Watch Out For the Scammers!
Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.
Where we are: We’re in the Seychelles, resting up after three weeks in Sub-Saharan Africa that felt like three months. This is sorta, kinda follow-up to last week’s essay about street children—another of the inconsequential but profound moments that characterize this weird life I’m living.
Watch Out For the Scammers!
Back when we had teenaged offspring who required regular care and feeding, Lee and I got into the habit of taking solo trips, so that at least one of us was always home doing parent-duty. On one occasion, I drew the short straw and he gallivanted off to Cairo with his friend Ned. It was the biggest, poorest, most Muslim city Lee had been to at that point in his life, and I think a lot of their experiences that week were foundational for him.
One particularly traumatic memory—one that he still talks about—was at a sidewalk cafe. A tiny, bedraggled little girl approached and laid her head on their table, apparently exhausted by the effort of begging. She held out a packet of tissues in hopes that they’d buy it from her. Lee thought she might’ve been two or three, and he had no idea how to make her go away, or what else to do. Eventually she just gave up and wandered off. They could clearly see her mother standing over to one side, watching, waiting for that little girl to succeed/convince some softhearted tourist/earn her keep.
We had seen plenty of panhandlers, long before we started traveling. We used to live in an affluent suburb in the wealthiest country in the world, and yet regularly saw people asking for money—at intersections, in front of shops, on highway exit ramps. It always makes me sad, but at least those were adults.
So when Lee and I went to Egypt together for the first time, a few years later, he had warned me, a lot, about those children. He loves kids as much as I do, and he’d been both shocked and traumatized by that child slumped on the table in front of him. I was braced to ignore filthy children and beggars with missing limbs and weeping sores.
An acquaintance was in town at the same time, so the three of us headed to a casual koshari place that I was excited about trying (ping me if you want to know which one, or if you want me to yammer on about the deeply carby joys of koshari).
We were seated on the third floor, and settled in with giant bowls of koshari, chatting about Cairo and pyramids and travel. Partway through our meal, two young Egyptian children approached our table.
I was ready. I responded to their shy English hellos, but that was all the attention I gave them. They kept trying, but Lee and I kept returning to the conversation with our friend. We were polite but disengaged. We were definitely not going to get sucked into some kind of scam with those kids. Eventually they wandered away.
After stuffing ourselves, we got up to leave. As we headed for the stairs, we saw the children: sitting at a table with their father, tucking into their own bowls of koshari. Dad waved at us, clearly proud that his children had made contact with the Americans.
As we paid our bill and spilled out onto the sidewalk, I connected the dots. Those kids hadn’t been trying to scam us—they just wanted to practice their English, like kids do with us all over the world. Their dad had probably had to convince them to approach us. I can imagine it: Go on, it’ll be fine. They look nice. You can do it—show them how many words you can say!
I would’ve done the same as a parent.
I am ashamed when I remember that I turned my back on those kids. I let my fear and suspicion get the best of me.
It’s impossible to do the right thing every time, but I keep that memory close, and I try to let it guide me. When someone wants to take a picture with me, or tell me about their home country, or practice their English, I do my level best to engage. It’s the whole point, right?
Take care,
Lisa
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