Nestled in the heart of West Africa, Côte d’Ivoire is often celebrated for its vibrant coastal cities, lush rainforests, and economic prowess as the world’s top cocoa producer. Yet, beyond the bustling streets of Abidjan and the sprawling plantations of the south lies a lesser-known but equally fascinating landscape: the mountainous regions of the north and west. These highlands, home to ancient cultures, resilient communities, and untold stories, are now at the intersection of climate change, migration, and global economic shifts.
The mountainous terrain of western Côte d’Ivoire, particularly around Man and Touba, has long been the domain of the Dan and Wè peoples. These communities, with their intricate mask traditions and decentralized political systems, thrived in isolation for centuries. The Dan, known for their Gle mask ceremonies, used the rugged landscape as a natural fortress against invaders, while the Wè developed sophisticated agricultural terraces to cultivate yams and rice on steep slopes.
Oral histories speak of legendary leaders like Gbon Coulibaly, a Dan chief who resisted French colonization in the late 19th century by leveraging the region’s impenetrable geography. Unlike the coastal areas, which fell quickly to European forces, the mountains became a refuge for those resisting colonial rule.
The French eventually penetrated the highlands, not through military might but via economic coercion. By the 1920s, colonial administrators introduced coffee as a cash crop, transforming subsistence farms into export-oriented plantations. The cool, misty climate of the mountains proved ideal for coffee, and soon, towns like Man became hubs of colonial commerce.
But this "progress" came at a cost. Indigenous land tenure systems were dismantled, and forced labor became rampant. The mountains, once a sanctuary, became a site of exploitation. Yet, the resilience of local cultures endured. Secret societies like the Poro and Sande maintained their influence, preserving traditions beneath the surface of colonial control.
Today, the Ivorian highlands face a crisis that echoes global environmental struggles. The mountains, often called the "water towers" of West Africa, feed critical rivers like the Sassandra and Bandama. But deforestation, driven by cocoa farming and illegal logging, has disrupted rainfall patterns. Satellite data shows a 30% decline in forest cover since 1990, exacerbating droughts downstream.
In villages like Biankouma, elders speak of rivers that once never ran dry. "When I was a child, the Gouin River flowed year-round," recalls Mamadou Konaté, a local farmer. "Now, by March, it’s just rocks and dust." This scarcity fuels tensions between farmers and herders, a conflict amplified by climate-driven migration from the Sahel.
Côte d’Ivoire supplies 40% of the world’s cocoa, much of it grown in the foothills of the western mountains. Yet, this economic boon is a double-edged sword. Smallholder farmers, pressured by global chocolate conglomerates, clear forests to plant more trees, perpetuating a cycle of ecological degradation.
The human cost is staggering. A 2023 report by Mighty Earth revealed that over 1.5 million children work in Ivorian cocoa fields, many in mountainous areas where schools are scarce. "We don’t want our kids to farm cocoa forever," says Aminata Bamba, a mother of three in Danané. "But what choice do we have?"
Amid these challenges, a quiet cultural renaissance is unfolding. Annual festivals like the Fête des Masques in Man have gained international attention, drawing tourists and revitalizing local pride. Young Ivorians, disillusioned by urban unemployment, are returning to learn traditional dances and carving techniques.
"These masks aren’t just art—they’re our ancestors speaking," explains Jacques Gbogbo, a Dan artist. His workshop trains teens in ancient woodcarving methods, blending heritage with modern design. NGOs now partner with such initiatives, seeing cultural preservation as a tool for sustainable tourism.
Smartphones and solar panels are bridging the gap between isolation and opportunity. In remote villages, farmers use apps like WeFly Agri to track crop prices, while activists document land grabs on social media. "Facebook is our new Poro society," jokes Marie-Louise Yao, a youth leader in Touba. "We organize, we protest, we’re heard."
Yet, this digital leap isn’t without risks. Disinformation spreads as swiftly as empowerment, and outsiders often romanticize mountain life without grasping its complexities.
The mountains of Côte d’Ivoire stand at a crossroads. Will they become another casualty of unchecked extraction, or can they forge a path that honors both heritage and progress? The answer may lie in grassroots movements—like the Women’s Coffee Cooperatives of Man—that prioritize fair trade and reforestation.
As the world grapples with climate justice and ethical consumption, the story of these highlands offers a microcosm of larger battles. Their history of resistance, adaptation, and creativity suggests that even the most marginalized places can shape their destiny. The question is whether the global community will listen—or simply take another bite of chocolate, oblivious to the hands that grew it.