British Hash

British hash. Normally best avoided (too many drinking games, sexual innuendos and cringing embarrassment about being British), this weekend I was tempted by the location: Isle Bouley. I was not alone; we were about 50 people lining up to board the boat from Azito Paradise (a plucky maquis next to an enormous power station of the same name). And it was magnificent. A stunning island less than 500 metres into the Abidjan lagoon; surely this would draw tourists and natives seeking some air? Apparently not. Hugely underdeveloped, the national grid plants it’s pylons on the island without dropping a cable for the inhabitants. In a sci-fi-esque cameo, the power literally skims over the villages, as they hosted a wedding disco with a (rented?) generator. No evidence either of a school, despite the many children who shouted encouragement as we trekked through their gardens: “bon travail; bon boulot!” It wasn’t, of course, work. But leisure is a culturally adapted notion, and so we smiled and waved and so did they, and I made a resolution to ask about their power supply at the next CCE (Committee de Coordination Elargi).