If Africa is the cradle of civilization, as some experts claim, then Senegal is the inventor of the hustle. It’s everywhere here, from the cabbies who quote me a price three times the going rate, to the shop girls who charge me $6 for a $3 bottle of shampoo.
“You can’t let it get to you,” a friend from the Ivory Coast told me. “Otherwise, you’ll be angry all the time,” he said. “Senegal will age you.”
This seems to be the standard advice: Don’t let it get to you. I learned to bargain quickly—to insist on the right price from cab drivers and storeowners. I ask Senegalese friends the price of everything before I go to the market, that way I know what I should be charged.
On a recent weekend, I went with friends to the HLM market, a section of town that supplies the beautifully printed fabrics women wear here. I had asked a tailor friend for the prices, and she gave me a tutorial on the three tiers of fabric and how much six yards of each quality should cost.
My friends and I arrived on a rainy Sunday morning. Most of the stalls were still closed. We picked through the muddy side streets, past piles of trash pushed into corners. Goats grazed on the sparse blades of grass. Some vendors called out to us from their open storefronts; most eyed us suspiciously. We stood in the road, mud squishing over the toes of our sandals, and eyed the piles of bright cotton. Finally, I found what I was looking for: six yards of fabric printed with a yellow and blue motif. I wanted to have my own pagne made, one of the beautiful skirts the local women wear so regally, like royalty.
From my tutorial, I knew the price of the fabric I wanted to buy. The seller quoted me double. I laughed and shook my head.
“I know it’s worth 4,500,” I said.
He lowered his price a little, but not much. We went back and forth. Finally, he stopped, intractable, at 5,000 CFA. I knew it was still too high, but I loved the fabric. I told him I’d take it.
He pulled out a plastic bag, sullen and angry, and slipped the folded cotton inside. He spit the stick he’d been chewing at my feet. “You must love money,” he said.
“I’d say the same about you,” Isaid. I handed him the 5,000 CFA note, took the bag, and left the store.
Sometimes the Senegalese hustle is more subtle. It happens when the cab driver says he doesn’t have exact change—he comes up 100 CFA short. He can get the change, he tells me, but I know it will involve flagging down other drivers, more discussion and hassle, and I’m already running late. The truth is it’s only 20 cents. So, I tell him not to worry about it. We both know he’s scamming me.
But there are moments of unexpected generosity in Senegal. This happens often when I’m crossing the street. There are no streetlights in this city of 2.5 million, and getting across a road can feel like a feat for Evel Knievel. The locals do it effortlessly, stepping out into traffic, weaving their way through oncoming cars. I stall and hesitate.
“Come, come,” the person in front of me will say, and they will lead the way through traffic. I follow them closely, and together we make it across. This happens frequently here, in the busy downtown and in the quiet suburbs, and I’m surprised each time at this kindness from a stranger.
I’ve seen, too, people give money to the poor on the street, frequently and without hesitation. One night I walked with Marie, the woman who owns my villa, to the fruit stand on the corner. She is assiduously frugal. Once when I did not leave enough laundry detergent for the laundry woman, Marie bought me an extra pack. I reimbursed her that night, but was 5 CFA short, about a penny. She shrugged her shoulders and said it didn’t matter, but in a way I could tell it did. I made sure to repay her the 5 CFA.
At the fruit stand, a woman sat just outside. She smiled warmly at me when we came up the road. I was surprised—people here do not smile at strangers. They reserve a cold hostility for the unknown. The only people who appear friendly on first meeting are the hustlers, the men in the market who want you to visit their shop, the men on the street who want to get your number.
But American habits die hard, and I smiled back at the woman, glad to see a friendly face. She extended her hand to me, palm up, and then brought her fingers to her face, as if to mime eating. I realized then that she was one of the city’s many beggars.
Marie and I bought mangoes and bananas and small, sweet oranges from the fruit stand. We left to go back home, and I turned to say something to Marie, but she was not behind me. She was kneeling next to the woman, pressing coins into her hand.
