A Neighborhood Walk in Abidjan, Côte d’Ivoire: From the Window Seat

This piece is part of my From the Window Seat series, where I take you along and give you a first-person perspective into my travels. In this series, I share my daily rhythms, once-in-a-lifetime experiences, and reflections on travel from a journal-style vantage point, giving you a window into wherever I am in the world. Thanks for coming along for the ride, and let me know what view you want to see From the Window Seat next time!

If you want to learn more about moving to Abidjan, Côte d’Ivoire (Ivory Coast), check out my full post here.

An evening walk in the Zone 4 neighborhood of Abidjan, Côte d’Ivoire

It’s 5:30 pm in Abidjan, Côte d’Ivoire (Ivory Coast), and I’ve wrapped up work for the day. This evening, I decide to head out for a short walk – it’s a good change of scenery, and I’d like to buy some fresh fruit.

Equitorial time and weather 

It’s February, which is part of dry season in Abidjan, so I don’t need to bring an umbrella. No matter what time of the year, I can expect the weather to be hot and humid, but dry season means that it’ll be just a bit hotter and a bit less humid than rainy season. As I leave the building, I greet the building security guard, Winnefred, with a “bonsoir” on my way down. He’s always friendly and polite, but ever since he asked for my number and I refused, I can’t help but feel that I need to keep a bit of distance.

Once I leave the building, the “feels like” temperature of 97 envelops me. After 6 months in Côte d’Ivoire, it doesn’t hit me like a sauna when I step outside, but it still catches up to me once I’ve been walking for a few minutes. Regardless of what I wear, no walk is complete without a sweat-soaked back.

At 5:30 in Abidjan, the sun is getting low in the sky. Abidjan is close to the equator, so the sun sets around 6:30 pm year-round without significant seasonal fluctuations. A perfect amount of time for a post-work walk without giving me too much leeway to laze about.

Rue du Canal 

I turn right onto Rue du Canal, ready to head out on a 30-minute circuit that gives me a balance of commercial and residential streets. I live in Zone 4, a densely packed neighborhood of Abidjan where I’m lucky to have groceries and basic conveniences within walking distance. However, this also comes with constant traffic, construction, and people, so I’ve learned to vary my routes to give me some more peaceful walking moments as well. Regardless, this is not a place where I can just pop headphones in and get swept away in an audiobook – I need my head on a swivel to make my way safely through the bustling streets.

Sidestepping obstacles

Rue du Canal, like all streets in my neighborhood, has no sidewalks, so I stay close to the side to keep out of the way of traffic. At the edge of the road is a drainage canal that is sometimes covered and sometimes open. It is filled with murky water and trash, giving me good incentive to watch my steps and avoid the cars without tumbling in.

There’s a concrete truck parked on the side of the road next to a construction site and it has turned that section of the road into a one-way street. Pedestrians heed this call as well, and I check behind me and in front of me for cars, bikes, motorcycles, and other pedestrians before skirting around the concrete truck.

The road has also turned into a makeshift storage lot for the construction project, with piles of rebar and stacks of concrete bricks eating into the space that I would normally walk in. I have to step carefully to avoid getting tripped up on the rebar without going too far into the road. It doesn’t escape my notice that most of the construction workers who are scrambling over these piles all day are wearing simple plastic sandals – they’re more agile on their feet than I’ll ever be.

New Abidjan acquaintances

On the other side of the concrete truck is a fruit and veggie stall run by a father and son pair which I often purchase from. It admittedly isn’t my favorite stall as the wares are in bins rather than artfully stacked, but the prices are fair and it’s only a 5-minute walk from my building. Today, my route takes me past another vendor that I prefer, so I don’t stop at this one. I give the son a wave as I pass by, and he waves back with a smile. 

As I continue down Rue du Canal, the honking of taxis at my back blends into the urban soundscape, but doesn’t startle me. Empty taxis honk at pedestrians to signal their availability, and as a solo white woman, I’m a clear target. It used to make me jump, but now it’s second nature to ignore the honks or give a quick shake of my head if they’re persistent. 

Just before the corner of Rue du 7 Decembre, I reach a group of young boys, perhaps around 10 years old, selling tissue packets to the passing cars. When I first arrived, they would chase me down every time I passed, trying to sell to me. Now that we recognize each other, though, we greet each other warmly with no pretense. One boy gives a wide smile and sends me off with his signature “bonne chance!” into the evening. As simple as it is, that genuine “bonne chance!” always makes my night.

Rue 7 Decembre

Navigating the streetside chaos

I approach the intersection and turn right without crossing the street, weaving my way around the parked cars to avoid walking in the intersection. As I make my way down this stretch of Rue du 7 Decembre, I have to keep my head on a constant swivel so that I don’t fall or get hit by a car or motorcycle.

Most of the pedestrian route involves hugging the backs of parked cars while motorcycles and bicycles try to cut between pedestrians and gridlocked cars. For me, this means being hypervigilant about any parked cars which may be backing up, while checking over my shoulder any time I go around a car that is poking out, lest a motorcycle be coming up behind me. 

Most of the available road in this section is comprised of metal or concrete slats that cover the drainage canal. These have gaps that I must be careful not to trip on or fall into, and I’ve been told too many cautionary tales of these giving out and people falling in and breaking ankles. As such, while I keep my head up for cars and motorcycles, I also watch my feet lest I be the weapon of my own destruction.

At last, I reach a bottleneck where there is just one lane going in each direction. There’s a rail track here which slows down cars considerably and cuts down the road space. This makes it easier to cross the road, and today I want to get to a fruit stand on the other side. I spot another person who is looking to cross, and I follow him closely as we seize our moment. 

Someone has created a large found-art display of tin cans stacked together to form columns of color leaning against a metal sheet by the railway bottleneck. Every time I pause to cross here, I enjoy the trash-to-treasure collection.

Buying fruit & learning French 

Not far beyond the bottleneck, I reach the Zone 4 fruit stand which I have a soft spot in my heart for. It was the first fruit stand that I ever visited when I was building up my neighborhood-navigating confidence, and is staffed by women who curate a beautiful display of fruits and veggies. Unfortunately, I tend to pay a premium here compared to other fruit stands in the area, but the quality is usually good and the discrepancy is small enough that I still love to shop here.

Today, I’m looking for some mangos and an eggplant. I call out a greeting to the two women as I approach the stall, and one immediately rises to greet and assist me. I tell her I’m looking for mangos, and she asks me when I’m planning to eat them. Based on my answer, she helps me sort through their mango stack to find mangos at the right ripeness. I can smell the thick, sweet scent of ripe mango as we select two beautiful fruits, and I can tell they’ll be tasty.

She snags a large eggplant for me from a back pile, and convinces me to throw in an avocado as well. When she quotes me 2,000 cfa (~$3.30) for the lot, I make a bit of an incredulous noise and she throws in a fantastic-smelling mango which is just on the verge of overripe – “Eat it tonight”, she tells me.

As I leave the stall with a heavier bag and a smile on my face, I can’t help but be proud of how far I’ve come in terms of confidence and French while navigating my Abidjan neighborhood. When I first arrived, it took two weeks for me to get the nerve up to hit the fruit stands in search of papayas with my very limited French, and when the vendors tried to help me select fruit, all I could offer was blank stares. As much as my French progress feels slow, I love the fact that I now know the vendors in my neighborhood and can engage with confidence and joy. 

I’ve now just about reached an intersection where I need to turn, but crossing the road earlier means that I now need to cross it again. This should theoretically be a two-lane street with one lane in each direction, but during rush hour, all bets are off. I need to assume two make-shift lands in each direction, with bikes and motorcycles not only splitting lanes and making new ones, but also potentially going against traffic. I wait for the pedestrian signal so that I at least mentally have the right-of-way, but it still takes timing, waving at drivers, and a quick sprint to get across.

Rue Paul Langevin

Now that I’m on Rue Paul Langevin, the traffic quiets down, and I release a breath I don’t realize I’ve been holding. For the rest of my walk, the streets will be largely residential, which will give the walk a much more relaxed feel. 

I can turn more of my attention away from myself and towards people watching now, which is a welcome departure from the chaotic streets that I’ve come from. I pass two young men just off their construction shift, the light gray dust from the concrete and other materials they use coating their hair, clothes, and skin with a ghostly ash. On the side of the street, a man with one of the ubiquitous mobile coffee carts stops to chat with a woman selling banane braisée, heat radiating from her small grill as the plantains roast slowly atop.

Beyond the banane braisée seller, a man leans against his fresh pineapple cart. These rolling wheelbarrow-esque carts can be seen throughout the neighborhood, stocked with plenty of pineapples, plus a machete-wielding vendor. The machete makes quick work of peeling and coring pineapple, so a stop at a pineapple cart leaves you with a plastic bag of fresh, almost cloyingly sweet pineapple ready to be snacked on. The sticky tropical scent wafting off the cart is tempting, but I hold off for tonight. 

A bit further on I notice young children spilling out of a small children’s play area and water park, Katy Perry’s “Last Friday Night” blasting over the loudspeakers and jolting me out of my peaceful evening atmosphere. Dichotomies like this are quotidien in Abidjan. In one breath, I can buy $0.30 banane braisee with a sachet of roasted peanuts from a street vendor, and can turn around and spend $8 on a slice of passion fruit cheesecake from a gleaming cafe which would look at home in a posh Parisian neighborhood. 

As I approach my next turn, I must once again pay attention to my feet. The concrete-covered drainage canal crossing the road has begun to cave in, leaving a sinkhole that would send the unfortunate biker or motorcyclist flying. Traffic is calm enough at this corner today that cars can take a very wide turn and swerve, but I must be mindful to avoid both the trench and offside cars as I make my way onto Rue Louis Lumiere.

Rue Louis Lumiere

Most days on Rue Louis Lumiere, I can expect to encounter one or two cars at most – a true sanctuary in the midst of a bustling neighborhood. The street is cut off on one end by a railroad track and canal, turning what would be a through street into a cul de sac which encourages the movement of people, not cars.

Building a callous

This evening, I don’t spot any cars as I continue my stroll, but I do notice a pair of young men across the street eyeing me. While this is something that has been occurring all evening and I’ve learned to squarely ignore it, my hackles go up when I notice one of the men separate from his friend and begin to cross the street in a beeline towards me. He approaches with a “hello” which I answer with a “bonsoir” that he follows with more English.

Very rarely in my daily life here do I encounter any English whatsoever, much less forthcoming English. I quickly learned that no matter how much I may struggle with French, my biased Anglophone traveling expectations that “people will speak at least a bit of English” hold absolutely no weight here. It’s always up to me to either stumble through the French or abandon the conversation altogether if I cannot piece together enough communication and understanding to get what I am looking for.

The upfront English catches me off guard, and when the man asks me for my name, I initially refuse. He gets offended, asking what he’s done wrong, and I finally relent, quickly checking on his friend who has kept walking, and noticing the relative emptiness of the street. As soon as I give my name, he begins asking me for help, of which variety I can’t quite catch.

As he starts to close the already short distance between us, I feel my walls go up. My unfeeling voice repeats “no, I’m sorry, I can’t help” over and over as I skirt my way past him and try to walk with confidence. I sneak a glance 15 steps later, and don’t fully exhale until I see that he isn’t following me.

I don’t relish that this wall has grown thicker over the past 6 months, the piece of me that kicks in to respond coldly without letting a real interaction begin with most men I don’t know. It breaks the piece of me that knows that most people are good, that there’s so much connection and possibility right at the edge of our comfort zones.

Rarely do I feel truly unsafe, and most encounters end just as this evening’s did, with adrenaline coursing and my eyes darting to exit routes that I thankfully don’t have to use. But the constant unwanted attention at levels far greater than I’m used to becomes exhausting nonetheless, and each time, the callous on the piece of me that wants to be open to the magic of strangers gets a bit thicker.

The joy of football in Abidjan

As I near the end of the cul de sac, I’m greeted by a community that has learned how to take advantage of the nearly car-free street. A group of young boys, ranging from 7 or so to 15 face off in a lively match of street football (or soccer, for my American brain). They’ve set up tires to mark goals, and have taken up the entire width of the street, with passers-by including myself making careful effort to step out of the road to avoid interrupting the game. On the sidelines, at least 15 boys look on intently, whether purely spectating or awaiting their turn to play, I’m not sure. 

This carefree joy immediately lifts the heaviness of the unwanted encounter minutes before from my evening, and I’m grateful. I pause to watch for a minute with two boys of perhaps 3 or 4 years who are too young to play. Less than a month ago, Côte d’Ivoire stunned the continent and themselves by winning AFCON, the main men’s football competition in Africa, on their home turf. Even before this AFCON, it was clear that football was a matter of pride, joy, and community, but since the win, this energy has been magnified.

As I continue past the match, I pass older men and women, perhaps parents or perhaps simply neighborhood residents. They sit on plastic chairs on the sides of the street chatting, some selling various wares including snacks, shoes, and small selections of cleaning supplies. These small economies are magnificent in their quiet efficiency, deftly adapting to the needs of their neighbors to provide right-item, right-time service.

Crossing the tracks

At the end of the cul-de-sac, I cross the railroad tracks and small makeshift pedestrian bridge over a trash-filled canal. The railroad track has a pedestrian path alongside it, and the length of it has become an informal trash dump, with recyclers and scavengers sorting through the waste and burning the heaps.

It’s not my favorite area as the smells are strong and the rate of “you’re out of place here” looks I get is high, but today I’m just passing through, not taking a walk along the length of the railroad. Nonetheless, as I approach the rickety bridge, a group of men begins calling after me “la blanche, la blanche, la princesse”, but they stop once they realize I’ll simply ignore it.

Once across the bridge, I’m on a small dirt road with a smattering of chickens running about, scavenging in the scraps and trash on the ground. As I look up, I once again can’t help but reflect on the Abidjan dichotomy of trash pickers scrounging for enough treasures to keep themselves afloat along the railroad tracks, while high concrete walls fence in fancy apartment buildings just steps away, including my own.

Heading home

An ode to the Superette

At the end of the dirt road, I turn again onto Rue du Canal, having just about completed my circuit. I have one final stop before heading home – my beloved Superette. In the US, I’d been trained to use convenience stores as last-ditch options, with paltry selections and eye-watering prices. So, during my first few weeks in Abidjan, I kept my distance from the Superette just around the corner from my building, assuming that it wouldn’t have much, and what it did have, I’d pay a dear price for. When I finally started giving it the time of day, I discovered that I couldn’t have been more wrong. 

The Superette is a treasure trove of foods and ingredients that I often can’t find anywhere else I look, and the prices are almost always lower than any of the bigger grocery stores. I’m convinced that there’s some sort of subtle magic involved in the perfect selection of goods that they’ve managed to curate in their tiny space, balancing delightful snack foods with nearly all of the staples and specialty ingredients that I need in my daily cooking. On various trips, I’ve picked up pomegranate molasses, almond-stuffed olives, balsamic glaze, Philadelphia cream cheese, a jiffy peanut butter dupe, and sun-dried tomatoes – the wonders never cease.

My housemate and I frequently discuss the wonders of the Superette and all of my friends here know of its glory. It supplied one of my friends with the cheapest headlamp she could find in Abidjan, and another friend who eats both vegan and gluten-free with several brands of rice cakes and every type of nondairy milk under the sun. The superette may be one of my favorite comfort spots in the city, and I have no shame in supporting them every chance I can get.

Today I don’t need much, but a stroll through the aisles to check out what’s new in stock is always fun. I grab some plain yogurt and sparkling water and make a mental note that they have the cheapest kiwis by far that I’ve seen in the whole city. As I check out, the helpful attendants no longer try to bag my selections – they know that most of the time I’ll refuse the plastic bag and load them into my tote bag for the short walk home.

Passe une bonne soirée

As I walk the final stretch back to my building, the security guard at a building before mine waves, and I reply with a customary “bonsoir!”. He welcomes me back to the block, and I thank him, wishing him a good rest of his evening. Back at my building, the toddler son of the lunch vendor who sells to construction workers stares at me, waving shyly. I can’t help but break into a grin as I wave back, greeting him with a “bonsoir mon ami”, before turning into the entrance to my building and heading for the elevator.

It has been a good walk, with enough sunny encounters to remind me why it is so incredibly worth it to brave the stares, cars, and tripping hazards to explore the streets of Abidjan.