Man to Yamoussoukro – Cote d’Ivoire

I don’t know why I have such a bee in my bonnet about the Lonely Planet other than their travel writing book instructs me to do everything I don’t want to. I never use their guides because I always take the much easier option of choosing a tour, and now the internet provides everything you could possibly need if going solo. On the front cover of the West Africa guide that bounced around the truck was written ‘Best planning advice, local secrets, expert recommendations.’ It’s hardly a bloody secret if published in one of the biggest guidebooks in the world is it!? I also question the expertise suggested as they were unable to provide contact details for a good hiking guide in Man, the eighth largest city in Cote d’Ivoire, now that would have been impressive. We had returned to Man after a rollercoaster 18 hours of village life, stilt dancing, and a sleepless night. I and a few others were more than ready to stretch the legs with a known 10 kilometre hike up in the hills but struggling to find any kind of guide we decided to go alone. Big mistake. None of us could speak French and it took plenty of energy to explain to the taxi driver where we wanted to go. His perplexation turned to frustration and ended with concern for us when it came to dropping us off in a random suburb. Following the internet, we turned up a side street which soon turned into someone’s backyard resulting in us being immediately lost. Of course, it took no time at all for a local man to come running up to us and explaining (in French) that we must have a guide. We just wanted to find the start of the trail. If there was an official looking hut at the beginning demanding payment then sure, if not, then why should we trust some apparent chancer? One animated man turned into several who began to get aggressive. We really wanted to go on a hike and so gave in to their demands and selected one man as our guide under the condition everyone else would bugger off. This caused a civil war between the local chaps and so we turned back towards the city amused that greed had resulted in nothing for any of them.

Back in the heart of Man and as with the whole West African region, we walked around completely free of people trying to sell us stuff or asking for money which is always a wonderful feeling; in the towns and cities we are simply absorbed into the daily mayhem. Our amblings took us to the local market where we happened upon a stall covered in dead bats. In my finest French I asked if they were medicinal but no, they were for the cooking pot. Never has there been a starker representation of the void between developed and developing nations and their attitude towards pandemics and risk. We strode past two confident cute girls sat at a stall who asked for a photo but I chickened out. A few moments later we happened to return, and I pulled out my phone to offer a photo which caused one of the girls to immediately hide in shyness. This led to her more confident mate smacking her friend on the back with such force that it, and the accompanying laughter, nearly knocked both of them off their bench.

It was a long drive day into Yamoussoukro, but we sure knew when we were approaching the country’s capital city. There was a huge road building programme in progress with large, modern highways already in operation and money collected from modern toll booths. Helicopters were regularly flying overhead, smart air-conditioned coaches sped past us, truck after truck of agricultural fertiliser passed by (I’m a farmer, I notice these things) and then, amongst all this modernity, a man on a motorbike with a large goat sitting in front of him drives past. On the outskirts of the city we stopped at the world’s largest basilica although that accolade is dependent on how racist and dedicated you want to be in knocking an African country off the top of something. Not that you shouldn’t question why $175-600 million (USD) was spent on its construction back in the 1980s by an autocratic leader, you should, its ridiculous. Now is a good opportunity to quickly discuss religion in the countries we have travelled through so far. Sierra Leone, surprisingly to me is majority Muslim, as is Guinea. Liberia is majority Christian. Meanwhile Cote d’Ivoire is 40% of each. Then president, Felix Houphouët-Boigny, like the majority of African leaders at the time loved a big project and for him the basilica was one of many. Another substantial construction project was the transformation of his birth village, Yamoussoukro, into the new capital which remains as such today, if only by name when compared with the economic might of Abidjan on the coast. Yamoussoukro reminds me a lot of Ashgabat, another city built by a dictator for nothing more than creating an impressive illusion. The streets are huge with multi-lane highways everywhere, yet largely void of traffic. There’s plenty of large open green spaces and the usual sprinkling of elaborate government buildings and hotels, all of which now look dated, decayed, and above all out of place as though they never wanted to be there in the first place. 

I was emotional when we arrived at our hotel-cum-campground. The humidity was reportedly around 65 per cent which doesn’t do justice in describing the amount of sweat pouring out of me. It was Christmas Eve, late afternoon, and Amber presented her insect bite that she had been nursing for the past few days that had progessively hollowed out a small patch of leg and replaced healthy skin with white goo. It was amusing until the surrounding area turned a vicious red colour and looked to be spreading. Now was the time to accept the offer of antibiotics from our resident pharmacist, Michelle. I had no desire to spend Christmas Day in hospital composing a letter to Amber’s parents explaining her death caused by an anonymous insect and the accompanying septicaemia. I then had to run into town in search of food for the next few days as I was lucky enough to be on cook group for Boxing Day. I’d gone two nights with limited sleep – the last inflicted by an excess of red wine and rum into the early hours – when, stood in a crowded hectic market, loaded with shopping bags, I hit the wall devoid of energy. I was done with vendors casting me looks of hatred when informing them I had no change, which, is frustrating because there is a lack of change throughout the country for some mental reason. We headed home, I downed a healthy amount of water, dragged myself through dinner, and went to bed in a sweaty heap around 10pm rather disgusted with myself. Why? Read any book about Africa’s modern history and the Basilica of Our Lady of Peace is usually mentioned for its extravagance. I have always wanted to visit it. I have also always fancied heading to a midnight mass on Christmas Eve, and now was the opportunity to combine the two. Indeed, the group had decided on arriving into Yamoussoukro a day early to make sure of it. However, I was burnt out and tried to comfort myself that I had seen it from the outer fence which was good enough. It wasn’t, but it didn’t stop me launching into a wonderfully deep sleep.

As much as I regret not going to midnight mass at the Basilica, I woke up on Christmas day at 6.30am feeling a million dollars. The water was back on, and I managed to get a warm shower (I hate cold showers no matter the weather) before the majority woke from their slumber. I made a coffee, read my book, and waited refreshed and enthusiastic for a rare call from Rut. It never came. And why should it? It was Christmas Night down in New Zealand and no doubt a party was in progress in Queenstown where she had just arrived. By 10.30am the group started to congregate around the kitchen for brunch and Amber appeared – leg still attached – with a bottle of rum to add to our coffees as Christmas Day tradition dictates back in her shire. Yet it wasn’t until the sangria came out a few hours later along with the Secret Santa that I finally snapped into the party spirit and from that moment onwards the carnage only increased. Beers and a quiz followed, and some evil vodka made an unnecessary appearance before we reverted back to our trusted supply of rum. This was all before we piled into taxis around 5.30pm and headed off to a restaurant in town for a rare group meal sat at tables with chairs and didn’t end with us washing and flapping dishes dry. A bar with a pool table and a bottle of gin kept Christmas moving into the night until we arrived back at the hotel and four of us remained drinking rum and arguing with our own flip-flops until the early hours. It had been a great day, the entire group had got into the spirit of it all, and on arrival to the restaurant I had found myself briefly sat with two giggling blondes on my lap in front of a Christmas tree. Santa had finally delivered the top item on my Christmas list that I’ve been requesting annually since the age of about 14. On a continent unfairly renowned for suffering, Africa has a wonderful habit of delivering beautiful moments.

27^th December 2023