sort of nuclear holocaust. I think I saw a dead cow. Unless he was in some sort of yogic pose, but he didn't look too healthy. Oh and then I saw a cow that was definitely dead; half it's body had been picked away by vultures and all that was left was a couple ribs sticking out. It looked a bit like a vignette from a Lucky Luke comic book.

After a six and then some drive with some fairly dubious driving, we were abruptly spewed out from the bus and told we had arrived in Jodhpur. It was dark by this stage and the cars and tuk tuks raged around us on the noisy streets. What followed was the most bowel-clenching tuk tuk ride of the trip so far, as we darted left and right to avoid oncoming traffic from just about every direction imaginable, all to the soundtrack of a cacophony of beeping, temple bells, chanting, shouting and general noise. {Barry's Tea ad anyone?!} It was a bit like being thrown into a weird computer game {why has no one capitalised on this idea?} where the aim is to swerve to avoid bicycles, tuk tuks, women in saris {five extra points}, mini children, sleeping dogs lying around the place, and oh.. death. At one point we drove through a junction that was like a perverse version of Place Meiser, with traffic weaving in and out from every direction. I ask you, HOW DOES IT WORK? How do people not crash every ten seconds??? And the weird thing is, somehow it does.

We spent the afternoon climbing up to this massive fortress that overlooks the city, with our new little travel gang of people we have been hanging around with since Udaipur. We were told this evening that it was 50 degrees!! FIFTY!! And you really feel it. Especially considering that we walked the whole steep way up because we didn't find the main entrance, whilst most people tuk tuk it up until just outside the ramparts. Darn. Well I'm pretty proud! Oh and i saw a dead puppy on the way up and we also got drawn into some sort of wedding procession. We did a two hour walking tour of the fort and heard lots about the Rajputs and Moghuls and co. And the usual fabulous Maharajah splendour that I don't think i will ever tire of seeing. I think I have been a Maharajah princess in another life because I can totally see myself fitting into that life style.

After a long day and much sweating and consumption of tepid water, we are now relaxing spent up on the roof top, chatting to other travelers, munching on some channa masala and enjoying the starry view of the fort. The heat has still not let up!

Octopussy

Well I survived Mumbai and made it in one piece to Udaipur (though my back felt like a jigsaw after the train journey..).  What a wonderful place.  I know ‘wonderful’ is a bit of a middle aged woman word but it seems to be the one that fits.  But let me go back a bit...

As we pulled out of Mumbai Central we caught a glimpse of the lives and living conditions of some of the slums.  We hadn’t been brave enough to do one of the ‘slum tours’ or venture out on our own.  It’s a tricky balance between feeling the need to face the harsh reality of the conditions so many people live in, and at the same time wanting to avoid the slight element of voyeurism and exploitation in paying see people living in miserable conditions.  Perhaps doing some kind of volunteering is the only way to assuage one’s guilt?  That will be for the second part of the trip. 

The train itself was an experience, since we took ordinary seats and not a sleeper train for the day time bit of the journey.  It was already relatively packed by the time we all settled into our tight-squeeze ‘seats’ at the station, and I was quite alarmed to see how many more people continued to push and shove to get on at each subsequent station.  There were dozens of people standing in the aisles, literally for hours, so we counted ourselves pretty lucky with our economical if somewhat rigid seating.  The train journey was about eight hours to Ahmedabad and I had some interesting chats with people.  I must say that since I’ve been here I’ve had some very kind and genuine exchanges of smiles with people.  Little snippets of niceness.  And people are very interested and chat to you.  This is something I'm not really used to, having spent a considerable portion of my life in Brussels, where people do in fact stare at you in equal measure but the difference is that it’s usually not with the same amount of benevolence.  So we finally arrived in Ahmedabad and waited an hour, then got our night train all the way to Udaipur.  I actually survived the experience of the bunk bed and tiny cabin scenario and I’m quite proud, but this time we were in pretty decent conditions (it’s all relative) and I fear for my mental health if I have to sleep in one of those three tier things…  We shall see.  So we arrived in Udaipur, Rajastan, know as ‘The White City’ at about eight in the morning, dishevelled and disoriented.  And despite the noticeable heat, it was some how much more bearable than Mumbai.  We got a little tuk tuk to our hostel, the Nukkad guesthouse.  It’s a beautiful family-run guest house over several levels, with a polished marble open air staircase cut out in the centre of the house and towering up four floors.  {I fell down an entire flight of stairs on the first morning and still have a shiner the colour and size of an aubergine on my left buttock}  On the top floor there’s a beautiful roof top terrace with view over lake, decorated in the famous Rajastani hand painted detailed flowers and patters, and with a nice big long table where all the other guests come and hang out at various parts of the day.  We’ve met some nice people: two English girls, a Swiss girl, two Canadians; and we’ve just sort of been hanging out and visiting things together.  We’ve also had some nice chats with the owner of the place, Raju, who is slowly expanding his empire and plans to open a second guest house.  The original house (where we are) has been in their family for about four generations and about twenty years ago he turned the family home into a guest house . 

So on the first day we all headed out to visit the City Palace, an impressive Maharaja Palace (or actually I think it’s even a rank above that.. Maharana or something like that..) which is a labyrinthine structure which comprises no less than eleven palaces all constructed and added to little by little by consecutive Maharajas from about the 1500s until the end of the Raj.  Mad stuff.  My favourite was the Garden Palace, a leafy little marble haven up at a great height, that you reach from a tiny corridor and flight of stairs.  From the palace you can see the Palace hotel, where the James Bond film Octopussy was filmed.  Infact, last night we finally got around to going to one of the roof top restaurants where they hiked up three flours with a big telly and screened the film for us while we ate some lovely dinner.  The film was shot in 1981 and caused quite a rukus.  Apparently the tuk tuks were brought in especially for the film and have been a part of the city ever since.

Mumbai Magic

I am currently writing this in what is quite possibly the smallest cyber cafe know to man.  It's basically a very small corridor/broom cupboard which is about 1.5m in width and has four computers in it.  So here I am in Mumbai, a day more than expected due to a slight mishap on our parts with trains (we live and learn..)  I'm now three days in to my India journey and starting to acclimatise.  Well sort of...  The heat is like nothing I've ever experienced in my life.  I thought it was hot in Cuba but no, it really wasn't that hot.  It's absolutely scorchio here.  And so humid.  I've pretty much accepted that I will look like a total ming-bag for the next two months, with hair of an indescribable and there's really not a lot I can do about it.  The thought of shaving my head has crossed my mind, I'm not gonna lie.  But I suppose you start to accept the heat because there's not a lot you can do, and you slow down and take breaks when you can.  I find myself feeling jealous of the flee-riddent mongrels who can do nothing else but just lie on the hot stone, in total surrender to the heat.  Do you think people would judge me? 

How to describe the millions of flashing impressions, sensations, images, smells, colours, as I took the taxi from the airport on the first day?  I don't think I'll even try...  I had heard so many anecdotes before leaving about the magic of India, the 'je ne sais quoi' that you feel when I first arrived.  And as I trundled through the airport on the first day I thought, 'Shit, what if I just don't feel it?!'  Expectations can be a let down.  I’ll have to fake it.  But on that first journey from the airport, it slowly came over me and I did indeed feel 'it'.  Whatever 'it' is.  One thing that has been quite a pleasant surprise is that Mumbai actually smells quite nice.  Well the bits I have seen, for the most part.  I'd imagine the slums are not particularly fragrant or salubrous..  But generally when you walk around the street, it's not bad.  I was expecting that with the heat and sun, and the fairly stomach clenching smells I'd experienced in Abidjan, that it would be overwhelming.  But quite honestly, the smells from the bin juice on the streets of Barcelona when the sun rises is far worse!

I have been quite surprised to discover that Mumbai is not as cosmopolitan as I had imagined and generally people are quite intrigued to see white people.  We seem to provoke quite a bit of curiosity and have a very high comedic value.  Yesterday we went to try and get tickets for a boat trip to Elephanta Island (which was closed) and while resting in the shade for a moment, we attracted all sorts of attention.  I noticed this family with young children standing huddled together and who shyly looked over at us and giggled embarrassedly.  The little boy looked over timidly and the Dad sort of gently nudged him over, probably saying something like 'Go on!  Don't be scared'.  The little boy came over and stretched out his hand and said 'Hello, how are you'.  So we shook his little hand, and in turn the hands of all the members of the familiy.  It was a bit like feeding time at the seal tank in Dublin zoo. Then they headed off all chuffed with themselves, as quickly as they had come!  Straight after a couple of young guys came over and asked if they could take pictures with them.  So we obliged and posed with various people who all took it in turns to pose, then take the camera so that the other friends could all be in the picture.  Pretty soon this got somewhat out of hand and there were no fewer than ten to twelve people who had amassed before us, all gesturing which way to pose and begging for one more picture.  I’d say we were there a good fifteen minutes.  So this is what it must be like to be famous.

Finally, I cannot finish without mentioning our, thankfully, former lodgings.  Lise and Cyril (my travel companions) where already staying in the Salvation Army Red Shield Hostel (yes, I'm serious).  Well I can tell you, this place exceeded all my very worst pre-departure anxieties and worst case scenarios.  And in the most evocative manner possible.  The place is run by a man who could almost certainly transition into other career opportunities, say for example, playing an evil  and stingy uncle in a Bollywood film, who beats his servants and shouts angrily in hindi all time.  The place is basically a complete and utter dump.  There’s just no other way to describe it.  It is the architectural and structural equivalent to a big poo.  And it is also has an interior décor theme of poo, in fact.  Filth infested, no running water (though this was apparently a recent development)  blocked toilets that don't flush, flee-ridden matresses...  And the man has the audacity to get angry when we enquired about a few different rooms!  Every time I went to the toilet (a traumatic affair indeed) I had visions of the toilet in Trainspotting when Ewan McGregor is going cold turkey and hallucinates that he is sucked into a cack-infested toilet bowl.  Lovely...  And I must mention in passing the breakfast which consisted of a hard boiled egg, two slices of American sliced pan-style Wonderbread, a dodgy banana, and a little cup of ghee (clarified and disconcerting butter) and a little dollop of jam.  Jam is an exaggeration, it was more like fluorescent melted jelly cubes that taste like sweets.  Anyway, fear not!  We since moved into a far superior hostel where the owners actually take into consideration the fact that you are human, and get this, it’s CHEAPER!!  Right, I must go as we are off to catch our train to Ahmedabad and then a night train to Udaipur.  Mumbai is actually a surprisingly green and beautiful city, with plenty to see and do.  But the humidity is daunting so we are off north into the dessert where it is technically hotter I think, but a different more bearable kind of hot.  I hope.

Namaste!

Bristol

Here are pics from our weekend away in Bristol..

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.

Never been too good a time Keeper

Well actually I'm not particularly deficient in that area. Having realised that I'm either always far too early for things or 5 minutes late, I generally tend to opt for the former option. This état d'ésprit is not one that is held particularly dear in these parts. So it seems. I have already been well warned that things generally don't start on time here, so taking this into account I turned up to the meeting a good half hour late. It was a ceremony to mark the handing over to the President of the Republic (Laurent Gbagbo) of the Commission Nationale des Droits de l'Homme en Côte d'Ivoire (CNDCI) of their first official report on the situation of human rights in Côte d'Ivoire. Of course, the President did not come in person (as I naively imagined) but sent some minion from one ministry or another. But before we even got that far, let me mention that I sat for an entire hour and a half waiting for proceedings to commence. I was ushered into a fabulously outdated conference room, having been greeted by a fanfare and shaken hands with about 10 men whose identity remains a mystery. And vice versa - I didn't think it was appropriate to divulge my lowly status at that point, nor could I bring myself to try and pass myself off as an official representative of the Delegation. Which I suppose I was de facto. I found my seat (well I was shown my seat beside the representative of the UN in Côte d'Ivoire) with a voice inside my head screaming "fraud" "impostor". An hour and a half in my electric orange cinema seat, admiring the Buck Rogers-esque light fittings, and many false starts initiated by the fanfare outside, who incidentally, were in competition with 'atmospheric' music inside the conference room varying from prog rock to sleazy jazz saxophone medleys of 'when I fall in love' and the Lion King song. It was a grand affair, with about 50 members of the Commission, some in tribal attire, most in suits. It's still a mystery to me how people don't die of heat stroke on those things! For my part, I was holding on for dear life in this molten air conditioning-free environment. One of the men was wearing this impressive toga arrangement that was bedazzled with glittery jewels and an 80s-esque knotted headband. Any man comfortable enough with his virility to wear glitter deserves respect, I say. Other observations included the man in front of me and his phone, which featured a screen saver depicting Jesus Christ. I noted that this was the traditional western depiction of Jesus in all his Aryan glory, which was rather interesting. Finally, my musings were interrupted by the MC who proceeded to introduce, by name and function, each and every one of the Commissioners. Did I mention there were about 50? I soon realised that I had made a fatal error in judgement in not taking heed of the word 'ceremony' on the invitation. For what followed was the most bizarre concoction of serious subject matter with the sublime and preposterous. Having said about 2 words about the CNDCI and the report (well 2 words in a round about manner that amounted to 10 minutes speaking time), the MC introduced a performer who emerged from the back of the auditorium, decked out in a leopard print tunic and Nigerian pimp shoes - the very pointy kind. He's called Bomou Mamadou and is a self-appointed 'maitre de la parole', who basically speaks poetry in a scary Joey Starr voice. http://www.bomou.com/bomou.htm I believe these types of poetry 'slam' as they are called, are very popular with young people in France. Personally, the very concept makes me shudder with cringe and induces waves of childish giggles from the very pit of my stomach. So the angry words just kept falling out of his mouth, accompanied by an eerie musical baseline, and he told us his thoughts. Yes, he certainly did. And there were many thoughts. On many subjects. The audience seemed to like it and at one point I felt like I was trapped in an evangelical service with an overly enthusiastic preacher, with the crowd 'um-hmming' along to the salient points. That or a Chris Rock gig, I wasn't quite sure. And then again, a shift to the serious subject matter, where the director of the Commission told us about serious shortages and the many obstacles they faced. But still not a lot on the actual human rights. I was hoping I would at least make it to the PowerPoint presentation on the report before dissolving into a pool of h20, but no, again with the musical interludes. I'm sorry if I sound critical here, but my lord, the famous artiste Betika appeared and actually MIMED THE WORDS to her song (which sounded like it was being played on a mini ghetto blaster) and just sort of sauntered around and gesticulated. An actual PLAYBACK. It was just too much. My will to live was fast diminishing, when finally came the presentation. This consisted of a man going through each parsimonious slide with the phrases 'rights of children', 'rights of women', 'right against cruel and inhuman treatment' etc (1 per slide) adding after each slide 'this information can be found in the report' or 'again, more information on this in the report'. What a rip off! An hour and a half over-time and they decide to scrimp and save on the presentation instead of all the other ridiculousness! Well feeling rather crestfallen and very hot, I finally went away, report in hand. I'm told that its often the only way of actually getting these reports so at least that's something. But to be honest, after an initial glance at the damn thing, I'm not even sure it was worth it, comedy factor aside. A lesson learned.

World Bank

Why did they choose a basketball as their logo?

Today I went to a meeting at the World Bank which was set up to discuss an extensive report they are publishing on the situation of the education sector in Côte d'Ivoire. Things are not great, with 42% of children aged between 7-12 not attending school. As with the public sector in general, part of the problem is linked to the effective partition of the country between the government-controlled south, and the centre and north (CNO – centre nord ouest) controlled by the Forces Nouvelles – the rebels. There are various agreements in place and the process of handing back the reigns to the local 'prefectures' across the country is supposed to have happened. In reality, decentralisation and effective local governance is something that has yet to be achieved, making things very difficult for many people. Anyway, wasn’t going to talk about this, was going to talk about the mini-muffins. Just setting the context. So you can tell straight away when you walk into the World Bank that you're dealing with a completely different type of animal. And its not just the mini-muffins, it’s the technology and even the way the meeting was carried out. Result-driven, to the point (relatively) and less bogged down by procedure than the French/Commission way of doing things. We are dealing with Americans here, people. Anyway, we arrived late and took our (very comfortable) seats. After a presentation on the report, nicely presented on both a projector and fancy giant screen, I was startled to hear voices from afar chiming into the discussion. Indeed the fancy screen flashed onto the other participants (who's presence until that moment, I was quite unaware of) who were located in Washington, Paris and Cotonou. I was mighty impressed, this being my first participation in a video conversation (choppy/frustrating Skype conversations with the Brussels office during my time at Front Line, not withstanding). So an interesting experience, all in all and some pertinent points by the fawn-like character who was chairing the meeting. Aside from the fact that I now feel like I have the flu and am having childhood flashbacks of ear ache and gross ear drops, thanks to the artificial artic wind that blew around the room for the duration of the meeting. In other news I have discovered, though thankfully not from personal experience but rather from expat anecdotes, that Ivorians eat everything. As in all creatures great and small. Yes, not only does this include monkey meat, which seemingly is quite pricey (still grossed out by story about someone finding a mini hand in their dinner) but ladies and gentlemen, they eat cats. Cats. I mean janey, how much meat can there be on the poor blighters' bodies?? And they eat the head, no less. Can you imagine what Rolf Harris and the rest of the Pet Rescue team would think? I mean I know people say that in the UK and Ireland we're way too into our pets, but come on. I hope Jeremy isn't reading this and I'm glad he's safely tucked away on another continent!

Long meetings and my State of the Nation

Today I attended a conference on Partnerships in the context of the fight against HIV/AIDS. It's not really the area I'm going to be working on directly (although seem to have been looking at a lot of public health stuff so far) but my boss thought it would be useful to attend since HIV/AIDS is crosscutting issue. She also said it would be interesting from a sociological perspective to experience the whole ceremonial aspect of the way business is conducted in these parts. I believe the term 'langue de bois' was mentioned. The forum was held in quite a large family planning/health centre in Treichville, and was attended by about a hundred or so participants from a selection of national ministries, ngos, the EC delegation, the US ambassador, and other stakeholders (parties prennantes.. I'm learning the lingo). The forum was presided by the Minister for the Fight Against Aids, an entirely separate ministry from the Ministry of Health, which is quite unique. Why do I always think of the Ministry of Magic or Ministry of Sound when I hear that word? Anyway, Madame la Ministre was announced and everyone stood up while she made her entrance. Proceedings began and she welcomed practically each participant individually (which took some time). We eventually heard 3 presentations on the finalisation of some big report on the HIV/AIDS situation. Before coming here I had thought that having spent a week chaperoning a human rights defender from the DRC in Dublin a few years ago, would be a sufficient induction to understanding African French. I was wrong. The different accents coupled with intonation and sometimes digestion of entire words, made an already complex and acronym-heavy topic (HIV/AIDS) rather inaccessible to poor little me. Without the powerpoint presentations I would have been a gonner! The whole thing was filmed by various different people gliding around the room, who kept fixing on me and the other 4 white people there (I counted) as though our presence constituted some sort of validation of the whole activity. If they only knew my lowly status and quasi-nil influence! The US ambassador was reminiscent of a friendlier and cuddlier version of Condi Rice and was quite impressive in the modest but very articulate way she expressed herself in French. She was flanked to the rear by some advisors, one of which was dressed in very sensible 'summer attire'. A seersucker suit to be precise, white and pale blue (seersucker is a term I learned from my good friend Margaret who is learned in all things WASPish). In fact he looked rather like a CIA agent who had just stepped out of Panama in the 70s. Anyway, the whole meeting was a very interesting exercise in understanding the various political dynamics that go on and the sometimes not-so diplomatic dialogue. The US government basically pours in a load of cash into the HIV/AIDS sector, which is something like 85% funded by international donors, while in fact HIV/Aids only affects around 4% of the population. Other sectors such as education, health, water, and other diseases such as malaria and tuberculosis etc are seriously under-funded and ill-managed, but are not seen as a priority, despite the fact that they affect many more people. Côte d'Ivoire is also officially under UN sanctions because of the recent political conflict, and the US cannot therefore be seen as an official partner, although it does in effect provide a great deal of funding. Therefore it concentrates its funding in vertical programmes, where funds are managed by various execution agencies, but it retains full control from the top, over how the funds are spent. The EU model on the other hand, is one of direct partnership with governments of developing countries; where a greater degree of autonomy and flexibility is allowed. All this is set out by the Cotonou Agreement that has been giving me a headache since yesterday and makes any of the legislation I've read all year look like Mills & Boons. As things stand, Côte d'Ivoire is only just in the process of coming out of the conflict period and is completely debilitated by internal corruption. I don't know how many times I've heard the word 'pourri' in my 3 days at the Delegation. It's therefore understandable that donors are reluctant to provide direct funding to X Ministry, when it's likely that half of it will be siphoned off to line the pockets of a lucky few. Anyway, quite interesting stuff, though quite disheartening too. It's very easy to see how people can get jaded and frustrated working in developing countries where good governance and basic political structures and management are just not there. I'll tell ya, makes Bertie, Berlusconi and pals look like model citizens.

Rain and Elephants

Today it is raining. A lot. And it doesn't seem to be showing any sign of waning. The only variances between these large quantities of water being dumped from the sky are the angles at which they fall. Sometimes it vertical, then for a few minutes it tilts slightly to 30°. This meteorological experience does beg the question of why I swapped one type of shit weather for a different version of the same? Oh, now its horizontal. Just looked out to see what all the noise was and saw the Ivorian national football team's bus drive past. Could even see into the bus from this height and caught sight of some of the players. Flashback to living on the same street as the Emirates stadium for a year and seeing the Arsenal team drive by, though they were snooty and had blacked out windows. I pretended to myself that I had seen Henry on several occasions. Think Drogba is probably the only player I'd recognise to be honest, and that's only because of his oddly straightened hair. And the fact that he plays for Chelsea. Not that I'm a Chelsea fan or fan of any of the Premiership teams, for that matter, not being English and all, but do have slightly more extensive knowledge of the players as compared to local African teams. Just realised the national stadium is about 10metres away from here (at the end of the road) and I can actually see it from here! Though don't think I'll be going to a match in a hurry, as a number of people were actually killed in a stampede there a few weeks ago. Will stick to the telly. Also, my desk lamp looks like a tyrannosaurus rex.

First day at the Delegation

Stomach in roaring bad mood, was collected and deposited at Delegation. Met lots of people whose names I don't remember, and had embarrassing facial recognition problems when it came to local staff. Have a feeling was introduced to the same person twice and didn't realise it. Generally very nice people with a few exceptions. Will reserve judgment on those until later date. Advisor/boss person very nice and I think she expects great things from me, which is slightly frightening. Working in unit (which consists of 2 people) managing programmes and projects with civil society partners. Attended a meeting with local UNICEF staff who apparently have much to learn in the ways of the EC's budgeting and finance framework and accountability of their projects. That makes 2 of us. Trawling through 160 page document on Aid Delivery Methods, and Project Cycle Management. In French. Laughing at the thought of Dad reading some of the translations of management jargon/terminology, which are already fairly preposterous in English. With limited knowledge even I can see ridiculousness of translation of some of the terms. Forgot to mention have unfairly nice office, all to myself. Even have a balcony with a view on a busy street. Though still no shagging internet. Maybe it’s a form of bissutage in these parts? Oh, also met Head of Delegation (big boss. Literally, very tall) and felt like I was being brought to the principals office. Very nice, though punctuates speech with knowing silent gaps and intense stares. Slightly disconcerting. Also, staff have coffee every morning at 9:15 (since most people have been in for a while by that stage). The prospect of coffee and chocolate at that time of the morning quite nauseating, so have managed to sit quietly with my nerdy glass of water. Afraid they will judge me when they discover I don't drink coffee. Or eat chocolate at dawn. So far limited participation in 'light conversation' during civil-service-esque morning 'pause café' but hopefully will improve when they discover I am a human being, not just a stagiaire.

Outing in Grand Bassam

Yesterday we decided to make a trip to the resort of Grand Bassam, a few kilometres to the east of Abidjan, to take in some sun and have a bain de mer. Grand Bassam was the capital of Cote d'Ivoire during the colonial era and still has some nice examples of colonial style houses. Unfortunately the weather was not on our side (rain all morning) but we decided to go anyway. We headed off with 2 of Derv's colleagues from Wild Chimpanzee Organisation, Claudia and Camille; and Cammille's son, Ayan. He's a little terror but possibly one of the cutest children I have ever encountered in my life. When I got into the car, he shyly said 'bonjour Tantie'. He also has unfathomably long eyelashes. Anyway, after stopping in a market (under lashings of rain) to check out some of the jewellery sold by some Touregs, we settled in the 'resort'. There are basically lots of hotel/restaurants on the sea front that you can eat in and then use the pool or swim in the sea. Because of the bad weather there very few people, save for a few customers and the owners, who made me feel slightly ashamed to be French. Apparently some people haven't quite accepted the decolonisation of the African continent and continue to behave as though they are the masters and others their inferiors. Apart from sitting around drinking Pastis they were generally pretty harmless but there's a general seedy colonial undertone that was confirmed by 2 separate white older men coming in to the restaurant with not one, but two young and attractive Ivorian women on their arms. Shudder. If the guy's sagging jowls and bingowings were anything to go by, I can’t imagine the state of his rear. Despite these sociological (anthropological even?) observations, a great day was had, and I tasted my first Ivorian fish. Since Machoiron wasn't on the menu (!) I settled for a nice safe fillet of sole, with various accompaniments including the renowned 'alloco' (fried plantain) and ‘attieké’, which is tapioca. I don't yet feel confident to graduate onto dishes were you are served the entire fish and have to 'démerde' yourself. Though I was slightly disturbed by my neighbours' daurade staring up at me through his (crispy) round little eyes, and impressive display of orthodontics. We had a wander down the beach after our long lunch and sat in front of the waves for a while. A very nice day indeed, finished off at home with the consumption of bizarre interpretations of patisseries.

Good morning Abidjan

We arose after a rather troubled sleep for me (Derv slept like a log) and facing the prospect of a barren fridge, headed off for some breakfast. We went to a nice little bakery called Paco, in the quartier Plateau 2. The compound is in the little bit in the middle of the lagoon called le Plateau. It’s the administrative quarter and strangely reminded me of Sarajevo (odd comparison, I know) in that there's a sense that the development was once there and had started to flourish and then was somehow frozen in time and had become dilapidated. There are certainly a number of high rises, but the 'Mini Manhattan' label is somewhat misleading. But it is geographically similar in that you have the sort of Presque-ille Plateau (Manhattan) then on right Cocody (Brooklyn) and to the left Youpougon (New Jersey). Anyway, we enjoyed a nice breakfast of croissants/pain au choc, and for Derv some congealed Nescafe. Needless to say, my stomach has been feeling somewhat sulky and at times despondent. But I did make the acquaintance of a rather friendly (and large) lizard who sprinted over, stopped, looked around, did 2 or 3 push-ups (honestly!) and then disappeared again. They all seem to do it. They're very sporty people the Ivoirians, from what I can tell. Not just their reptile-folk. On the way from the airport the first night I saw lots of different groups of teenage/young men running up and down and training etc. I suppose maybe they all hope to be the next Etto or Drogba. After breakfast, Dervla's friend/fathers' driver Traore, came to pick us up and we drove to Treichville (there is no NYC homologue at this point). All the separate little bits of Abidjan are connected by a handful of bridges and very long straight roads. Well actually 2 bridges. We spent the afternoon doing various errands and picking up supplies in the Lebanese-owned supermarket Hyatt. Its one of the pricier ones and you can get most of the same stuff as in France. I even saw a (white) 'dame d'un certain age' with a little lap dog in her hand and I swear for a second I thought I was in Paris. Needless to say we have been getting rather a lot of attention due to our (well my) undeniable whiteness. Its entertaining that people think that Derv and I look similar (me with my bluish-hued skin, freckles and red hair; her with her practically black skin, and brown hair?!). I would like to say at this point that during the course of the day I saw not one, but two local people (in completely different parts of the city and at different times of the day) wearing Republic of Ireland jerseys. I did a double take but sure enough there it was! The second one was a rugby jersey but was most definitely bedazzled with shamrocks. Very strange. Between that and the Hyace van decked out in the Tricolour (albeit upside down) I could be forgiven for thinking I was at home. Another observation is that there are a lot of giant signs interspersed on the big highways advertising skin whitening products, with freakish looking women and discreet descriptions of 'tein embellie'. I mean I really do have to laugh at the fact that women across the UK and Ireland wander the streets in a state of perpetual orangeness in a an attempt to look tanned and exotic, while here the women are attempting the exact opposite. The grass is certainly oranger or whiter on the other side. Finally, on our 'premier appercu' of the city, we detoured via Yopougon (New Jersey) where Derv lives and works. It has a completely different atmosphere to the other parts of the city and feels like a collection of different villages grouped together. Its just across the lagoon but some people have never left Youpougon (or Youp Ville!) and haven't ever crossed over to the other side of the city. You can imagine that the stares were on overdrive as we passed through. Derv says she's not that conscious about sticking out, but I think it’s a combination of desensitisation to the attention on her part, and the fact that there were two of us. Its not in anyway threatening, but person after person we passed on the road did double takes, the kids got excited and laughed and pointed, and generally we provoked a great deal of curiosity. We went for 'une sucrerie' (in this case a fanta and coke) in the Maquis behind Derv's apartment. The Maquis are basically bars or cafes that are outdoor and basically composed of a few tables and chairs (if you're lucky) and sometimes food prepared in a barbecue pit-type scenario. So we had a drink in the 'Espace de Machoirons a Piqué’ (catchy, isn’t it?) with the owner, M. N’datcha who told me all about the machoirons (a type of fish found in the lagoon and in the sea). He even showed me a video on his phone (the extended version with director's commentary) of said machoiron being roasted on a spit (piquet). That particular Maquis was surrounded by various different bits of wood nailed together to form walls, but with plenty of gaps in between. A group of boys aged between maybe 6 and 12-13 were hyper excited by our arrival and hovered around outside (well the whole thing is outside cause there's no roof, but you get me). They were so cheeky and cute and kept asking us questions. Then they'd be shooed away by M. N’Datcha, despite their pleadings of 'allez Tonton, on veu voir les blanches!!') Here they say Tantie and Tonton for Madame and Monsieur, by the way. Slowly they'd re-appear and hide behind the door, trying to sneak a look through the gaps between the planks, and again be shooed!

Afrique Noire dans le Noir

My journey from Brussels to Côte d'Ivoire was punctuated with a stop-over in Monrovia, Liberia which actually formed my first ever impression of Africa. Approaching the landing strip I was met with lush green tree-tops, muddy rivers snaking through the land, and then lots of UN choppers in neat little rows. Oh and torrential rain! We stayed on the ground for about an hour or so – just enough time for passengers to get on and off, for staff to come on to the plane and fumigate the place, and for the cabin crew to make several announcements that diamond smuggling is an indictable offence punishable by a minimum sentence of 6 months. I think I'll stick with Tiffany's, cheers. So I finally landed in Abidjan, having forgotten that it would be night time at that point. Its quite scary because you begin your approach into complete darkness and given that you know you're landing in the next 2 minutes, you rather expect to be able to some sign of life outside the window. Finally at the very last minute a sprinkling of lights become apparent on the coast line, but I'll tell you its no Dublin bay. The fear of landing into complete nothingness was rather troubling. On arrival in the slightly less rustic airport than 'Monrovia Roberts International' I was swept up by the delegation head of security (who I'll call 'Miguel' for the purposes of this blog) who was rather reminiscent of a perma-tanned GI Jo with all the accessories to match, including what can only be described as a monster truck with an oversized arial/radio transmitter yolk. Derv also informed me that they're bullet proof. The cars, not the security staff. Anyway, before I had got to that point I was ushered into a 'posh lounge' (I use the term loosely) while my passport was whisked away by 'Miguel' and all details taken care of. Then we waltzed right past the 20m long queu of people waiting at passport control and walked straight out. It was a relief to finally see Derv, who was waiting in a sea of people who had just previously got very excited about seeing the footballer Etto and his team of 10 bodyguards. The 'Elephants' were playing Cameroon on Saturday. So off we went to the compound. I feel a bit sick every time I say that word, but what can you do? I think it’s always a bit strange for your first impression of a city/country to be unveiled at night time. Everything always seems a bit more menacing! But our apartment (since Derv has kindly unofficially moved in to my more luxurious abode for the next 8 weeks) was nice and welcoming, and spacious, if a little Spartan in décor. I'm willing to forgo stylistic disagreements for the privilege of air conditioning!!