Conned by a Senegalese Wristband Weaver
March 8th 2006 It's fair to say I wasn't in the best of spirits when I arrived at my hostel. I't was raining a lot, getting dark and it was rush hour. I had also managed to cut my finger open somewhere on the metro, so I was bleeding everywhere.
The nervous energy I'd bult up over the last few weeks, along with grave warnings about pickpockets on every corner from my 'rough guide' had made me slightly paranoid
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