2. A familiar smell

The day begins with leftover baguette and a 1.5-hour wait for our escort. I pass the time unsuccessfuly Googling the French equivalent of "there is no hurry in Africa" on my BlackBerry, exploring the pool, exchanging a few pleasantries with the other volunteer who arrived on my flight, happy to just sit and wait.

By day, the streets are bustling. The traffic moves at a good pace, with bicycles, cars and pedestrians weaving through narrowing spaces. The roads are paved and potholes are scarce. Again, I cannot help but compare what I see to what I grew accustomed to in Dar es Salaam. The women dress differently but just as colourfully. The dust is black, not gray. The buses are full-sized. On the side of the road one buys not chapati but baguette. The graffiti messages on vehicles are less elaborate than Tanzania's but their substance remains unchanged, "Dieu est fort" replacing "God is great" and "Dieu est bon" instead of "Mungu ni mwema". We pass two markets, where fruits and vegetables are packaged in netting rather than merely stacked. We cross a bridge and reach the compound.

The sun is blazing. The compound is a converted hotel. It sits atop a cliff, overlooking the water and the city. As one walks through the grounds it is impossible not to imagine what it must have been like when it would fill with vacationers. Giant satellite dishes have been planted next to walkways, where benches might once have stood. Rather than signs prohibiting pets, the entrance doors display prohibitions on long firearms.

There is a fairly even mix of civilians and peacekeepers. Everybody is very friendly. Precisely at noon, "bonjour" gives way to "bonsoir". Registration, introductions and training all happen in French, but I hear many languages I do not recognise.

Identity cards are issued. I give the camera a death stare when my picture is taken, mindful of Canada's passport regulations; the person going after me grins. Our cards carry clear lettering demanding civilian and military authorities to allow the bearer freedom of movement. I wonder how many days will pass until I will discover precisely how effective that demand is. We are issued two-way radios and given forms to sign.

Around 18:00, I head back to the hotel with the other new volunteer. A third volunteer, also twice as old as me, invites us to dinner at a nearby restaurant off a dirt road. I eat the Ivorian equivalent of mishkaki na chipsi: brochette et frites. I had ordered a brochette and haricots verts but am not in the least surprised, nor upset, by the mistake.

We walk home and the same vague smell that I remember from my arrival permeates the air. Again I savour it, trying to place it, until one of my companions enlightens me: Côte d'Ivoire is the world's largest exporter of cocoa. In the distance, vapour billows from the smokestack of a processing plant. The smell that envelops the city is the smell of chocolate.