Off we went. My visa anecdote sent tremors of foreboding across the Tweedles' faces. They were lost in a flurry of circumspection. Meanwhile, poor Leslie was the proverbial meat in the Tweedle sandwich, squashed between the big-boned dynamic duo. As for me, I sat shotgun and let my thoughts wander along the desolate landscape characterizing Western Sahara.

Every so often, we’d stop at a Moroccan security checkpoint where our driver would conduct high-level talks that always resulted in a bribe. I only had his word, but this is the modus operandi in those parts…

We filled out the forms littered with ridiculous questions (e.g. the last ten countries visited), paid the fee (340 dirhams), and were told to return at 2:00 pm that day. Although we'd requested six weeks, we received the standard one-month tourist visa. Our visa began the day of our application, instead of the day we entered Mauritania. I guess they assumed we all possessed the power of teleportation. We didn't. Bastards.

Nothing titillates my tits more than the prospect of thirty hours on a bus from Casablanca to Dakhla in the Western Sahara. We could’ve split the journey into legs…