WE ARE in the cavernous entrance hall of the Hotel du Golf. Dozens of people, many in traditional African dress, sit around not doing very much. Some have been cooped up here with Alassane Ouattara for the past four months and now are waiting to go back to their towns and villages, as soon as it is safe. Others are hoping that they might be among the lucky few called to join the new president's government. Yet others are just hanging around, with nothing better to do, wanting to be where the action is. In a corner, a soldier is selling (warm) bottled drinks from a crate. There is nothing else to eat or drink.

Suddenly, the ubiquitous torpor is broken as the great man sweeps through with his guests, a delegation from the Economic Community of West African States (ECOWAS). Everyone rises to applaud him, shouting “Prési! Prési!” A slim handsome man, impeccably dressed in a well-tailored dark suit and looking far younger than his 69 years, he acknowledges their greeting with a regal wave, as befits the son of the late King of the Cong, a region in the north of Cote d'Ivoire, before disappearing to yet another meeting in the hotel. He is trying to put together a so-called “government of national unity”, including civil society representatives and members of Laurent Gbagbo's party.

The former president is no longer at the hotel, where he had first been taken after his surrender on Monday. He has been flown up to the presidential residence in the north of the country, where he is being “protected” by UN peacekeepers. But his wife, Simone, his reputed eminence grise, is said still to be here, along with dozens of Mr Gbagbo's staff and aides, captured at the time of his arrest. Most are being held in the hotel bar. Shortly after Mr Ouattara's departure, a bedraggled string of them are led out across the hall to the lavatories. Many are women. Some have recently treated wounds. They look forlorn, even somewhat dazed, but otherwise seem to be being correctly treated.

Outside, the sun beats mercilessly down in the humid air. My transport has long since left, so I hitch a lift with a couple of Republican Force soldiers in a battered army jeep. The driver, who seems a lot more professional and on the ball than most of Mr Ouattara's rag-tag army, tells me that he served for ten years in the government forces, before defecting to Mr Ouattara's lot four months ago. Though claiming to be apolitical, he says he became disgusted at Mr Gbagbo's attempt to hang on to power. “After the elections, it was the government troops that became the rebels,” he says.

The whole army has now rallied to Mr Ouattara, its generals having surrendered almost a week before Mr Gbagbo himself finally threw in the towel. Among them is General Philippe Mangou, Mr Gbagbo's former army chief of staff. He is now at the Hotel du Golf, helping put together a new united Ivorian army. Given a 63% vote for Mr Ouattara among the rank and file in government barracks in November's presidential election, the task may not prove as difficult as it might seem. In Abidjan, everyone appears to be taking their president's call for reconciliation and a ban on reprisals to heart. “The Ivorians are a peaceful people, you know,” my driver explains. But doesn't almost every African country, which has suffered violent civil conflict, claim the same thing, only to experience a further spate of revenge killings and other atrocities? One can only hope Cote d'Ivoire will prove different.

(Photo credit: AFP)