Grand Bassam - Abidjan - Brussels (maybe) - Home

After a great night’s sleep, we venture out into the world. The breeze that graced the coast yesterday is replaced with an oppressive humid heat this morning.

The beach is empty this early

There's no-one at the pool area either

Breakfast

I am not a fan of buffet lunches or dinners, but I do enjoy a breakfast buffet very much. That is one good thing about this being a touristy hotel: the choice of food this morning is excellent.

Papaya with lime, pineapple, and water melon, plus croissant and the deliciously fresh French bread.

City tour

We start off very early this morning for our exploration of Grand Bassam. Because of my disability, Solo has special permission to drive all the way up to the swimming pool area to pick us up. Everyone else must wait in the dedicated car park at the bottom of the slope.

You can our grey car beyond the still-empty sunbeds

Grand Bassam

Serving as the capital of Ivory Coast from 1893 to 1896, the historic town of Grand Bassam consists of rundown remains (some parts of which are being regenerated) of a French Colonial town, with separation of black Africans, white Europeans and those of mixed race following a union between the French colonists and the local ladies.

This building used to be the house for mixed race children, now an orphanage.

Ekra, our local guide, explains that this bridge is famous for being the site of demonstrations by local women after their menfolk were arrested by the French. It is known as Victory Bridge as a dedication to the victory for the women whose march across it resulted in most of those arrested being freed.

The white house you can see across the river used to be the local brothel, and it was here that the colonialists, stationed far away from their loved ones back in France, sought comfort. Hence the number of mixed race children who were born during that time.

In 1898, a number of mango trees were planted on the riverside, 40 of which survive today. They still bear fruit, although the fruits are no longer of good quality.

When the capital had to be moved to Bingerville in 1896 after a serious bout of yellow fever, most of the old colonial buildings were abandoned.

The first catholic church in Ivory Coast was consecrated in 1895 and is still operational today. Catholicism was brought to Ivory Coast by the French settlers, and today 17% of the population follows the catholic faith.

The CFAO was once a thriving commercial hub, producing mirrors and other household items for the local people. It is now undergoing a regeneration project.

There are a number of these projects throughout the old town (declared a UNESCO Heritage Site), and most of it is being very sympathetically done.

One of the first trade houses in the city.

I love these new-but-in-the-old-style carved doors.

The first bar in Grand Bassam

Salt spray brought in from the ocean is a major issue for the upkeep of these old buildings.

Now a restaurant, this used to be the grand home of one of the colonists.

The building with the steps was constructed by a local man to show off his power and influence. This did not go down well with the local population, as the villagers wanted to know where he got his money from and why he didn’t help family instead of showing off. He was eventually hounded out of town.

The Royal Palace for the king of the Nzima tribe.

This is where the annual Abissa Festival is held (a gathering with of music and dance connecting local tribes and communities).

Losing this house in a bet, the Frenchman who used to own it, refused to hand it over to the local winner.

In amongst the dilapidation, neglect. and abandonment, are pockets of current daily life.

Grand Bassam’s first hotel now lies in overgrown ruins.

Behind these gates lies what is left of the first bank in the city.

Kita Cloths – traditional Ivorian weaving.

African barber

Monument to the forty victims of Yellow fever. The statue shows a white woman holding some traditional medicinal plants. She came to ask the king for medicine for her husband who was very ill, by the time she got back to him with the potions, he was already dead.

This school was constructed to educate the many mixed race children born in the city. It is still in use, but today it is open to all.

The old Port Workers’ House is now an artisan studio.

Another monument, this one is dedicated to the 18 people who died in the 2016 terrorist attack.

Once the Palace of the Governor, now the building acts as The Costume Museum.

This young lad is not sure of us at first, then we get a little wave, followed by an almost-smile.

Batik Workshop

At the end of the city tour, we stop at a place for learning how to apply batik to cloths.

Some of the cloth designs

First we are invited to choose a design for the stamp pattern.

David's design

My choice - a set of Baoulé symbols

Solid paraffin is melted and the stamp is dipped in the liquid before being carefully positioned on the material.

My pattern

The next stage includes making sure the cloth is wet before adding it to a bowl of colour.

Dunking the cloth in water

The bowls of coloured dye

Adding sodium carbonate to fix the colour

In go the cloths. David has chosen a blue colour, whereas I go with a red dye.

Looking good!

And then mine:

They are now left in the sun for the colour to develop. I am a little disappointed by how dark the red is, I was hoping for a more pillar-box red.

Mathias explains that the red colour develops slower than the blue, so there is still hope for my bright red cloth!

Next up: the cloth is dipped in boiling water to remove the paraffin, then immediately into cold water to ‘fix’ the colour, before a final clean wash.

Into the boiling water

Followed by cold water

Giving it a good wash

Ta da!

And then it is my turn to have the finishing touches applied to my cloth.

It's still looking rather dark and a little too dull for my liking

Having the wax removed

Cooling it down to fix the colour

Giving it a good wash

Wow! What a difference! That colour is much more to my liking.

Trying to dry them a little before we take them back to the hotel.

Assoyam Beach Hotel

We have a couple of hours to spare before we have to pack for the homeward journey, so we spread them out on the grass by our chalet.

It’s a little breezy now, and David is fighting a losing battle trying to stop the corners from folding in.

Lunch

Meanwhile we take lunch in the restaurant overlooking the beach.

We both order burgers, and they are probably the nicest ones we’ve had on the whole trip: Lovely crispy outside, tasty mayo with a hint of mustard, nice crunchy lettuce and caramelised onions.

At 13:00 we are picked up for the hour or so journey to the airport. We have barely left the hotel when my tummy starts to complain. Then the growling gets louder and louder, and the cramps more and more frequent. By the time we reach the hotel, I ask Solo to drop me right outside the door to the terminal and I make a dash for it.

The moment my hand touches the door handle of the terminal building, my bowels give up the fight, and I can no longer hold it. I bend over double, tightening all the muscles I can, but to no avail. Passing passengers can see than I am distressed, and obviously not knowing the reason why, several of them stop and offer help. I feel guilty that I just dismissively wave them away, but it is all I can do at this stage.

Thankfully I make it to the nearest cubicle, which happens to be the disabled toilet, before the inevitable massive explosion happens. I was lucky this time, just a change of underwear is required, which I always carry in my hand bag.

Brussels Airlines

As soon as we log into the airport wifi, we receive a message from the airline to say our flight is cancelled. Great.

For some reason we are extremely early, and the Brussels Airlines office is not even open yet; but it does mean we are near the front of the queue for when it does open. I think they are expecting trouble, as they have a security guard on the office door and are only letting a few people in at a time.

The queue when we join. Later it snakes its way around the room, with people still waiting to get rebooked even after the departure time of the cancelled flight.

Being so early also means we have a much better choice of alternative flights, and we are re-booked on Air France via Paris Charles de Gaulle. We have to queue at their desk, which doesn’t open for another three hours, in order to get seats allocated.

We finally get seats in the location we want

The new flight leaves at 00:40, as opposed to the original departure time of 18:45. Abidjan Airport is not the most interesting place to spend 11 hours.

Meanwhile David tries desperately to contact the parking company at Heathrow to let them know that we shall be arriving at Terminal Four, rather than Terminal Two as the original itinerary. He sends emails and text messages, but they don’t appear to be read, or at least not replied to. Neither David’s nor my phone are able to connect to the Ivorian network to make phone calls. I guess we’ll just have to ring them as soon as we land in the UK.

Getting through the formalities is always easier when in a wheelchair: first at passport control they also want to see my boarding card (which David has). Down a lift and another passport control, then security where laptops and all other electronics including camera equipment has to come out. Next I am pushed down a separate corridor to David, into a secure area and a closed room where I am patted down and swabbed for drugs. Eventually we arrive at the gate where we still have several hours to wait.

After a while I am turfed out of the wheelchair so that a porter can use it to take a disabled passenger off the incoming flight. The chair is not back by the time they call our flight, so I decide to walk. I am ushered through, with other waiting passengers told to make way for me.

The seats on the Air France flight are quite narrow, but offer plenty of legroom which helps. We finally depart one hour and ten minutes late. I sleep some on the flight, and wake up in time for the bumpy landing in Paris, with the plane swaying from side to side.

Paris

The delayed departure means that we now have a very close connection for the next flight. The crew instructs me to wait until everyone else has got off the plane, but I am defiant and take no notice of her. A wheelchair is already waiting for me, and the very nice porter from Sri Lanka is chatty as he rushes me through to the next departure gate. It is hard work for him as the floor is carpeted, which is very unusual for an airport.

At security we encounter an officious Mrs Hitler which doesn’t exactly help my stress levels. It’s been a long day already, and we really don’t want to miss the connecting flight. We are then left in a holding area, waiting for a van to drive us around the perimeter of the airport to reach the next departure gate, where my lovely porter meets us. By the time he has pushed me to the gate, we arrive ten minutes after the published Gate Closed time.

It must be our lucky day: the Paris to London flight is 45 minutes late departing, and we arrive at the gate just as they start the pre-boarding. So instead of missing the flight, we are the first to board. Result!

This plane is a lot more cramped, but it is a short flight so it really doesn’t matter that much. I sleep a little and wake up to being served cookies and a drink.

Heathrow

While we are waiting to get off the plane, David finally gets through to the car parking company, who are very unhappy as they have been waiting for us for 1.5 hours. When David explains what happened and that we are now at Terminal Four, they say it will cost us an extra £30 for them to bring the car here. David reluctantly agrees, but they then come back to say “we can’t do it”, and put the phone down on him.

There is no wheelchair waiting at the exit from the plane, so I have to walk to the end of the flight bridge where there is a buggy waiting to take us to passport control. There is surprisingly no queue, and the immigration officer is very friendly with a great sense of humour.

Just the other side of the passport control, we pick up another wheelchair for me, and meet David at the luggage carousel. The porter pushes me to the underground station, where we get on a train for the one-stop journey to Terminal 2. We walk to the nearest lifts which take us straight to the car park and there we head for the Purple Parking desk.

The chap manning the desk is the total opposite to the chap on the phone – he couldn’t be more friendly and helpful! It turns out that we are not at Terminal Two as we thought, the lift took us to T3. According to him, there is no problem getting the car transferred from T2 to T3, and when we offer to pay for the extra parking charges they have incurred, he refuses the payment. Our faith is restored in Purple Parking, and we drive home, exhausted but full of fantastic memories and 18,500 photographs on my memory card. It's been a long day.

Thank you to Undiscovered Destinations for arranging this incredible adventure to Ivory Coast.