So, I refused Alfa. I told him I was staying in Abidjan and would likely fly home later that day.

An hour later he returned. He said that a friend, also named Alfa, would drive us to Tortiya for $250 plus petrol and expenses. Reluctantly, I agreed.

The incident in the shack in the village center

The road north began smoothly enough, all the way to Yamoussoukro. But it then slowly deteriorated, and beyond Bouaké it was gravel and stone all the way to Tortiya.

We had two or three punctures on the way, forcing us to make repairs by the roadside. Through the dust and heat, it was only patience and the promise of perfect crystals that kept me going.

We eventually arrived at what passed for accommodation – a series of three-sided wooden structures, with their fronts covered with mosquito netting and chicken wire. There was no electricity except for a small generator powering a fridge with beer inside. Each hut had an air-conditioning unit fitted into the wall, but none of them were connected to power.

The Alfas left to “arrange the goods.”

When they returned, they took me into the village center. Outside a small shack stood a line of perhaps 30 people. Inside there was a lamp run off a generator, a white sorting pad, a scoop, tweezers, a portable scale, even a head loupe. I set myself up.

Small parcels were brought in. They contained stones of less than a carat, two carats, five, and perhaps 10 carats at most. All were low-end alluvial goods.

By the seventh or eighth parcel, irritation was setting in. I was still waiting for the “perfect crystals” I had been promised.

Under arrest in the African bush

Then everything shifted, quite dramatically.

A large man burst into the room shouting. Even with my limited French, I understood there was a problem. We were rushed outside. Now it was fully dark, and I am talking about the kind of darkness only the bush produces. I had to keep my hand on Alfa’s shoulder to avoid losing him.

The second Alfa and our car were gone.

We were taken to a small hut. A woman opened the door, a baby at her breast, and we were told to stay inside and open for no one. Alfa suggested that if I had any cash, I should give it to him so he could “sort it out.” I declined.

Then there was banging at the door. “Police,” we heard from the other side.

Two large men in T-shirts came in and dragged us out. They marched us through the village and shoved us into a car.  As we drove into the darkness I remember thinking, very clearly – this is how a foreigner disappears in Africa. I had told no one that I was going to Tortiya. Everyone thought I was in Abidjan.

Ten or 15 minutes later, I saw a sign: “Police.” The relief was physical.

At the station stood the line of sellers I had seen earlier, along with the other Alfa and his car. The first Alfa and I were questioned, with me being interrogated through a young translator.

I was indignant, for I had checked my legal position carefully. I was told that Alfa should have registered me upon arrival. He claimed he had tried but the station had been closed. I had no way of knowing if that was true.

They asked me about what I had bought.

“Nothing,” I replied. “The goods were not of the quality or price I would pay.”

The police searched me. They found only my notebook, pages listing each parcel, the asking price, my valuation, and a large “NO” beside each one.

No money had changed hands. No stones had been purchased.

The Alfas were strip searched. I was told I would be taken back to the camp and a policeman stationed outside my hut so I would not “run away.” I laughed. I had no idea where we were and did not speak the language. Running anywhere seemed overly ambitious.

Freedom and my Belgian fixer

The next morning, the young translator suggested we see the mayor. His house was unmistakable. Outside was a new Mercedes and on the roof a large satellite dish

He listened to my story, and I understood just enough French at the right moment: “Pas de problème. Libérez-les.” I was free to go. Or so I thought.

Back at the police station, the commander, now resplendent in uniform and medals, informed us that our names had been sent to Abidjan. Until he received confirmation that we were not “wanted,” we would have to remain – two or three days perhaps.

Despondent, I walked outside and sat on a bench.

Then a car arrived. A white man stepped out, flanked by two, armed guards. Around his neck was hung a large Star of David. He spoke English. He was Belgian, working for a company I knew well in Antwerp.

I explained my situation.

“How much money do you have?” he said.

“About $2,000,” I replied.

“Wait,” he said.

The Belgian went inside, and soon after returned. “Fixed,” he said. “No problem, but there are two conditions, you give the commander a lift to Bouaké, and you leave now.”

To this day I do not know where the money went. I prefer to imagine that the Belgian kept it all. But I presume the commander received a share.

It’s the journey that counts

We drove south immediately and went straight to the airport. My flight from Abidjan routed through Ouagadougou, Niamey, and Paris. I do not remember falling asleep, only waking when we landed in France.

It had been a grueling experience, but when I thought about it, it was not particularly out of the ordinary. I had not found what I was looking for, but neither had I been cheated.

True, I was out $2,000, but that was on me. I used to joke that visitors in Africa walk around with an invisible sign above their heads that says, “I’m in a hurry.” And the remarkable thing is that only the locals can see the sign.

I had three days. A return ticket. Family waiting. Everyone else was operating on a different clock.