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The Scams
of Dakar
 Author:
Sean Rorrison
Posted: 2 July, 2003
"I will eat you
alive."
The young Japanese tourist
stared at me helplessly as the customs guard grinned and said something
that I didn't understand. I would have helped him had I understood
at all what in the hell he was saying, but I didn't. In Dakar, tourists
are separated and fleeced in an ever so friendly way. This is not
like other African megalopolises I have visited, indeed there is
a civility to the fleecing, but a fleecing is a fleecing whether
you're smiling or crying after it.
Out into the glaring
crowds. A few police to keep the order, and a throng of black men
in brown striped shirts surrounded me and started in; the game had
begun. I was expecting this, said no thank you, I'm fine, please
go away. Which they did, for awhile. Yet one guy stuck around, hung
around me while I stood behind a cordon in a line of Senegalese
waiting to change money. It was there that he pulled out a very
official looking card that stated he worked for the airport as an
information guide, which I assumed was a good thing. Hangers-on
usually don't have fake IDs, and I usually trust my instinct these
days. He must work for the airport then - that means I should be
able to trust him, marginally.
Of course, I had never
been to Senegal. After my money changing he was still there, waiting.
Of course, this should have been in a sign, but when dealing with
scammers you rarely get the time to really ponder all of the signals;
you need to act, and act quickly. I hesitated for a moment and then
followed him out into the night, where he found me a taxi. Good,
I thought. Things took a turn for the worse when he hopped in the
back.
I knew that wasn't right
- that told me immediately he was a scammer of some sort, and I
opened the door in the moving taxi and motioned to get out - in
most countries that I've done this, it's enough of a drastic action
that the taxi driver will slow down and things will be renegotiated.
Yet here, the scammer kept yelling at the taxi driver to keep moving;
this wasn't a robbery, I knew that much, but I wasn't particularly
interested in handing this guy any money.
Conversation ensued.
I told him I didn't need him to go to my hotel with me, and didn't
need him at all. He agreed he'd just leave a few kilometers away
from the airport. Indeed, he did, but not after a raging argument
with me about money, and how much of it he should get.
These guys are aggressive.
Far more aggressive than the last rip-off artists I had to deal
with, in Armenia, two months ago. He demanded 3000 CFA(about 5 Euros)
for his time, which I flatly refused, and began arguing politely
back. As a Canadian, my mild-manneredness is both a blessing and
a curse. It helps me diffuse a lot of otherwise intense situations
by responding with a very quiet voice, and that often leaves people
looking for a reason to pound me into the ground very confused as
to what to do - he's harmless, why touch him? Yet this guy knew
he was in the wrong, and he knew the louder he yelled and the more
he cut me off when I tried to say something, the faster I would
just try to get rid of him with money. On the other hand, I'm rarely
blunt enough to get rid of people quickly, and try to work my way
out of these situations with as little bad blood as possible between
me and the opposition.
I tried arguing; but
a tactic I would discover more and more in Senegal was being cut
off when I tried to explain things, reason the price out, discuss
why things shouldn't be the way they demanded. They would just simply
cut me off and repeat their last statement: "I helped you,
you give me 2000 CFA!"
"but you---"
"I helped you, you
give me 2000 CFA!"
"you didn't---"
"You give me 2000
CFA!"
And then I try another
approach, which is what he wants, and the disjointed argument continues
-
"I'll give you 1000
CFAs."
"1500! I helped
you!"
"no, 1000."
"1500! I helped
you!"
"Fine. 1500."
I had been duped by his
fake ID. After all of my travelling, I can still get scammed. Really,
I don't think any amount of travelling is ever enough to protect
oneself against all scammers - you can create flat out policies
of never dealing with the locals, but that is stupid since you're
probably travelling to get to know the locals in the first place.
Yet, I've met travellers like that - aggressive, belligerent, mean,
all of these things can bite you in the ass later on. I'm not a
super-cheap traveller, I don't mind reimbursing people who help
me. But slimy scammers get on my nerves.
I finally got to my hotel
and the squalid room was a ridiculous € 24; Dakar is, in fact,
one of Africa's most expensive cities. No budget accommodation,
no value for money whatsoever. I had only arrived here since a visa
for Mauritania seemed like a real hassle to get back in Canada and
thought a day or two in Dakar wouldn't be too bad an idea, I'd see
one of the continent's major cities and it has good flight connections
back to Europe, much easier to get in and out from here than Nouakchott
which is only served by Air France three times a week, when the
airport isn't closed as a result of the coup attempt. I entertained
the idea of heading out to see Dakar's legendary nightlife that
night, but my fatigue got the best of me and I just plain passed
out before I could figure out where to go.
Sunday morning; I've
been travelling without a watch for about 4 months now and have
found the experience interesting. I don't know what time it is,
just that it's light out and something must be open. I was wrong
- Dakar is absolutely empty on a Sunday, all day - from the travel
agencies, to restaurants, to supermarkets, to the banks; this is
especially strange for a country that is 80% Muslim, yet the Catholic
minority exercises enough power that shops must honour this requirement
to be closed not only on Friday but also on Sunday. Productivity
is not one of Senegal's strong points. So out I went, wandering
around.
A few people chatted
to me, interchangeably in English and French; I was wandering around
aimlessly, looking for anything that was open, anything worth seeing;
the Place de L'independence is hopelessly dull, the president's
mansion has one sole guard in front of it in ceremonial costume,
and the streets are empty. In most cases, when in a city with scammers
lurking, I'll duck into a shop or restaurant to lose them. But this
was not possible in Dakar on a Sunday - there was just nothing open.
There was nowhere to be but out on the street, in plain view, with
the scammers on the prowl.
I had been ready for
this - indeed, the tactics used in Dakar would have to be good for
me to be fooled. And guess what - they were good.
"Ah, you know me
- I'm from your hotel," the man stated, smiling softly; he
didn't look familiar, but hey, last night was a blur from my jet-lagged
self and it may have very well been possible. He said he was heading
home from work, and we walked together talking about Senegal, Canada,
and he took me to some tourist sites, around in a circle as I had
meant to walk anyway; so, there was little reason to part ways.
Had he tried to tug me in a direction different from that which
I was going, again, I wouldn't have gone. But ah, he is an adept
at these sorts of things; mild manneredness simply did not cut it
when dealing with individuals like this.
Again we walked, and
headed toward the largest market in town. It was slightly bustling,
but not very; we walked amongst empty stalls, he greeted one large
fellow whom shook both our hands. It all seemed to stem from large
African friendliness. Indeed, these men seemed harmless, the entire
place a harmless third world atmosphere. I asked him if he wanted
money; I was up front that his help was not necessary, and I would
not be reimbursing him for showing me around. "Ah, all I want
from you is a postcard," he said, smiling. Throughout our encounter
he would highlight that fact, and that relieved me. A verbal tranquilizer,
and I only realize it now. Few beggars, few touts; he walked with
me, and eventually, predictably, led me to a fabrics shop.
Inside it was quite impressive,
and I pretended to be interested, just to be nice. They said they
were funded by UNESCO and some other projects to keep these people
employed. Another fellow led me around, showing me all manner of
crap with typical West African patterns, puffy backpack bags and
small hand pockets, shirts, and traditional clothing. Anything that
sort of caught my interest, they set aside. Then we went across
the street and began to negotiate a price.
This shit wasn't cheap.
Unlike other African textiles I had bought over the years, these
prices were high. I didn't have much cash on me to begin with, after
all, I was intending to do an afternoon of street wandering. He
wanted something like 50,000 CFAs for the whole lot of stuff that
I did not even want; I notched my assertiveness up a notch and told
them I only wanted the small pocket bag; he wanted 15,000 CFAs for
it, which I told him was ridiculous. I eventually got him down to
5000 CFAs, about € 8.3, and ended it at that. The shop owner
stormed away, clearly disappointed. I smiled; these people take
me for yet another typical tourist, which I am not.
But in other ways, I
am. The fellow whom I met on the street continued his wandering
with me, and invited me into a bare African bar. Another fellow
from the clothing shop had joined us on our street walk, me flanked
by these two touts. Yet their demeanour was not as such; they were
trustworthy, calm, and not persistent. A huge difference from the
tout I had to deal with back at the airport, these seemed much more
the type of Africans who are just friendly and curious about foreigners
in their town than the ones out to fleece me. So I played along.
Sitting down at the bar,
some fellow approached us, and he handed me a small wad of paper;
I felt a lump in it. He smiled and said "here is my gift to
you! I have had my first child, after five years of marriage. It
is customary in Islam for a man to give a gift to the first stranger
he sees, based on his profession."
My first thought was
that he had handed me a small wad of drugs and was colluding with
the police to get me arrested; he picked the wad of paper back up,
opened it, and staring back at me was a glistening lump of solid
gold.
Of course, my first thought
after that was that it must be fake; yet I consider myself reasonably
knowledgeable as to what real gold looks like, as opposed to fake
gold, painted gold, brass, yellow metal, and so on. This looked
real. I also considered where we were, in Africa, and it is far
more likely to be real gold simply since Africa's resources are
based more on pure original metals than fake ones.
We chatted for awhile
about Senegal and Canada, exchanged addresses. The other two showed
me some traditional Senegalese toasting methods, and it all seemed
like a very typical meeting between tourist and African lower class
urbanites. He said that tomorrow he would be having a celebration
that would go on all day for the new baby, with hundreds of people
to come wish the new child well, and he would name the child then.
He then invited me to the ceremony - perhaps, knowing full well,
that if I'm a tourist and want to experience the culture, what else
would I say? I could show up for a small period of time, I offered.
Being goaded by the other
two men, who told me this was a very special gift, I began to become
quite convinced. The object looked real, the man who handed it to
me seemed real. The two other men, one of which worked at the shop
and I automatically assumed wasn't a scammer, looked real. It was
all very convincing; so when the man who handed me the gift got
up to visit the washroom, and the original man I had met on the
street began to tell me that I should give him some sort of financial
recompense to help with the celebration tomorrow to celebrate the
birth of his child, I felt obliged to help. Help being the operative
word; not a gift, not a scam, not buying anything; I was helping
this man with his celebration, since knowing that families here
are poor but must perform their traditions as required, regardless
of the cost. All of this made sense to me, and most importantly,
did not at all seem like a scam.
He told me that I should
give the other man about 30 or 50 thousand CFAs to help him buy
food, like a bag of rice, to help out with the celebration. The
other man came back; this was where I could find out for sure if
these people were scamming me. Indeed, the other man came back and
looked at me expectantly; perhaps this should have been enough,
and it is all and well for me to sit and write this now, looking
back on it; yet then, his look seemed expectant of someone mild
mannered like myself. The first man, who told me that I should compensate
him, said to him, "so I believe this man has a gift for you."
I told them that sorry,
I was out of money. After all, I had bought that little pouch for
5000 CFAs and being too smart to wander around with too much money
on me, was now officially broke. All three of them looked quite
shocked, and also quite sad. I read the mood, and they definitely
seemed disappointed.
The operative word here
is disappointed. Had they seemed angry, aggressive, confused, or
concerned that the situation was out of their control, I would have
known right away. Before Senegal, my experience with scammers was
always that they will become aggressive or frustrated if the situation
seems to be unfolding out of their control. Yet they seemed real;
so I offered up the next possible step, that I would go back to
my hotel and get some money for them. They liked that idea. We hopped
in a cab together, I told him the name of my hotel(ah, retrospect….
I should have had the first man I encountered name the hotel….
Hindsight is always 20/20 as they say), and we drove there. "We
are waiting," the original man said.
Being quite convinced
of the situation now, I handed over 20,000 CFAs, about € 34;
lower than what he had suggested, but too bad for them; I knew the
price of money and that was a sizeable donation already. Also, if
the wad of gold he had given me was real, that was still a great
deal for an ounce of real gold. Of course, they never actually -said-
it was gold, or anything, other than jewelry. In that they are right;
I have yet to do any testing of the metal. And at this point, what
difference does it make? I'll put it in my travel treasure box;
there's a story behind it, that should be enough.
I handed over the 45000
CFA notes and immediately saw him tuck one aside for himself, and
hand the rest to the other guy. I didn't seem to mind that he was
taking a cut for himself, after all he had spent the morning with
me showing me around.
And, that was that. I
agreed to meet them all at 10am the following day for the celebration,
as they called it, and went back into my hotel room. But not before
being hit up by a young fellow from Guinea, who showed me his passport,
his pictures of his drums, and told me he just wanted to visit and
chat at his shop just around the way. That seemed odd, since I told
him I wasn't going to buy anything anyway. I suppose he assumed
that I might change my mind if I would just go there, but for me,
I wasn't having it. I thanked him but told him I had work to do
in my hotel room.
I felt good about the
situation; I thought, also, that I was out too early and the travel
agencies might open up later in the day. They didn't. But on my
second foray out of the hotel, a larger man started walking with
me, chatting. He seemed friendly, more real; he seemed concerned,
interested, spoke reasonably good French but often I had trouble
understanding him because of his accent.
Indeed, as an aside,
the French accents in Africa are hard for someone not fluent with
the language. He asked me once, "TeeVee Espagne?" to which
I responded no, I didn't watch TV while in Spain. He repeated: "TeeVee
Espagne?" and I looked at him, confused. Finally, in his broken
English, he said "You - live - Espagne?"
Ahhhh - he was asking
"Tu habites Espagne?", though, it didn't sound like that
at all. Also, the Mauritanian consular officer asked me twice, "KanTee
ParTee?", and I just stared at him. Finally he said "WHEN
- you leave?" Ohhhh --- "Quand tu partis?" Sheesh.
I would have never figured that out.
Anyways, this guy seemed
real. He also said he knew a lot about Mauritania, and I told him
that I might be going there; after I sorted out some info about
plane tickets to Sierra Leone and Liberia. We sat in a taxi, and
he pulled out of his pouch some letters and pictures from other
tourists. He was a guide.
We spent the better part
of the afternoon sitting around, him and his friend who spoke very
good English, chatting about guiding and whether or not I needed
one. His English speaking friend was definitely smarter than him,
and more calm; my schedule wasn't set, but their prices seemed reasonable.
20,000CFAs for two people, including his own food, accommodation,
and transport, and it seemed agreeable. I agreed to meet him tomorrow
and chat about the thing a bit more. Also that afternoon both of
them told me that I was indeed the victim of a scam about the celebration,
and it would be best not to go through with it as certainly they
were just setting me up to extract more money. I had my suspicions,
and actually hesitated of telling these two guys about the thing,
as I was expecting them in fact to tell me that I had been duped.
Perhaps I just wanted to stay comfortable in my bliss that Africans
actually wanted to be kind to me here. Silly me.
I was not very keen on
a guide, but if the price was right I knew he could draw me in closer
to African culture than otherwise. As a white man, you are always
on the outside looking in on these situations; with him, it would
be easier to hang out in typical places and get the African experience.
It would be less an anthropological trip and more of an interaction
with the real local culture.
The following morning
I left early to find out if the travel agencies were open; they
weren't, and had they been I would have never seen the guy again.
As I left the hotel the man who I had met on the street first the
day before, followed me and told me that he was there to make sure
that I would be at the celebration, to which I smiled cynically
and said "you bet I will be," and told him I had other
things to do first, so I was off the hook. He was trying to walk
with me, but I went determinedly in a different direction and he,
trying not to look too obvious, let me go.
So back around to the
hotel I went, and there he was, waiting; my guide, that is. I was
suggesting to him that perhaps he could go with me to the celebration,
he was a big guy so perhaps a little violence could ensue and I
could get my money back. He suggested against it, despite my best
efforts.
As for him, if the price
had not been reasonable I would not have gone through with it. I
was also trying to scare him, make him hesitate, as those sorts
of things bring these scammers out of their usual zone of control
and into my own zone where I see them for who they really are, and
not the effrontery, the mask that they bear for the foreigners they
aim to deceive. He sat beside me in the travel agency as I inquired
about prices to Freetown and Monrovia; I had thought that people
in West African countries would be well aware of the situation in
Liberia, but he proved me wrong. He was blissfully unaware of the
problems, merely suggesting something under his breath about "la
guerre, la combate", but otherwise he was still interested
in pursuing a journey with me. So off we went to the Mauritanian
consulate so I could secure a visa.
The consular officer
was bumbling around somewhere far from his desk so the guide helped
me find him. I filled out an application, handed him some photos,
and he spoke to me in broken French. Then on a calculator he punched
in the amount I needed to pay for the visa: 33,500 CFAs. That seemed
pretty damned high, since my 5 year old guidebook put the price
at only 4000, but I suppose it's possible. At any rate, how can
I argue with him? Can you bargain with consular officers? If I was
being ripped off, is there any way for me to know?
The visa would be ready
at 2pm. So, we went back to the guide's house. He seemed happy with
the situation, but I still had some reservations. First, 20,000
CFAs seemed quite high for the region, even for two people. Second,
I had told them I would be journeying for 10 days when in fact I
was only going to be there for 7 days. So when he asked me again
if all was well, I told him yes, 105,000 CFAs was fine for a week.
He got angry - 150,000 was what he wanted, and that was that. I
told him that seven days at 15,000 CFAs was 105,000, and not 150,000.
He told me to wait, as his English speaking friend would be getting
back soon.
When he did, we spent
two hours renegotiating the price. At one point, almost relieved,
I had them finally accepting that my budget could not include a
guide. And I could leave on amicable terms with these two. Yet somehow
he figured in that it would be enough; I told him I did not want
someone else dictating my eating habits, and I would pay my own
way for food. So 7 days at 12,000 CFAs, I said. "Is that enough
for two people, and enough for him to save money each day?"
I asked.
"Yes, that is enough,"
he said calmly. Ah, good. On top of that he would get 15,000 CFAs
as a financial gift as well. I would give him 50,000 CFAs now, and
50,000 later, in Nouakchott. It sounded good to me, and we agreed.
Certainly both of these
people were concerned about the scamming that went on in Dakar.
They tried their best to present themselves as genuine businessmen,
as knowing how the western business mind works. You present a product,
offer a price, and that is open for negotiation. Once the deal is
agreed, you can't change the price. If something comes up along
the way, then it is the merchant's problem to fix and not the customer's.
The guide was, indeed,
helpful. Everything he did I could have done myself, but it was
fun to hang out with him, and he knew his stuff reasonably well.
He enriched my journey, and although unnecessary, his help was welcome.
Not once after our agreeing on the price did we have a dispute,
and I treated him to several beers and cokes over the course of
5 days. Even upon our arrival in Nouakchott, after I handed him
the other 50,000 CFAs, did he not ditch me, as I was half expecting.
He was usually concerned for my well being, although this diminished
upon our rearrival in Senegal.
In retrospect - again
- perhaps he was a little out of his element in Mauritania. He said
he knew the place, and he had many Senegalese friends who worked
in Nouakchott and we hung out with them, but he was well within
his stomping grounds in Senegal. Touts couldn't even get near me
in Mauritania or Senegal, but upon our rearrival in the Senegalese
border town of Rosso his attitude had changed. This was day 5.
Touts were indeed hassling
me, and he was more interested in his cigarettes. We went to the
same tea house as we did on our first time here, and he had given
me 10,000 CFAs as I needed 1000 to pay the police to stamp my passport(now…..
was that a bribe? It seemed odd to me, at least); he disappeared
for a few minutes to change the 20 US dollars I had given him in
return for the CFAs. He came back with a 10,000 CFA note and a somber
look.
Earlier, in Nouakchott,
we had agreed that since he wanted to buy a rug there that I would
give him 25,000 CFAs in Saint Louis when we got there and he would
reimburse me when we returned to Dakar. So he had bought the rug,
and now he was showing me the 10,000 CFA note and telling me that
it was all that was left of the 100,000 CFAs that I had given him.
Not only did he want
the 25,000 we had agreed upon, he also wanted 40,000 more for food
and for "mes petites jeunes, ma famille" back home in
Dakar, so they could eat. I acted shocked at all of this - first
of all, we had agreed on 100,000, basing that on hours of negotiation
and constant questioning of whether it was enough. And not only
was it supposed to be enough for 7 days, but it should have left
him with 15,000 at the end for himself. Yet now here he was, telling
me that he had blown it all, and he wanted more.
I tried several tactics
to get to the bottom of his motives. He had been generally good
to me, but now he was back at square one in the trust department
with me. I asked him where it all went - the hotel in Nouakchott
was more expensive than he had anticipated, he told me, and he needed
to spend more on that. I found that odd as we had slept on squalid
mattresses in a communal room for Senegalese shift workers - how
could that possibly cost more than he anticipated?
Just as with the tout,
when I offered an alternative, he would cut me off and repeat what
he said last. "Quarante mille CFA!" he persisted. So after
those, I had to pause. He tacked on the fact that I should think
of his hungry kids - so I paused and thought. To diffuse these situations,
as always, I slowed the conversation down. To speed them up adds
emotion, gets him worked up, and since he was a bigger and louder
person than me only the reverse could work. So I took long pauses
between when he said something and I did - I acted shocked that
this had happened. However, I did not get angry.
Getting angry did cross
my mind. I've learned to apply and remove emotion as necessary,
to get through these situations. However, I have been angry in Africa
before and it has never provided a positive outcome. A waitress
came over with some Senegalese tea, which I had been drinking incessantly
for a week, and I refused it.
I told him that the 10,000
CFAs was all I had as well; there was nothing left. We had already
been through this in Nouakchott, since I told him the same thing
there when he asked if I could forward him some money in Saint Louis
since he would not have enough if he bought that rug in Mauritania.
I told him I would, but he would also have to reimburse me for the
5 dollars' service fee that the card company charges.
So again, he told me
I would have to use my card to get all this money. To him, and often
to many Africans, there is no time but the Present; the past is
gone, the future does not yet exist. All he knows is that I can
walk into that little room, put in my plastic card, punch in a secret
code and voila! Instant money! Shower him and his family with unfathomable
gifts! Never mind that I will have to pay it later, or that it would
mess up my finances for this year's later trips, to him this did
not matter. My welfare did not matter; or at least, not as much
as his own. After all, I can always get more money, but what about
him?
There was no way he was
getting an extra 40,000 out of me; even if he had in fact blown
all of the money, and his body language and facial expression did
seem real, that simply showed me that he was ultimately an incompetent
guide and I should have nothing to do with him from now on anyway.
Yet I need to consider
this as well - if I stormed out of this empty restaurant, perhaps
he had set something up. He greeted many people when we first passed
through here, and it was quite possible he had set up some sort
of trap that I would get robbed with force if I refused to provide
the extra cash.
So, considering that,
I asked him what time it was. 4:30pm. I asked him if it was possible
to get back to Dakar by the evening. "Oui, mais ou est-ce que
tu dormir?" he asked. Where would I sleep, he wanted to know
- nowhere, I told him, I'd take a flight out.
With my tickets, there
is no such thing as a change penalty. Africans(and most people in
general) think that plane tickets are rigid things that cost a chunk
of money to be changed. Not in my world - I use this to my advantage,
since I can skip town at a moment's notice if I feel like it. Or
to get myself out of spending another 24 euros on a shitty hotel
room.
"Allons a Dakar,"
I told him. He began to sip his tea, and get ready. I just picked
up my bag and walked briskly out of the tea house, never looking
back. Okay, I looked back once, about 75 metres later, and saw him
slowly heading toward me. Another young fellow asked me where I
wanted to go, and I said Dakar - he pointed to the Peugeot by the
gas station. I hopped in - there wasn't room for him. The car full,
I was worried about letting my bag sit in the back, but a girl smiled
and said that it's okay. I paid the 5500 CFAs to get back to Dakar.
The kid sitting beside
me on the long taxi ride asked where I would be going in Dakar;
I said the airport. He nudged me when it was time to go, I found
a taxi driver and a reasonable price to the airport. The kid hopped
in the back.
"Tu vas ou?"
I asked him, inquisitively.
Only a few blocks along
your way, he said. That sort of gift I can handle - after all, he
helped me find the closest place for the shared taxi to stop so
I could get to the airport, and in return he wanted to get dropped
off about 2 kilometres away. A modest gift like that for a modest
bit of help I can handle.
But so often in Africa
the people there want everything from the white man - it's never
a dollar or two, it's a hundred dollars or two. It's never a small
favour, it's references and a plane ticket to Europe. It's always
the world, and they always seem to get angry when you don't give
them the world. I am always ready to help out these people with
modest requests, but rarely are the requests modest - and I am just
left with them being angry at me since I don't meet their ridiculous
demands.
However, I left Senegal
reasonably unscathed. The four flights back to Europe that evening
were populated by hundreds of people with their Senegalese guides
helping them check in and fill out their paperwork, Europeans sporting
those African backpacks and clothes, one guy who bought two dozen
wikker pots and needed each of them wrapped individually. Twenty-something
tourists carrying around Senegalese musical instruments and wearing
full length West African clothes; the whole check-in area was awash
with people who were far happier than I, and had spent far more
money than I.
Dakar is not a bad city;
but I can recommend many other African cities which have better
food, cheaper and nicer accommodation, and friendlier people. Being
the only country in West Africa that a Canadian can get into without
a visa, it was an obvious first entry point for me. But in the future,
the hassles of being there far outweigh the hassles of me getting
a visa back home.
So long, Dakar - I won't
be back. But there are plenty more from where I came from.
Author: Sean Rorrison
Contact: sarchives@lycos.com
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