´óÏó´«Ã½

On the way back from Drogba's village to Abidjan we stopped at a small location to stretch our legs and I took the chance to take some pictures of the local people. A young lady was washing her linen and I asked her permission to take her picture. She eagerly agreed and I started my photo session. Everything was going smoothly, but all of a sudden a shouting voice came behind my shoulders. I looked around, it was an angry policeman. "Why you are messing around? Why you are taking pictures of this woman?" he shouted furiously. I murmured something in explanation, saying that it was done with her consent, but the rage of the local policeman was spiralling. "Do you know what I can do?" I noticed that my Indian colleague tried to interfere, but the enraged policeman was unstoppable. He suddenly seized Rajesh's camera and cursing us, retired to his nearby office.

Our local colleagues spent another half an hour negotiating with him for the release of the seized camera, while we were hotly discussing the situation of free speech and the rights of the journalists all over the world. Ultimately our negotiating team came back with a safe camera and with a piece of news that the lady I was taking pictures of happened to be the policeman's wife. Now that explains everything.

Sometimes jealousy is stronger than the law.

A night in Abidjan

The other night we went out for the night in Abidjan. I must admit that after we came to that area by bus, my colleagues went inside the 'Abidjan' bar, but the music was too loud for me and I decided to stay outside, taking pictures. My local colleagues were worried about my safety - I look like an utter stranger - and when some beautiful young girls started to approach me one by one, I decided to retire to the hotel. One of my local colleagues who came out of the bar to check on me said that it was not safe to travel on my own. But I need to file a piece to London, so I asked him to stop a taxi, write down its number plate as a precaution, and explain to the driver where I should be despatched. "D'accord?- D'accord!"

I speak French and I have travelled quite a lot on my own in different hostile places, so it shouldn't be a problem I promised my colleague and sat on the back seat. "So Novotel, yeah?" But the driver trembled, uttered something incomprehensible and rushed me into the black night of Abidjani suburbs.

I don't know Abidjan at all and in the dark night I hadn't a clue where he was hurtling me away to. I reattempted in my gentility, but the young driver convulsed to my every word, which naturally made me more and more nervous. The more nervous I became the squeakier my voice, the more furiously fast the driver zigzagged along the curvy and obscure roads of Abidjan. Where he will end my reckless journey? I should have listened to my local colleagues - thought I frantically.

No, ultimately he drove me to the Novotel and when I asked in great relief: "Combien?' - 'How much?" He answered in bad English: "Too fausant". Then "I no speak French. I Nigeria - village".

Then I realised, that poor man was scared to death of me - a foreign-looking potential gangster, coming from a vice place to another one, speaking a strange French language, while sitting right behind him, behind his thin neck...

And suddenly both of us laughed at each other in common relief.