This is an authorized translation in English of a post in French by @terresco: Rencontres avec l'Afrique - Abidjan, un quotidien de plaisir

^{As my primary language is not English, there are probably some mistakes in my translation.}

Remember that the person who speaks here is NOT me, Vincent Celier (@vcelier), but @terresco, a French guy.

Everything was new, the French language itself embalmed optimism, the necessary daily haggling became a feast of colorful intonations. Conversation is an art of living, this facility to image language was a delight that brightened our lives and we never tired of it.

Abidjan had an incredible energy, bubbling with all the influences of Africa, each neighborhood, sometimes semantics ungrateful, had his personality, Marcory, Cocody, Zone 4 or Treichville. AIDS was brand new, at least its awareness, it was doing damage but it did not stop the party. Life, like a show, continued at full speed.

* * * * *

The morning

We had no alarm clock, it was the caretaker who was in charge. Never has awakening been so dedicated. The windows remained open, protected by metal grids, unattractive but effective. At the appointed hour, a voice was gently calling: "Boss, it's time". Better than an alarm clock. The big game was to play dead. Jean-Marc anxiously returned, without daring to shout, he renewed his appeal. The third time worry had taken over him and it's a fantastic "Hey, boss, sorry, but now it's really time o!" To the unforgettable intonation that triggered the burst of laughter that we had been choking for a few minutes under the sheets. In six years I have never been late.

You did not blame us for that silly joke, you who were more than an employee for us, you may still be laughing about it wherever you are. Where you are I do not know much, I discovered one day, when, a few years later, the idea came to me that I should pay you a retreat. I looked for you thanks to those friends whom you had so often opened the door and kept cars and motorcycles. We looked for you in Abidjan, we looked for you in Burkina Faso but you were further away, higher up. The country had gone crazy, the Burkinabes were no longer welcome ... no need to write a book, the story has, unfortunately, no originality.

The day

The work at the Lycee was nice, we were privileged. It was not just a question of salary. Well maintained premises in a garden of tropical greenery, air-conditioned rooms, material means and especially great students. The network of French high schools, established worldwide, allows parents, professionally mobile, to provide school continuity to their children.

Most of the students were also privileged, their parents were expatriates, diplomats, senior executives, rich industrialists or traders. French, Ivorians, Lebanese and many other nationalities. There were students each year from more than 50 different nationalities.

They were curious, joyous, happy and endearing. It was very easy to win their respect, besides they gave it as a gift, from the outset. The children of Abidjan, little 'bandits' with a big heart, they marked your life but you leave their mark.

We were privileged but for the vast majority of us, we knew it. We did not skimp on the work to be done and we tasted every day and every moment.

The meal break

We had a three-star canteen. Under shady huts, by the pool. Yes, yes, I assure you. The cooks made it a point of honor that you go away with a mad desire to nap. You do not joke with the food in Africa.

At that time the Lycee was at the edge of the countryside. I often took advantage of it to ride in the palm groves, under the coconut palms or in the banana fields. The bike raised the enthusiasm of the children at the same time as the dust of which no one is formalized. The green of the banana trees was contrasting with the red of the track.

There was a police barrage, at the exit of the city. As a neighbor and I must confess companion a few beers from time to time, I had a privileged status. At the sound of the bike the authorities rushed to remove the dams of nails and greet me friendly. For my discharge ... I was pretty much in order.

Evenings

There is one important thing in Africa, or at least I lived it as such, it is friendship.

Quickly our little band of friends was formed. All, from horizons, professions, cultures or countries and continents. We shared these differences, they united us in our curiosity to elucidate them.

In the event of a hard blow, there was no counting on the state, the police, or anyone other than friends. We knew the value of it. When one called, everyone answered. It was not always easy, far from it. Even less after the coup at the end of 1999. But we did not really ask ourselves the question. Obviously it creates links, very strong links, links that do not loosen over time or distance, I can testify today, twenty years later.

We had a big calendar, one of those that the banks offer you generously after having charged you all the year abusive expenses. Each month we discussed the boxes of the days to register the activities and invitations that each wanted to offer.

* * * * *

The day was over, all that was left was to greet Jean-Marc, watch over our sleep, armed with his machete. We threw ourselves under the mosquito net supposed to protect us from the attacks of malaria, although I had the mosquito net impregnated advised by WHO I did not cut to my annual crisis, three days not pleasant, soon forgotten.

Abidjan was ideally located and although the daily life was fantastic, our many teacher vacations were also travel opportunities.

-- @terresco

Encounters with Africa: Ivory Coast, by @terresco

From Cape Town to Mombasa series:

Encounters with Africa: Abidjan, a daily pleasure, by @terresco (translated from French)