T A B L E_T A L K How do you save money when you travel? Share your tips for being a thrifty tourist in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk ___________________ Learn more about Richard Branson at BarnesandNoble.com ___________________   R E C E N T L Y The Virgin king By Don George An interview with Virgin Group founder Richard Branson, one of the most remarkable -- and successful -- mavericks in the history of business (12/10/98) Miming Mexico By Diane Weipert A street artist unmasks the hard realities of daily life in Guanajuato (12/09/98) The cruise cocoon By Zachary Karabell A guest lecturer on a luxury Aegean voyage asks: Is this any way to see the world? (12/08/98) Desperately seeking e-mail By Lisa Dreier Finding Internet access in India is feasible, but not for the fainthearted (12/06/98) This week in travel Wanderlust's select guide to the top travel-related news stories from around the globe (12/04/98)   Browse the Wanderlust Feature archives     Wanderlust's Official Travel Book Partner		_______Dirty laundry _______A SIMPLE REQUEST FORCES A WESTERN _______WOMAN TO FACE HER PREJUDICES. _______- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - BY TANYA SHAFFER | Sometimes I think I'll never go back to the U.S. Those words are dangerously seductive, and once in a while I play them in my head, like a tantalizing refrain: Never going back. The words are all drama, because what do you fill that "never" with? You still have to spend the rest of your life somewhere. Fleeing the site of a decaying romance, I spent a month in Spain and a month in Morocco before I finally arrived in West Africa, still trying to forget the disappointment in my lover's eyes. A con artist accosted me at the airport in Abidjan, the capital of the Ivory Coast. He was a slim, handsome African man in his early 20s, dressed in what I call "poor-country chic": some obscure brand of very dark blue jeans with bright orange stitching up the sides and a pressed T-shirt of an American baseball team. Although I knew him for what he was, I couldn't shake him. "Let me take you to your hotel. They know me; I will help you to get a better price," he said to me in French. "I've got no money for you, OK? No money." "I don't want your money. They give me commission. If I bring you myself to the hotel they give me commission. I help you choose the hotel." "I already know which hotel I'm going to." A boozy expat on the plane had looked through my guidebook and steered me away from the hotel I'd circled in Treicheville, the "African" quarter. "Too dangerous," he'd said. "Stay in the Central Section, or at least here, this one's right next to the Central Section. Since you're new in town. They'll sniff you out and rob you in a New York minute." He laughed. Although I pegged him for a racist, I decided to go with his suggestion, since it was my first night. Later on my trip, I would stay in the African parts of town. I hadn't come to Africa to avoid Africans. I got into a taxi. The con artist was by my open window, still talking. "Please," he said. "This is how I live. I show tourists to the hotel, I get commission." "I'm not a tourist. I'm a traveler. I'm on my way to do some volunteer work in Ghana." "You pay nothing! The hotel, they pay." I sighed, and taking that as a yes, he got in. The taxi took off without setting the meter or agreeing on a price. "Wait," I said, "attend." My friend, sitting beside me, repeated the phrase in a local language. How could an airport taxi driver not speak French? "Tell him he has to set the meter," I told the man. I'd read this in my guidebook: "In Abidjan, make sure they set the meter." He spoke to the driver, who just kept driving. Then he turned to me. "There is no need," he said. "He knows the price." "There is a need," my voice grew shrill, "because if he doesn't set it, I'm getting out." "Slow, slow." He laughed, making a calming gesture with his hand. He spoke to the driver some more. The driver barked with laughter, then slapped the meter with his hand. It came on, its digital numbers bright and reassuring. I settled back in my seat. I was too tired to take in the spectacle of dilapidated wooden shacks and women wrapped in bright, dissonant cloth with bundles on their heads. Too weary to lean forward and appreciate the crowded markets with their expanse of tables piled high with everything from vegetables to auto parts, stretching back and back. I'd traveled enough in Central and South America that these things seemed oddly familiar to me. Even the thick tropical vegetation reminded me of someplace else. Jesus, I thought, what's happened to me? I've just arrived in Africa and already I'm bored. I did notice the peeing, though. It seemed every man in the city had sought out the most conspicuous corner he could find to urinate. I leaned back in my seat. The driver finally pulled into the hotel's dusty, gravely parking lot. It was just on the other side of a river that encircles central Abidjan, like a moat. I gasped when I saw the amount on the meter. This taxi ride had cost me almost 20 bucks. My friend got out with me, and the taxi took off. "What's your name?" I asked. "Jean-Pierre." "Jean-Pierre. I'm Tanya." The hotel was an enormous stone rectangle of a building, with a hand-painted wooden sign that said "Hotel" propped against the door. The windows on the ground floor were boarded up. "Are you sure this place is open?" I asked Jean-Pierre. "Yes, yes," he said, grabbing my backpack and heading through the door. "Improvements," he said, gesturing at the boarded-up windows. N E X T+P A G E | You forgot my commission - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Become a Salon member. Click here.