A Tale of Two Moroccos – or the night I was afraid of getting roofied in the desert


For the last few weeks, as an attempt to distract myself from the impending Sword of Damocles that was the high likelihood of having to go back to Mexico, I’ve been travelling in Morocco. I flew into Marrakesh, and I must say that I initially had a very bad impression of Moroccans as a whole. I almost got scammed multiple times on my first day, and you get hassled in this city like nowhere I’ve seen in my life. Everyone here has a story of someone annoying them on the streets, or being massively overcharged; some stories even include the threat of violence and thuggery and I’ve even heard of someone getting spat on by a stranger.

After experiencing this sort of doings I was ready to write an article on the subject. About how in some places you’re little more than a walking dollar sign, instead of a human being. But then I ventured out of Marrakesh and I saw the true generous potential of the Moroccan people. By way of example, whilst travelling with my two friends which I’ve mentioned earlier, we asked a man for directions to a hotel or something of the sort to stay the night, as it was getting late.

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On butt-massages, drunkenness and saving people’s lives

Travel has a way of producing the weirdest days, out of seemingly normal situations. On Friday last week I saved a man’s life. I’d made my way out of Belgrade after hiring a van, and arrived at the crack of dawn in Budapest. Groggy, after having slept in a van the whole night, I was supposed to meet a friend of mine, who’d offered me his couch to stay in, for the day or so I’d be there. Gladly I agreed, problem was finding his address. This proved doubly difficult as it later turned out that I had written the wrong address number.

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