Today, someone tried to scam me.
It was more amusing than anything else, honestly. I was trying to catch a cab in tourist central of Dakar — someone please tell me why the Place de l’Indépendance is where tourists seem to congregate here? It’s probably the most boring place in the entire city. The only reason I was there was for an interview.
The Place de l’Indépendance is a big rectangular square, that commemorates, you guessed it, Senegal’s independence from France. From what I can tell, the only Senegalese who come through here tend to be somewhat upscale business types (there’s a bunch of government buildings that ring the plaza, along with major airline offices and banks), but also probably the scammiest of scammers. If you’re a foreigner and you don’t have a particular reason to be here (like you’re going to change your ticket at the Royal Air Maroc office) or whatever, then I can’t exactly see why this is a particular tourist destination? Is it the hotels that are nearby? Or maybe the majority of French tourists that come through here stick out like a spot of bleach on a dark shirt — what with their fanny packs, cameras around their necks, and shorts! Yes, you’re on vacation, and yes it is 80 degrees outside, but do you ever see Senegalese people wearing shorts, unless they’re at the beach? Nope. Sandals always, but shorts? Never.
In any case, I’d stepped out into the street to get a cab, walking past a man selling kitschy African wood carvings. I’d tried to negotiate with no less than four cabs, all of whom wanted nearly triple the normal price to get where I was going. Bah, this wasn’t going anywhere, so I walked to the nearest end of the plaza to throw away the platic bag that contained my “sow” (creamy yogurt street drink) that I’d bought a few minutes earlier. (Damn, for my money, that’s the best way to spend $0.20 anywhere in the world.)
A 20-something Senegalese guy came up to me to shake my hand (not entirely uncommon, particularly given that the national virtue is hospitality — I’m not kidding, the national soccer team is known as The Lions of Hospitality) and greeted me with a smile.
“Hey, mon ami!” (Hey, my friend!)
I hate these guys. They really give their country a bad name and make well-meaning foreigners like me clam up whilst in their presence. I tried to laser-eye him with as much contempt as possible.
“Ca va?” (How you doin’?)
“Ca va, merci.” (I’m fine, thank you.)
“T’étais où, toi?” (Where have you been?)
I threw him another blank stare, and I withdrew my handshake.
“Tu ne te souviens pas de moi? On s’est vu le jour de ton arrivée.” (You don’t remember me? We met on the day you got here.)
I’m 100 percent sure that I’ve never seen this guy in my life.
“Et alors, c’était quand le jour de mon arrivée?” (Ok, so when did I get here?)
“Um . . . uh . . . c’était bien dimanche.” (Um . . . uh . . . it was Sunday.)
I looked him directly in the eye.
“Je n’étais pas là dimanche.” (I wasn’t here on Sunday.)
Busted.
I kept walking, and by the next block I’d found a cab that was willing to give me a reasonable fare.
