We knew that getting into Ivory Coast could prove to be something of an ordeal, so we fortified ourselves with pancakes. We took a cab to Takoradi to catch a tro-tro to Abidjan. We were dropped off in the market place and there, we found our ride in a little courtyard and negotiated our seats for a direct connection to Abidjan that would include a 'police escort' across the border. The big bellied driver packed us, the other passengers, and all of their luggage into the van. We were almost ready to begin, but had to stop off and install more seats for the additional passengers we were going to take. We (and by we I mean the driver and his assistants) drove a bit, unpacked a million bags, some construction material, bags of bread and so forth, installed two more rows of seats in the back, built a sort of platform to handle the rest of the baggage, packed it in, tied it down, and had us all embark. Although we had paid for more seats than we were actaully taking up, the driver had, of course, sold our seats and more, so that we were all preposterously and monstrously mashed together. David, Jen, Nico and I shared the third row, Jen's poor surf bruised knees mashed up against the seat in front, Nico on a tiny slanted seat with a woman basically sitting on his lap, David by the window, uncomplaining and calm as chamomile reading what I imagine must be the most engrossing and transporting mystery novel ever. Marco negotiated his way out of the terrible rumble seat, but ended up next to a glossy. chubby lady with a baby boy on her lap and sharp resentful elbows. Suffice to say it was ridiculous.
We drove along the coast for a while and then turned north to Elubo, where the border crossing was. We exited Ghana without incident, unless you count the border official who thought it would be a good idea to come and visit my snowy homeland and could he have my contact information, please?
When we reached the Ivorian border, our vehicle was approached by a large man in denim, wearing a baby blue baseball cap that said 'Dragons' in cursive script. Mr. Denim Dragon took our passports and had us follow him into a building. We walked down poorly lit hallways and into his blessedly air-conditioned office. There, he invited us to sit down, asked us (and by 'us', I mean mostly Marco) questions, questioned the validity of our visas (since the issuing offices are now all closed). Eventually, he slipped into a diatribe about the goodness and rightness of Gbagbo (one of the two presidents), and we all nodded and smiled and soon he was shaking our hands and delivering us to other border personnel who stamped our passports and sent us on our way.
Funny thing: Above his window, right under the air-conditioner, the man had several framed portraits. One in particular was very interesting. It was a portrait of a woman in traditional dress in front of a fountain. The funny thing about the picture was that while the background was sharp and crisp, her face and figure were totally out of focus.
We walked across the border and met the van in front of the Port Authority building, where the driver was arranging our 'escort'. He arranged for a piece of paper that read 'Humanitarian Convoy' that he put on the windshield and a man to follow us in an official looking truck to the first border checkpoint.
We got pulled over at that checkpoint, just a few hundred meters from the border. The young, uniformed, armed Gendarmerie officer immediately saw the bullshit and was not at all chuffed. After a roll call and a little intimidation, the driver got out and slipped him a little something which made him immediately more affable. All smiles, he waved us through.
Our little humanitarian convoy made a lot of people smile that day. Sometimes it took a few words, or some veiled threats to get to the heart of the matter and sometimes it was a simple matter of a handshake from the passengers side window. Some members of the convoy contributed grudgingly to the bribe fund with small bills and in this way, we made our way ever so slowly toward Abidjan.
For the first time in West Africa, we saw large scale agriculture. Sprawling palm oil plantations and endless banana fields with long blue bags over the banana hands lined the side of the road.
The van lurched and trembled and strained up steep hills. I shifted ever so slightly in my cramped seat and practiced transcending my physical reality. Then, suddenly, the neon sunrise of Abidjan appeared on the horizon.
Abidjan: Something familiar about it. She has all the sights, sounds and smells of an West African capital city, but with a certain 'je ne sais quoi'.
We arrived in Treichville and caught a cab to Marco and Jen's neighborhood of Blokosso. We detoured a bit to avoid a known roadblock and passed one of the city squares closed by Gbagbo to prevent demonstrations. Marco's plan was to enter the neighborhood though the 'back door' thereby avoiding a roadblock manned by youth, whose enthusiasm was enhanced by drink after dark.
If all went according to plan, we would be waved through the roadblocks and be home safe and sound within the hour. We approached the first roadblock and were directed to pull over by men in fatigues. They approached the car and started talking with Marco, asking him questions about who he was, where he lived, what was this luggage, etc. We were asked to produce passports. Marco spoke for all of us, and explained that we were tourists returning from a trip, just trying to make our way home. The officer asked him to open the trunk and Marco opened one of his bags and showed the officer some wooden sculpture he'd bought in Lome. The officer was not buying it. He made Marco take out all of our baggage and lay it out along the roadside. He was especially interested in Nico's large black duffle bag, which Marco opened and showed that lo, here were some innocent toiletries, and here were some underpants. Eventually, they found the hard plastic box where Nico's camera was, and after explaining that Nico was an amateur with a penchant for hi-tech equipment, the man allowed Marco to load all our stuff back into the car.
Though I didn't feel that we were ever in any real danger, I felt somewhat disembodied during the experience. I sat in the back of the car, on the drivers side, looking straight down the empty road ahead or to the side at the armed men lounging in plastic chairs under a blue tent. I could hear Marco explaining and turned back only once to see him with hands out, palms up, pointing at the luggage and the guard's face illuminated by the red tail lights, suspicious.
They finally let us through, and we made our way towards home, though getting there was not quite straightforward. But I'll tell you the rest tomorrow.
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