The Revolution

12^th-14^th September – Korhogo, Côte D'Ivoire

Arriving in Korhogo under heavy rain, we faced a patch of uncertainty. The minibus station was on the far edge of town and the assembled Ivorian women clucked with disapproval, concluded that there were no taxis and so refused to alight from the minibus, declaring that the driver would have to take us into the centre of town. The driver showed no such inclination and we found ourselves in the middle of a face-off which lasted several minutes. Hoping that such a drop-off would materialise, we stayed in our seats, but when the assistant started unloading the bags we saw the writing on the wall and starting trekking towards town. A passer-by indicated that the Mont Korhogo hotel, our home for two nights, was around 3km from here and, with a lighter load having left one bag in Bouaké, we walked on. The rain got heavier until at one point it formed a curtain of water before our eyes, and we scampered into a large compound containing tables under large tents. It was here that a strange event happened.

"Le Mont Korhogo"

My mother went to the nearest shack to enquire about drinks. She asked for tea, water and Diet Coke, being turned down each time and eventually asked what they had. The answer was beer, and only beer. A lifelong, resolute despiser of beer, she picked a large one up for me and contented herself with nothing.

“I'm thirsty”, she said. “Give me a bit of that”.

With a smile, I handed it over knowing that she was let one drop touch her tongue, recoil with a look of disgust and hand it back to me. Such a thing didn't happen.

“Not bad”.

I've seen many new and radical things in my lifetime but they all pale into insignificance when faced with the prospect of my mother enjoying beer. I like to be very open minded, understanding and am proud of my ability to reason with anything but this sight was just too much for me.

“What ?”

“I said it's not bad. It's refreshing.”

She even had a few more sips before the rain abated and we carried on towards the Mont Korhogo, getting directions from a friendly passing policeman and settled into this hotel, which she had stayed in in the 1970s. It had become pretty dog-eared in the meantime (Korhogo was far into rebel territory during the war and not many people must have stayed here during that time) but for my standards was still perfectly fine. We went for a small wander around town in the afternoon but the mud streets had turned into lakes with the rain and the one tarmacked street through town wasn't particularly interesting, lined with mechanics and spare parts shops for the passing traffic, Korhogo being the last town before reaching Burkina Faso and Mali. We retired to the bar when I had a couple of beers and my mother had a couple of gin-tonics. She remarked that they were quite expensive and that she would have a beer tomorrow. My jaw dropped slightly.

Dodging the puddles

While we ate breakfast the next day, we were approached by a young guy who introduced himself as Petit Solo, who outlined a few tours he could do and gave us a price. With hindsight, it was too much but we accepted and we agreed to meet again at 1pm where he would have a friend and two motorbikes to take us to Waraniénié, a weavers' village, and to “le rocher sacré”, the sacred rock of the Sénoufo people. He was quite happy to cancel everything if the weather turned and we watched the sky for a few hours before concluding that we should be OK, and eventually, the four of us got going. My mother and the friend went on ahead as Petit Solo was eating a sandwich while he was driving and decided that he wouldn't go so quickly. We caught them up at a military checkpoint on the outskirts of town, where Petit Solo showed a little bit too much attitude to the assembled soldiers when told that his lack of vehicle insurance was a problem. His bike was promptly impounded, the soldiers told us to both get on the back of the friend's bike and go where we were going. “When you come back, he will still be here, and he will give you half of your money back”, we were assured. That was that, then. 

We carried on to Waraniénié where the friend (so called as neither of us remember his name...), who was from the village, gave us the grand tour and explained the art of weaving and the collaboration between Muslims and Animists here, where the entire village has become a cooperative. Men, women and children each have separate roles in the industry and their products are sent all over Côte D'Ivoire and sometimes to France as well. Petit Solo eventually caught us up where my mother gave him a friendly lecture about the police always being right.

It does look like a sweat shop, but I can assure you it isn't

“But no one here has insurance ! Why did they single me out ?”, he protested.

He eventually accepted the be-nice-to-the-police theory but threw out some revolutionary rhetoric about how the government must make it possible for people to earn money if they expect people to buy insurance. A fair point, but you still don't tell soldiers that. We moved onto the sacred rock, which I asked (through a spiritual interpreter) to ensure that I find work soon. The interpreter threw some kola nuts around and declared that the way they fell indicated that the rock would indeed help me. He then asked what I would sacrifice if my wish were to come true, and I promised to come back and sacrifice a chicken when I found work.

“I hope you know that the rules state that you must kill it, cook it and eat it all right here” Petit Solo told me. So if anyone reading fancies a trip to Korhogo and a big chicken dinner, get in touch with me when I find work.

"I'd like a million dollars... and world peace... and a neverending plate of grilled chicken..."

We stopped off in the carvers district of Korhogo on the ride back and got co-opted into a wedding where the old ladies instructed us to dance with them. As soon as we started, the entire assembled congregation of women burst into tears of laughter. We were assured that this was not because they found us ridiculous but because they were unused to seeing white people dance, which I was sceptical about, although the fact that they all wanted to dance hand in hand with us as well convinced me that it might possibly be true. As we left, a girl asked for my hand in marriage and, sad as it was that I had to decline, it was still a delightful ego-boost to end the day with. She wasn't bad looking either. Ha !

The sculptors' quarter

The evening was spent in the maquis (an Ivorian open air restaurant, usually by the roadside but in this case inside the grounds of the hotel) of the Mont Korhogo and had probably the best meal so far – an enormous helping of grilled chicken with an equally enormous helping of attiéké, a tasty couscous made from cassava. True to her word, my mother had her beer. The revolution was complete. 

"Ceci n'est pas une bière"