The little village's name is "Niababli" or just "26" (vingt-six), and it has some wells to retrieve ground water.
Google Maps has still the old route in his label map. (Niababli is on the center of this map).
My sole connection to Germany was a short wave receiver to listen to the "Deutsche Welle" station at night and the BBC world service. Sometimes I got some broadcasts from Voice of America as well.
Life is so totally different from what I ever saw in my life. Men are working on the fields, harvesting cacao, maniok and rice, the women are cooking on the field for the workers (it is a really embarassing for an employer to have nothing to eat for his employees here!).
My friend and me had the chance to live in a house built by her father, which was a brickhouse quite confortable. Because of malaria, the bed was entoured by a mosquito net.
On the evening, people came back from the fields, talking, keeping their families, drinking a beer in a "maquis" (the name of bars with food). The sound of the evening is the one of small power generators, running on diesel or gasoline to run the little cinema or some light bulbs.
And then you see that warm attitude, this charming reception of the people here. Nobody was hostile towards me, nobody had fear. I became quickly "le petit blanc" (I was among the tallest person in the village ...) and many children were already at 6am (they have London Greenwich time there) on our patio to wait for me. Children everywhere. Women make children when they want. And it has nothing to do with marriage. Educating children is the job of every adult. And: The children of a brother are like the own children and like these of the sister. The "little family" with "father, mother, children" is not existent.
Every child attends school here (which was financed and built by Germany here in the village) and continues school in Sassandra (the next city, 21km away) where they can go up to the bac (needed for university education).
Many leave the village when they reach that age to find themselves in the bigger citites.
All speak french fluently and most parents also teach them their native language. In this small village, three of them exist - and they are totally different and incompatible. French is the only language they can use to talk to other ivorians living in the state of the Ivory Coast.
