OF all the ways tourists can be accosted for money, disposable bracelets are fairly innocent. Back when I was in school they were called friendship bracelets--coloured cotton thread, twisted into a bracelet of artistic knots and braids. Friends made them for one another, girlfriends for boyfriends and vice versa.

At the base of Montmartre, below the Sacre Coeur, tourists meet an onslaught of young African men, each of them with a run of threads in their hand. They call the good luck charm goulougoulou, and depending on who's trying to sell you one, this "old African custom" comes from Senegal, The Gambia, Ivory Coast, Guinea, Mali, or Burkina Faso. Before I agree to be tied up in cotton thread (which comes from Africa, I'm assured, so that I am contributing to the welfare of the cotton farmers), I want to know exactly what kind of voodoo I'm signing up for. Apparently, it's some sort of commitment to happiness, or a positive outlook, or just a basic good luck charm. There is a magical correlation between how much I offer for the bracelet and how much luck I end up getting. Not convinced, I move on, but not five steps further, I run into another African who stops me and starts twisting the bracelet on to my wrist. He explains that this is an ancient African tradition from Kenya, called hakuna matata. "You know, from the Lion King", he tells me. "It means no worries . . ."

Seeing about twenty more goulougoulou sellers in my path, I succumb to his bracelet and start asking personal questions. His name is Didier, he's Senegalese, and he's already tried once to emigrate to New York City, but got deported ten years later. He worked and saved up for a ticket to Johannesburg, then once in South Africa, managed to get a visa to Portugal. He crossed into Spain in the back of a stranger's car, then walked into France. Didier has been selling bracelets for two years, and finds the Americans are more apt to purchase a hakuna matata rather than a goulougoulou. And Americans know Kenya, not Senegal. Surely, there's an MBA case study to be done here in Montmartre. A consultancy, perhaps a union? This is France after all.

I gave Didier two euro for my blue and black Hakuna Matata. It was that or the 50 euro bill in my pocket, and I don't thing they make change for goulougoulous. Climbing the steps toward the Sacre Coeur, I felt a little adolescent, what with my friendship bracelet and the band of students busking with their guitars and drums, belting out U2 hits with strong Catalan accents to a crowd of dazzled Russians.

I expect to see the goulougoulou tradition make it's way around the world, each time with an adjusted folklore. And someday I hope to get to Senegal and find a whole nation of people wearing goulougoulous. That would make my day.