Not the usual crowd

Leaving the jazz club at 1.30am, I'm about 25 minutes walk from home, and I decide to test the reassurances I've had that Dakar is safe at night. Evariste's parting words are for me to go quickly to look decisive, so I power along Avenue Cheikh Anta Diop, on the brink of a jog. The adventure starts when I cross a junction in front of a police van.

I hear voices calling for me to arretez, and I grudgingly turn to see two tall and scruffy men striding towards me. The taller - and scruffier - says something I don't catch, involving the word police. Remembering the security guidelines about checking policemen's ID, I ask - somehow forgetting the looming presence of the van - puis-je voir vôtre carte d'identite s'il vous plait? I can't do justice to the French that followed, but the meaning was pretty clear:
Policeman 1: Ok. Now I see your identity card.
Me: Umm. It's in my apartment. It's very close.
Policeman 1: You mean you asked to see my identity and you don't have your own?
Me: My apartment is very close.
They search me, look into my wallet, and return everything.
Policeman 1: Get in the van.
Me: Can I get my identity from my apartment?
Policeman 2: Getinthebackofthevan

I sit in the back of the van, along with about 15 other men. For about 20 minutes, we tour the city, picking up a couple of others until we arrive at the police station. A number of us are told to get out, and led into the station. A desk officer asks me something I don't understand, then I'm taken to a nearby cell. It's about 3m by 4m, with a bed in the corner and about 20 people, mostly sitting on the floor. I sit next to the door, looking at the ground, and wondering whether I should call anyone. I decide not to, worried about drawing attention to myself and my possessions. I also don't know whether calls are allowed, and since none of the policemen are wearing uniforms, I can't tell whether any of my cellmates are coppers who might confiscate my phone. I wonder about going to the toilet to make a call.

Some of the detainees speak to one another. It's mostly quiet, resigned. Very close by, outside the cell, a man screams. A few seconds later, he - or perhaps someone else - screams again. A couple of the men in my cell chuckle to one another. It seems more like bravado than mirth.

I phase out of the scattered Wolof conversations, and take a few seconds to realise I'm the centre of attention when several people are calling chef ("boss"). I'm immediately reassured that I'm being addressed with deference by the other detainees, as it eases my worries of being robbed. I explain why I'm here in my broken French, until a man who introduces himself as working for the UNHCR speaks to me in perfect English. He tells me that it is a requirement to carry ID in Senegal - so at least my arrest wasn't down to the impertinence of my asking for Policeman 1's ID. I think it would have been useful to have been told about this law in the country welcome pack. UNHCR man relates my story to the rest of the cell in much better French. Immediately, I sense a defusing of tension, as I become much less exotic. My new friend tells me that they'll probably keep me in overnight, then let me go in the morning.

I begin forcing myself to relax so I will be able to doze, when the door next to me opens. I don't look up, but follow a torch spotlight that shines on the face of a young detainee on the opposite wall. After a sharp exchange, he grudgingly stands, along with another, and they leave the cell. The man standing over me says monsieur twice, and I realise that I'm again the centre of attention. I look up, and follow the command to venez, following the others out of the station, and back into the van. As I'm walking I realise that I'm the only person to have been called monsieur, and take it as a sign that the guards are also treating me with a degree of deference.

With no explanation, the 16 of us in the van are driven through town. Once, the van stops suddenly, throwing us around, and the rear door swinging wide. With the guards off balance, one of the transferees takes his opportunity to run. Two guards chase after him, with the van cutting him off, and they easily catch him. I'm surprised that there seem to be no hard feelings, the returned man being brought back to his place with no kicks or "sorry, I didn't see the ceiling of the van there". As we continue, Policeman 2 asks me my name, and where I work. A short drive later, we pull into another station and are all ordered out.

I begin following the others into the station when I'm told to stand to one side, next to the van. With all the prisoners out of sight, I stand alone in the dark. Policeman 1 lurks nearby and I clench my stomach muscles as he approaches. I'm again asked what I do, and why I was walking so late. Then, I'm taken to the front of the van to sit in the passenger seat. The driver tells me that I should pay a fine. I ask how much it is. It turns out to be 10,000CFA (£10). By coincidence, this happens to be the amount I had in my wallet when it was searched earlier. I pay the bribe without bothering to ask for a receipt or whether the other detainees are given the same escape route.

The drivers asks me if I know the city, and whether I have enough money for a taxi. I - with the appropriate amount of bitterness, I hope - point out that I don't, having just given him my money. Genially, he tells me that he will take me to Mermoz, my district.

As the next two hours roll out, I begin to wonder whether the driver had forgotten about me, or simply whether taking the 'fine' had just been a con. The van fills to bursting, as the police cruise, jumping out whenever they see a crowd of bystanders. Occasionally, the targets run. Every so often they get away, but usually they are easily caught. I wonder how much trouble I would get into for openly showing my delight when the police fail on a chase. Occasionally, the detainees run. They're all quickly caught. I consider jumping out myself during one chase, when I'm alone in the back, save for the moustachioed sergeant who doesn't look like he could put up much of a chase. But I'm still holding out hope that the driver isn't bent. Or, to be precise, that he is bent, but not a thief. Every time we turn towards Mermoz, I imagine release is moments away. But then we turn away, and eventually I become entirely disoriented, and spend my time looking out for familiar places.

The mood approaches farce when the first female detainee joins us. She's caught after a long chase, her boyfriend easily outdistancing the police. She comes in whimpering, and soon begins sobbing. The coppers in the van have no idea how to deal with her, as if embarrassed by the idea of a woman seeing through the silliness of their boyish games. But her femininity is as nothing compared to that of the two prostitutes who're picked up later. They're achingly beautiful and bring scents that explode through the van, easily flicking aside the background BO. As the numbers in the van approach 20, I'm entertained by the man sitting next to me, who gives every impression of being perfectly at ease. At one point, with the van stopped for another round-up, he hands a note through the bars to a bystander, who returns seconds later with a packet of cigarettes. Minutes later, at another stop, he repeats the trick and is rewarded with a espresso. Sitting in the police van, with a lit cigarette in one hand, and a coffee in the other, I'm only convinced that he's not a copper from the reaction of Policeman 2 when he stands up near the door, as if about to make a break.

Suddenly, I realise we're at the junction I got picked up at. I will the driver to turn right, until I realise I'm being addressed from the guard at the back door: Mermoz est pas au loin. In other words: hop it. I can't make eye contact with the other captives as I jump out and walk away.