At the Trocadero, under the disconcertingly shabby, yellowing facade of the Palais de Chaillot, a group of demonstrators are coagulating into a clot of protest. They all have a certain monumentalism about them. Men and women alike are broad-cheeked with heavy-lidded eyes and jug heads. I suspect a tribal affinity. They’re carrying flimsy homemade placards: “Bas Gbagbo!” the slogans cry. A man hands me a flyer detailing President Gbagbo’s perfidy. As far as I can tell, he has hung on to office despite UN resolutions calling for him to step aside so that free and fair elections can be held. A large BMW comes stuttering round the roundabout and the anti-Gbagboists gather in its train. Bluey exhaust fumes lift and curl in the sparkling wine light. They head off down the Avenue Kleber towards the Arc de Triomphe.