We woke up in the desert field, filled with uncertainty, and facing several challenges. My laptop had been stolen, and we had to meet with the police in town. This meant our first time taking our donkeys and cart further than the outskirts of town. We didn’t know exactly how far the station was, how long it would take, and how our country-raised donkeys would handle 9 o’clock traffic.

It turned out that our donkeys were slow, had a little bit of difficulty staying out of the middle of the road, but overall, better than expected. However, when it became clear that we wouldn’t make it in time, I ran ahead on my own to meet with the police.

The night before the police had told me to arrive at this station at 10:00 AM sharp. I assumed this meant that they would be expecting me, but when I got there, I had to start all over, explaining the whole story in French and some English, as this particular officer, dressed in business casual, could speak a smattering of English. I was getting a good amount of practice in my past tense French. The officer’s first concern was whether it occurred in his jurisdiction, or in the gendarmerie’s. Before it was decided, another officer came in, informing me that my friends had arrived with the donkeys, but that we couldn’t park our cart in front of the police station. I went back outside to sort things out, and when I came back, there was another man in the office. The sight of him caught me tongue-tied, and I was beyond confusion. It was Salaam, the greasy man who had arranged our donkey purchase, and made a handsome, yet sneaky, commission in the process. I never thought it would be possible, but the sight of him did not trigger anger within me as much as it did relief. Had he heard about what happened to me, and come to support me? Maybe he wasn’t such a bad guy after all. However, after reading his face, I realized that he was just as confused as I was, and even looked a bit panicked. It turned out that he was a translator for the police, and he was there to help me explain my story to the officer, who I had noticed had a French-Arabic dictionary on his desk.

I played my cards close to my chest, not knowing to what extent the police knew my relationship with Salaam. I didn’t let on that I already knew him, because I knew that if the police found out that Salaam had ripped me off in a donkey transaction, it could cause trouble for him, and the last thing I wanted was to lose my translator. When I began to explain the story again, I tested the waters, casually mentioning, in French so the officer would understand, “the laptop was a Macbook, you saw it Salaam.” This made the officer’s ears perk up with confusion, and Salaam looked jolted. They had a quick exchange in Arabic, and whatever silly thing I had said was quickly glossed over. That Salaam is a clever cat, and I am still curious what he told the officer about why I had said that he had seen my laptop.

After all the details were covered and translated, the officer, Salaam, a tall and bulky man in civilian’s clothes and I left and got into a small unmarked red car. I wasn’t quite sure what we were doing, but we headed straight for the house where the theft had taken place. Nothing about us, clothes or otherwise, indicated law enforcement. I wasn’t sure if this was intentional or not.

My heart pounded as we arrived at the house. I was worried that somebody would recognize me, but the only person around was a small boy I didn’t recognize hanging outside the door. We parked ten meters from the door, and the officer and the large man got out, telling me to stay put. What happened next was my first taste of the type of justice that happens in the majority of the world. It was not extreme, but it was enough to make me squirm, and feel wrong about what I was doing.

When the door opened, a few middle-aged women emerged. Then I saw the strong man yank a young boy, maybe 14, out of the doorway. I didn’t recognize him. He looked scared. The officer and the strong man were yelling at him. When he hesitated, it got rough. The strong man pushed him, and he tried to get away. He grabbed him and hit him. The women screamed. The boy cried. I didn’t need to understand Arabic to know exactly what was being said. More yelling, more hitting, more screams from the women and the boy was in handcuffs. As the boy was dragged toward the car, two of the women dropped to the ground and wailed, shrieking at the cops for the boy to be returned. It was the same scene I had seen in on news footage from the aftermath of violence in the Middle East. It made me wince. I didn’t think this boy was involved with the theft, and was never even positive if somebody in that dormitory had even done it. The boy was thrown in the car next to me, and I yelled to the cop, asking if this kind of violence is necessary. They ignored me, and walked toward the house again. Even Salaam looked a little disturbed. The boy was sobbing and telling me that he didn’t do anything wrong. I believed him, and apologized over and over, mirroring his panic. I don’t think many people ever find themselves in a police car next to the suspects of a crime against them. The police came back to the car, and I was surprised to see them with Swecki, the 18 year old who had originally invited us in. I suspected him, if anyone, and was also surprised to see him coming calmly, and out of handcuffs. He looked different, though I knew it was just my perception. A man that was hospitable one day looks much different than the same man after he has taken advantage of your trust. I was confused though. Why was he coming? Was he a suspect? Why did he come without handcuffs? Did he have information on the culprit? Why wouldn’t he look at me?

The seven of us crammed into the five-seater, and drove back to the station. I thought that after all my crammed bus and taxi rides while traveling in the developing world that I had experienced the worst of uncomfortable transit, but this was on a different level.

At the station, Swecki and the boy were taken to separate rooms, while Salaam and I sat in the waiting area. He started to lecture me about trusting people. He told me that it is not a good idea to just stay in people’s homes if you don’t know them. He told me that many people try to take advantage of foreigners. I didn’t know if I wanted to slug him, or just laugh at the absurdity and irony of what he was telling me.

Ten or twenty minutes later, Swecki was escorted out of the room. As he passed Salaam, he winked at him and said something in Arabic with a grin on his face. After the strong man and the officer left the station with him, I asked Salaam what he had said. He looked mildly shaken as he told me he had said, “I’m going to kill you.”

Another twenty minutes passed, and they returned. Swecki was in front, and as he passed me, he shot me the same wink and smirk as he had given Salaam, sans vocal threat. It was understood though.

I quickly forgot about the look, though, as I saw the officer follow him with my laptop’s charger in his hand. Hope. Then, the strong man followed, carrying the giant blue Ziploc bag that the computer had been in. My hope was still there, but still uncertain. They told me to follow them into the office. The strong man closed the door, then silently pulled my laptop out from under his shirt without so much as a smile. I wanted to jump and hug them for their wonderful police work, but they just wanted me to sign some papers. The officer then explained to me that we had to leave town immediately, because he didn’t think we would be safe here. We still had some things to buy in town, but he said it was not a good idea to stay, and that we should set out in the direction of Tan Tan, due south, immediately. I knew so little of what had actually happened, or even where Swecki was, and I didn’t want to mess around.

On the way out, Salaam confirmed what the officer said, and told me that we need to leave as soon as possible toward Tan Tan, even though our original plan was to go east toward the beach first. He also didn’t miss one final opportunity to get some more money out of me. He asked for the ten dirham to take a taxi home (taxis during the day only cost six dirham, plus he lives within walking distance of the station) because the police don’t pay for his transportation. I blew him off went to find where Jonathan and Susan had taken the cart. On the way, I met a Moroccan cyclist that had just ridden from his home in Marrakech to Guelmim, the town he was raised in. He was taking a photo of the sign at the entrance to town as he completed his journey. We got to talking after I asked him if he had seen any white people with a donkey cart. He was surprised when I told him about the theft, as Guelmim apparently has a sterling reputation. However, he said that it was a bad idea to stay in the dormitory, even though most instances of Moroccan hospitality are genuine.

When I found Susan and Jonathan, I explained to them that we needed to leave town, and they agreed, but not for my reasons. They had suffered the wrath of Moroccan children en masse. As the hundreds of children made their way to school and encountered two white people on a donkey cart, they got a little out of control with their harassment, and rocks were thrown and thefts were attempted. They made it out unscathed, but we were all finished with Guelmim at this point.

We were not completely prepared for our voyage, but we set out in the early afternoon anyway. As soon as Guelmim was out of sight, we felt relieved, and excited about finally getting on the road. Although I didn’t think that I should worry too much about what kind of danger we were in, I was slightly nervous at our miserable pace. By dusk we were only a 20 or 30 minute bicycle ride out of town. We were in the village of Tessegnan, which might be home to about 300 people. It would turn out to be one of our most stress free days of donkey travel during the entire trip.

We were disappointed to find the town’s single shop stocked with very little, and nothing in the way of produce. We knew that we would have to send somebody back to Guelmim the next day. We bought what we could, and headed out of town, looking for a place to camp. It was dark by the time we found our spot, about 200 yards off the road, and behind a dirt mound in the brush. I don’t think Susan or Jonathan thought too much about our security, but I was a little nervous about how well-hidden we were.

Unsurprisingly, we were not hidden at all. When three white people arrive in a village of 300, a close eye will be kept on them, even if they think they are being discreet. Not long into our dinner, we saw a motorbike approaching, it zoomed past us, and went farther into the bush. It seemed obvious that, even if they didn’t stop to say hello, they were coming by to get a peek at us. When they drove by again, they did stop. It was three boys in their early twenties. I was nervous for many reasons, but they seemed friendly and curious, so I stayed cordial. I know that words travel fast in places like this, so I felt almost certain that they had heard of us, and might know everything about the laptop incident. It made me nervous, but they ended up leaving after exchanging pleasantries. After an hour, they returned to invite us to stay in one of their houses. This was impractical, as our camp was set up already. We talked about donkey care, and they gave us lots of great information about proper diet and feeding procedures. They said the grain we bought the donkeys was great, but it is also good to give variety, like hay. They returned another hour later, just as we were getting to bed, with a big sack full of hay. I didn’t know why they were being so nice to us, but it was comforting to get back to the hospitable Morocco that seemed to have been shattered during the previous week.

Tessegnan by night

The next day, Susan and I took a minibus into Guelmim to finish buy supplies for the journey. I didn’t want to go back, but Jonathan needed to stay back to do some work on the cart, and Susan didn’t speak any French. I wanted to make the trip in town as quick as possible, as I still wasn’t sure how serious our situation was. Probably not dangerous, but I still didn’t want the police to find out that we were back, as they would probably not be too excited about it.

We got our shopping done without incident, but it was obvious that we were known in town, as many people recognized us as the people with donkeys.

That night back in Tessegnan, the boys with the motorbike came back, and brought a hookah. Eventually a few other local guys of their age group came, and we all made a tajine together for dinner. What made us trust them was that they agreed to put lots of garlic in the tajine, and put slices of orange in it, two good ideas that Swecki had sneered at when we made the suggestion. We felt bad that even though we could have stayed in the homes of any of the boys, we chose to stay in the desert. This did not make them want to help us less, and after dinner, they brought mats and blankets for us.

We were so comfortable that night, that we woke up late, and knew that we would not make the long distance that day that we were hoping to. Two of the boys, Hassan and Abdulrahman, came back and after breakfast, invited us to tea. So after we were packed up, which took a couple of hours, we rolled into Hassan’s home and were invited in by his older brother and sister, Khadija. Susan helped Khadija in the kitchen, while the men hung out and talked. Hassan brought his grandfather at some point to greet us. He looked confused, and Hassan explained that he was sick, and couldn’t remember things. Alzheimers. After that, Khadija came in, saying that she was bringing her mother. A hunched over women in a pink cloth entered with downcast eyes. She looked very pale, from what I could see of her face. When she looked up, I was confused for a moment, then realized it was Susan, and Khadija had dressed her in proper attire for the region. I was happy for Susan to be given this gift of traditional clothing, as Jonathan and I had bought some local garb for the trip. However, she later expressed how trapped she felt in this clothing, and didn’t want to wear it.

Hassan

Khadija

Khadija and Susan

We had a modest lunch, then had a long tea session. Then the best hospitality of all, a shower! None of us had been able to shower in nearly a week, and we knew it would be the last one for a while. Jonathan and I almost killed an entire bottle of shampoo. My hair had gotten too dry to wash easily, and Jonathan’s was trying to go back to dreadlocks.

Abdulrahman

When we left, Hassan and Abdulrahman rode on the cart with us for about a kilometer, then jumped off and gave us a raucous goodbye.

It felt good to feel back on track with good people and a well-prepared donkey cart.