Donkeys

Despite our late start, we left Tessegnan with a new optimism and giddiness at finally feeling free to travel with our donkeys.

We had our first experience on hills, something that would become one of the many banes of our donkey-riding existence. They were small hills, but we realized quickly that we all couldn’t ride on the cart when going up a hill, and especially not while going down hill.

At one point, on a downhill, Susan and I realized that the male donkey, whom we had named Rough and Ready, was having a lot of trouble with the asphalt and the weight. As these were donkeys from the country, they had metal shoes on their feet, which caused them to constantly slip on the downhills. We tried to support the cart, but then found that the lift on the cart, caused the donkey’s harness to come loose and slip forward. We stopped the cart and tried to figure out what to do. The weight was almost on Rough and Ready’s neck, and his feet were slipping. Jonathan had wandered a hundred yards in front of us, and we yelled for his help. When he got there, he tried to undo the whole setup, but when we tried to lift the cart off, it didn’t go. We lifted harder, then Jonathan realized that we had forgotten the belly strap. It was putting a significant dent in Rough and Ready’s stomach, and we quickly put the cart down again. We calmed down, and figured it out. If we all supported the cart at the right angle, and zigzag down the hill, we would make it. This was a simple problem that we figured out easily, but the puzzles of donkey travel would only get more difficult after this.

After making only five kilometers, we traveled a few hundred yards off the road and found a great spot, hidden between two hills, and next to the only tree in the area. For some reason this was the night that we first had to deal with bugs. We saw the ticks first. Then I killed a spider, which caused a big argument between Susan and I. And finally, after putting out the fire, the mosquitoes came. We never expected them in the desert, but here we were. It would be our last night sleeping without tents for a while.

We tried our best to get an early start, but still only got on the road at ten. We had to deal with more hills than the day before, and we were had to walk quite a bit. Rough and Ready and Shuwya Shuwya, Arabic for slowly slowly, split the 20 kilometers that we traveled that day.

We came to the tiny village of Rastarf at sunset, and filled our water jugs at the well. Our total water storage consisted of about 100 liters in large jugs, plus about ten liters in plastic water bottles. The donkeys each drank up to ten liters per day, depending on how hard they worked and how hot it was. We each used about seven liters per day between cooking and drinking. Although it fluctuated, water was our heaviest item, followed by the 100 kilograms of donkey food.

We were lucky to manage to get on the road the next day by 9:00, as we needed all the daylight we could get. Early in the day, a vehicle stopped in front of our cart, and two men in suits got out. They started asking us questions about where we were going, and where we were coming from, and eventually asked for our passports. We then asked for their identification, which showed that one of them was some sort of law enforcement official who had some sort of responsibility to Plage Blanche, where we were going. They had a serious demeanor, but it seemed that they didn’t want to cause any problem for us.

We passed some items on the side of the road that seemed discarded. A couple gallons of cooking oil, a plastic bag and a cardboard box. We were running low on cooking oil, so we had a quick discussion about whether we should take some. It looked like something that had just fallen out of the RV of one of the European tourists that had passed us. I thought it seemed obvious to take it, but Susan didn’t want to. Susan and I went to check it out, and when she found her favorite candies in the box, her mind changed, and she wanted to take it. But when I started to realize that this might have been left here intentionally for someone else to pick up, I thought it might not be a good idea. As we started to walk back to the cart, and old nomad man emerged from the desert onto the side of the road. I exchanged greetings with him, but he seemed unfriendly. He started pointing and yelling in Arabic, and I had no idea what he was talking about. He grabbed my hand and walked me back to the items on the road. He angrily started pointing at them, and pointing at the road. The best that I could guess was that somebody had left them for someone else, and that he was not going to let anyone mess with that. We hadn’t taken anything, and we tried to explain this, but he just continued to yell at us as we walked away. It was a confusing interaction, but I couldn’t really feel bad since I had done nothing wrong.

About ten kilometers from Plage Blanche, we came to our steepest, longest uphill yet. Jonathan and I had to get behind the cart and push, while Susan led Shuwya Shuwya. Of course, this was followed by our steepest downhill yet. We immediately saw that Shuwya Shuwya could not descend it safely. We decided that the best way was to have Jonathan and I take the cart down like a rickshaw. We staked Rough and Ready down, then Susan led Shuwya down the hill with full saddlebags. Jonathan and I rickshawed the cart down without too much difficulty, other than strong burns in the triceps. The cars passing on the tight turns also added stress, especially the SUV with French tourists that stopped to ask directions. When we got down, Susan went back up the hill to retrieve Rough and Ready. She was taking an exceptionally long time, so I decided go check on her. Halfway up the hill, I could hear her yelling, for what I didn’t know, but could only assume that the donkey had escaped from her. Sure enough, as I turned the next corner, there was Rough and Ready, coming to a halt as he saw me. I just walked slowly towards him, and realizing he had nowhere to go, he turned around, and started running back towards Susan. She caught him after a brief chase, and started to hit him and curse him loudly. This was a great sight, as she had always been against any sort of use of the whip against the donkeys.

Soon after, one of my flip-flops broke, and I had to finish the day half-barefoot. At sunset we were only 4 km from the beach, and we decided to push on through in the dark. The “village” seemed to consist of a police post, a school, and a few new buildings that didn’t have an obvious purpose. As the road turned to sand, we found a person, and asked him where the beach was. The man showed me where the road continued, and descended sharply for a few hundred meters toward the beach. It looked too steep for us, and impossible to do in the dark. We asked the man where we could get water, and he said at the police post, which he happened to work for. I walked over there with him, and found his supply limited, and he could only give us a few liters. He then said that we should come for tea, so I went back to where Jonathan and Susan were setting up camp. Only Jonathan came with me, as we had made a rule that we never leave the donkey cart alone. The police officer, and his fellow officer seemed disappointed that Susan couldn’t come. We explained that she had to start cooking dinner for us, so they invited us to eat with them. We said that she had already started cutting the vegetables, and we didn’t want them to go to waste. The first officer kept asking for her to come, so I agreed to go back and continue dinner, and she could come for the next round of tea.

All of a sudden, as I was working on the dinner, I saw Rough and Ready running toward Shuwya Shuwya. He had gotten loose, and now was looking for some action. Shuwya Shuwya panicked, knocked over her food bucket, and struggled to get free from her rope. I jumped up and managed to get a hold of Rough and Ready, with the help of Shuwya Shuwya’s sweet double back kicks. As I re-tied Rough, I heard a small crash. Shuwya Shuwya, having knocked over her food bucket, was now tearing at the 100 kg. grain sack, which was supporting the front of the cart. After she chewed a small hole in it, it tipped over, causing the cart to also fall forward, and allowing many things on the cart to slide forward and fall off. I didn’t make much progress on the dinner before Jonathan and Susan got back.

When they did get back, they were discussing an incident that happened during the tea. Apparently, the first officer took Susan outside to show her the ocean or the lighthouse or something, Susan wasn’t sure but went anyway. At some point he tried to hold her hand and even went in for a kiss. Susan wasn’t too bothered by it and just blew it off, but when she told Jonathan, he was furious. He wasn’t angry out of jealousy, but more because in this man’s culture, this kind of behavior was extremely out of line. Against Susan’s wishes, Jonathan went back to the police post to have a word with him. Of course, the man denied doing anything, and said that he had only grabbed her hand because she was getting too close to a cliff. Jonathan made it clear that he was angry, and came back. Ten minutes later, they came to our camp, with the first officer trying to apologize, and explain himself. I was more forgiving than Jonathan, and told him things were fine, and that they just needed to leave us alone now. They left, but came back soon after with several blankets, which we gladly accepted. The mosquitoes were brutal during dinner, and I quickly jumped into my tent after it was over.

We had a slow morning, as we weren’t really sure what we would do. The road to the beach was steep, and the ground was very loose. As we made our coffee, A young woman, whose age could have been anywhere from 15 to 30, and a small girl, who could have been a sister or a daughter, came, and in French more broken than mine asked if we would like to buy some bread from them. We said we would, but not until tomorrow. She invited us to tea at her home. This time, Jonathan stayed back as he had some things he wanted to fix on the cart. We also went with an empty 30-liter jug, hoping they had some water, or at least could point us toward the well.

They had a large tent that was made from scrap fabric and t-shirts stitched together. It maintained a cool temperature, despite the outside heat. I wasn’t sure how permanent this home was. In addition to the tent, there was a small mud brick compound. It seemed just plopped down in this field alone, but later I realized that other tents were also scattered around this area, but so spread out I could barely see them.

The girl was very quiet, but not shy. When she did communicate, she had forcefulness in her words. As she prepared the tea, she asked again about the bread. Even though she was charging more than double what it would cost in a town, we knew we could not get any bread in town here, so we agreed to order one for the next day. The girl’s mother came in with a large platter of runny eggs and bread for us. I had originally thought we had been invited to tea as a way to sell us bread. It seemed now that they were being genuinely nice, but would still like to sell us bread if they could. We managed to have some rough communication through the second round of tea. The mother was very friendly and curious about us, but she didn’t speak any French. We must have smelled bad, because one of the first things she did was bring a huge plastic bottle of perfume. She poured some in my hands, then motioned Susan to lean closer to her. She turned the bottle’s nozzle toward Susan and just squeezed it all over her chest, face and hair. Susan tried to resist the dousing, but there was not much she could do. Susan was annoyed, but I thought the whole thing was hilarious. I mean, I might not normally like to smell like cologne, but I also don’t normally like to smell as if I have been without a shower for a week.

After the girl showed us around the rest of the compound, she had her brothers fill up our water jug, and we were on our way. When we got back, Jonathan told us that he had scored a bottle of cooking oil from some French tourists that had passed by in their van. He also decided that we should try to take the cart down to the beach. In the past few days, Shuwya Shuwya had become increasingly reliable and strong, so we hooked her up to the cart. We took Rough and Ready down first, with saddlebags filled with water jugs, so we could reduce the weight on the cart. Susan and I supported the cart as Jonathan led it down, and navigated it around ruts and potholes. It was not easy, and Shuwya Shuwya slipped quite a bit. At the very bottom was the steepest part, followed immediately by a flat stretch of soft sand. As we reached the bottom, we used the downhill momentum into the sand, and ran quickly to the back of the cart to push it through. There were a few European RV tourists nearby watching us push our cart across the beach with mild curiosity. We couldn’t make it too far, but we found a decent spot to set up our camp. At some point as we were setting up, Rough and Ready got loose, and went for Shuwya Shuwya again. Both donkeys were free, and I managed to get a hold of Rough’s neck rope as he chased her. His momentum was enough that he dragged me along with him, allowing me to basically do some barefoot sand-skiing before I got him under control. This led to the idea of donkey-skiing. This consisted of pegging Shuwya Shuwya down and then attaching a rope to Rough and Ready 50 meters away, then hanging onto the rope as Rough ran towards Shuwya Shuwya. In theory this would have been great, but it seemed that pulling nearly 200 lbs. really killed his libido, and he could only make a slow trot towards her.

That night a man named Ali, who had told us he was Italian, but later explained that he was a Moroccan living in Italy and was just on vacation, brought some fish that he had caught. He spoke good English (which he said he had learned in Italy (?)) and we cooked the fish over the fire.

We decided to stay on the beach a little longer since it was such a nice spot. However, this would mean that we definitely needed more supplies, as we were still a long way from the next village, and donkey traveling was moving much slower than expected. I volunteered to go back to Guelmim for provisions. I hitched a ride at noon from the first car that passed. It was depressing to cover the distance we had covered in a week in an hour and a half by car.

Our starch supply was in good shape, so I mostly filled up on fresh fruits and vegetables. I also was able to refuel on the foods that were working well for us, like tins of sardines and dates, and neglected to get the foods that had been a bad idea, like eggs. I also got a new 30 liter water jug, as we knew the next leg of the trip would be very unreliable for water.

When I was done, I took a shared taxi back to Tessegnan, where I knew that if I couldn’t hitch a ride back to the beach that day, I would at least have a place to stay. While I waited for a ride, an opportunistic man who had heard of our love for donkeys, insisted on taking me to his home to see his donkeys. He wanted to sell one, and really didn’t want to accept my “no” for an answer. I needed to get back on the road with my thumb out. It didn’t take long for one of my old Tessegnan friends to find me, and they insisted that I pass the night there. Hassan brought me back to his place, which was fine by me. I was exhausted, and feeling really weak. He prepared some tea for us, and we ate some bread with oil. He had to leave for a couple hours, and said I could stay there, and that some of the other boys would be coming eventually. I fell asleep almost immediately, and woke a couple hours later to Abdulrahman and his friend arriving to make some tea and smoke some hookah. I made some delirious conversation, and had some tea and hookah between bursts of sleep.

At 6 in the morning, they woke me up, and we left together. I don’t know where they had to be so early, but I went right out to the road. They also mentioned that they would take their motorbike to the beach, as they heard they could get construction work on a hotel being built there.

Before I could catch a ride back to the beach, I got a text from Jonathan that said, “donkey night from hell. Bring 5 more kilos of pasta and 5 more kilos of rice.”

My dream was to never return to Guelmim, but I knew that that would never really happen. So I took a taxi back, and went to the first shop I could find to get provisions again. I also picked up some chocolate and yoghurt for Jonathan and Susan as I could only imagine what had happened the night before. They would need some treats.

Back to Tessegnan, and my thumb was finally out by noon thirty. It took about an hour, but I finally got a ride. This man was middle-aged, and a bit scruffy in a beatup car. A more average Moroccan man than the typical, well educated and wealthy people that usually pick us up. Within minutes of driving away, he casually mentioned that he was from Al-Qaeda. I just laughed and said there is little if any Al-Qaeda presence in Morocco. “Maybe in the north and in the cities,” he said, “but out here, in the desert, there are many of us”. I still didn’t take him seriously and just continued to chat with him like normal. He said he had seen me before, traveling with the donkeys. This made me more amused than worried. He then said he had had to drive past us with his mother, and be exposed to the girl who was dressed so immodestly. It was true that Susan had been dressed completely inappropriately for Morocco, especially in these rural areas. But since a car would pass us every twenty minutes or so, she didn’t feel the need to cover up. I hadn’t pushed the issue too hard, even though her attire embarrassed me. Jonathan had warned her too, but she just blew him off, saying that she just wanted to feel free in the desert. Now it was my problem and it made me furious. I apologized profusely to the man, and tried to explain that she didn’t understand the culture, and that we would make her cover up in the future. After a harsh scolding, he dropped me off, saying he had to turn on the next road, but would be back in a couple hours to take me further. I was glad to be out of his car, even if it was obvious that he was trying to scare me with his Al-Qaeda talk. The next vehicle that passed picked me up and took me all the way to the beach.

The Tessegnan boys were already hanging out with Jonathan and Susan when I got there. They were preparing coals for the hookah, preparing tea, and cooking lunch. Jonathan and Susan had done some work on the cart, and had found some heavy fishnet to put around it, creating walls to stabilize the load, and to hang trinkets on.

I got the story about the donkey night from hell. Apparently there were multiple escapes during the night, leaving Jonathan and Susan with very little sleep. At one point, both of them got loose and were caught gallivanting a few hundred meters away. They had also gotten into the dry food bag, and torn apart all of our bags of rice, pasta, corn and flour. Shuwya Shuwya also got a bad cut on her ankle from the rope that she had pulled herself free from.

I spent the afternoon jumping in and out of the river that flowed into the ocean. Jonathan went on a water-finding mission. We had confirmed that there was no well within 10 kilometers of us, and that everyone here gets their water trucked in from Guelmim. So it was basically a water-begging mission. Jonathan took Rough and Ready, who needs exercise during the day or else he will surely cause trouble at night. A few hours later he came back with 60 liters. He got 30 from the school, and 30 from a French family at their vacation home a few kilometers from the village. They also gave him some canned food, and a bottle of wine. Jonathan said they stay so far out of the way because they like their privacy, except of course from sweet donkey travelers.

We made a tajine for dinner with the Tessegnan boys, and they left soon after. I think that was Halloween.

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.

Donkeys and theft

Sometimes when your good hitch hiking fortune starts to run out, it is necessary to adapt to local conditions. And sometimes that means buying a couple of donkeys and a cart. Morocco has been full of very pleasant surprises.

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 cafÈ, 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.

My first day in this country came after two nearly sleepless nights, and I was surprised to have the energy to navigate Casablanca on my first day. After hours of waiting in the rain and various tea shops for the hostel to open, I dropped my bags and wandered into the old medina for hours, partly out of curiosity, partly from getting tangled in the web of narrow streets and alleys. After hearing how ridden Morocco is with sly salesmen and scam artists, I was more than a little guarded, although exuding a friendly faÁade. I was quickly surprised that everyone was remarkably friendly without an ulterior motive of selling me carpets or trinkets. The conversations that, in other countries, usually flow quickly from pleasantries, to country of origin, to a sales pitch, never made it to the third step, and often wandered in different, unexpected directions. Even the guy that finally walked me all the way back to the hostel when I was too lost and tired to make my way, didn’t ask for a baksheesh (tip). Was I still so jaded from India? This was Casablanca, however, the unglamorous economic center, that most tourists seem to avoid unless necessary. I was sure things would be different in places like Marrakech that attract tourists by the drove.

Mosque Hassan II

I had very little to do in Casablanca, but wait (sound familiar?) for Jonathan, which was only about 36 hours. I spent a large amount of this time just hanging out with the middle aged and men in coffee shops, drinking tea and chatting. Moroccans, famous for their linguistic abilities, tended to speak to me in either Spanish, French or English, which I thoroughly enjoyed. Other than the seemingly bipolar hostel manager, every Moroccan I met was a special treat.
When Jonathan arrived in the afternoon, I was relieved. We had been rushing around Europe, somehow repeatedly failing to cross paths. I was also excited to show him how rad this place, that he was also skeptical of, was. After spending some more time in the coffee shop, we were offered a place to stay by one of the guys. He seemed nice enough, but we decided it was a bit early in the trip to feel comfortable with this invitation so we headed to the home of an American couch surfing host, Bryce, instead. He was teaching AP history at a private school, and had a lot of great stories from Nigeria, Palestine, etc. When we asked about the invitation from the guy at the coffee shop, he agreed that it would probably not be the best idea, as it is not in the culture to invite foreigners into a home. “He probably would have just tried to smoke some hash with you, then demand 300 Dirham ($40) for it,” he said. I was still surprised, though, because I had always understood Muslim culture to possess some of the warmest hospitality, especially to travelers, in the world.

The next order of business was to get to Rabat, the capital, and a beautifully modern and vaguely European city, where we could secure our visas for Mauritania. We took the train, and when we got in, Jonathan called up Fatim, a young woman he had met on the bus from the airport. She lives in Rabat, and had told him to call if we came to town. After helping us find a place to stay and the embassy, she found a great place in the old Medina to find some lunch. We sat for at least a couple of hours over tea as our conversations grew too interesting to abandon. Jonathan and I both found this in itself to be an extraordinary situation. A Muslim woman in almost any other country could not be seen hanging out with two men, let alone non-Muslim foreigners. Yet, nobody seemed to find us out of the ordinary in any way. We talked about traveling, religion and politics. She had so many enlightening things to say about everything from Palestine, to the Danish cartoons of Mohamed, to the difficulty of getting a Canadian travel visa. As we parted ways after lunch, she told us that she would like to do the French “bise” or cheek-kissing greeting, as that is what she has become used to in her European tendencies. After leaving it felt good to know that I always have a friend to meet in this city.

Our Medina view in Rabat

The next day we got our visas, but were surprised to find that they are only 30 days from the date of issue, meaning we had 30 days in Mauritania starting…now! This complicated our leisurely plans, so we went to the beach to discuss plans. This, for both of us, was the first time that we have ever walked through a cemetery to get to a beach. Another first came that night, when we had a hot bowl of snails sold off a cart in the street. I was nervous, but they were pretty good, and they were in a broth that was strong and savory.
Because of our visa situation, we decided to neglect some of the more traditional, and I am sure worthwhile, tourist stops of Fez and Marrakech, and head south. It took us a couple of hours of bussing and walking to get far enough out of Rabat to find a good spot to hitchhike from. I immediately pulled out the tin whistle that Jonathan had given me, to tantalize the drivers. I saw people in the fifth or sixth car to pass laughing at us, and then they pulled over. That was too easy and we considered ourselves lucky. The car held two young women, and a middle-aged man, who gave me an unfriendly look upon finding out my nationality but carried on in a friendly manner with Jonathan, talking about Canada. We later joked that it was because the man had lived in Paris for 18 years.

A sulphur plant. Apparently Morocco is one of if not the biggest exporter of sulphur.

After a few more quick rides (far better hitching than in Europe), we were escorted to a small beach town by a car of two young flirty couples. The beach was…well, like this

Jonathan wants to be on the cover of Backpacker magazine

We found a decent spot to camp and marveled at the ease of hitching in Morocco.



The next day proved equally productive, and we made it all the way to Essaouira, a resort beach town, that felt as much like Puerto Vallarta as it did Morocco. We had met a young man, Badr, while we were standing on the side of the road a few towns earlier, who said if we didn’t have a place to stay in Essaouira, he would ask his friend, who he was going to visit that night, if we could stay with him. So we gave him a ring when we got into town, and they said they would be happy to host us. We spent the evening in their basic but impressive collegey bachelor pad. They made a tajine (slow-cooked vegetables and chicken) that far surpassed the blandness we had experienced in restaurants, and we listened to a mix of classic rock and Arab pop music, while we watched muted National Geographic channel on TV. It didn’t feel unlike college-age living in America.

Camels on the beach in Essaouira

They convinced us to stay a second night, despite getting hassled by the neighbors in the other unit of the apartment for not getting any sort of payment from us (which of course would need to be shared). They suggested we cook something for them that night, something from our culture. So after shopping we returned and found that we would now be serving 8 instead of 4. They had requested something with ground beef, so we made a pasta dish with tomato sauce, and vegetables. Jonathan and I quite liked it, but our audience of 6 seemed unimpressed, and the meager rations were not finished. We heard murmurs about making a tajine. A couple hours later they revealed a huge secret stash of fried fish, potatoes and bread, which they devoured rapidly. I wanted to be offended, but I was more amused than anything.

We set out early the next morning and managed to be in a good spot on the road soon after 9. Our sights were set for the town of Tiznit. The landscape grew increasingly dry, rural, and poor. But the change was welcome, as it was interesting to see the gradual change from the metropolitan cities we had started out in. A man in a turban gave us a ride and afterward invited us to tea. During the conversation he talked about living in France for six years. Eventually he started questioning me, in a critical way, about America this and that. What about Bush? Why are Americans so much bigger? It was funny to see that the only people in Morocco that seemed critical of me for being American were the ones that had lived in France. Probably a coincidence, but still funny. By the way, whenever the subject comes up, Jonathan never misses the opportunity to tell people how much I love Bush and that he is my father. Even in his broken beyond repair French, he always gets the point across, receiving roars of laughter. At the proper moments, though, I always get him back by talking about how much Jonathan likes Michael Jackson, and shares his affinity for young boys. This always seems to turn out to be a fairly even revenge.

Guelmim