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…
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