Thoughts on Abidjan - post "Crisis"

It was hard to know what to expect when I came here to work for a week in Abidjan, Cote D’Ivoir. The CDC office here was closed from November 2010-June 2011. I was excited to see a new country, practice my fading French, and meet my French colleagues and the participants in the trainings I came here to deliver.


Wednesday
The drive from our hotel to the location of the training takes us through the city of Abidjan – snaking through the choking traffic jams along the lagoon as we go from Cocody to Treicheville. I hum Alpha Blondie’s “Cocody Rock” as we go. Our driver points out the gendarmerie – the walled fortress on a hill where Gbagbo’s soldiers hunkered down and fired down upon the approaching army of Ouattara. “My house is just up that road by the gendarmerie” our driver says. “During the crisis I was so scared, so scared. I did not leave my house.” I think about how the international CDC staff had to evacuate, leaving their local CD colleagues behind. I remember our staff sending good thoughts and prayers to their colleagues in country.

I wonder why he refers to the period from November 2010 to June when Gbagbo and Ouattara were wrestling for power as “the crisis” – is it a euphemism for the fear and death and confusion that it entailed? Is it not called a “war” because they’ve seen true civil wars before and this was different? Is it like Harry Potter where no one uses Voltemorts’ name but rather refers to him as “he-who-must-not-be-named”?

As we continue around the hill where the gendarmerie sits, weaving our way through the traffic, our driver says, “Drew, look! See the bullet holes in guard rails along this bridge? See the huge holes in the buildings around here form the rocket-propelled grenades?” And suddenly I notice them everywhere –buildings scarred with a bad case of acne.

Yet, as is the case everywhere in the world where war, famine or “crisis” occurs, Ivoriennes are continuing on with their lives. A woman and her beautiful teenage daughter sell fried rolls on the street; people are biking and walking – the women in their beautiful traditional clothes; shopkeepers attempt to sweep the dirt areas in front of their stores into some sort of uniformity; and trucks laden with passengers – livestock on top- belch black fumes into the street.

The workshop is long but rewarding. My French is rusty, but pas mal. We eat “chep” for lunch – a mix of rice, meat, a couple of pieces of vegetables and sauce – presented in a pile wrapped in tinfoil.

As we drive back to the hotel, driving along the edge of the lagoon, I notice a UN truck stopped alongside the road, its uniformed Muslim soldiers conducting their evening prayers framed by the sun setting over the lagoon.