What Did My Trips Teach Me About Humanity?

I thought I understood people until my travels taught me something uncomfortable.

I’ve often found humanity — or its absence — in the less-trodden corners of the world. But the most profound lesson I ever learned came not from a human, but from a rickety mule in the bustling bazaars of Marrakech.

As always, I was out looking for subjects to photograph that day. That’s when I came across the mule, laden with rags, baskets, boxes, and crates. It was sopping wet, cold, and shivering.

Then I noticed something.

All four of its legs were bent at unnatural angles, a few inches above the hooves. Multiple fractures had healed badly over time. Struggling to stand upright, its eyes closed, it looked barely conscious — resigned to its fate.

I lowered my camera. I felt sick.

I’m not one to show public emotion. My sorrows run deep, staying with me for years without shedding a single tear. But that day in Morocco, I felt vulnerable.

As I turned away, a man rushed out of nowhere, demanding money because I had taken a picture of his “donkey.”

“A hundred dollars,” he said.

It took me a moment to realize he wasn’t joking.

That moment has stayed with me. There stood a creature worked nearly to the bone, while its master saw its suffering as purely transactional.

Of the many things travel has taught me over the years, this one has stood out: true humanity is hardly a measure of our intelligence. It is a reflection of our empathy — especially for those who cannot speak, but can still feel.

Travel, to me, is more than a wonder.

When done right, it is a mirror.