THE SENEGALESE SWINDLER

He was tall and stylish. Eloquent and cultured. Clearly skilled at what he does. What a waste of human potential. But then this was Senegal. Dakar in 2005 to be specific. His name was Mohammed, and he was educated in France, or at least that is what he told us. It was morning time, and we had been out wandering for several minutes, looking for a place to eat breakfast, maybe something traditional.

He had walked up to us confidently on the busy, but not overcrowded, downtown street of Senegal's dusty capital, and said hello to us in English, as if he knew us well. Didn't we remember him? He had checked us in to our hotel, Hotel Cap Dakar, the previous afternoon. We didn't recall him, but then we hadn't paid particularly close attention to whomever had. In retrospect, that was clearly what he had been counting on, and I believe he proceeded to make some sort of joke about the Senegalese all looking the same, in order to lessen our sense of embarrassment at not remembering him.. He did have the professional look, well-dressed in a traditional kaftan and kufi cap with fashionable sunglasses, and manner that one would expect of the desk staff at our mid-range hotel, which he had correctly named. Of course, knowing such would only require his having seen us walk out of it, and discreetly following us unseen around a couple of blocks for a few minutes before feigning the random encounter. He was probably aged about 40, and was clearly well educated, speaking fluent English, a rarity in the prior French colony.

After some small talk, he asked if we had eaten breakfast, and given that it was his day off, wondered if we'd be willing to let him take us somewhere to eat breakfast like a local. Exactly what we wanted! We ended up at a nearby small street-side stall , sitting on stools, the only tourists with several other locals, all of whom were more typically clad in old sports fan gear. Coffee, baguette and a very tasty breakfast pastry with some sort of sweet condensed milk was served. We talked about Senegal and its current impoverished state, and the difficulty finding high-quality jobs, accounting for his position at the hotel. He insisted on paying, stating that we were his guests. Given the simplicity of the setting and meal, I didn't persist in arguing, knowing that it must have been quite cheap.

After getting up and starting to head back towards the hotel, Mohammed then said that he had something special to tell us- today was a very special day for him! His wife had just given birth to his first daughter, and there was to be a celebration commemorating it at his nearby house that evening! He very much hoped that we would be willing to attend. He and his wife would consider it to be both an honour and a good omen for his daughter's future to have Westerners present. He would leave directions for us at the hotel later [this was, of course, in the days before smart phones and Google maps]. We couldn't believe our luck- of course we'd be thrilled to attend!

Mohammed then added that it was also a Senegalese tradition for the father to give away a small gift to a stranger on that day, also as a good omen, and he produced a small, tear-shaped, gold-coloured, piece of crinkled metal, a nugget, insisting that we accept it. At this point, we both began feeling uncomfortable, and unsure about where things were heading, however he had been so nice to us so far that morning, and already invested a lot of time in us. We didn't want to insult him, especially if all that he was telling us was indeed true. He seemed very genuine. We tried to refuse, stating that this was too much, especially if it was real gold. He confirmed to us it was, however the importance of the occasion and tradition required and justified it. Increasingly uncomfortable, we continued to try to say "no", but after a couple of minutes felt obligated to give in and accept, thanking him for his generosity and kindness.

Right after we gave in, Mohammed then proceeded to state that it was also part of the birth tradition for the stranger to give something back to the father in return. At this point, our alarm bells were really going off quite loudly, however it would be rude and difficult to stop here, and/or try to give the nugget back to him. We were unsure of how to proceed. Sensing, and doubtlessly expecting, this, Mohammed took charge, and suggested that one common reciprocation was for the stranger to buy a sack of rice for the feast. Most things in Senegal were dirt cheap, so we agreed to his proposal, rationalizing that even if we were being scammed, how much could a bag of rice possibly cost? Once we had agreed to the transaction, he offered to save us time by doing the actual purchasing for us on his own if we were willing to give him the necessary cash, further increasing our suspicions. So I decided to insist on the full experience, partly with the rationale of dragging his effort out as long as possible should it indeed still just be an elaborate ruse. So he took us to a nearby covered market. Mostly vegetables and other foods, and an interesting outing in itself. The first rice vendor Mohammed spoke to did not agree to whatever he had in mind, but the second did. Was he in on it? Was their discussion regarding how much the true price should be inflated? Were the vendors at minimum aware that we were being scammed? We don't know. But regardless, minutes later we were walking out with a very large bag of rice for which I'd paid the equivalent of $30 dollars. I insisted that Jiak Chin take a picture of me holding it, before surrendering it to him. Regardless of our beliefs at that moment, there is a large smile on my face in the picture, and we were clearly having fun. We parted ways amicably, with us expecting to join him later at his house for the celebratory feast.

Maybe we should have left things at that. Although skepticism was present, we both felt that we had just had an amazing, genuine, cultural experience. Unarranged, and therefore one that tourist money could not buy, for the paltry sum of $30. Could we really have been given a gold nugget or even just a gold-surfaced nugget, potentially worth a lot more, as the lucky beneficiaries of an important traditional ritual show of generosity? However we both felt the need to know, so we went into a jeweler's shop and presented our specimen to him, without telling him the story. We were disappointed, but not really surprised, when he told us it was worthless.

Our plans for the afternoon were to take the 3km ferry across the harbour to Goree Island, with its infamous "House of Slaves" and "Door of No Return", ostensibly the departure site, and pre-departure horrific holding site, for much of the cross-Atlantic slave trade, with Dakar being the most westerly point of Africa. Understandably, embarrassment over the strange events of the morning were occupying my head on the ride over. Suddenly I realized a much more ominous possibility. Could the morning's activities have only been part one of Mohammed's sinister plan for us? At this point we no longer believed he worked at our hotel, but he clearly knew which hotel that was, and we also probably had mentioned to him our plans to be out for the afternoon. He knew our names, and knew us, and our plans, well enough that he may somehow have been able to convince a less sophisticated member of the staff that we had instructed him to collect our bags for us for onward travel. Unwisely, we had not yet spoken to anyone at the hotel about what had happened, and again this was before cellphones were in wide use, especially for overseas use. We decided to go through with the planned sightseeing, rather than forego it in favour of the next ferry back, however our enjoyment of the afternoon was gone, with our minds full of worry.

On getting back to the hotel, we confirmed that indeed no one named Mohammed worked there, Fortunately, however, there also had not been anyone who came by trying to get at our stuff. I think a little part of both of us were still hoping that there was at least some truth to the birth / feast part of the story, and that it was only the nugget which was a complete fake, however there was also no attempt to inform us of any location for a party. Too bad, it would have been fun, and it certainly was nice to believe that such a wonderful travel story could have been real.

Looking back at things later, a couple of ironies came to mind. First, was how sad Mohammed's, or whatever his real name was's, life situation must have been. Here was a sophisticated, smart, cultured, multi-lingual superficially-nice guy, who, presumably due to the economic woes of his country, had no work good enough available to him, to give him something better to do then use his education to scam tourists. And even at that, well over an hour's work for just $30, less the marginal cost of breakfast, a large bag of rice, presuming the spoils were all his alone. Second, from our perspective, although we felt embarrassed and cheated, we had still ended up with a great travel story, one which has paid dividends in the retelling for many years, for only $30, barely the entry cost to a good museum for two in Europe. Of course, it wasn't the one of genuine human warmth that we initially thought it was. There is a recording of West African music that I often listen to which includes the French line "Je suis hereux de vivire pres de toi, jusqu'à la fin du mon heure"- "I am happy to live next to you, until the end of my time"- the bullshit of the sentiment, as it seems to be referring to a non-romantic relationship, always brings Mohammed to mind when I hear it. Furthermore, maybe, had we not gone in to confirm our suspicions with the jeweler, we could have convinced ourselves that Mohammed had somehow forgotten or not had time to get his house's address to us, and we could have gone on believing the fairytale version. Jiak Chin just told me that, as I expected, she still has the nugget somewhere.

We have always been very careful not to get taken when travelling, so the Senegalese Swindler remains prominent in our minds. I can only think of one other episode that is somewhat similar, and it actually occurred later that same year when we were in Beijing, trying to visit Chairman Mao's mausoleum in Tiananmen Square. There were lots of lines, and how and where to line up was not very clear. While standing in one, a stockly but mildly intellectually-challenged-appearing young adult Chinese male local came up to us, seeming to inform us that we needed to buy tickets in another line halfway across the square before getting into the entrance line, which we were in. No worries, however, he would take me to buy the tickets while JC would hold our place in the entrance line. His enthusiasm was overflowing so we ran to the purchase line, and then, with the tickets, started running back. He reached out to hold my hand, and, although not generally my style, given his character I let him hold it as we ran. Then he made a slight, but obviously well-practiced, deviation towards me in his course, resulting in my shoe landing on his as he was about to lift it again off the ground. He then showed me that his old leather shoe was now ripped. Although I instantly recognized this as a set up, with his shoe presumably having been ripped long before, his compensatory monetary demands were quite small- maybe the equivalent of $10 or at most $20, so I decided to just give it to him, and again part amicably with a new story, one objectively well worth the cost.

So that's it, hopefully we will remain mostly swindle-free in our travels. If only the many virtual, but technically legal, scams that the governments and large corporations pull on us all the time were as cheap! We are flying as I type this, so Air Canada, who screwed me out of over $500 worth of air miles via an unannounced rule change several years back, and are about to screw many more even worse with likely another short-notice strike and flight cancellations to start this weekend, comes rapidly to mind.

-Stu [Aug 2025]

notes:

A. the name of our hotel is fictionalized, as I can't remember its real name so many years later. Maybe I should ask Mohammed if he remembers!

B. JC remembers part of the story differently- she recalls that we told Mohammed that we couldn't attend the feast as we would be travelling on to St. Louis, Senegal's second largest city 4 hours north after getting back from the Island. Her version would be in keeping with greater anxieties over our bags, as they would have been kept just behind the desk while we were out for the morning, lending credence to a potential thief's claims, as well as the lack of any photos taken between the House of Slaves island, and arrival in St. Louis.