Back to Hitching

With the donkeys sold we felt like we were finally free, although I had a bit of a feeling that we had just failed in the computer game, The Oregon Trail. Everything about that trip felt like that game, and we were not that good at it. First of all, we all had different skills that correlated to the trail differently. Susan was a nurse, and could tend to our wounds (which mostly included infected foot wounds). Jonathan was a carpenter/farmboy, so he could repair the cart when it needed and also was good at taking care of the donkeys. I guess that my most relevant skill (which doesn’t exist in the computer game) was translation, since I spoke better French (though still not great) than the other two.
There were occasional sicknesses (yes, sometimes bordering on dysentery) that slowed us down. Injuries (my sprained ankle). A river crossing (do we ford it with the cart full, or do we unload it and carry everything across?). We had to buy plenty of supplies at the beginning because there would be little if anything along the way, and whatever there was would be far more expensive. We broke a wheel, three times. We faced theft from locals. Our wagon weight affected our speed. We occasionally had meager rations. Difficult terrain slowed us down. Probably countless other things, but you get the idea.
So now we were in Tan Tan Plage, camping on the beach and feeling free without our animals. We had arrived in town for the holiday of Eid Al-Adha, one of the most important days on the Muslim calendar. It commemorates God sparing Abraham’s son, and letting him sacrifice a sheep instead. So all across the Muslim world Muslims slaughter sheep for the occasion. A third of the meat is for the family, a third for friends, and a third is given to the needy.
We spent the day wandering the empty streets, enjoying the calm atmosphere, and the friendly nature of the occasional pedestrian. It felt very akin to walking around on Christmas, save for the climate, and the sheep remains strewn about on the sides of the streets. We had very little food though, so we struggled to find any shops open, let alone any place to eat. We found one coffee shop open, so we sat down for a tea and a hookah. As we were relaxing, a guy came in the back door behind us with a plastic bag. He handed it to us and we realized it was meat. 3 pounds of fresh sheep meat. Apparently we were the needy in this town.
When we left the coffee shop, we went down to the beach, near some rocks, and found that there were plenty of mussels to be picked. After about 30 minutes we had collected far more mussels than we could possibly eat for dinner. We were more than blessed on this Eid Al Adha with our choice of two fresh proteins for dinner.
We went back to our concealed spot on the beach and collected wood for a fire. It was slim pickings, but we got enough to cook over and keep the mosquitoes away. We cooked the mussels with some pasta and made a cream sauce. I am not the biggest fan of shellfish, but these were by far the best mussels I have ever had, including at the fancy restaurants I had worked at in Seattle. We had considered cooking the sheep too, but instead decided to leave it marinating in spices until the next day.
On November 18, it was time to leave Tan Tan Plage, and part ways with Susan, as she went to Rabat to get new visas for Mauritania. She volunteered for the mission, and we decided that we would split the cost of the mission evenly. We told Susan it was fine to take a bus and stay in cheap hotels, but she insisted on hitchhiking, so we agreed. She has plenty of hitching experience in Europe, and seemed to have the right attitude to do it here too. We told her that for every 100 km she hitchhiked she would be rewarded with 2 dirhams, and for every night she spent without a hotel she would get 5 dirhams. None of us took this agreement too seriously, though, and she said she would even refuse the money if we tried to give it to her. It was a big mission, and somehow we all treated it very casually. With almost no French, and no Arabic, she would need to get 1700 km north, and get to the Mauritanian embassy and secure visas for the three of us.
Meanwhile, Jonathan and I would hitch south toward the border (1300 km) and wait. We had gotten 15 copies of our passport each, as we knew there would be plenty of police checkpoints.
We were on opposite sides of the highway, and we saw Susan get picked up within 15 minutes, which we were not surprised about. She texted us and said she was with a very nice man from Sudan, who works for the Sudanese embassy. He was driving all the way to Agadir, which is maybe a third of the way to rabat. A very good first ride, though from our experience, Agadir is a sprawling city that is very difficult to hitchhike out of. We later learned that the Sudanese man insisted on buying her the bus ticket all the way to Rabat. So within 24 hours of departure, Susan was already in her destination, and hadn’t spent a cent.
Meanwhile, Jonathan and I waited for two hours before we were picked up by Bubakar, a doctor who lives in Laayoune. He was on his way back home from visiting his family up north for the holiday. He spoke some English, so we were able to chat for hours in a mix of English and French. We talked about Moroccan politics and history, which was very valuable as there was a lot that we were ignorant of. He bought us lunch at a roadside fish shack. This was fishing country, so there was plenty to eat, even though there were almost no villages, let alone gas stations (let alone gas at the few gas stations that did exist). Bubakar was a hobbyist angler, and loved eating fish. The place was beyond basic, but they brought us an extravagant platter. A mountain of fried fish with fries, cooked vegetables, olives, and plenty of bread. We ate until it hurt. Even though we had been eating relatively well for vagabonds, we never miss the opportunity to binge when hitchhiking, because the time of your next meal is never known.
The drive, although only 300 km, took a lot longer than expected. Bubakar took the drive easy, and even stopped at a couple of scenic spots to take in some of the Oceanside. We were now in Western Sahara, and I did not expect our most interesting sights to be of oceanside cliffs instead of sand-covered desert landscapes. In fact, what we saw of Western Sahara is rather undramatic. Just a lot of semi-arid scrubland. Flat.
After dark, we arrived at our first checkpoint, at the entrance of Laayoune. We were nervous, first of all because we didn’t know how they would treat our passport photocopies. Secondly, we knew that a week before there had been huge riots in Laayoune related to the ongoing separation movement of the Saharan people. Of course most countries recognize Western Sahara as its own country, but it is a complicated situation, and most of the region is still effectively controlled by Morocco. During the riots many police were killed, some protesters were killed and many buildings and vehicles were torched. It was the biggest act of violence in the region in over thirty years. In the aftermath, they had kicked out all tourists, and prohibited any foreign journalists from entering.
Bubakar had not mentioned anything about this, although we knew about it. I had carefully hidden any press passes deep in my bag as a precaution, but he gave no indication that we should worry. At the checkpoint, of course he was asked many questions about why we were with him. They seemed displeased with our lack of passports, even though we explained why we did not have them. After a while, though, they let us through. But that was only the gendarmerie checkpoint. A few km later, we had to go through the police checkpoint, which was no easier. He had to get out of his car and talk with them for a while. We apologized to Bubakar, but he said it was no problem. He seemed used to dealing with the situation in Western Sahara.
He invited us to stay at his apartment, and it seemed like the only logical thing to do, as we didn’t want to try to figure out how to camp in this city, or hitchhike out of it at 8 PM. We stayed up late with Bubakar, drinking tea, and chatting.
The next morning, we got up early, as Bubakar had to work at 8. We decided to make our way out of town. We walked past numerous buildings that had been set on fire and a few vehicles that had been torched. Neither of us had ever seen anything like this. Military and police were everywhere. As we tried to catch a public transport or a hitchhike ride out of town, Jonathan discreetly snapped a few photos on his point and shoot camera. I didn’t dare take out my bulky SLR. Within 10 minutes we were swarmed by 6 police and military vans. We played ignorant, and acted like we didn’t speak any French. We gave them our photocopied passports, which they didn’t like this. Eventually they brought in a plain clothes military officer who spoke English. He questioned us about what we were doing in Laayoune, and we answered everything honestly. He told us we had to leave now. We said we were trying to hitchhike, but he said we had to get out of town right now and he flagged a taxi down for us. He told the driver to take us to the taxi station to get us to Laayoune Plage, the beach town 25 km out of town. It was only $1.50 for the two of us, so we didn’t complain. The shared taxi to the beach was also cheap, so we went along with it.
As much as Morocco had been good to us, and many of the police had been saints, we realized that it was not a good sign that it was the third time that police or military had basically forced us out of town.
On the way out of town we had to go through more check points. We knew by this point that the photocopies were sufficient, so were relaxed. The only problem was that they would not give back the photocopies after we gave them to them. 15 seemed like it would be enough, but just passing through Laayoune we were down to 10.
We got to Laayoune Plage around noon and found a good spot to hitch a ride from. It was hot, and we baked in the sun for hours. It was our worst day of hitchhiking. We assumed that the lack of traffic due to the holiday, and the political situation in the region was causing our bad luck.
Worse yet, were the kids. When they discovered us around 4 o’clock, they started with their usual incessant bonjours, which turned into demands for “cadeauxs” and money and candy. We ignored this, as usual, which turned into rock throwing. This is the point that caused disagreement between Jonathan and I. I don’t really know what to do in this situation, but I thought ignoring it was the best. Sure, I got hit by a couple rocks, but they were too small and poorly thrown to cause any pain. Jonathan wouldn’t stand for it, and wanted to throw rocks back. We tried both methods, and neither really worked. If we just ignore them, they get closer and the rocks get more dangerous. So Jonathan went on the offensive. He grabbed a handful of rocks, and chased them through the streets, throwing rocks. I watched and was more than amused by how quickly they spread. The funniest part was the kid who for some reason was wearing a single rollerblade. Even though he never threw any rocks, he was in the most danger, as running with one rollerblade left him in the dust. This tactic seemed like it was working, but of course when Jonathan returned to hitchhike, they slowly crept back. We would experiment in the future with other tactics.
Near sunset, we decided that we should probably head to the beach and find a place to camp. Jonathan scattered the kids with rocks a last time, so that we could leave without them seeing where we went. After leaving quickly, there were two kids that managed to follow us, and were within 30 meters. Luckily an adult stopped them and told them to go home. It didn’t stop them, but it delayed them enough to give us time to get out of sight. There was no real beach in this town, just some scrubland and an industrial area and a military base near the water. We started toward the scrubland, and we heard yelling. Somebody in a military lookout tower, was yelling at us, telling us to leave. We continued on the road along the scrub, away from the tower. When we got a kilometer out, nearly out of sight, we ducked off the road, and hid behind a sand dune, and waited for dark. When it arrived, I ran to town, out of sight of the military base, just to buy some milk and fill our water bottles. Jonathan ran across the road, and scouted for a camp spot. We met back in our hiding spot, and he said he had a spot. We got in our darkest clothes, trying our best not to be seen by whoever was around and walked a km through the scrub toward the beach. The spot was between two sand dunes that concealed our camp from sight from the road, the military base and everything else except for a small shack maybe 500 meters away. Good enough for us. We cooked our mutton, which by now had been marinating in Jonathan’s bag for over 48 hours. It smelled pretty ripe, but we cooked it in a milk sauce, and it was the best mutton I have ever had. In most places that I have had mutton, it has been boring, and, frankly, bad, but this proved to me that it was not the meat, but the preparation that makes all the differences. Also, because Susan was gone, we could make it as spicy as we wanted. And spicy it was, but not so much that we couldn’t taste the mutton and the sauce.
We made it back on the road the next morning at 10:00, hoping for better luck the day before. Sure enough, we got picked up by the third passing car. It was a tiny car, with a sweet young couple. They were also holiday travelers. The woman did not speak much French, but she did speak Italian, as she had lived in Italy for some time. Soon after telling us this, she produced an enormous chunk of Italian Parmesan cheese, that must have weighed at least 6 pounds. When we saw it, we were tongue tied, and giggling like children. She passed us some bread, and piece after piece of delicious cheese. Of course, it had been over a month since either of us had had any sort of real cheese, so this was a huge treat.
They took us to Boujdor, about 160 km. south of Laayoune Plage. When they dropped us off near the entrance of town, they loaded a plastic bag full of dates for us, and wished us a good journey as they continued on home.
We walked the long distance through the concrete, and fairly new, but small town. When we finally got to the other side (after a brief stop by a police officer to relieve us of another passport photocopy), we stuck our thumbs out for a couple of hours. Friendly people passed us on foot and bicycle and smiled and greeted us. No cars stopped for us, though. A little before sunset, Jonathan went to scout for a camping spot, hopefully near the beach. While I waited a friendly police officer on a bicycle stopped to see what I was doing. He seemed concerned, and wanted to help. He said to go farther out of town, near the police checkpoint and it would be better. I told him I would try tomorrow. Half an hour later Jonathan came back with one of the most interesting spots of the trip. He said he had met a guy from Yemen who speaks English who brought him to a security guard that speaks Spanish, and has a place we can camp for the night.
On the long walk to the place, we met the man from Yemen, who we will call Mahmoud. He was short and skinny, wearing a long brown robe. His head was shaved and he had a long, slender beard. Dark, deep-set eyes and a devilish grin greeted me as I shined my headlamp on his face. As we walked, we exchanged our stories about how we came to be in Boujdor. He had crossed the Sahara with his parents when he was young. Their caravan of camels went through Sudan, Libya, Algeria, Mali, Mauritania and eventually they landed in Western Sahara. He now makes his living as a teacher of Classical Arabic and English.
We arrived to our “camp spot”, which was a construction site on a cliff above the beach. The heavyset and jolly security guard spoke to us in his Spanish, that consisted mostly of pleasantries, and a lot of saying “tranquilo, tranquilo”. He offered us a cinderblock hut to sleep in, but it was obvious to us that the tents would be much more “tranquilo” for us.
After setting up, we asked Mahmoud would like to have tea with us. We were very eager to speak with someone from Yemen, and to someone that speaks English. As we made our way to a tea shop, we were assaulted by kids in the usual fashion. By the time it got to the rock throwing, we had stepped into a shop to buy a flashlight, and one of the stones sailed through the door and lazily bounced off one of the folds in Mahmoud’s robe. He didn’t notice, but when I told him, he shrugged it off, and walked through the mob, casually muttering to them in Arabic.
We spent the whole evening discussing a long list of controversial and casual issues with Mahmoud. He was extremely open to address any questions about Islam that we had. He made it very clear that he wanted to have dialogue with westerners and would like to give us any information that we care to have. So we took advantage of this opportunity. We found him to be very religiously conservative, probably more so than anyone else that we had met in Morocco, but it was not shocking, given liberal nature of Morocco. Many of the things that we discussed made us understand more, but some of his explanations of certain things just led us in circles. I wanted to understand about Sharia law. Should a government really be given the power, or obligation, to rule by the Koran? He had said that he liked countries with religious freedom, even Morocco. But for Saudi Arabia, no, the people must abide by these rules. I wanted to know, though, whether Islam has the idea that we will all be judged in the afterlife, and therefore, it is not a man’s place to live by these religious rules, and judge here on earth. He agreed with this. However, he said, in western countries, we have laws that are based on religion, and what the people see as right and wrong. In Spain, for example, it is legal to drink. Mahmoud does not see a problem with this. However, in Saudi Arabia, Yemen, and many Muslim countries, drinking is forbidden. Mahmoud explained that these are Arab, Muslim people, and this is how their society is, and therefore the government must stop people from drinking. We put other, more difficult examples to the test, such as women driving, and harsh punishments for adultery. His explanations were similar, and while I did not always agree with his opinion, it made me think about how little respect we have for their culture, and how much he had for ours. I appreciated that he did not see our western lives and culture as wrong, and I think he expects the same attitude from the west.
Meanwhile, Susan was still in Rabat. Because of the holiday, the Mauritanian embassy was closed for the entire week. Luckily she had a good Moroccan friend to stay with in Rabat, and she kept busy learning how to surf with him.
The next morning, at the 7:00 AM shift change, we said our goodbyes and tranquilos to the security guard and walked a long way in the direction of the police checkpoint on the way out of town. The officer the day before had told me it was only one km from town, but it seemed much farther, especially since we were out of practice of walking with our heavy packs. After walking at least 2 km, a man ran across the main road, hollering to us. We stopped, and he explained that he was the officer on the bike that I had met the day before. I hadn’t recognized him in his civilian clothes. He said he wanted to buy us a bus ticket to Dakhla, our destination. We said no, and explained that we preferred to hitchhike. He said he wanted to give us some money. We said we were not in need of money, and he explained that it was his duty to Allah to help us. I said there were other people in his town that probably needed it more than me. He really wanted to help us, so we said that if we didn’t get a ride in a few hours, we would come back and he could give us a ride. He agreed.
We started to hitchhike before even arriving at the checkpoint. This left us vulnerable to an encroaching gang of children. The first couple of them were friendly, but at the first request of cadeaux we prevented hostility by entertaining them. It was a new tactic that seemed to work. We sang, danced, played tin whistle, put flowers in each other’s hair. They loved it, but it attracted at least a dozen more kids. When we got tired of spinning them around in the air, we had to take a rest. This brought the discreet and then the aggressive requests for cadeaux. When we sensed imminent rock throwing danger, we put on our packs and headed toward the police checkpoint.
When we arrived, the officers were too amused by us to even check our papers. They gave us tea and a chocolate croissant, but told us we had to eat behind their post. After the tea, we said our goodbyes and thank you’s and walked a few hundred meters past the checkpoint and put our thumbs in the air, letting them beg desperately to the rare passing car.
After two hours, we were picked up by a stern man in a small car. Jonathan sat up front and was given the difficult task of making friends with our new driver. He is a great conversationalist, but couldn’t even get more than a few words from him. Halfway to Dakhla, he asked if we drank coffee, and we stopped a roadside diner and gas station. He bought us each a cup but still said very little.
All the way to Dakhla, the silence persisted, until he dropped us off near the center of town. It was an awkward ride and we were excited to be in our destination, where we simply had to wait for Susan.
We gathered ourselves as we sat on a bench overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. A young man came over and bummed a smoke off Jonathan. It is not usually the best sign of a good friend, but we made conversation with him anyway. He was young and scrawny, so I was surprised to learn that he was in the military, and was in Dakhla for some sort of training. We asked if there were any beaches to camp on in town, but he said he wasn’t sure, since he was new to the city as well. He said hotels weren’t expensive, only 40 Dirhams ($5) per person. We said we preferred to save the money. He offered to pay for us, but we declined. We knew he didn’t have much money. When we mentioned that we needed to find some charcoal if we were going to camp. He told us to wait, and after 5 minutes, he returned with a big bag of charcoal. He said it was the least he could do, since we wouldn’t take his offer on the hotel. We were grateful, and exchanged numbers, in case we wanted to meet up while we were in town. After he left, we discussed, and decided that we hadn’t slept in a bed in weeks, and with Susan gone, there was not such a need to be money conscious. We found a room and then discussed that we also hadn’t had a beer in a couple weeks. We went to the two places in town that sold alcohol. One was a swanky hotel with huge overlander vehicles and a UN truck in parking lot. The other was a fancy Spanish restaurant. Both charged an outrageous $3 per can of weak Moroccan beer. We were not interested, so we went on the street looking for contraband beer or whiskey. We found the seediest café/foosball joint and asked the jovial boss. He said it was possible, and waved over a couple of young guys, with a glaze in their eyes. They were drunk, so I knew they would know where to get cheaper drink, even though I did not trust them one bit. One stayed, but we followed the other through a series of dark alleys and dirty streets, until, suddenly we emerged on a brightly lit street, right next to the Spanish restaurant. I was relieved to be at our destination, but more than annoyed that we hadn’t found what we were looking for. I knew there was another way, as I knew the guys we met could never afford to get drunk for $3 per beer.
We gave up, and I had already decided that I would have one or two beers. We had our first at the bar, and we decided to have another. Then we decided we should take 2 more each for the road. But then Jonathan made me realize that it would be silly to do that, since we might as well just round out the six-pack. Of course. I know that this was, relative to the cost of living, the largest alcohol purchase I have ever made, and I hope it stays that way.
We wandered the lively market street before heading back to the room. We watched two movies on my laptop, ate popcorn thought we bought in the street, and drank the rest of the beer. I felt guilty when I compared it to how I had been living for the previous month, but it still felt good.

Moroccan police are anti-donkey

Jonathan and I got up almost two hours before sunrise and saddled up the donkeys. We led them through the desert in a thick haze of fog that we hoped would veil us after the sun rose. We had some vague directions about how to get to the animal market, but first we had to circumvent the police checkpoint. Our route probably set us back thirty minutes, and not long after we were actually walking the streets of town, the rising sun had destroyed most of the fog, and the only thing giving us any anonymity were our turbans and blue robes.
The market turned out to be much further away than we had hoped, and avoiding any main road and peeking around corners for police made it even more difficult. The closer we got, though, the more vehicles and donkey carts we saw carrying sheep toward the market, and we were able to just join the pack.
Any worries about police quickly dissipated as soon as we reached the market. Partly due to excitement, partly due to the overwhelming nature of the whole endeavor that made us realize that we could have other problems. Of course we drew plenty of attention as we pushed our way through the crowded aisles of the food side of the market, but most of it was harmless. When we got to the animal market, we staked out a place on the edge, near where other people had parked their donkey carts. We worried it wasn’t central enough, and one of us would have to walk around the crowd to rustle up some buyers. This was not the case, though. As soon as word spread that some foreigners were selling donkeys, we were surrounded by a dozen people begging to know the price. At first we were thrilled at the interest, but it eventually became obvious that nobody was very interested in paying a realistic price for donkeys to foreigners. Either they were simply curious, or figured we would sell them at rock bottom prices because we didn’t know any better.
It was fun for a while, but as the men started to fade away, the children took over. They were obnoxious as hell, and were continuously harassing the donkeys, asking for cadeauxs, or poking around our belongings in the saddlebags. During the course of the day, my headlamp, which had been in my jacket pocket in the saddlebag, and Rough and Ready’s bridle were missing.
We were hoping to get 1,500 Dirhams ($190) per donkey, but knew that we would probably have to settle for closer to 1,000 Dirhams ($125) per donkey. Interestingly there was far more interest in Rough and Ready, even though for us, Shuwya Shuwya was the far better, and more reliable donkey. By late afternoon, we knew we might have to go even lower if we wanted to get rid of them that day, which was very important due to our police situation. We had heard from somebody that the police was looking for us, but they never came.
The best offer we had was from one man who was interested in buying the cart and both donkeys for 2,500 Dirhams, but he wanted to see the cart first. We arranged to meet him on a road not far from our camp at 6:00. Before we left the market, we also took the phone numbers of a couple of other prospective buyers, in case the other offer fell through.
On our way back to town we passed through a slummy area, and we got the attention of a dozen kids, who started following us. They started with the usual bonjours and monsieurs, and quickly moved to the inevitable requests for cadeauxs. When we started to ignore them, it made them angry, so they tried testing out their only phrases in English, “fuck you!” and “bitch!” I was shocked, but knew that responding to that would not help. Just as we got out of their neighborhood they started hurling rocks at us. At this point, we were too far in front of them for us to worry. Jonathan continued on toward camp, but I had to meet the man who wanted to buy the donkeys on the road next to the slum, so I stayed just out of their rock throwing range. While I waited, the kids slowly crept closer. Some of the kids had slings, but they were not very effective. Just as some of the rocks started to land near me, a young guy walking by saw what was happening, and went and yelled at the kids. He then sent one of the kids to the nearest shop and had him buy some bread with cheese spread and milk. As I chatted with the guy, the kids slowly crept closer in a non-threatening away. When they were finally surrounding us, I pulled out one of the noisemakers from Jonathan’s birthday party and blew on it. This caused a big commotion among the kids, and they all had their hands out, demanding it. I said I would only give it away for one of their slings, because, hey, I need to protect myself, don’t I? Immediately there were about four slings being shoved towards me. I chose the orange one and the deal was done.
Jonathan came back with Said, who we had become friends with over the last few days. We wondered where the guy was, so we had Said call him so he could speak in Arabic. Apparently there had been a mix up in the time, and we had been late. The guy was no longer interested. So, with the help of Said, we called the two other donkey buyers. One wanted Rough and Ready for 750 Dirhams, the other wanted Shuwya Shuwya and the cart for 1,750.
When the first donkey buyer arrived, we made a quick transaction to sell Rough. We said our goodbyes, but it happened too quickly, especially as the idea of sentimentality for your donkeys didn’t seem very common in the culture. We knew the more stressful donkey was gone, but also the more fun one. Rough and Ready was always a constant headache, but also provided far more entertainment. His midnight hee-hawing, his constant chasing of Shuwya Shuwya, and most of all the gumshow, will never be forgotten. The gum show, which could come at any moment, look like this:



It was our weak spot, and Rough and Ready knew it. Any time after we forced him off of Shuwya Shuwya after an attack, and we were cursing and hitting him, he would immediately flash the gum show. Of course this would win us back over immediately.
After Rough was gone, we dealt with the second donkey buyer, and apparently there had been a mix up in the price, and the deal didn’t go through. So we were left to try and figure out how to sell the cart and Shuwya Shuwya the next day. Said stuck around that night with his friend Said, and we made dinner and tea together. They told us that the animal market should continue the next day, although the normal weekly market wouldn’t be there.
In the morning, we decided to head out early again toward the market as we had the day before, but this time we would bring the cart. We felt some confidence with our police situation since we hadn’t been bothered the day before. Unfortunately, though, the market location changed, and it was right next to a police station. After we arrived, of course we were surrounded by kids who went through their normal routine, and by the time they started to throw rocks, a police officer arrived and shooed them away. He spoke to us in English and asked us the expected questions of where we were from and what we were doing. Five minutes after he left, another office arrived, asking the same questions, but in French. He asked for our passports, which we gave. He gave them back and left. Soon after, I went to buy some fresh squeezed orange juice that I had seen someone making. As I started to drink it, another officer approached me with the same routine. After taking my passport, he told me to come with him.
We arrived outside the police station, and I was directed to speak with a man sitting in a white SUV. He was dressed in slacks and a white button up shirt. Again, he asked where I was from, what I was doing in Morocco and at the market, and for my passport. I told him that we were trying to sell our donkeys here and he told me that this was a problem. I didn’t take him seriously. Before explaining the problem, he said we had to leave town. I begged for him to let us sell the donkey and cart before leaving. He said it was impossible, and that we had to go back to Guelmim. So I asked if we could just go on to Tan Tan Plage. He told us it was also impossible, as they don’t have a donkey market. By this time, Jonathan arrived, but refused to admit to speaking or understanding any French, a tactic that can be fairly useful when being faced with ridiculous or illegal police practices. I asked him what we had done wrong, and he said many things. What things? Well, first of all, he told us, trying to sell a donkey at a sheep market, secondly, camping outside of town, plus, many other things, which he refused to elaborate on. They were both ridiculous charges, especially the camping, as we were in a nomadic culture that generally is open to people camping on communal temporarily. The man told us that our two options were to leave to Guelmim (150 km back the way we came) immediately, or to face the charges in court. We really wanted to call their bluff, but we thought we could at least sneak out of town toward Tan Tan Plage, only 30 km away. We told them we weren’t nearly prepared to make a journey that long with only one village in between, and potentially only one well. We had very little food, no water and half the donkey power. We also were not packed at all. They said they would give us one hour to do all our provisioning, water filling and packing.
As we slowly packed up our things at the market, I exchanged phone numbers with a couple of the men that had shown interest in the donkeys. The police yelled at the men as we did this, though I still was going to try to escape this town without a donkey cart setup.
We left the market with a police escort and plenty of people watching, none of which were about to come to our defense. We led the donkeycart away as slowly as possible, and spoke with anybody that was curious about us. A police truck was following us, about 30 yards behind us. Anytime that somebody tried to talk to us, an officer would get out and yell at them, or pull them aside after speaking to us, and give them a talking to. This whole charade of a police escort for a donkey cart was so comical that it really lightened our mood. We mosied through town, greeting everybody we could, wondering if they noticed the police truck behind us. Our only worry was that the police would come all the way to our camp with us, and really make us pack up right then. As we expected, though, they stopped at the edge of town, and the edge of jurisdiction. A police officer at the checkpoint, who apparently hadn’t been updated about what we were supposed to do, told us that we had to go to Tan Tan Plage. I didn’t matter, though. It was now gendarmerie territory, and in a way we were safe.
We called Said and he came quickly. He confirmed what we were almost sure of, that everything the police told us was a bluff, and for whatever reason, the powers that be had decided that we were not welcome in town. He said we shouldn’t worry that they will do anything to us. We still wanted to leave, though, and the sooner the better. We called up two of the potential donkey buyers, one of which was the same guy that had bought Rough and Ready. He said he would come to look at the cart. So instead of packing everything and heading to the next town, we unpacked the cart, and got everything ready to sell.
It wasn’t until almost dark that the man who had bought Rough and Ready finally showed up, though this time he came with a woman. She had her game face on, and was far from friendly. It was her that was interested in Shuwya Shuwya. She walked directly to her and grabbed her mouth, opened in harshly and checked the gums. She looked disappointed. She looked her over a little more and seemed annoyed that she had bothered to walk all the way over to look at such a worthless donkey. Of course we knew this was all a show, but it was true that by the look of her, Shuwya Shuwya was an old mare, past her prime.
They would not take her for anything more than 1000 Dirhams including the cart. It was a steal for the cart alone, and we knew it. But we were desperate, and they knew it. The deal was done and after nearly a month, we were donkey free. We knew it would be a relief to have them out of our hands, as it really was like being with children, especially in town. But empty nest syndrome set in that night, and we got nostalgic from the hee-hawing we could hear in the distance, imagining it was Rough and Ready greeting Shuwya Shuwya as she came home.

Shuwya Shuwya is bought

In the morning we burned our trash, packed our bags fuller than any of us ever had before, and collected the remaining supplies before leaving our Tan Tan camp. During the process, our camp, as it often was by now, was invaded by some of the kids from the nearby neighborhood. They were generally peaceful, but had a real problem of touching and playing with everything they could get their hands on. Jonathan yelled at one of them as he realized he was looking through one of the pockets on his backpack. Jonathan’s headlamp was never seen again. They also tried to steal a memory card of mine. It was another nice goodbye from the town of Tan Tan.
The plan was for Jonathan and I to go to the market and sell all of our leftover supplies, and then leave town for Tan Tan Plage. In the mean time, Susan would be traveling north to Rabat to get visas for the three of us to enter Mauritania. We had all bought them before the donkey trip, but they were expired by now.
So Jonathan and I carried our backpacks, lots of leftover food, four water jugs, a tire, tools and quite a few other random things. We tried to get a taxi to the market, as it was a couple of km away. Unfortunately Tan Tan is the most difficult town to get a taxi in that I have ever been in. We walked and tried to get a taxi for nearly an hour, but with our loads, we were barely moving. Before we could get a taxi, a large truck that served as public transit to Tan Tan Plage drove up to us. We decided we might as well try our luck selling stuff there, as it seemed that we would never make it to the market.
Meanwhile, Susan was trying to make it out of Tan Tan by hitchhiking. We had told her it wasn’t necessary to hitchhike, and that we would split the cost of transportation and accommodation evenly, but she insisted on saving the money. She got picked up by a French man, who said he would take her as far as the checkpoint. When she got there, though, they would not permit her to cross the checkpoint. They said she could not leave Tan Tan by hitchhiking and they forced the French man to take her back to town and drop her near a bus station. We weren’t sure how much of this was just worry for a girl hitchhiking, or had something to do with the trouble we had caused in town.
Jonathan and I got a text about this as we were in the truck, and so we told her just to meet us in Tan Tan Plage. We got there about 30 minutes before sunset, and the town had a unique calmness to it, that was obviously not normal here. It was the night before Eid Al-Adha, one of the most important Muslim holidays, and you could feel it in the air. The few people in the central square of town paid close attention to us as we arrived laden with jerry cans, plenty of luggage, and a tire. We casually laid out a few grain sacks as a mat, and set out all of our items for sale. Somehow a small crowd materialized within minutes. We were not hoping to make much money, just lighten our loads. Surprisingly we didn’t do too bad, and sold most things at half of what we had paid for them or more. The best sale was a toy violin that I had gotten for Jonathan’s birthday. We sold it for 10 Dirhams, when I had bought it for 15 Dirhams. Susan arrived as we were selling the last of our things. In total, we made 118 Dirhams, or about 15 dollars. Not much, but in context of traveling, $5 each was about a day of living cheap.
After it was dark enough, made our way to the beach, and found an area that was out of the way and covered with little bush-covered hills, that gave us a little bit of privacy. It was time to get on to a new style of travel.

Urban donkeys

As excited as we were to get into a town after three weeks of donkey traveling in the bush, it was not without problems. We expected Tan Tan to be very pro-donkey, after all, they even had signs on the streets warning drivers of the abundance of donkey carts in town. But when we parked on a side street, and tried to go into a restaurant for lunch, we were told we couldn’t park our cart there. This was pretty shocking, as it seemed that everyone else was parking their carts wherever they wanted.
After we managed to eat a disappointing meal (our camp food had gotten pretty good by now), we found a garbage-strewn field for me to park the cart in, while Jonathan and Susan went to the market to buy some things and run some errands. While I waited, a fellow donkey driver passed. His donkey caught scent of our donkeys, and Rough and he started hee-hawing to each other, which give the man’s donkey a turbo boost. The man waved to me as a thank you. Unsurprisingly, several police vehicles (actually, police, gendarmerie and military) stopped to have a chat with me. None of them had a problem with us, and I asked where we could camp. They said we could camp in this field, but it would be safer for us to go to the edge of town and camp in the bush.
While I waited, Shuwya Shuwya got her head stuck in a tree. The tree she was tied to split into two trunks about four feet up, and she dropped her head into the gap and got stuck. She panicked, and when I saw what was going on, I just laughed. I grabbed her firmly around the neck, pushed her head forward and lifted her free.
By the time Jonathan and Susan got back, I was feeling weak, and on the verge of being sick. We walked out of town, and, under the cover of dark, turned off the road and found a spot 200 meters from the road, hidden behind a large mound of dirt. A light drizzle turned to heavy rain, and I developed a fever. I set up my tent in a panic, which led to a very wet tent, backpack, and clothes. I got in my tent immediately and tried to get dry. I felt awful and couldn’t sleep. The night seemed to drag out for days.
The next day I barely moved, except to let the diarrhea pour every 20 or 30 minutes. Our camp was quickly surrounded by a minefield created by my sickness. Jonathan and Susan spent a lot of these two days to run more errands in town. They took Shuwya Shuwya with saddlebags so they could bring water back. While they were eating lunch, a police officer told them to keep the donkeys off the main roads, as it was illegal. They argued that other donkey drivers have their carts all over the main roads, and there are even signs showing that they are allowed. He didn’t accept their argument, and just told them again to stay off the main roads.
We discussed selling our donkeys and wrapping up our trip in Tan Tan. It was a far cry from our original destination, Dakhla, another 1200 km south, which we now estimated could take up to six months. Even going on to the next sizeable town, Tarfaya, would take at least another week, and was even smaller than Tan Tan. We didn’t want to get trapped in a town too small to sell our donkeys in. Most people told us the best way to sell the donkeys in Tan Tan would be to just go to the market area and have a for sale sign. Luckily, though, Jonathan and Susan heard that on Sunday there would be an animal market that we could go to. It was Thursday, though, so we had some time to wait.
Friday was Jonathan’s birthday, and I was starting to feel better from my sickness. Susan and I went to town on a water run with Shuwya Shuwya. We had the worst timing possible. First, we passed by a hotelerie school just as classes were getting out. This meant lots of attention toward Susan from the young, well-dressed men. Some of them spoke with me in English and French, and while they were not rude, I just was not in the mood to address everyone’s curiosities right now. One guy, Said, who spoke very good English, got into a discussion with me. He was having difficulty understanding why we would choose to travel with donkeys, the poor man’s vehicle, when most foreign tourists brought their own vehicles. We are not Moroccan, so why would we try to act like it? His tone was mildly critical, but he seemed to genuinely want to understand what we were all about.

Our camp outside of Tan Tan

We got to the military post, where Susan had gotten water before. Unfortunately, though, it seemed that somebody important was present, and they said we would have to come back in two hours if we wanted to fill our jugs. We asked around for where to fill our jugs, and we were directed to a mosque. Some young boys helped us out and filled up the jugs in the area where the men were performing ablutions. We loaded the 4 jugs, totaling 100 liters into the saddlebags, and Susan started to tie it up. She is very handy with knots, and is far better than I am at rigging the saddlebags. Unfortunately, though, the boys and young men hanging around couldn’t comprehend that she could possibly do this task correctly. They forced their way in, took the ropes, and fought over how best to tie it up. I was annoyed, but Susan was angry. It was even worse when the whole mess started to fall off after moving 20 meters. So she started it over on her own, and we had to force people away. It was really shocking to see them act so rude, by my standards, but it seemed normal to them. I repeatedly explained that she knows what she is doing, and has tied these up many times. When we finally got the people to listen, a taxi pulled over, and an adult man got out and scattered the cloud of children that had formed around us. He then tried to take the ropes from Susan to finish tying it up. We argued, but he insisted.
On the way back, a school got out just as we were passing, and we had to deal with even more children, yelling at us and asking for cadeauxs (gifts). After the water mission, Susan hitchhiked to Tan Tan Plage, a beach town 30 km away, to buy some beer. It was impossible to find in Tan Tan, but there was a Korean restaurant in Tan Tan Plage that sold alcohol at ridiculously inflated prices.
Meanwhile, I went to the market to buy supplies for Jonathan’s party. Good friends and serious blog followers might know the stories of the last time I was with Jonathan on his birthday on the border of Bhutan. Considering this, I couldn’t disappoint him by not sticking to tradition. This meant that I had to seek out and buy party hats. It was not as easy as in India, but after a few hours of searching in the market area, I found not only party hats, but also noisemakers (the kind you blow into and it unfurls into a magical sparkly blue tube) and Disney masks. I also bought him a gift of a toy violin, a large amount of camel meat, and lots of fruits and vegetables for a birthday tajine.
Susan doesn’t like party hats, but we made her wear one against her will. We also put them on Shuwya Shuwya and Rough and Ready, who fully enjoyed them. They even seemed to like the noisemakers. We made a tajine that, to this day is far and away the best tajine that we, or probably all of Morocco has ever tasted. And we didn’t even stray too far from Moroccan tradition. The meat was camel and the vegetables were all normal. The only liberties we took were too add some of the mitmita (Ethiopian spice blend) that I carried for heat, and added some golden raisins, which I imagine some people must do anyway. And of course there were plenty of whole garlic cloves and large orange slices. Susan also got a bottle of whisky, which was a nice addition. The meal was so heavy, though, that Jonathan got too tired to continue too far into the whiskey and he went to bed early. Susan and I went on midnight donkey rides into the desert. Shuwya Shuwya, hesitant at first to wander, was a great companion, and it was a perfect and tranquil end to a good birthday night.
On Saturday, we had everything in order, and we just had to wait for the market on Sunday. Jonathan and I had each had a day alone at the camp so it was Susan’s turn. Jonathan and I decided to do something that we should have done much more often and that was to take the donkeys out on an adventure. I rode Shuwya Shuwya in front, to keep Rough on a good pace and to keep him from straying. We rode them for a couple of km aimlessly into the desert. Eventually we came to what looked like a mix of a ghost town and ruins. It was a small settlement of maybe 10 or 15 homes or buildings, but there was no sign that anyone had been living there recently. They were mostly made from mud bricks, which there was little of, if any, in this part of Morocco. It was quite eerie. We also found something else that we didn’t think existed in this part of Morocco: trees. There was a small area of palm trees and large bushes. We went into it, found a clearing, and indulged in the shade. We tied up Rough, but not Shuwya Shuwya, as she had been so calm that there was no threat of her running off if we kept an eye on her. This was a mistake, though, because when Rough and Ready got loose, she was able to run away. We chased them out of the trees, and eventually Rough caught her, and pinned her down. Jonathan and I tried to push him off, but he already had is mouth clamped around her neck. So we started punching, but to no avail. I tried a nice eye gouge, which helped along with Jonathan’s kicking. When we finally separated them, I realized my hand hurt really badly. We realized that Jonathan, in the panic had been punching my hand that was on Rough’s neck.
Our plan for that night was to move our donkey cart into town and stay with Mohamed, a friend that Jonathan and Susan had made when I was sick. He said he had room for the cart and the donkeys and places for us to sleep, so we finally took him up on the offer. When we got to the police checkpoint at the edge of town, they said we could not pass. They said it was illegal to bring the cart into town. This was obviously a ridiculous thing to say, and we went around and around telling them there was no way it was illegal for us to have donkeys in town. But the bottom line was that they would not let us through, they said we had to go to Tan Tan Plage, 30 km away. We said we had to be at the animal market the next morning to sell the donkeys, and they said there was no animal market, but there was a big one in Tan Tan Plage. For some reason the police had decided that our presence in town had become a problem, and they were trying to pass us off to the next town. Mohamed met us at the checkpoint, and spoke with the police, but was unable to persuade them. So we went back to camp.
We needed water, so Jonathan and Mohamed took Shuwya Shuwya through the bush into town to circumvent the police. When Jonathan returned, we formulated our plan for the next day.

Ups, Downs

I didn’t believe Jonathan when he told me we had another flat tire. I was just getting out of my tent in the morning, and it was not the kind of news I like to be greeted with. It was our third flat tire in 4 days. We were at least 20 kilometers from a main road in either direction. This was our spare, so all we could do was pump it up, and hope that we could at least make a few kilometers at a time before stopping to pump it again. Before leaving, we filled all the empty jugs with the brown water. We filtered the water through sarongs, which I doubt did much for the feces that was surely in it. At least we would have plenty of water for the donkeys, and we wouldn’t have to drink the brown water for at least a day or two.

Within two hours of leaving the well, it seemed that our luck had changed. Not only was the tire holding air, but we found another well, which had clear, sweet water. We exchanged all the brown water for this water (even the donkey water, as Susan insisted) and even had a water fight. Probably bad desert etiquette, but we were dirty and we needed it. We had a few dates, and pomegranates for lunch, and continued on. This day was going smoothly and we were making relatively good speed. Late in the day we came across a family of camel herders. Jonathan yelled to Susan to cover up, so she put a sarong over her legs. The old man in charge was goofy and friendly. He brought all the women and children of the family to meet us. The women quickly showed Susan that she needed to cover herself. They found the pink scarf that Khadija had given her in Tessegnan, and quickly wrapped her up. The man showed us that one of the women had an infected cut on her hand. Nurse Susan cleaned it up and bandaged it. Then the man showed that his back hurt. I think he wanted some pills to help with this, but Susan thought he wanted a massage. He didn’t want a massage from her, and she didn’t want to give him one, so it all worked out.
An hour before sunset, we faced one of the most difficult hills of the trip so far. We surveyed it, looked at alternate routes, and decided the only way was straight up. Susan led, Shuwya Shuwya pulled the cart, which we had named the French Navigator, and Jonathan and I pushed our nuts off. It was really demanding for everyone, but we made it to the top like real pros. We kept on trucking and by sunset we found a beautiful camp spot. We all agreed that it had been our most successful and enjoyable day of donkey travel thus far.




We got on the road by 9:00 the next day, as we were hoping to connect to the main road toward Tan Tan. We estimated that we had no more than 10 or 12 km to go for that. The dirt road started to ascend, and eventually brought us to the top of a hill, where we could barely see the road off in the distance. It was many 6 or 7 km away. We were all excited and relieved, as the road meant more security, however the atmosphere would never be the same as on this remote dirt track.



When we arrived at the road, we stopped for a long lunch of sardines, dates and pomegranates. We checked the nearest mile marker and found that we were only 50 km from Tan Tan. This was a little closer than I had expected. Getting to the road also meant the possibility of riding on the cart again. We basically hadn’t even ridden on the cart in about 60 or 70 km because the terrain was too difficult.
We thought getting back on the smooth pavement would be a relief, and it was in some ways, but in others it was miserable. The asphalt must have raised the temperature ten degrees, and the fast traffic frayed my nerves. As always, we got a lot of attention from the passing drivers. The truckers would often honk and give a thumbs up in approval. I liked this, but after a while, it really got to Susan and Jonathan. What annoyed me was the drivers that would pass and make a gesture of confusion, shoulders shrugged, palm turned up. I knew we were confusing, but I didn’t know what they wanted us to explain to them.
One car full of friendly men dressed in business clothing stopped in front of us. This kind of thing always annoyed us because we didn’t want to waste our time stopping to answer every curious person’s questions. They got out of the car and stopped us. They asked the normal questions about what we were doing, where we bought the donkeys, where we were going, where we were from, how much did we pay for the donkeys, etc. They claimed to be from some sort of law enforcement or security agency, but based on their identification badges, they did something in the tourism industry. They insisted on getting plenty of pictures with us before letting us continue.
We came to the foot of a hill that looked so daunting, we needed to take a break to discuss how we would do it. It was too long, maybe 2 km, to ascend in multiple trips with small loads. It was the worst up hill of the entire donkey traveling. What was worse was that this asphalt was more slippery for the donkey’s shoed feet than the concrete road between Guelmim and Plage Blanche. We put Shuwya Shuwya in front, as she was always the stronger and more reliable donkey, especially going up hill. Susan insisted on pushing, so I took the reins to lead the cart up the hill.
We weren’t even on the steepest parts of the hill yet, and I could already feel Shuwya Shuwya’s feet slipping. It was like ice for her. I didn’t want to be leading. For me it would have been less stressful to be grunting it out behind the cart, than fretting over each of SS’s steps.
After the first km up hill, the team was getting tired, and the steepest stretch was still to come. I asked if we needed a break, as there was a tiny sliver of shoulder at this halfway point, but Jonathan and Susan preferred to keep on going. We continued onto the steepest 500 meter stretch, and slowed to a crawl. Huge semis were creeping past us from behind, zooming down the hill in the other direction. The honking and waving continued, as they didn’t realize, or care, how stressed we were. We made it to the top of the pass, but as soon as the road dipped down slightly at the top of the hill, SS really started to slip. It was a barely noticeable downgrade, but she was having a really tough time with it, so we supported the cart and moved slowly. At the top of the hill there was a police checkpoint. They let us through without searching us. We still had some daylight left, but when we saw what the descent on the other side of the pass was like, we knew we needed to save it for the next day. The police showed us where we could camp, and later an officer arrived to take our passport information.
In the morning we discussed how we would descend this down hill. We hadn’t gone down anything this long or steep before, and we knew that simply going straight down with the cart would be a disaster. We decided to take the main load of the cart down in saddlebags, and when the cart was light enough, Jonathan and I would rickshaw the cart down. Susan volunteered to take loads down with Shuwya Shuwya, which took about 30 minutes round trip.
As expected, when Susan left with SS, it made Rough go crazy. He pulled at his rope so hard, I was worried it would give him another cut on his ankle. He just got crazier and crazier. Jonathan laughed at him, very confident in the pile of rocks he had tied him to. A few more crazy lunges, though, and the rocks started to come loose, and Rough was running. We ran after him, and managed to cut him off so he didn’t get on the road. Once he realized he was trapped, he surrendered.
Susan took three loads with Shuwya Shuwya before Jonathan and I were ready to rickshaw the cart down. It took most of the day, but we managed to get everything to the bottom of the hill safely, and without too many problems. We were running low on food though, and we didn’t have much confidence in the tire that needed occasional pumping. It was decided that I would hitch a ride in to Tan Tan for the night to get provisions and fix the tire. A truck driver picked me up within ten minutes. We made it to Tan Tan in about 45 minutes, but based on the amount of hills we went over, I knew that it would not be easy on a donkey cart. There was a police checkpoint at the entrance of Tan Tan, and they made me get out of the truck, and let the driver go. They asked me the same questions as usual. They asked me about the tire. I explained about the donkey cart. I showed them pictures on my camera to help explain. They were so amused by this whole thing, but they seemed to feel the need to remain cop like, so they kept asking me other random questions, and made me sit around a while longer. I was annoyed because I was running out of daylight, and I had a lot of business to attend to. Eventually they stopped a truck driver and told him that he had to take me to a cheap hotel (as I told them I didn’t have much money) on his way in to town. He seemed annoyed by this, and wouldn’t make any conversation with me. He dropped me off at the first hotel into town, which was not cheap, nor was there any vacancy. But I was near all the tire shops, so I took advantage of that. As they were fixing the tube, they realized that the tube was actually the wrong size for the tire, which was probably why it had gone flat before.
I lugged the tire around for a couple of km before I found a hotel that looked affordable. I bartered the price down from 100 Dirhams ($12.50) to 50 Dirhams, and had my first bed in over two weeks.
I met two men in the lobby from Guinea, who told me that this donkey traveling is dangerous and that we are too vulnerable. They said if we want to see the desert, we should rent a 4x4. I said that it was far too expensive for us, and they argued that it wasn’t. It seems that even when I tell some people about my money situation, they just can’t comprehend it. Which is not shocking, as almost every other foreigner we met in Morocco was in their own car. We didn’t meet a single on-the-cheap backpacker sort of traveler our whole time in Morocco. Even when I wasn’t lugging around a spare tire, people would ask me where my car was.
After doing all my shopping, and indulging myself with street-meat sandwiches, I met a man from Mali who spoke English. His name was Handsome, or at least that is what he told me. I invited him for tea, and we had lots of good chatting about Africa and football. He was playing for the local Tan Tan football club, as it paid better than the team he was playing for in Mali. He offered to let me stay at his place for the night, but as I had already paid for my hotel room, I turned him down. I took his information, though and said I would call him when we got to Tan Tan.
The next morning I walked a couple of km toward the edge of town before I got a ride. It was with a friendly older man who seemed happy to help a donkey traveler. He dropped me off where Jonathan and Susan had made camp the night before. We got loaded up, and set out. Early on, we came a sizable hill, which was demanding, but as we had been through worse, we ascended with confidence. The way down was a different story. The asphalt was slick, the hill was steep, and the tight turns gave us little protection from the traffic. I scouted around for a different route and found it. It was on loose gravel, and some dirt road with large rocks and ruts. It was slightly less steep, and at least it would not be slippery and we wouldn’t have to deal with traffic. To keep the load light, we loaded Rough with saddlebags carrying water, and Jonathan left to take him down. Thirty minutes later he came back fuming. Halfway down, Rough had refused to continue, and Jonathan had to tie him up near the path. Jonathan is better with the donkeys than any of us, as he grew up on a farm, so this was surprising. Most of all, though, it was just a blow to Jonathan’s pride, and he admitted to it. The three of us started going down. I navigated, while Jonathan and Susan provided support. A lot of the road was so rough that agile navigation was pointless, and we just had to roll down fast and hope that we didn’t pop a tire or lose everything on the cart. I feared for the entire cart as we hit the biggest rocks and ruts. We had had so many problems so far, that any sort of breakdown wouldn’t have surprised me. We made it though, losing a few items along the way as they bounced off the cart. Jonathan and Susan retrieved them as they walked back up to get Rough. He fought again, but between the two of them, they were able to get him down. We got back on the road and made about three more kilometers before sunset.

Shuwya Shuwya

We were only 27 km from Tan Tan, and I was optimistic. Our longest day so far had been 25 km, and I knew the terrain was not going to be too bad. However, for whatever reason, we didn’t leave until 11. Later that day, just as we were finishing our lunch stop, Rough and Ready got loose once again. We watched casually as he simply pulled his stake out of the ground. He didn’t even know at first, but as soon as we started to get up and walk towards him, he realized. He ran away from us, and then paused before he made his move. Jonathan and I took positions between him and Shuwya Shuwya. Sure enough, he charged. It seemed like it would be too easy, as we were used to this by now. Our gamefaces were not on, and Rough and Ready out-maneuvered us. Suddenly he had made his way behind Shuwya Shuwya. I hesitated to get between them, as she was starting to kick. He knocked her on the ground and clamped his teeth onto her neck. Jonathan and I started wailing on Rough, and quickly managed to get him off of her. It seemed fairly routine by now, but it was the first time Susan had seen Rough and Ready get…rough. This was a startling revelation for her that these really were just animals acting on instinct. No divine spirit, no special connection, no beautiful soul. For a long time she had criticized any use of force against the donkeys, and preferred to gently coax them into doing what she wanted them to. While this never was effective, she still tried, because she believed it was the right thing to do. Now it was all shattered. It hit her that these were not our companions and fellow adventurers. Just a couple of animals that did what we told them to avoid a beating, and one that just wanted to get laid. It took her some time to get over witnessing an attempted donkey rape.
Soon after this episode, a bearded man emerged from the desert, and approached us, offering some oranges. We accepted them, and offered him some dates. He ate many, so we offered him some pomegranate, then some peanuts. He didn’t seem to speak any French, and didn’t seem very interested in communicating in Arabic. We wondered if he would leave, or at least do something to explain what he was doing here. It never came, so he helped us get our donkeys ready to go, and we left together. He seemed eager to help push up hills, and support the cart on down hills. He waved proudly to the truck drivers honking at us. He even joined us in our habit of scavenging useful scraps of material and trinkets from the side of the road. He found a bag of discarded oranges in perfect condition. He continued with us all the way until sunset, when we found a camp spot next to the only tree we had seen in days (weeks?). It seemed as if he would at least be eating dinner with us, and probably spending the night. I managed to glean a little bit of information from him. It seemed that he was walking from Guelmim to Tan Tan. I don’t know why he would walk 130 km alone, when he could have probably hitch hiked for free or just a little bit of money if he waited long enough. I don’t know where he would even get food or water, as there are almost no wells or villages between the two towns. All he seemed to be carrying were the couple of oranges he had shared with us. I asked his name by listing off Muslim names. He nodded at my second suggestion, Sayeed.
We cooked dinner and he ate less than us, but he seemed to enjoy it. He drank our tea and coffee, which most Moroccans didn’t do since we never put enough sugar in it. So it was weird, and he made us a little nervous, but he seemed like a good guy. We slept in our tents, and he slept on our tarp, with our spare blanket. I felt bad not giving him my tent to sleep in, as I know any Moroccan would have done that for me if I were their guest. I felt worse when it started raining.

Said at dinner time

Before I fell asleep, I heard a small crash from the box where we kept our silverware, plates and knives. It shocked me, and I couldn’t think of any explanation for the sound. I waited a few minutes, and then got out of my tent. Jonathan called to me because he had heard it too and asked if I saw anything. Nothing was out of place, and our new companion seemed to be sleeping peacefully. I felt guilty for sleeping with one eye open and a large knife under my pillow.
In the morning Said was still there, to my half-surprise, and he helped us wash dishes and pack the cart. We were only seven km from Tan Tan, so it was pretty obvious that he would be going all the way with us. I was unsure about what we should do about the police checkpoint at the entrance of town. They had asked me a lot of questions when I entered town hitchhiking, so I imagined it would be more complicated to come in with a donkey cart. Adding a man to our group that we knew absolutely nothing about wasn’t going to help. When we got within sight of the checkpoint, we stopped, and tried to explain to him that we needed to go through the checkpoint separately. He seemed confused at first, but eventually understood. I felt awful, because he looked disappointed. After thanking him for his help and wishing him a good journey, though, it was obvious that he was clear on why it was like this, and he didn’t blame us. I hope. We gave him a ten minute head start and never saw him again. Later, in Mauritania, I explained this incident to someone from that area of Morocco. He seemed to think that there was nothing too odd about that experience. It is just old desert etiquette. If you are traveling in the desert, and you meet other travelers, it is the protocol to just start traveling together. I was somewhat aware of this, but had learned of it in the context of the British explorer Alexander Laing being joined by a group of Tuaregs as he passed through the Sahara in is search for Timbuktu. After traveling side by side for several days, the Tuaregs made a midnight attempt on his life.
For our entrance to town, we all got on the cart for the first time in close to two weeks, and started playing music. I had Susan’s drum, and Jonathan and Susan had tin whistles and we all took turns singing. As we approached the checkpoint, we played In the Jungle, and some Moby song Jonathan had taught us, with incorrect lyrics as always, “Oh lordy, travel so hard”. The police were confused by us, and therefore asked us a lot of questions. Of course, they couldn’t contain their amusement, but they still tried to act like cops by acting very suspicious of us, asking our birthdays, then checking that information against our passports, asking lots of other erroneous questions, for some reason thinking they were going to catch us in a weird lie. One question that was probably asked by 95% of people that really annoyed me was how much we had paid. Of course it annoyed me because we had paid too much and I didn’t want to tell people the truth. But now that we were in Tan Tan, and we were considering selling the donkeys, I felt this information was now somewhat sensitive. During the questioning, good old Rough and Ready was going crazy with his hee-hawing as this town was full of donkeys. The officer was really annoyed by this, and normally I would be embarrassed by our inability to control the donkey, but I enjoyed it at this point.

Grand entrance into Tan Tan

When they finally let us go, we continued to play music as we rolled into town. We felt like minor celebrities with how much attention we attracted. Everyone was taking pictures of us on their cell phone cameras. It made me wonder, though. If I saw a Moroccan dressed as a cowboy, riding a horse somewhere in the southwest, would I stop to take his picture? Probably not.

Rough and Ready gives the Gum Show

Off-road with a sprained ankle

On our tenth day of Donkey travel we once again got another late start. I couldn’t explain why, but I am sure that leaving a beautiful desert beach had something to do with it. As we got ready, a couple of Moroccan men camping not far from us invited us for tea. It was my turn to get left behind, so Jonathan and Susan went while I packed.
When they returned, the older of the two men, came with a bag of oranges, stew and some bread. We ate greedily, and this pleased the man. After he left, he returned again, carrying a large shade tent made from grain sacks with him. He gave it to us unceremoniously and left. We never set it up to provide shade, but we used it for the rest of our donkey travel as a mat to cook and relax on. It was a huge gift.
Just as we were packed up Jonathan and I decided to take one last jump into the river that flows into the ocean. We agreed on cannon-balling, and we went at it at full speed. Jonathan slowed down before jumping in, but I kept going. I jumped, curled into a ball, and just before hitting the water realized I had jumped in the wrong spot, and the water was about two feet deep. As I hit, I felt a snap in my ankle. I was terrified, as my imagination went wild with the severity of the injury. I moved slowly, and was relieved to see that there was no bone sticking out of my foot, or even anything grossly misshapen. I didn’t blame Jonathan for his concern to be eclipsed by laughter. I sat in the water for a few minutes, scared to move my foot. After all we had been through, I did not want to stop donkey traveling now. And I absolutely did not want to have to go to back to Guelmim to see a doctor. Susan came and took a look. She has nursing experience, so I was relieved for that. She said that it was probably just a bad sprain, and she wrapped it with an ace bandage. But now we had to deal with getting back up the steep road from the beach. The cart was ready to go, but I could barely walk. Luckily there were a couple of young Moroccan men who quickly joined in to help push the cart up the hill. Another guy came and offered to help me up the hill. I didn’t really need it, as I was hopping on my left foot just fine, but he walked with me anyway. He said that there was a party for doctors from Guelmim at the top of the hill. I assumed that I didn’t understand, but when we got to the top, there was a large tent set up, with dozens of people milling about in nice suits, enjoying music and food. And yes, it was full of doctors. “Allahu Akbar,” I said.
An older man who spoke little French arrived, blowing cigarette smoke in my face as I tried to explain what had happened to me. He told me to sit down, and he then took off my bandage and tossed it aside. He started giving my foot a rough massage, with a lot of violent wrenching, using my reactions as indications of pain, rather than asking me where it hurt. Occasionally he would spit on my foot and rub it in. he gave it a final slap, and told me I would be fine. His only other advice was to get rid of that bandage. I asked why, and he didn’t care to explain, but instead just said it was no good and I shouldn’t wear it. He tossed it away and left.
When Susan and Jonathan arrived, we got the donkeys ready to go, and asked around about where the road actually continued. We had been under the impression, based on the map we had bought, that there was a decent road, maybe even paved, that connected the beach to Tan Tan. Now that we were here, we were getting very different explanations about how the road continued, none of which was very encouraging. Some said there was no road, some said there were many roads, but it was necessary to know which ones to take, some said we would have to cross a river, maybe several, too much sand, too many hills, etc. We had also heard that the route was only used by herders and smugglers. The general consensus, though, was that it would be no easy task with a donkey cart. It was a sudden shock, but we really didn’t have much choice. One of the young men who had warned us not to go this way stopped an approaching produce truck, grabbed a pumpkinish thing and brought it to us. I assumed this was a late Halloween gift, which I was very grateful for.
As a final scouting report, Jonathan ran over to the school that he had gotten water at. They explained that it would be a rough dirt road, sometimes several roads, for 45 or 50 kilometers before it meets up with the main highway to Tan Tan. We would also have to cross a river. They could not give us any information on whether there would be any wells along the way, but other people believed that there were.
We got on the road at about 3:00 and right off the bat, the road was hilly and covered with large rocks and loose gravel. Even though I was hopping on one foot, riding on the cart was out of the question, and I even had to push as much as I could on the uphill sections. The river turned out to not be a problem, as the road just went right over it. It was one of the only lucky breaks the terrain gave us during the whole trip.

As we moved into this more remote area, we could see nomads taking peeks, or long stares, at us from nearby cliffs, and surrounding hills. One thing I learned during this trip was that regardless of how alone you feel in the desert, there is always somebody else there, and quite often they are watching you.

We probably only moved 3 km that day, after which we set up camp before trying to ascend a steep hill lined with pastures of stone walls. The wind was strong that evening, which gave us a break from the mosquitoes, but also caused dirt and sand to get in every crevasse of everything.

We woke to heavy wind and a light drizzle, only halfway excited about the upcoming hill. As soon as we got everything packed, Jonathan noticed a major problem that had been lingering in the back of my mind for days. A flat tire. I had noticed one of our tires looking a little mushy, but figured that there wasn’t much we could do. Because so much of our preparation had been done hastily, we were never able to find a spare wheel, though it was always on our shopping list. We didn’t even have the tools to take the wheel off the axle. I walked up the hill and found the house that belonged to the pastures. I walked toward it nervously, wondering exactly how I could explain our situation. Even if whoever was there could speak French, would I know how to say “our donkey cart has a flat tire, do you have a pump, or the tools to remove it?” I saw a truck in front of the house, a good sign. There was an elderly woman just standing next to the truck. I had been hoping that there was a man there, but I saw nobody else. So I approached her discreetly, avoiding eye contact, and said, “salaam alaykum.” I started to try to explain our situation, using lots of hand gestures. When I looked up, I saw that she was gesturing to her right, toward the truck. I looked, and saw an arm hanging out of the truck window. It shocked me at first, realizing that I had been close to someone the whole time. It was a man of maybe 35 or 40 years. I looked serious as I explained our situation. Nothing about three foreigners with a donkey cart seemed surprising or interesting to him, probably because he had known of us before we had even arrived. He probably was expecting us to run into these problems if we tried going on this rode. He reached over to his glove box and pulled out a couple of wrenches and sent me on my way. One was too big, the other too small, so I went back, and he found one in between. This one was the right size, but the wrench and the bolts on the tire were too worn for it to work. Jonathan walked the 3 km back to the beach and found some Spanish overlanders, who lent him a crescent wrench and WD-40. They didn’t want to let him leave with it, and they said he had to be back in 30 minutes. Well that was impossible, but he took it anyway, and we got the tire off.
It was Jonathan’s turn to return to Guelmim, so he left and Susan and I with the task of researching our water situation, and keeping our levels topped up. The Spanish overlanders were gone, so we got free WD-40 and a free crescent wrench.
I was disappointed to be stuck, but knew that it was good timing, as I should probably rest my sprained ankle. Susan left on a water mission with Rough and Ready. Our total supply of 120 liters was probably only down 20 or 30, but we still wanted to be sure we always had as much as possible. As soon as Susan was out of sight, Shuwya Shuwya escaped. Luckily for me, when she escapes, she barely seems to realize it unless you run to her. So I limped over to her, as she made her way toward the giant grain sack, and re-tied her. Not a minute later, I turned around and saw Rough and Ready galloping toward us. As soon as he saw me between them, he seemed to surrender. I limped toward him, and he slowly retreated back down the road. Susan was nowhere in sight, but I was able get a hold of him without too much trouble. Eventually I saw her, several hundred yards away. By the time she reached us she was cursing Rough worse than any of us had. She even gave him a few whacks on the face. As often as Rough got loose, it was really fortunate that we had Shuwya Shuwya to act as a magnet for him, so we knew as long as she was under control, we would never lose him.
Susan made a second attempt to find water, and was able to get twenty liters from some nomad women, in exchange for one of our funnels.
Unsurprisingly, Jonathan didn’t make it back that day. But that night, right after we were done with dinner, we could see some headlights, maybe a kilometer away in the direction of the beach. We hadn’t seen any vehicles on the road since we had started on it. It looked like there might even be two vehicles, and that they were approaching very slowly. I thought it could be Jonathan, but not if there were two vehicles. Susan got up and started to walk toward the vehicles. I didn’t know why. I assumed these were some sort of smugglers, and wanted to be as discreet as possible. After five minutes, I called out to Susan, but she had walked out of earshot. Another five minutes, and I got up and started yelling for her to come back. Still nothing. All I could see was the now unmoving headlights in the distance. I could then hear raised voices speaking Arabic, but still nothing from Susan. I got nervous, but after a few more minutes she emerged from the darkness. She said it was some sort of tractor and a truck, and they weren’t sure which road to take, so she showed them the way. When they passed by our camp the large van in front stopped. I spoke with the driver, and he explained that they were coming to do some roadwork. Now? Yes. Here? Absolutely. A huge bulldozer passed next, and the driver stopped to ask how steep the hill in front of him was. After this incident, I couldn’t comprehend how weird this trip could get at times.
The wind continued to blow the next day, and we were camping in an area with more loose dirt than anywhere else. It was getting caked on everything. Susan went on another water mission. While she was gone, I watched an old man descend a hill in front of me. When he arrived at the bottom, next to one of the stone walls, I watched him observe the situation where the wall was damaged. The day before, I had watched as nearly a dozen sheep ran through. He got my attention and waved me over. He wanted me to help me fix the wall. At the part where it was broken, it was just a mess of broken netting, a few ropes, some wire, and stones. I didn’t know what could be done as a quick fix, but he instructed me with where he wanted me to put certain ropes and stones. He was too weak to do it on his own. It was a shoddy job at best. It was downright comical, actually, and I doubted that it would keep any sheep in that wanted to leave.
Susan returned from her water mission, and now we were completely topped off. She had met some men with trucks hauling sheep. As we were in the weeks approaching Eid, the Muslim holiday in which everyone slaughters sheep, every vehicle seemed to be hauling at least a few of the animals. The men welcomed her to their lunch and they argued over whom she would sit next to.
We waited for Jonathan until nearly 2:00. He finally arrived in a huge land rover. He brought two tires, a pump and a few yoghurts for us. He told us about his previous day. He had waited for hours for a vehicle to depart from the beach, and when one finally did, they picked him up. It was a Moroccan man and his wife. When they got to Guelmim, the man took Jonathan all over town in search for the right size of wheel. It was a three-bolt rim, which is common for donkey carts and some cars here, but apparently we had the old edition, which was smaller, and they were nearly impossible to get a hold of. They finally found one at a tire shop, but the man refused to sell it, for whatever reason. They were able to find one eventually, but the price was steep. The man brought Jonathan to his house that night, and fed him well, and even helped him arrange transport back to the beach. There is one land rover that goes to the beach every day to bring supplies, and if there is room, it also takes people.
So we now had two wheels for the cart, a spare, and a pump, just in case. This in addition to a full water supply and we felt in good shape to finally get back on our way.
We only moved about 5 kilometers before we arrived at a dry riverbed filled with soft sand, and lots of vegetation. Jonathan was tempted by the sand and wanted to camp there. I knew it would be bad for mosquitoes, but they didn’t seem to care. The “I told you so” is worth the mosquito bites for me, so I didn’t argue much. Sure enough, as soon as the sun set, they came in droves so heavy that we had to do our cooking and eating away from the river bed.
Our 13th day of donkey travel was another one filled with problems. Within the first three kilometers of departure, the saddlebags fell off of Shuwya Shuwya, and as we argued about the best way to tie them back on, we realized that our brand new tire had gone flat. This road was really rough, and within 11 kilometers, had already given us two flat tires. We still had at least 35 kilometers to go before getting to a main road. At some point during the changing of the tire, or cart pushing, or saddlebag tying, Susan revived an old injury on her wrist, making it difficult for her to help push the cart, or control the donkeys. We now had two injured travelers and a cart prone to flat tires.
And the road just kept getting worse. Huge ruts, and dropoffs that took very careful navigation. And the worst of them weren’t usually on level ground. We got to one section that had wide ruts on a slight downhill, a small cliff on the right side, huge rocks that would stop the cart cold, followed by a small uphill of the same terrain. I stopped the cart, surveyed the terrain, and figured out the route I would try to take to avoid ruts, and keep Shuwya Shuwya moving. I was nervous. Jonathan and Susan would be behind the cart, pushing especially hard if we got caught in any ruts, and doing the same on the uphill. From the start it was a disaster. Shuwya Shuwya wouldn’t cooperate with me and she was trying to avoid walking in the ruts, putting the tires directly in them. We quickly stalled in the most difficult spot, and I ran to the back to push, and Susan took the reins. I am not sure now exactly how it happened, but as we were pushing as hard as we could, there was a panic, some screams, and the cart fell. Shuwya Shuwya had collapsed, with the full weight of the cart on her back. Jonathan and I ran forward and started to untie her. Some of the ropes didn’t come off easily, so I grabbed my knife, and Jonathan cut them off. Shuwya Shuwya was motionless, and had a blank look in her eyes. Total resignation. Jonathan was frantic, almost in tears it seemed. I was probably mirroring Shuwya Shuwya’s face. I was in shock and didn’t know what we had gotten ourselves into. It took a couple minutes to get the weight of the cart off of her, but even still, one of the straps lay under her, making it impossible for us to move the cart. Susan and I held the cart up, as Jonathan tried to move her, and check for injuries. It didn’t look like she had broken a leg, but we couldn’t be sure. After a few tense minutes, she seemed to have a sudden twitch, a brief moment of realizing what was going on around her. She looked around slowly, moved a little bit, and all of a sudden just hobbled back up onto her feet and started walking with only a slight limp. We were all too adrenaline-rushed and panic-stricken to jump in excitement, but just felt huge sighs of relief. As we tied her up and unloaded the cart, two goat herders appeared next to us. They didn’t speak French, but we were able to explain what had just happened and that we were trying to get to Tan Tan. They were friendly and seemed amused by us. They helped us carry our items through the rough section, and to rickshaw the cart to safety. They showed us that they had binoculars and that they had seen us from far away. We asked them about a well, and they said there was one in five kilometers. That would be our goal for the day.

When we reached the well at sunset, we didn’t even care that the water was brown. We deserved something to celebrate. At some point in the night, I woke up to Jonathan yelling, “Joey, Joey, Rough and Ready’s loose.” I jumped out of my tent just in time to see Rough jumping onto Shuwya Shuwya. She was giving him double back kicks, which were only a mild deterrent to his randiness. By the time we got a hold of his neck rope, he had pinned her down and had his teeth clamped firmly in her neck. It took a lot of punching and kicking, but we got him off before anything happened. The next morning we found two bloody wounds in Shuwya’s neck from Rough’s teeth. As if she hadn’t been through enough that day.