All iPhone photos for this post unfortunately. Can’t get a computer to upload photographs from my camera and typically my GoPro ran out of battery as soon as I got here – better snaps to come

Rocked up to the bus station in Tangier, ignored all the yelling in the spaghetti language and went up to a random bus company counter. “Chefchouen?” The bloke replied “45, 4, 5.” Gave him my dirhams and he showed me to the bus. The only Westerner on board, once again my tan not dark enough for me to blend in. Everybody was staring at me, covering the spare seat next to them so I wouldn’t sit next to them. I reached the end of the bus and took an aisle seat next to a guy who didn’t give two shits who I was or where I was from. I can’t say the same for the two kids sitting across the aisle from me. The looks on their faces reflected the disbelief of finding out the truth about Santa or the Easter Bunny. Ironic because that’s a comparison these children probably wouldn’t understand.

I didn’t mind that their eyes were gazed on the unknown up until they simultaneously grabbed the same plastic bag and started making porridge. The plastic bag must have had a hole in it because after only a minute or two, they were offering their fresh batch to others on the bus via the floor. It seems as though many people on that bus had a weak stomach for travel.

I tried so hard not to breathe for the remaining hour because of what happened to me last year in Bolivia. Coming back from the Salt Flats to La Paz on a 16 hour local bus ride with only one stop after 8 hours. The bus become a moving sewer. No, no, I take that back. That comment is unfair to sewers.
Due to the lack of toilet stops, vomit, wee and poo were being discarded in plastic bags. The air conditioning was recycling this polluted air into my body. I have never in my life been in so much pain or so sick. I vowed never to get stuck in a situation again if I could avoid it. So how did I avoid this situation on the way to Chefchouen? I couldn’t do anything on the way there but some marvellous thinking meant avoiding the bus for the ride back. At least that’s what I thought…

When I’m traveling solo, I always get asked the question ‘who takes your photos?’ Besides the obvious response of ‘selfies’, generally other people you meet in hostels takes them or other tourists. In Morocco it seems to be different. This is generally the process: 1) take selfie; 2) local walks over asking if I want my picture taken; 3) they take picture ; 4) they hand back camera; 5) they offer me drugs; and the uncommon step 6) drug dealer offers you for a tour to try before you buy and see his plantation. No thanks champ. Maybe the next white guy you see might be more interested in your hashish.
Well that escalated quickly!

The town of Chefchouen is breathe taking. The Moroccan version of Mykonos with it’s cobbled maze streets splattered in tones of blue and white. At every corner the urge for a photo has to be resisted because when you get home, you’ll find you have a thousand of the same thing. As a guy who CAN see Rome in one day thanks to some serious travelling with his olds, I only needed a few hours in the blue town. Just shy of a late lunch, it was time to figure out a way back to Tangier. Although more expensive, a taxi seemed like a far better option. Or was it?

Couldn’t all fit in the cab shoulder to shoulder so it was one bloke leaning forward, the next leaning back and then the same sequence again. That was the four of us squished in the back. The passenger seat held two blokes in a similar situation and the driver had to hobble around on crutches. All of this for two hours back to Tangier. Is it legal? I asked the exact same thing. Of course it’s legal! I questioned how and the broken English response I received was “because we in big taxi when more people”. To dumb that down even further, as soon as seats need to be shared, the taxi is called a big taxi and this makes everything law abiding. In Australia, if my dog isn’t wearing a special seatbelt in the car I can get busted. A comparison of worlds.