Abidjan

Abidjan surprises everyone the first time: a skyline of towers rising between lagoons — they called it the Manhattan of the tropics in the seventies and the nickname stuck because the water keeps reflecting it —, St. Paul's cathedral hoisting its concrete sail above the Plateau, and a self-assurance that made this lagoon city the cultural capital of francophone West Africa: the music, the fashion and the slang all broadcast from here.

The sensible traveller crosses the lagoon by boat at golden hour when the Plateau doubles itself in the water; visits St. Paul's for Aldo Spirito's audacity; eats in a maquis — the open-air grills that are the country's true parliament — attiéké, alloco and fish straight off the coals; hunts fabric in Treichville's market; and lets the night find its own way, because Abidjan's nightlife, from garbadrome to rooftop, negotiates with the sunrise.

The Guide's honesty: the orange taxis negotiate — agree before boarding, or app it —; French carries you far and nouchi slang earns grins; the lagoon boats are the honest shortcut past the bridges' traffic; grand-marché bargaining is expected and good-natured; and the maquis rule is universal: the fuller the plastic chairs, the better the fish. Follow the smoke.