Thursday my team was at the hotel at 07:30 as planned. We had a pastry and coffee for breakfast and I checked out and settled my account. The prominent mountains were heavy with haze and mist. Clouds threatened rain.

We loaded my luggage and climbed up into the Pajero. We drove through the market which was not yet in full swing, it comes into its own in the afternoon. We drove down the main street in which something interesting is always happening: overloaded vehicles in the process of being even more overloaded, hawkers selling an amazing variety of wares, a blind beggar here and there with a child accompanying him and guiding him toward likely benefactors, shoe-shine boys with their boxes, women with huge baskets full of bread or vegetables or something, walking with the grace required to keep the baskets in place, and much more along the same lines.

We stopped at the Goulou Marie to pay for the rooms, a little less than 20 dollars each per night. As we drove out of Man toward Duekoué, the sky opened and a pounding rain enveloped us. It lightened and finally ended as we reached the outskirts of the town with its unusual rock formations. We drove on toward Daloa, stopping once to put more diesel in the vehicle, enough to get us to Abidjan. As we approached Daloa, we waited to see if we'd be shaken down again, the same uniforms were stopping vehicles again. We were stopped and the soldier asked to see the car’s papers and Kramoco’s. Was this the opening gambit in the chess game of corruption (actually chess overstates the case; Go fish is probably a more apt analogy…)?

The soldier read carefully, and I could see the wheels turning, he was really thinking things over. Was it worth it to him to pick this fight? I think multiple silent prayers were rising that we would not be hung up again. After a long hesitation, he handed the papers back and motioned us to leave. I had a flash from movies from my childhood, when resistance fighters on missions in occupied Europe were stopped by German soldiers who demanded their papers and combed through them. At the time it never entered my mind that someday I would see hostile, uniformed men wearing guns demand to see my papers. It happens to innocent, powerless people every day of the year.

The suspense grew, until with a sigh of relief they were allowed to pass. It’s not exactly the same of course, we’re in no danger of being shot by the Gestapo, but the analogy came to mind nonetheless.

We stopped in Yamoussoukro again for lunch. We’d been on the road for nearly five hours by this time and needed to stretch and the food was good and welcome. From the Breeze restaurant, looking over the lake, I could see the dome of the Basilica of Our Lady of Peace thrusting up from the trees and savannah. This out-of-place construction (the dome of which rivals Saint Peter’s in Rome!) with the optimistic name was completed just before the long bloody civil war broke out in this country which still has not recovered from it.

The last two hours into Abidjan were on the four-lane toll road and all went smoothly. We drove back to Treicheville so I could change a few more dollars. Trips up country almost always cost more than my estimates. There are so many needs, many of them legitimate. At my usual corner, the moneychanger wouldn’t not give me an acceptable rate. He offered 600 only per dollar. We drove on around and found a couple of young guys who gave me 610, Mr. Trump’s weaker dollar is starting be be felt in some places at least, although the Dollars is still very strong against major currencies. 

As soon as the money changes hands the guys half pleaded and half demanded "commission, commission!" They wanted a tip from me; they were working for someone else and not on their own account. He was paying them, but they hoped for more on the side. But that’s not the way things work, an African would never give something like that. So I rolled up the window and we drove off chuckling at the audacity of their ploy. Commission on top of the negotiated rate, that was a new one for all of us.

Kramoci drove me through the heavy traffic toward the airport. There were many hawkers in the street, walking between lanes of traffic at stop lights, selling pots and pans, clocks, water, and my favorite: inflatable water toys. Where would people use those?

I asked to be dropped at the Radisson which is right next to the airport. We had to go through an elaborate, but amateurish security check to get inside the walls and gates with our vehicle. My suitcases were taken out and scanned, and we had to walk through a metal detector while the Pajero was searched, inside and underneath. At the front door, my bags were unloaded and I said goodbye to Paul and Kramoco. I gave the latter a tip, and I have some help to Paul too, to cover his expenses while he was away with me.

I had a few hours to kill, so I ordered something refreshing and plugged my laptop into the wall and worked until dinner time. I ate lightly, but ate something because the meal on the plane wouldn’t be served until after midnight.

We boarded starting about 10:00 pm. The 777 filled up in preparation for an 11:00 departure. I had an aisle seat, and I’m able to board among the first, so I could stow my hand luggage close by. I had an empty seat next to me until the last passengers came aboard. One of the largest Africans I’ve ever seen came down the aisle, and I thought to myself, somewhat selfishly I admit, “please keep walking,” and he did. But my relief was short lived. He came back and he had the seat next to me! I’m no longer a thin guy, but I can contain myself within my seat, even an Air France seat (which are among the smallest in the industry), but there was no way this fellow could, in spite of his best efforts. He was well over the armrests on both sides. I was not going to sleep much this night.

This too shall pass; in about 6 hours!