Our luck finally slowed on our fourth day of hitchhiking. We struck out of Tiznit at 10:00 and by 3:00 we had only made it about 100 km. Although leisurely, it is never boring here. When the sun started to hug the horizon we decided to give up and find a place to sleep in Guelmim. As we started to walk into town, we were approached by a round, unshaven man named Salaam who spoke to us in English. As most people did, he asked us about what we were doing and about our traveling. This was the beginning of a complicated interaction that would change the course of the whole trip. He asked if we were going to Mauritania, because his brother was driving there the next day, and would like help with the drive. Since we both have international driver’s licenses, we thought that sounded like a good idea, or to at least go to Dakhla, in the far south of Western Sahara. We sat down over tea to discuss things, and I joked that at the rate our hitchhiking was going we would get there faster riding donkeys with carts. Salaam’s eyes lit up in a way that I wouldn’t realize the full gravity of for a few days. “Please, Excuse me,” he said in a forceful way that would become very familiar. “You can buy donkeys, and cross the desert like that. It can be done.” Well, our eyes lit right back up of course, and we started to discuss the logistics of that journey. It sounded very feasible, as he said donkeys could make about 70 km per day, and reach Dakhla in less than two weeks. The price also sounded reasonable, as he said a donkey could not only be bought in Guelmim for 120 Euros, but sold in Dakhla for much more. He invited us to stay at his home for the night, and that, if we were interested, he would help us look for donkeys the next day. And so it began.
We went to the market to buy vegetables and camel meat for the dinner that night. When we got back, his wife cooked for us, while Salaam gave us traditional clothing for us to wear and we played with his three small children. When dinner was ready, his wife, who supposedly spoke no second language, went to her room while we ate communally from the tajine, the clay Moroccan cooking pot.
In the morning we packed our things and set out on a donkey-buying adventure. Unfortunately the donkey market wasn’t until Saturday, so Salaam improvised by asking around and making phone calls. The first donkey we met was in good shape with a good cart, but the price we could get from the owner was about 6500 DH (650 Euros) for the package. The next one we found was smaller and in poor shape with a cart to match. The best we could get for this one was 3500 DH. Salaam brought up a suggestion he had had the day before to rent a car so we drive around to some different villages. We were skeptical at first, but since he offered to split the cost of the car 3 ways, and it really would be an efficient way to get the shopping done, we agreed. Salaam’s cousin, a camel farmer and self-proclaimed desert nomad who travels around West Africa doing business, joined us. We only went to one village, but the people there said there would be a donkey market the next morning, so we banked on that, as the car rental was for 24 hours.
We had a lot of concerns though, most of all with the timing. Salaam had said we could get to the Mauritanian border within two weeks, but simple math showed that even with his estimate of a donkey covering 70 km per day showed that it would take far longer. Our visas would expire in just over 3 weeks, giving us very little room to make it in time, let alone make it to the capital of Mauritania to renew the visas. Furthermore, when asking people about how far we can expect a donkey to go in a day, the estimates began to shrink, depending on how much interest the person had in wanting to sell us a donkey. Salaam promised us that we could renew the visas at the border, but I had done the research and this was just not true. He then promised that there was a camping place in Dakhla that provided a service to run passports to Rabat to get the visa for Mauritania. If this was true, it would solve our problem, but I was still skeptical, and was not about to set out on this trip simply with his word that it would all be ok. He pushed hard, and acted fishy about it, which sewed my first seeds of serious doubt about him and his intentions. I insisted on doing a bit of internet research before we did anything else, despite Salaam’s impatience. After reading a few websites and making a couple phone calls we discovered that this was actually a possibility, though probably more complicated than he made it seem. So we decided to continue in our pursuit of donkey.
Salaam suggested that we spend the night at his casbah in the countryside, and “make a big party” with a good tajine and music. So again we went to the market and bought food, and this time some beer and anise liquor. The casbah was a large mud-walled compound with the type of rooms that stay warm at night and cool in the day. It was very atmospheric and pleasant. An experience I will always feel lucky to have. We made a tajine, and after eating, we played music. Jonathan and I played songs on the tin whistles and sang a bit, showing our version of nomadic music in the form of CCR. Salaam’s cousin borrowed the tin whistle and without warning blew us away. He played music that was distinctly Maghreb and he played it well. It was faster and more intricate than anything Jonathan or I could play and it was completely improvised on an instrument he had never used before. Then he and Salaam sang and drummed some of their local music. The desert night, the casbah, the food, the music, all made for an experience that I will never forget. At some point, though, we began talking about donkeys, and things got heated (and I understand how ridiculous that sounds). Jonathan and I expressed our concerns about the donkeys, mostly about the cost. We said that we were first interested because the price Salaam had originally told us, 1,200 DH, seemed very reasonable, but the prices had seemed to inflate with our excitement over the idea. Salaam’s cousin got angry when we said that we didn’t want to spend more than 2,500 for two donkeys, and said that we were crazy since one donkey should cost at the very least 2,000.
Salaams cousin outside the casbah
When Jonathan and I were alone that night, we discussed the fact that it was now painfully obvious that they would be getting a nice commission off of this donkey sale. This in itself we did not mind so much, though, since we knew pulling this off on our own, would be nearly impossible. However, we wondered to what extent all this hospitality had been a charade to butter us up. Was this all about money, or was the line between friendship and business getting blurry? Were Salaam’s cousin’s fantastic monologues about the wonders of the desert and nomadic life sincere, or should I take this as the “peace and love my brother” kind of B.S. that comes from scammy Rastas the world over. At the end of the night, we decided it really didn’t matter, because if the price was right for us, then we would be happy. We agreed that we hoped to get the two donkeys for 3,000, but would be willing to go up to 3,500 if we absolutely had to.
Theres Salaam there in the back.On the way to the town the next morning, we wondered how much of a donkey market this would really be. Well, there were many donkeys around, but it appeared that only one man was selling two donkeys. Seemed too convenient in a bad way. I was hoping for hordes of donkey salesman competing ruthlessly for our business. The cards were not in our favor, and our time crunch, made further crunchy by Salaam’s growing impatience, made things worse. The donkeys seemed to be in much better condition than those in Guelmim, so we knew that we would at least be happy with what we would buy. After discussion over some tea and this and that, we bought two healthy young steeds for our max price of 3,500. Salaam intercepted the transaction, but I stayed close to him to watch the commission go down. He was obviously avoiding me, but I shadowed him, so he got in the car with the donkey owner. I followed, so they got out. Then he said he had to drive the owner somewhere and would be right back. Of course when he came back the owner was still with him. The next task was to get the donkeys back to the casbah, which would require hiring a driver and truck to deliver them. The day before, Salaam had said this should cost about 150 DH, but when they arrived with the truck, he said they wanted 350. I would not accept this, and Salaam really didn’t seem to like my resistance. They tried to put the donkeys in the truck anyway, and I had to physically stop them. We threatened to ride the donkeys back to town (which of course would take the entire day if all went smoothly) and were then able to manage a price of 200. Even this seemed ridiculously high.
The next task was the cart. This was very tricky because we knew that Salaam would also be making a handsome commission off of this, and we were completely at his mercy. Additionally, the cart was necessary, since we had fully committed to this trip by buying two donkeys, and we had just a couple more hours with the rental car. Salaam had been driving me crazy with his increasing shadiness, and nickel and diming us every time it came to getting a meal or tea. At this point he wouldn’t even allow us to talk to anybody with a donkey or cart until he had approached them first, as he said as soon as they saw foreigners it would increase the price. It was obvious, though, that he was simply arranging the commission with the person before we arrived to discuss what we would be willing to pay. I kept trying to worm my way in before he could stop me, but he was very good at controlling these situations. It was also unfortunate for us that most people in the donkey business don’t speak much French. We found a cart that was in rough shape, but Jonathan made plans to fix it up before the end of the day, and we bought it, including a new tire, for 1,300.
We took it to a lumber shop and proceeded to make elaborate repairs and modifications, and replaced a lot of the broken or rotten wood. We had told Salaam that the repairs would take 30-45 minutes, which was our little chance to feed him a few lies. Even though it was rushed, it took at least three hours, and I relished wasting his time. The cart owner was a very kind man, and helped out the entire time, and even agreed to deliver it to the casbah the next morning. The lumber was expensive, though, plus we had hired one of the workers there to help with the repairs. I had thought, however, that Salaam was done making money off of us, but after we paid for the lumber and labor, I stuck close by him. He seemed uneasy, and he walked back into the shop where the man had just been paid. I followed and he just stood there looking around, as if he was waiting for nothing. “So we can go now?” I asked. “Yes, let’s go,” he said. Neither of us moved. “Ok, we can go now,” he said. “Ok, let’s go,” I said. He gave in, but not before getting a phone number from one of the men. Then after we walked a block away, he sent his cousin back to the shop, I can only assume to pick up their money. So that was it, right? Far from it. We still had to have another charades party.
Cart repairs
“So we go have another party tonight?” Salaam said jovially. “Sure,” I groaned, loathing his fat-faced smile. I assumed that we would at least split the cost of the meal again, but when it came time to buy the camel meat, the most expensive meat possible, Salaam said, as he always did, “Hey, give him 90 Dirham”. At this point he had stopped bothering with any sort of manners, and even forgot our names, simply calling us ‘American man’ and Canadian man’. I didn’t let him call me this more than once, though, and neither did Jonathan. I was getting so heated, but knew that making a scene at this point would benefit nobody. After all, we did have our donkeys, and nobody could take them away. When we went to the beer store, Salaam insisted on the more expensive bottle of anise liquor and more beer, which he insisted we pay for, because he had paid for the vegetables of course. We were far too tired to argue, and were just praying for the money-bleeding to stop.
The next morning it continued though. When the man with the cart arrived, we were told that we also had to buy the saddle that attaches to the cart, even though Salaam’s cousin had told us it was included. Well, now it was not included and they wanted 300 DH for it. Of course this was another ridiculous price that came from us having very little choice to pay. Jonathan said we could make one for cheaper than this, and that we would. Salaam raised his voice, “Excuse me! You cannot buy the materials to make this for less than three hundred.” I said, “well, I am sorry, I just don’t believe you.” This got him angry, and I said, again, “well, no, sorry, but I don’t believe you, and yes, we can make this for far cheaper.” We ended up buying it for 200, and I was fuming. I had to just go and hang out with my donkey for a few minutes to calm down. And at that point they were done making money from us. And they made it clear by making us feel unwelcome, saying we could not leave the donkeys at the casbah while we went into town to buy supplies. So we loaded up the cart. Salaam’s goodbye did not include a handshake, but instead a request for some money because he had to hire a cleaner for his apartment. It was the last of many times I had to bite my tongue, and force myself to relax my fist. We politely refused and he walked away without so much as a “bon voyage”. He was far and away the worst person I have met in Morocco, and potentially in all of my travels. Over the next couple of days, Jonathan and I half-jokingly pondered ways to get revenge on him, even wondering if the police would take us seriously if we painted a picture of him as a hustler, exploiting tourists. In some cities of Morocco, police actually take action against people like him, but we doubted there were any problems in a random southern city like Guelmim.
Once we got on the road, however, the excitement of the journey ahead and the open road helped me ease my frustrations. We were 9 km from town and it started out well, with Jonathan and I taking turns driving his donkey, as my donkey trailed behind the cart. When it came time for my donkey to pull the cart, though, I learned the concept of stubborn as a mule. It was a tense 15 minutes of switching their spots, and then forcing it back on the road. While the other donkey needed nothing more than a little bit of steering, this one required constant yelling and kicking in the rear to keep it going.
When we got to the edge of town, the donkey became really stubborn and refused to move. A friendly young man ran up and used his sweet Moroccan donkey driving skills to help us get it moving again. We decided that taking the cart into town on the first day would be too complicated. Furthermore, we were to meet Jonathan’s friend from the Czech Republic, Susan, in town that morning. So Jonathan went on foot into town to find the bus station, while I watched over our donkeys and possessions parked in an empty lot next to a construction site. I was quickly told by several teenagers that where we were in a terrible place because kids would be coming soon. I pooh-poohed this, but they assured me that this was not a few dozen kids, or even a hundred kids, but that we were right next to a large school, and within an hour, thousands of them would be coming, and therefore harassing us. The young man that had first helped us, who was working at the construction site, agreed that the donkeys, our stuff and I would not be safe, so I let them hustle me across the street and behind a building to a place with water for the donkeys and even some grazing area. The boys were extremely accommodating, and helped with my rudimentary knowledge of donkey care. I waited with the donkeys for a few hours, and at some point I heard the shrill sound of a tin whistle being played with no training. I realized that my tin whistle was missing, so I went back to where we had first stopped the donkeys, where the boy working in construction invited me into the site for a snack of bread and olive oil. I would never see my tin whistle again, and when I came to the realization, I was devastated in a controlled way.
Jonathan and Susan arrived after a couple hours. I was nervous about what kind of companion Jonathan had brought along for our African travels, and I have to be honest that her blonde dreadlocks made me worry about how people would perceive us, but her bright smile and strong handshake made me warm up to her quickly. I didn’t know much about her, but that she had done some travel around Europe, and at the risk of sounding like a travel snob, worried that she had never been to the developing world, let alone Africa. Jonathan and I had loads of errands to run, from getting donkey supplies, to tools for the cart to provisions for the first long leg of the journey. Susan said she would be fine staying with the donkeys for the afternoon. I trusted the boys as they had been so accommodating to me thus far, but I told her to call us if she ran into any troubles.
Jonathan and I set out into the town and hustled around buying 30 gallon water jugs, water buckets made from tires, sewing materials, rice, vegetables, pegs for the donkeys, saddle bags, petrol, cooking supplies, and countless other necessities. We struggled to get it done before dark, but failed, and returned barely half finished around 7:00. One of the boys, Swecki, a 19 year old with a large man’s presence, and his friend Said, a petite 17 year old with a 12 year old’s presence, said we were welcome to stay in their house for the night. It was the building we were staying behind, so we stashed all the goods and tools in their shed, and put our donkeys to bed. They showed us into the building, which was a huge compound with a courtyard, and what seemed like too many rooms to be a regular home. We weren’t too sure what a Moroccan home was like, so we went with it, and they showed us to our large room, which was half full with stacked furniture and carpets. Swecki and Said hung out with us and helped us cook a tajine dinner, as they played music on their small laptop and I played some from mine, all of which was Saharan music. They stayed late, and only seemed to leave when we were too tired to keep our eyes open.
In the morning, Swecki joined us again as we packed our bags. We planned to leave soon, but we still had a few things to pick up in town, most of which was food. We made our shopping lists, and were about to leave when Jonathan realized his USB drive was missing. Regardless of his reputation for misplacing things, we tore our bags and the room apart looking for this thing the size of an Andes mint. Said eventually came in to help us look, and when he and Swecki shook out a carpet, one that we had already shaken out, they found it. We were too relieved to be suspicious, and set out.
The shopping took far longer than expected, partly due to our long list, Susan’s curiosity and wandering, and the fact that the souk and most shops don’t open until later in the afternoon. We found ourselves returning again well after dark. For some reason, our room’s door was locked, and we had to get one of their maid’s to open it for us.
Even though the boys had been extremely accommodating of us and our donkeys, I was nervous about leaving all of our things alone all day, and I was a little bit ashamed that the first thing that I checked upon returning was if my laptop was still in my bag. I was nervous when it wasn’t in my one designated spot for it. I checked my shoulder bag in case I had somehow put it there. Nope. I didn’t panic, but asked Jonathan and Susan if they had any idea of where else it might be, but they didn’t. I couldn’t fathom that it had been stolen, but just assumed that one of the boys had decided to play with it while I was gone. Especially since nothing else in the room had moved (my camera, Jonathan’s camera, Susan’s cell phone, and countless other items that could be of some value). My backpack did not even look like it had been touched, other than to remove my laptop, and take the charger and international adapter out of the side pocket. One of the children hanging outside the home had said that Swecki was sick. So I asked one of the other lingering boys in the house where he was, and he said he had gone out, but not sure where. I started to get nervous. I decided to go to the parents, but wasn’t sure where in this large compound they were. I asked a maid, and explained what happened, and she got defensive, and surprisingly spoke to me in rough English, saying that this was a dormitory, and that it was my responsibility to keep track of my things. This was a shock, as nobody had hinted that this was anything like a dormitory. I went and asked the first boy again, who had said that Swecki was sick. Now he said that he had gone to an internet cafĂ, and might be back in half an hour or an hour. He seemed less friendly and even a bit sad compared to his upbeat nature the day before.
Swecki returned soon and greeted us as normal. We explained to him our problem, not trying to point fingers in any way because we still had an element of trust in him. He quickly became apologetic in a defensive way. Like the maids, he said that of course our stuff wasn’t safe, as it is a dormitory. I complained that he told us it was his home, and never told us it was a dormitory. The situation got quickly more complicated, as more people entered, starting with his mother. She spoke no French, so she just yelled at both Swecki and I in Arabic. I was able to get across to her what happened, but she probably already knew everything. Like everyone else, she seemed to have no sympathy for us. Enter two young men, making the dorm setting more obvious, who speak Spanish. This seems helpful at first as all three of us are fairly conversational in Spanish. They appear sympathetic at first, but eventually lead us in the same circles, saying that this is a dormitory, and of course our things are not safe. In fact, my laptop has probably not even been stolen by a resident of the small dormitory, but from somebody off the street, and it is halfway to Casablanca by now. After all, the Moroccan mafia is a big deal, they tell me. We don’t know what to make of all this. Why won’t anybody help us? Is everybody in on it, or do they want us to just let it go because pursuing the problem will just cause hassle for everyone in the dorm?
I went to the only thing that has worked before in this situation, and that is to offer a reward. I offered 200 Euros, no questions asked, to the person who brings my laptop back. I explained that I only paid 500 euros for it, and that I only was willing to pay for it because of all of my files and photos on it. This was a bit of fibbing on my part, for obvious reasons, and I had almost everything backed up on a hard drive. Nobody budged, and if anything, it agitated people more. I asked Swecki if he would write a “laptop missing” sign on a blank piece of paper in Arabic and French. He wrote it, and then I started to copy it on other pieces of paper, and say that I would post it around the dormitory. This agitated them even more, and Swecki said that there was no way that I could post this in the dorm because his grandfather, who is apparently in charge, would beat him because it would look like he was causing problems. I kept explaining that if they really wanted to help me, and that if they were not to blame, then they would help me get my laptop back. At this point, his mother claimed that she was sick, and too tired to deal with this and that we all must leave the premises because we were causing problems. We really had only one option left, which we neglected to tell them, so leaving wouldn’t be a problem for this, rather a catalyst for our final plan.
It was nearing midnight, and we slowly re-packed all of our things, and carried them outside as a small crowd started to form. We loaded up the donkey cart and prayed that the donkeys would behave better than our maiden voyage with them. Most of the dorm seemed to pour out to watch the spectacle of a bunch of foreigners loading their cart and handling their donkeys. There was plenty of giggling and pointing as nobody seemed to have any sympathy for us as we had been robbed and kicked out in the middle of the night with nowhere to go. We discreetly made our escape plans out of earshot of the drunk Spanish speaking guy who was hanging onto us and had obviously been given the duty of playing good cop/figure out if we would go to the police guy.
Our game faces firmly in place, the amused crowd watched as we solemnly led our donkeys back out onto the street and away from the dormitory. We were extremely proud of their behavior, as they quietly and obediently made us look like savvy donkey handlers, and led us to the outskirts of town. When we got a couple of kilometers out, and there were no cars coming, we turned off the road and into the flat expanse of desert. We had already solidified our plan of going to the police for help, but it took a bit of discussing of when and who. The consensus was that now was the time, regardless of the late hour. I would obviously have to go. I wanted Jonathan to go with me, because of his experience with police in the developing world, but we decided that his expertise in donkey handling would be important for him to stay, and that bringing Susan and playing the female card for sympathy would also help with the police. At some point in the discussion, the male donkey had gotten loose, and we didn’t realize until he had wandered about 50 meters. Susan panicked and started to run towards him. “Don’t chase him!” Jonathan yelled. Sure enough, the donkey broke into a gallop. Before I knew what was going on, Jonathan was chasing it too, then heard him scream, “He’s going for the female!” I positioned myself, between the female donkey and played linebacker, as the male donkey came running. As he tried to go around me, I grabbed the rope around his neck, and was able to stop him. This would turn into a reoccurring theme of the trip, and we wondered how hard the donkey salesman was laughing to himself that the silly foreigners were deciding to travel with a female and a male donkey.
So at nearly 2 in the morning, Susan and I walked into town, trying to hitch a ride from any passing car. The first car was some young men, that I did not trust, due to their subdued rowdiness. I simply asked for directions to the police station and refused to get in their car. They dispatched a guy to take us there, which still made me nervous, but was still better than getting in the car. Luckily, a taxi came immediately, and we were whisked away to the station, albeit by an inexplicably roundabout route that kept us on our toes.
I had a lot to tell the police, and didn’t want to leave out any of the important details. The police were patient as I explained everything once in English, and once in French. Without giving much indication to what they thought about our situation with its unusual back story, they brought me into a dimly lit concrete room with blood stains on the walls, a man at a desk, and a couple of young guys in handcuffs. He asked for our passports, and for me to explain the story, which I did in French. Without waiting for many of the details, he stopped me and gave me my instructions. He told me that the following morning, at 10 AM, I would need to report to a different station, and they would take care of me. I was glad that they seemed to take me seriously, but was still not convinced that I wouldn’t just be given the runaround.
As Susan and I started to walk away from the police station, one of the officers drove by and reminded us that it was very important that we go to the police the next morning. I asked him what would happen or if he thought there was any hope of retrieving the laptop. He surprised me by telling me, in a serious tone, that they would get it back. I told him I would believe it when I saw it.
I cannot imagine how confused the taxi driver was when we told him to drop us off at the edge of town, near some empty fields, hundreds of meters from any building. It didn’t matter to me. Everything was weird enough for me at this point, that I didn’t even notice.
When we got to our camp, I felt so relieved to have Jonathan and Susan with me. This surprising incident of betrayal made us all realize that we really only have each other. We were a team, a family, with a new sense of “us vs Morocco”, and we had done well in this situation so far. We pulled out a bottle of anise liqueur that we had intended on saving for a little longer, but we really needed this. As the bottle emptied, and we settled into our sleeping bags a fog had descended. It encapsulated our small camp, reducing visibility, and effectively separating us from the town, placing us alone and together in the desert. We felt at home.
No comments:
Post a Comment