Morocco | No Mood For Snakes

Sam and I spent our first morning in Morocco breakfasting on the roof terrace. The view wasn’t exactly grand, but it was certainly alien: stacks of rooftops, all at different heights, all unfinished. Each building was the same: rising sturdily from the clamour of the streets below, only to peter out suddenly, as if the builders had lost interest the minute they thought nobody would see their work. Each terrace adjacent to our own very lovely one was a jumble of breeze blocks and empty paint cans and broomsticks, with stray cats prowling the rubble.

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Morocco | Wally the Happy Vaccinator

Things got off to a dumb start. I arrived in London on the afternoon of Thursday the 25th of August, and I had an arseload of things to do before we flew out to Morocco the next day. Firstly, I had to go and get my travel vaccinations – two jabs at two different clinics. Yellow fever and typhoid. The typhoid was fine, but the doctor warned me that I might feel a little bit achy and woozy and fluey for the next few days after my yellow fever vaccine, as it is in fact a living version of the virus they inject into you.

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Morocco | In Which A Lot of Things Go Wrong In Quick Succession, Just For A Change

After finishing up in Budapest, I spent three weeks back in the UK. I had a big plan laid out, and it was a good one: I was going to visit one of my best and oldest friends, Sam, for a holiday weekend in Brighton, along with his girlfriend and a bunch of their friends. Then I was going to spend a week visiting family in Leeds, and then I was going to head to France and find a Workaway or HelpX on a farm somewhere, and stay there for two to three months to improve my French and try to enjoy some more of the farm life that I loved so much in Australia. After that – well, I hadn’t planned any further, but I was confident something would come up along the way. Amerique du Sud, peut etre.

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Bosnia | World Serpent

Jack snores like a maniac. I shared a room with him all the way through Bosnia, and each morning he’d wake up, stretch, and say something like “Dude, I had the best night’s sleep ever, I slept like a baby”, and I’d look at him and say “Hmmm”. I figured out a way to stop his snoring, eventually: whenever he began to honk and wheeze, I would take my plastic water bottle and thwack it against the wall. The sound was enough to wake him, but wasn’t enough for him to remember why he’d woken up. Then he’d shrug and fart and roll over, and I’d have a peaceful thirty minutes before the snoring began anew.

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Bosnia | Welcome to Heck

It was a curious jaunt to Sarajevo. After a long day sweating in the hostel garden in Mostar, I set out with my new travel buddy, Jack, and a French guy who I think was called Adrian. We lugged our rucksacks across town in the 42C heat, found our train was delayed by five hours, lugged our rucksacks back to the hostel, melted a bit more, and then in the evening boarded our train. The view from Mostar to Sarajevo looked to have been fantastic – big swooping mountains all the way – but the train had tinted windows for some reason, and in the twilight we couldn’t see shit.

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