Moving on in Martinique

The last week or so had been exactly what I needed after leaving St Lucia. It has given me time to contemplate my decisions (good and bad) and remind myself of the great times I’ve had as well as my reasons for challenging myself to this type of travel.
After spending just over a week with Capitan Rui (who I sailed with from St Lucia) on his yacht, it was time for me to think about moving on to a new destination. So, backpack on, I raised my thumb for the first time since Senegal.

I have to admit I was feeling a little nervous at first. There wasn’t a great distance to travel but I was alone and unsure where I would be sleeping that night – neither of these things are new to me – but no matter how much I tried to deny it, even to myself, I was still feeling the effects of my recent negative experiences.

After a long hike up a hill out of town I only had to wait a few minutes before I had my first ride. I felt relieved and exhilarated, buzzing on the high of traditional hitchhiking once again! Two more rides, and some seriously dodgy French skills, and I was dropped right in the marina.
Thirty minutes later and I have a sign up in the marina notice board (though feeling less than hopefully with the 40 or so other similar posts) and have settled down in the marina bar with a coffee, desperately trying to listen for anyone talking in English (this is France and it seems only the French are here). I must confess to a rather unsuccessful afternoon, with not even the motivation to dock-walk (the common practice of walking boat-to-boat, making connections and asking if they, or anyone they know of, have need for/space for another crew member onboard).
I eventually decide to take a walk on hunt for a spot to pitch my tent for the night. Again, this was not my most successful venture, and decide on a spot just beyond the marina car park, knowing I was in full view of the road, but with thoughts of safety from nearby people. I return after darkness to a clearly not well inspected spot of broken glass, bright street light and dog shit. To make matters worse I had only just been told that I was breaking the law as wild camping is illegal. But it’s late and I have nowhere else to go. I only hoped if I was moved from my spot it would be by the police and not marina security – at least then I would have a cell to sleep in for the night, and maybe even a meal (I hadn’t dared to get my stove out here and was very hungry!)
The following morning, after a very restless sleep, before sunrise I was up, tent packed, backpack on and had decided for a safer, more comfortable place to stay that night, regardless of the cost…
I spend the next two nights in a campsite outside the town of Sainte Anne (only 20 minutes ride from the marina). Here I meet many long term campers who seem to have formed a community – each evening bringing food or alcohol, cooking, socialising and playing music together. The first night I am invited to join them for pizza, made from scratch and cooked on an open fire while listening to the beautiful sounds of their various instruments (randomly including a trombone – not the most backpacker friendly instrument I would imagine!), and discussions in a mixture of French, Spanish and a little English. It doesn’t matter to me that I don’t understand the majority of what is being said – I feel relaxed, safe, accepted and happy.

In the mean time my advert on the marina notice board had paid off… I receive not one, but two, offers to join boats – north to Grenada or south as far as Trinidad. The fact that Trinidad Carnival is known to be in the top three in the world and the capitan is planning to arrive just before it begins may have swayed my decision…

So in an hour or so I will set sail with Capitan Maurice, from Switzerland, and a French couple, to slowly island hop our way south via Saint Vincent and Grenadines, Grenada, Tobago Cays and eventually Trinidad.
I am excited for my journey ahead and look forward to seeing other countries, having new experiences and meeting new people. I have not given up on my adventure or belief in the kindness of strangers!

Ups and downs of St Lucian paradise…

Not all strangers are kind. In fact not all people you spend time with and get to know turn out to be kind either.

It is saddening to me that I am left feeling bitter and resentful about St Lucia even though I met many amazing people and, for the most part, had a great time.

I did promise not only to tell half the story. So here’s the other side of travelling – in St Lucia I was lied to, manipulated, used, threatened, followed and eventually, on what should have been my final night on the island, robbed at apparent gun point. I suspected there was no gun which was why the three men had to rip my bag off my arm while I, perhaps stupidly, grabbed at the guy with the “gun” then gave chase while the other two cowardly scumbags jumped back into the van with the waiting driver. (4 guys to rob me – these boys must be proud!)

So leaving the island with frightened, no money, bank cards, phone or camera it was difficult for me to focus on the incredible experiences and fun generous people I met while there. So I write this not just to tell you a story but to remind myself to focus on the good.

Well, arriving after 19 days at sea on a small boat with no fridge and no shower you can probably imagine the first two priorities for us was to wash then eat some good food. So after a quick clean up on the boat off we went for the most blissful cold trickling shower I’ve ever had!

It’s New Years Eve and we are on dry land so naturally we are wondering where the party will be that night. Within 30 minutes we’re talking to a rather eccentric, rather hungover English guy. He is there to visit friends who are working on a boat. Stu will soon become a good friend and a big part of my life in St Lucia. After a trip to town to try and find some accommodation (somehow unsuccessfully), Tanya, myself and our new friend Stu hit the marina bar for a quick beer before taking a walk to the boat his friends are working on. Now this isn’t just any boat – it’s a pirate ship! Little did I know that in the days ahead I would be calling this ship home.

We end up seeing the new year in, not dancing on a beach or in a bar or club but on Stu’s friends own private boat out at anchor, away from the crowds. I imagined after so long at sea it would be the last thing we would want to do but, in fact, it was the perfect evening. With the beautiful unconventional family – Stu’s friend Chris, his partner Ali, his strange little 13 year old daughter Noa (who collects rocks and has pet snails and who I now think of like a little sister) and 84 year old Capitan Kirk – one of the most interesting characters I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.

The next day we are soon offered a place to stay on a yacht with a professional skipper who sails for a living. We spend the following days sailing or having trips out on the dingy to beautiful beaches while enjoying good conversation, a little too much rum and a lot of laughs!

Tanya and myself have by this point decided to go our separate ways for now. She flew to Grenada to meet a capitan and begin another adventure from there. She is doing well and enjoying cruising the Caribbean!

But as I mentioned – the pirate ship would soon be my home… One day I go to visit the ship and find Noa struggling with her maths work (she lives on a boat so is home-schooled) I offer her some help and suddenly find myself with a new place to stay and a little bit of cash in exchange for maths lessons.

For the first week or so I stay on the boat with just the 3 local guys who work on board and find myself on many an adventure – beach days, BBQs, street parties, boat parties and a fantastic day when they invited me to Sefrou with a group of their friends for a road trip, music, dancing, waterfalls, swimming and a serious feast (these Rastas know how to cook – no disposable BBQs or frozen burgers here).

Once Capitan Kirk, Chris and his family and eventually Stu all move on board it is becoming a busy place with us all sleeping up on deck while work is being done down below in the engine room and cabins. I have been in St Lucia for sometime by then and realise I must move on (and as I mentioned all these good times had coincided with some rather shitty times) This is when I meet Capitan Rui who agrees I can sail with him for a week or so before he has to return to St Lucia.

And there my new adventure begins…!

My time in St Lucia was filled with so many incredible people and great experiences. I will not let the actions of one sad bullying individual allow me to stop believing in the kindness of strangers!

(Unfortunately I have no photos, as mentioned my phone and GoPro have been stolen. Only the above one that some kind stranger took as we sailed into Martinique then later found our boat and sent me them)


standing by the side of the road in Western Sahara, a small van pulled up next to us, and in the driver seat was this old little French guy with a big moustache, bearing a strong resemblance to Einstein. He was going all the way to Dakar in Senegal, and was happy to take us to Mauritania, so we climbed in and started driving towards the border. It was a long drive, and the vast desert seemed never ending. Sometimes we spotted the warning signs for minefields, though most of these signs were so rusty they had disintegrated completely.
“Einstein” had done this drive many times before for his work, and told us how the Western Sahara/Mauritanian border was always such a hassle, and would usually take 4-5 hours to get through. The immigration was very strict, and whole van was scanned by a massive x-ray machine, looking for any kind of weapons or booze (alcohol being strictly illegal to sell or import in Mauritania, so good thing we had finished our tiny vodka bottles the night before!).
Our driver kept introducing himself to the officers as a kernel of the French army, and when they weren’t listening he turned to us and whispered that he was just making it all up to make the border crossings quicker. They showed us a great deal of respect, and even let us to the front of the queue some times, so it clearly worked! This guy was absolutely hilarious, and really immersed himself in this made up character of his, taking it further and further till he was introducing himself as “Colonel Moustache”, and us as his distant family.
We got our Mauritanian visas sorted, and Sally got chatting to the guy at the passport control, Abdel, who was really friendly, and gave us his number and told us to call him if we ever needed anything.
Colonel Moustache drove us to Nouadhibou, but by the time we got there the sun had set, and we ended up wandering around the unlit streets in an unfamiliar city. We hadn’t prepared at all, couldn’t get the internet to work on our phones and had no idea where we were going, so we decided to call Abdel from passport control to ask for help.
He had just finished work and told us he’d come pick us up if we told him where we were. We had of course no clue, and couldn’t see any street names, so we stumbled into the nearest shop and threw the phone at the poor shop keeper, who looked very confused for a bit, but eventually lifted the phone to his ear, and gave Abdul our location.
After a few minutes Abdul and his friend Mo picked us up. Mo had worked in Norway for five years, and spoke fluent Norwegian, so it was very strange getting a guided tour of the city in my native language, certainly not what I expected in Mauritania!
Abdul and Mo showed us around town and introduced us to the local cuisine. Very different from Moroccan food, but still pretty tasty.
We had been a bit worried about safety in Mauritania, our governments discourages people from travelling to the whole country, rating most of the country as extremely dangerous, with kidnappings ant terrorist attacks to be likely to happen. The Locals seemed to be shocked about this, and couldn’t stop talking about how safe it was (and we never felt unsafe there!).
We left most of our stuff at their place and hit the road again, trying to get to Choum where we could train hop on the iron ore train through the desert and back to Nouadhibou.
Abdel drove is to the police checkpoint at the edge of town, and the friendly police officers asked us to sit down in the shade while they found us a ride.
This kind of passive hitchhiking would turn out to be the norm for Mauritania!
It didn’t take long before the police had found us a car, insisting they were good men and would get us to the capital safely.
It was a very long drive through the desert, hours of nothing but sand dunes, except for a tiny village half way there, where they gave is some tea and water.
Internet reception in Mauritania is by far the worst we’ve ever encountered, even with a local data sim it almost never worked, except for in the big cities, and even in the capital it was so weak it was almost useless. Without internet it was impossible to get in touch with people on couchsurfing, and it’s not really an easy place to walk around to look for accommodation, so we were a bit lost at where to stay.
We didn’t have to worry though, our drivers rented a big hotel apartment for themselves and let us sleep on the couches in the living room, after they fed us a feast of Grilled chicken and flavourful rice.
The next morning they drove us to the road heading to Atar, and again we started walking to get out of the city centre. Someone stopped for us and asked where we were going, and offered to take us to the police checkpoint, where we were met by another smiling police officer who offered us to sit in their shaded tent while he found us a ride.
We were sitting there for a long time when the policeman came over, and told us he’d found us a ride. He also promised they were good people, and that they would get us to our destination safely. So we greeted the drivers and jumped into their car, which to our excitement had aircon, which made the trip through the desert so much more comfortable.
After many hours of driving through the desert, we stopped at a house for some food. They brought out a big shared platter of slow cooked goat, it was absolutely delicious and we ate as much as we could. When we thought we were finished, they brought us another big plate of rice with goat and vegetables on top, even bigger than the last meal. We had no idea how we’d be able to eat any more, but tried our best. We still hadn’t quite mastered the skill of eating rice dishes with our hands, the rice here was not at all sticky like it is in Asia, so it turned out to be quite challenging. They had a lot of fun teaching us different techniques, and after a while i got pretty good at kind of throwing the rice into a ball and then into my mouth.
After cleaning ourselves and the carpet for rice that we had spilled, we had a nap and then we drove the rest of the way to Atar. They helped us find a hotel, and left us there. About an hour later it was a knock on the door. The same guys had come back, and asked what we would like for dinner. They bought us an extortionate amount of chicken, and we had yet another feast. They wished us good luck for the rest of the journey and waived us goodbye.
The next morning when we went to pay for the room, turns out they had actually paid for our hotel bill too! What a kind gesture, and a fantastic start of Sally’s Birthday!
We were adamant to find some coffee for her birthday breakfast, something that’s easier said than done in Mauritania, where everyone just seems to drink tea. We spotted some tourists and almost jumped on them asking if they had seen anywhere we could get some, but they had not. A local happen to overhear our conversation, and knew a place where we could get some instant coffee. Good enough! Day saved!
After going all out and having two coffees each with our breakfast, we  stocked up on snacks, and bought a second hand blanket for the train, then started walking out of town, in the direction of Choum.
It turned out to be quite difficult to find anyone going to Choum. Most of the vehicles were minivans operating as taxis, so we ended up spending a lot of time at the police stop, chatting with the officers and waiting around. After a few hours with no luck, one of the officers felt pity for us, and stopped one of the taxi vans and told them to take us for free. So again thanks to the cops, we got ourselves a ride..!
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Choum is a tiny and dusty place, hardly even a village. There was a small shop, and the shop owner told us the train was delayed, and wasn’t coming till about 10pm. That was about six hours away, so we sat down on our blanket and waited.
We managed to hop on top of the Iron ore train and make our way through the desert, but this story deserves a blog post of its own, so I’ll write more about this later..!
Back in Nouadhibou we stayed with our friends for a couple more nights before we once again left for Nouakchott.
We went back to the police stop, and again we sat down and waited till they found us a ride.
We arrived in the capital once more after a long drive, and once again found ourselves unable to get in touch with any couchsurfer due to the lack of functioning Internet, but one of the drivers, also called Abdel, invited us to stay in his tent at some camel farm outside of town, so we couldn’t refuse such an offer!
We ate a Grilled dinner in a tent camp outside of town, before we moved to the camel farm out in the desert. He told us that a lot of the people in the capital were Bedouins at heart and didn’t really like living in the city, so many of them had tents out in the desert too, to be able to get away from busy city life when they needed some quiet time.
The tent was big and open with some mats on the ground, so we made ourselves comfortable in our sleeping bags while the guy made his bed outside under the stars.
It was nice to get away from the busy capital, and the only sounds we could hear were the camels calling out to each other in the night, (sounding just like the brontosauruses from Jurassic Park!) it was quite a soothing way to go to sleep.
Unfortunately the tranquillity didn’t last long, and a few hours later I woke up shaking, with an intense fever. It was a long night, and I can’t remember the last time i felt so sick.
At around 5am  i managed to go back to sleep, but about an hour later Abdel woke us up, gave us a big bowl of fresh camel milk, and said we had to get going. The sun hadn’t even risen yet, and I was feeling so ill I could hardly move. We tried to drink some camel milk, which is supposed to be really good for you, and then drove back to the capital.
We got back into town, and since I could hardly even sit up straight due to the intense fever, Abdel paid for a hotel room so I could get some rest, making sure to get one with aircon so he was sure i could rest comfortably. He kept bringing us so much food, and I felt really bad that I wasn’t able to eat any of it, but it was such a kind gesture. The fever didn’t pass, but eventually i managed to fall asleep and get some well needed rest.

Western Sahara

Western Sahara is a disputed territory fought over by Morocco and the Sahrawi Arab Democratic Republic. There is a huge military presence, with around one third of the Moroccan army stationed here. There are many land mines (an estimated 5-10 million!), more so to the East but also close to the coast heading south of Dakhla (where I caused Tanya much concern by taking a little “shortcut” or two when heading off the road to get to the beach we were wild camping) and around the Mauritanian border.

We travel through this vast area on the west, where the tens of thousands of miles of near empty Sahara desert come to a dramatic halt as it reaches the rugged Atlantic coast.

Our first stop in this region is the city of Tantan. After a late start from Mirleft we arrive in the evening so quickly find somewhere to stay, eat some food and get our head down for the night. In anticipation of a night to be spent in the desert, we raise early and purchase eggs, veg and bread for that evening before we start the walk out of town, thumbs halfheartedly stretched out as we go. Before we reach a suitable hitchhiking spot a car pulls up. Enquiring in broken French if he will be driving toward Laayoune he smiles and gestures us into the car talking excitedly in a mixture of French and Arabic. We soon realise Badr is in fact not going anywhere near Laayoune, or even leaving the city. He takes us to his mother’s house where we join the friendly family for breakfast.

After some time we eventually communicate that we must be getting on the road. Once every member of the family has taken photos with us and made sure they have my phone number. They present us with gifts of jewellery and Badr takes us to the police checkpoint on the edge of town where himself and the police arrange out next ride.

We spend 2 nights in the beautiful Bedouin camp, where we are the only guests.

And, again, the rain has followed us!

Upon leaving the camp we are quickly picked up in a car packed full of people, luggage, misinterpreted conversations and laughter then soon find ourselves invited for lunch in the family home, not before a tour of Laayoune and even a quick nap.

We spend the following days covering hundreds of kilometres of arid desert as we head south to Dakhla where we meet a friendly Swedish-South African couple and spend many days camping out under the stars with them in the region.

The kindness of strangers is extended once again where Tam, a keen outdoors adventurer and collector of many travel gadgets and accessories, begins gifting and trading his belongings to make our kit more practical for our lengthy trip. So after four days of fun, hiking, wild camping and one sunset skinny-dip we sadly part ways with our new friends, promising to meet up somewhere around the world in the near future.

Mirleft – never left!

After six nights in Mirleft and unsure of our next step (we are still trying to arrange our Atlantic crossing) I feel I need to explore some more. My new friend Hassan had invited us to come to his home town. Tanya chooses to stay in Mirleft and I set off on another adventure!


Hitchhiking with Hassan. my pretend husband!

Hitchhiking with Hassan is quite a different experience than with Tanya. Though hitchhiking is common in Morocco for locals it seems that the combination of a local and a tourist together causes more concern. A truck stops and says he will take Hassan but not myself, many cars come to a slow to my side only to see Hassan and speed off. We are also slowed down somewhat as Hassan insists on taking me to numerous police stations along the way “so I know he is a good man and I am safe with him”, he tells me. I had no concerns but the gesture is kind. He explains to me that I am now his responsibility and that if anything bad happens to me the police will hold him accountable. He is my official “Garde du corps” (bodyguard). Along the journey, the locals we meet all presume I am Hassan’s wife. He does nothing to correct them just smiles when they tell him he is a lucky man (or so he tells me later, as they are talking in Berber). Eventually we make it to Bouizakarne where we receive a warm welcome from his parents. Then his father quickly takes my passport back to the police station, just to ensure all is well.

After having 3 nights in Bouizakarne with Hassan and his cousin Abdellah, one of which was spent on a friends remote family farm where we visit a lush oasis for an afternoon dip, Hassan must return to school in Mirleft. As we bid farewell to his parents his father passes me a note thanking me for being their guest, welcoming me back in the future and sending best wishes to myself and my family. I feel this beautiful gesture a true representation of Morocco – I arrive at their home, they give me a bed and food and then they thank me for being there. After much persuasion that I will be able to look after myself I part ways with Hassan and Abdellah (via the police station of course!) I rather enjoyed having my own personal garde du corps but, as always, I have the need to explore.


Heading into the desert to the farm the car kept breaking down, I wonder why…


The guys took me to an oasis for an afternoon dip


Tour of the farm land

I head back to the city of Tiznet before getting a ride into the mountains. The scenery is stunning and, although the driver speaks no English, he seems happy to have me there, chattering quickly in French and stopping in various places for me to take photos. Around an hour into the journey he pulls over and picks up a young boy, perhaps 9 years old, who is hitching back to his home village. I was shocked to see such a young child getting in a strangers car. How different life here is to what I knew before. Unfortunately this ride was also my first chance to witness police corruption when the driver is asked to pay a fine for no apparent reason. Feeling bad I ask if it has anything to do with him driving me, but he insists this is not the case then drops me in the next village (whether this was as far as he was driving, fear of another fine or instruction from the police I will never know, but I certainly have my suspicions!) I am still around 40km from Tafrout, my planned destination for the evening, and the sun has already dropped behind the mountains, leaving me shivering in the cool mountain valley (leaving my rucksack in Mirleft I had packed light, with only a small bag and no jacket!) There is little traffic, no sign of a guesthouse certainly nowhere to pitch my tent in the surrounding rugged rock-face. Luckily a car soon pulls up, four men smile at me from inside. Though getting in a car, alone, with four men is definitely against all advice, I have no “creep feelings”, I am aware there is only one road ahead, which leads to Tafrout, and if I don’t get a ride within the next ten minutes it will mean I will be risking nightfall on route, or worse, darkness while still standing here. What other option do I have? So I smile back and squeeze into the back seat. The guys all seem friendly enough and we manage to communicate with mixture of Arabic, French, Spanish and English.

When we arrive in the town I explain I’m looking for a campsite (unfortunately my local sim wasn’t working in the mountains) It is explained to me that there is nowhere to pitch a tent only for caravans. I am invited to stay with the driver, he explains that his wife won’t mind. Hesitantly I agree to go with him, we have stayed with many people on our travels, perhaps it just feels different without Tanya here. I soon arrive to find the aforementioned wife and child are in fact not in the house. Oh, they live in Agadir? You omitted to mention this! Feeling alarm bells ringing I would like to leave but as it is now dark out, I have seen no hotels on the way here and my sim still isn’t working – I am at a loss as to my next step. Great Sally, you’ve really fucked up this time! He insists that he never meant to mislead me and there is a room I can sleep in alone, or perhaps with him if I prefer – I quickly tell him if I stay it will very much be alone in the room with the door closed. Making sure there are no more “misunderstandings” I literally spell it out in French then Arabic using my translation app. Think he gets the idea! I head to bed incredibly early, partly due to total exhaustion and partly due to wanting to avoid the awkward conversation that he keeps trying to lead into certain inappropriate topics. Of course I have my backstory of my husband who is working in Scotland and even my ring as evidence – I don’t like to lie to people, but for certain situations it is often the easiest, most polite way to convince a man you are definitely not interested. He clearly doesn’t believe me (I’m not a good liar!) and keeps asking for a photo. Panicking I show a family snap where I am sitting next to my brother, Graham. This seems to convince him and he leaves me to get to bed (where I make a mental note to make a “husband” folder in my phone gallery!)

I had planned on staying for two nights in Tafrout but decided I would head back to the friendly familiar faces and comfort of Mirleft. I raised early, made my excuses and spent the morning wandering round the beautiful area, viewing the unique rock formations and smiling back at friendly locals.


Only vehicle for 2 hours…

On the edge of town I had a lengthy wait for a ride, very little traffic and those cars that did pass stopped to apologise and explain they were driving locally. Eventually, with much relief, I saw a passed car break before shifting into reverse. Running up to the car I am greeted by a French family who are driving to Agadir and agree to drop me in Tiznet, which is only one 40km ride from Mirleft.

Tanya had gone back north to meet a friend in Agadir and will return the following evening so I spend the next day with Hassan and Abdellah at the beach, where they spend much time laughing at my naivety and warning me of dangers of being too trusting. Walking back to the house we come across a litter of puppies, looking hungry and alone. We look around and no sign of the mother. I decide I will pop back that night to see if she has returned. Late that evening back at Karim’s house I tell him about the puppies and show him the photos. Squeaking with joy and jumping up he says he will adopt one as they must be abandoned being so far from the town. So we head out in the dark of night for a puppy, returning with three.

Long story short – 48 hours later we end up with 6 little puppies running around our feet! One has been injured (most likely by a motorbike) and left for dead. Time to return some kindness and I spend a sleepless night with him, trying to feed, comfort and lifting him when needed as he cannot stand by himself. The following day I take him to Tiznet to the vet where it is confirmed that he has a broken hind leg and require stitches on the nasty wound on the front leg. After 2 more days he is able to slowly walk around and play with the other puppies. It is time for us to leave my adopted puppies and all my Mirleft friends for the direction of Western Sahara. Karim promises he will keep them safe and send me photos and updates. I’ve never had a pet before. Perhaps, if I ever do, I will start with one, not six!

So backpacks loaded up for the first time in over two weeks and off we set. We waving goodbye to good friends who, not long ago, were just kind strangers. Mirleft has a saying – Mirleft, never left. Well Mirleft, we left! But I can’t promise I won’t some day return.

Morocco – Marrakech to the Coast

Marrakech seems a sharp contrast to the Morocco we have come to know and love. It is big and busy and loud. The beautiful caring Moroccans who yesterday were inviting us for food in their family homes are now shouting at us, grabbing and dragging us in every direction. Both Tanya and myself are experienced in large busy cities like Delhi and Bangkok but something about this city makes me feel slightly uneasy – though perhaps it is just my utter exhaustion after such a long day. It was with great joy and relief when we see Oulliam’s smiling face great us, like an old and familiar friend! We have a rather delicious (if not exactly traditional) dinner of sushi as we chat away together, mostly in broken French. The following day he takes us out for breakfast where Tanya and myself (rather embarrassed!) walk into a very fancy restaurant wearing our very unfancy backpacker clothes while Oulliam insists we look lovely. After breakfast he takes us for a tour of some of the sights of Marrakech. It seems much calmer and safer in the bright daylight with our local host than it did when wandering around lost and alone the previous night. Marakkech is infact a beautiful colourful and buzzing city – when you go to the right places.

Unfortunately Oulliam must head out to work then back to Casablanca but insists we stay another night in his home to have time to explore the city some more and even relax by his pool.


Having a well deserved dip in the pool in Marakkech

Feeling we have had enough of Marrakech and craving the sea air we get on the road early for Essaouira. After a few short rides around the outskirts of the city we have barely raised our thumbs when a bus pulls in. “Autostop – Makenis fluss!” I shout over the busy traffic and wave them on. “Ok, no problem” calls the driver and out jumps the conductor to open the luggage compartment then ushers us toward the bus. We look at each other. We’re not paying for it so still hitchhiking – right? Tanya’s smiling nod confirms my silent question. So we squeeze into the tightly packed bus bound for Chichaoua.

One more ride and we are at the coast. As Achmed pulls into a view point for us to take a photo I feel the fresh breeze against my skin. Essaouira is living up to it’s local title – ‘The Windy City’.

After a quick tour of the town it is agreed that we will stay with Achmed for the night (which soon turns to 3). He is a young, though very successful, business man who seems to find our lifestyle and lack of financial motivation in life almost unbelievable but yet rather intriguing. He goes as far as to offer to pay for our transport and accommodation for the remainder of our time in Morocco, which we decline with thanks, explaining that we have enjoy travelling this way. Tanya and myself spend the days exploring the slow paced city while in the evenings we are together with Achmed drinking local wine and smoking shisha.


Beautiful boats in Casablanca


Casablanca is a slow paced fishing town

I find it amazing how we have stayed with various different people each with very different backgrounds and lifestyles yet all happy to share their lives and homes with two unknown backpackers.


Stuck in a traffic jam outside Essaouira


Don’t fancy his job!



We were invited for lunch when passing this bird shop/farm outside Agadir

Arriving in Mirleft the sky is ablaze in fiery reds and oranges but as the sun quickly disappears into the ocean we are aware that we must soon find a safe place to pitch the tent. The young doctor we were travelling with asks where we are going to which we reply with a shrug and tell her we can just hop out where we are. She tells us if we need anything we can ask for her at the hospital where she works in the next town. Waving goodbye we head off in the general direction of the ocean, hoping to find a secluded spot on the beach. A lot of chatting with friendly locals while walking we are soon invited to stay in a guesthouse for free as they do not want us camping on the beach. We agree to pay something towards costs and settle in for an evening of laughter, music and, of course, tagine. We will spend the almost two weeks together with Karim (who amongst other things is a surf teacher!) and his many friends who come and go from the house.


Didn’t catch any fish but Sally made a new friend!

Tanya and myself had two attempts at fishing in Mirleft and, technically, we got fish each time – though just not with our lines. The first day I got chatting to a friendly young guy who studies in Mirleft, Hassan. As we sit getting battered by the waves with increasing ferocity we chat about life and travel. Having both been unsuccessful with the mornings fishing we agree to meet up later that day where he will show me the best spot, only accessible when the tide is out. I clamber back up the rocks, soacked to the skin, to Tanya who is basking in the afternoon sun. When I return alone that evening I am disotintated by the dramatically changed coast and unable to find my new friend so choose to perch myself on the cliff and enjoy the cool breeze and the magical sunset. As the sun disappears into the horizon I turn back to town before total darkness encompasses me. Hearing heavy footsteps running behind me I suddenly feel very alone and far away from town, perhaps I should have returned sooner. As the footsteps come to a stop next to me I turn to see Hassan’s exhausted face smiling at me. He had been fishing and caught sight of me climbing up the cliff edge.


Stunning Mirleft sunset from the cliffs

His evening’s fishing was more successful than the morning and he has four fish so we are invited for dinner at his house he shares with 5 other students. We wander back to collect Tanya and head off through the village. As we enter his small house his roommates all imadiatly jump up to politely greet us. The evening is spent enjoying Bèrbère singing while Hassan plays the guitar and learning new card games while one of the guys cooks up the fish in a delicious tagine. Later they escort us back to our house and exchange numbers, agreeing to meet another day for some fishing. Our other attempt at fishing ends when a local fisherman tells us it is not possible to catch where we are at that time and passes us two fish. Yet again the kindness of strangers helping us along.


Sharing the love in the “hippy village” of Mirleft.

Morocco – The Kindness Continues in the Atlas Mountains 

After a quick coffee in Tiflet Othman dropped us at the toll “peage” on the outskirts of the town. A policeman approached us and after asking our nationality he tells us the best place to catch a ride, then proceeds to approach cars to help us arrange a ride toward our next destination – the small traditional mountain village of Bhalil. When we are dropped some miles from town it is already getting dark and the sky is threatening rain. Luckily we are picked up by two young men who insist on driving off their route and right into town, clearly concerned for our safety and questioning where we will sleep for the night. We assure them we will be fine. Though as we clamber out the car into the buzzing old town we realise it may be more difficult than we hoped. Definitely nowhere to pitch our tent we stroll into a cafe. All eyes are on us. 

From what I had read, this village does not get many tourists, especially two girls with backpacks wandering around lost, late into the evening. The owner of the cafe, Yusaf, approaches us and we order coffees (though somehow Tanya gets only a glass of warm milk). His English is near perfect and we ask him if there is a cheap hotel in town. He tells us there is a hotel close by and he can take us there but we soon realise the price is way out-with our tight budget (this is apparently the only accommodation in town). Perhaps the cool night will be spent taking turns each sleeping in a damp doorway while the other keeps watch.

Clearly seeing our options are running out Yusaf kindly offered us to stay with him and his family for the night. Ten minutes later, we have a bed made up and after the traditional welcome of milk and dates we are sharing a meal “my family eat together, and you are now part of my family!”, Yusaf tells us. We all chat away in a mixture of  broken languages, Yusaf assisting the conversation with much translating. We thank them for inviting us into their family home and they thank us for bringing the rain from Scotland (apparently there has not been rain in some time and it started the moment we wandered into town).

It is beautiful to hear Yusaf talk of his family and the love for his wife and mother. He describes a pyramid with Allah at the top, family in the middle then life, business and home at the bottom. A home and work is important to hold up the love of the family and God. He also talks rather frankly of the marital arrangements, causing his young wife to blush when he explains the tradition of the wedding night (exactly one year ago that day!)

Later he takes me aside and I receive the same advice we have had many times before, and will hear many times again – be vigilant and don’t trust everyone; we are two young woman putting ourselves in vulnerable positions and many people may try to take advantage in many ways, he explains. I thank him for his advice and reassure him that we are always aware our situation, trust our instincts and will not take any unnecessary risks.

Raising early the next morning only Yusaf’s mother is up. She has been hard at work in the kitchen preparing a meal. We are invited to eat with her while the rest of the family stay sleeping. Along with the usual khobz we have crepes and fruit, accompanied by home made honey, jam and a type of nut spread (not dissimilar to peanut butter) and, of course, plenty good strong coffee. With a belly full of food and the rest of the family still sleeping we head out to explore the village.

Bhalil is a beautiful mountain village set back some distance off from the highway with nothing but mountains surrounding it. Because of it’s secluded location it has kept it’s traditions more so than most other towns and villages in Morocco which, with better connections to the cities, bring in modern life and tourism.

As we explore a warren of streets and alleyways luck strikes again and we bump into Kamal Chaoui. He comes across us as I am taking a photo of the stunning contrast between an old crumbling building and the bright colourful doorway next to it. He explains in perfect English that, like us, he sees the beauty in places others do not. Kamal is actually the owner of the guest-house we were recommended the previous night and leads tours of the village for his guests. He describes, with pride, the things that make this small village so unique and offers us to view one of the 500 ancient caves that are still used today (around 100 of them as homes). As we descend down into Abdel Latef’s workshop it is like entering Aladdin’s cave. There are artefacts ranging from old Ethiopian sculptures, photos and paintings from all corners of the earth, records and tapes, jewellery, old electronic devices, beautiful crockery and about anything else you can imagine. My eyes didn’t know where to look! He is a carpenter and artist, doing much work for Kamal both in the guest-house and around the village. Though he is clearly a collector of, well, almost everything at heart. As we exit the cave Kamal appears again and invites us to view his guest-house and the incredible views from the roof terrace. He introduces us to a woman and asks us to share our email and blog details then, again, off he runs. The views from the terrace are wonderful but it is the stunning attention to detail in the guest-house that really amazes me. Delicate hand crafted woodwork and traditional art bring real life to the many rooms and hallways.

The following days are spent slowly making our way through the scenic Atlas mountains, where we are picked up by various cars and trucks. Two young men from Fez are out for a drive and offer to take us to Ifrane. As we drive they ask about our countries and how they compare to Morocco. They talk of people in non-Islamic countries having bad views of Muslims. I insist that the majority of people do not hold these ignorant opinions. We agree that in any religion, race or nationality, of course there are some who do bad but a very small minority. They talk of injustice and racism in countries like America and UK. It is saddening that they have this idea of what my home country believes. Not as saddening, though, that for some it is true – this is what they do believe. I promise them that though we cannot change the world I will share the stories of the goodness we have received from Moroccan people.

Morocco So Far – Our New Family

With such an eventful 7 days in Morocco so far I feel there is enough to write a whole book.

Arriving in Tangier we were on such a high to set foot on African soil that it was all a bit of a blur (though that could be partly due to the truck driver hotboxing the cab on our first ride!)

We climbed into Mohammed’s truck one last time for us to drive off the ferry together then he waved us off in the middle of the busy port in Tangier. Trucks and buses swerving around us we stumbled off in a random unknown direction. Eventually, with help from police and dock workers, we made it up to the highway.

Trying to avoid the swarms of taxi drivers approaching us we kept walking till we were happy with our spot on the busy road. Once again we got our sign at the ready and thumbs out. Unfortunately, the taxis soon arrived, one after another, trying to insist that they will take us and lowering the prices as we decline. We have to keep explaining in very broken French/Arabic/Spanish that we do not want a taxi “auto stop seulment“… “makeneis fluss“… “no denero“… we plead with them. (“Hitchhiking only”, “no money”). As I approach a car that stops, I am, again, surrounded by people talking to me in various languages (none of which were English). I glance over at Tanya for help, she replies only by taking a photo of my panicked face from a safe distance. One of the young men had come to see what was happening and tried to translate Arabic to Spanish (which was marginally easier to understand) Finally I said the right combination of words and he manages to wave the taxis away and tells me that here is no good for autostop (hitchhiking) and we should walk for 5-6 minutes to a better spot where the truck drivers stop for coffee. I run back to Tanya and we grab our bags and we head off, with our new friend Abdoul carrying my small backpack and our “Assilah” sign while posing for selfies. Fast-farward over an hour we are still walking. “Cinq minutes” he replies again when I question how far. He tells me if he had said how far it was from the beginging then maybe we would lose motivation. This was most likely an accurate statement.

Abdoul speaks a mixture of Arabic, French, Spanish and German and is currently learning English, it is difficult to keep up as he constantly switches between languages though he is having such a fun time walking with us and talking that we can’t help but keep on walking and laughing. His energy is contagious! We reach the spot where the truck drivers stop for refreshments and he approaches one driver after another and in Arabic asks for us if we can get a ride. A huge smile spreads accross Abdoul’s face when he eventually scores us a ride and he ushers Tanya and myself into the truck, passing up our heavy rucksacks. We bid our fairwells in various languages and off we set with Ahmed who, within a few minutes is laid back, foot on dash, with a phone in one hand showing us Moroccan music videos and a joint in the other (which we graciously decline when offered a draw.) He stops on the highway and a young guy jumps out of the bushes “hashish!” Ahmed exclaimes and hops out of the truck to do his deal. After we decline to buy some we are back on the road and soon arrive a few kilometres from Assilah, our planned stop for the night. One ride later and we are having a well deserved rest in a quiet cafe while working out where to rest for the night.

The town itself is beautiful! We stay in a budget hotel, wake up early and spend the morning wandering around the madina exploring the streets of stunning whitewashed buildings stained with vivid colours. Though it is beautiful I feel the lack of engagement saddening, like there’s an us and them. I long for a more authentic Moroccan experience, away from the crowds.

On the day we depart Assilah, during the long walk out of town I find myself wondering out loud “remind me why are we doing this again…?” My question is soon answered!

We are picked up immediately upon reaching the roundabout on the outskirts of town. Oualid spends the journey talking to us mostly in French and showing pictures and videos of his family, friends and homes. Though he doesn’t speak much English I am finding communicating easy, I would like to think it is my improving French but most likely due to our miming, slow talking and his patience with us. He has a house in Casablanca and in Marrakech where, when he hears we plan to go there, he offers us to stay. We exchange numbers and agree we will send our location to him if we arrive on Tuesday as planned and he will come meet us. Coming close to Rabat he pulls over. We will be taking the slip road heading East inland toward Fez and he will continue South to Casablanca. He escorts us accross the highway to a safe hitchhiking spot. Mere minutes after we wave off Oualid we are squeezing into a small van stuffed with fruit, vegetables and our soon-to-be new Moroccan family. Barca is a very loud, very expressive and very funny woman (even though we barely understand a word each other say we will shared a lot of laughs together!) She is in the car with her son Othman and a family friend Marwan. Soon there is an invitation to join them for Moroccan couscous at her home – an offer to good to pass up! Little did we know as we took the turn off the highway onto a dirt farm road that we would spend the next 48 hours with Barca, her husband, their two sons, daughter-in-law and two adorable grandchildren (Yusaf who’s 8 and 3 year old Marwa).

Laying down on blankets in the shade of a large oak tree, sat around a small plastic table and sharing a delicious home cooked meal with these complete strangers while speaking together in some French but mostly sign language, smiles and laughter feels weirdly not-at-all weird! After we eat, the family joke with me that Moroccan tradition says I am now engaged to Othman as we have shared his mother’s couscous. Next thing we know we are being ushered into the house by the ladies and given Moroccan dresses to wear, which causes much halarity for all. As the air heats up in the afternoon sun the whole family, us included, retire for a nap. And apparently then we will eat another meal and we must stay the night!

Their home was simple and basic but filled with love and laughter. The kitchen was in a separate building, everything made by hand by the women who work so hard to care for their family. From milking the cows by hand to kneading the khobz (bread), to gutting the fish brought back by the men, keeping this family fed is a full time job! Water was pumped up from the well to a pipe where buckets can be filled as and when needed for washing, cooking, drinking, and toilet – an out house with squat. The family and ourselves slept in an open space upon mats on the floor with an abundance of blankets and cushions making it comfortable and cosy in the cooling autumn nights but still cool and airy during the warm days.

The children bonded with us immediately, showcasing perfectly the beauty in innocence. They don’t care where we come from or what language we speak as they excitedly chatter away to us in Arabic. And in some ways it doesn’t matter that I don’t understand the words, seeing the joy in their eyes light up when I grasp an instruction or say an Arabic word is enough to know they are truly happy to have us there. In the time between meals (a rather over-generous five per day!) we play with the children and help them collect fruit and vegetables growing on the land, learn some Arabic words and spend time out in the car with Othman meeting many friends and family (where I’m consistently introduced as his wife-to-be!)

On the second day we agreed to stay another night and leave early the next morning though it was after 3pm, and a lot of pleading, that we eventually departed. I feel sad to leave. It felt like home. Though physically sharing nothing in common with my childhood home, it had a familliar feeling of love and acceptance. I hope to one day see my Moroccan family again…


It’s easy enough to hitchhike into cities, but getting back out without using any public transport can be rather difficult, as we got to experience when we tried to get out of Montpellier city centre.

We stood close to the slip road for the highway we wanted to be on, but no one stopped for us. Almost five hours had passed, most of the time we’d been standing in the scorching midday sun, in almost 35°C. We were feeling rather lightheaded, and had to take turns sitting down, when suddenly a guy across the road called out to us. Sally ran over and tried to explain that we were heading towards Spain, and asked him where he was going. Turns out he wasn’t going in that direction at all, but would gladly drive us all the way to Spain if Sally performed certain sexual favours… I guess we looked pretty defeated, but we weren’t that desperate! So she politely declined, we put on our backpacks, and started walking again, hoping to find a better spot to catch a ride.

After almost an hour walk we tried again, still not in a great spot, but we simply couldn’t walk any further in the blazing heat. This time someone finally stopped for us! Nico and Sara had noticed that we were badly placed and wanted to help us out, so they drove us far out of their way to drop us off at a better hitchhiking spot outside off the city. This kind gesture really lifted our spirits, and from then on the rest of the journey to Spain was a breeze.

Spain is said to be one of the most difficult places to hitchhike in Europe, so we were curious to see how long it would take for someone to pick us up. We were standing outside of a petrol station just south of the Spanish border for a while, when finally a woman driving a truck stopped for us. She’d watched us from the gas station, standing there begging for rides, and took pity in us. We eagerly jumped into her truck, and off we went.

It took us a moment to realise that Olga didn’t speak Spanish (or English or French for that matter), and that she was from Belarus. But even without a common language we somehow managed to have an ongoing conversation, us in English with a few words of French and Spanish, and her speaking Polish, Russian and a bit of German. There was naturally a lot of gesturing, nodding and guessing, but with the help of our phones to show each other pictures, we managed quite well to tell each other stories.

Olga was such a lovely woman, and stopped the truck to make us coffee on her portable gas stove. She drove us down the scenic mountainous route to the south of Barcelona, where she parked up for the night, and made us a homely stew for dinner.

Well fed and exhausted after a long day in the sun, we decided to get our sleeping bags out and sleep on the grass next to the truck. Olga didn’t like our idea of sleeping rough in Barcelona, thinking about her own daughters who were roughly our age, so she opened up the back of her truck and moved some stuff around to make room for us to sleep there, safe and sound, next to her cargo.

In the middle of the night we were woken up by what sounded like sudden, heavy rain. Turns out there were some powerful sprinklers in the grass where we originally intended to sleep, so thank god we were sleeping in the truck! That would not have been a pleasant way to be woken up, on an already chilly night!

Yet again we found ourselves trying to get out of a big city. We were pretty far south in Barcelona, and after about an hour walk we got to a slip road for the highway we wanted to be on. The slip road itself was small, with nowhere to stop, so we had to stand at the traffic light crossroad before it. It wasn’t a great spot, but it was the best we could find.

Again, hours passed.

We figured we needed a new sign, so Sally ran across the street to this tiny restaurant on the corner. The staff there had been smiling and waving at us a lot and seemed friendly. Not long after, Sally got back out with the biggest cardboard sign we’d had so far, and they even made us free sandwiches and gave us a bottle of water! Spanish people may not be the best at picking up hitchhikers, but they’re certainly friendly and generous!

Eventually someone picked us up, and after a few more rides with friendly people we eventually ended up north of Valencia. We did not want to end up in yet another big city, so we got dropped off at a petrol station just outside the city, to hopefully catch a ride to somewhere further down the coast.

We stood at the petrol station exit, smiling an waving at the cars, but eventually the sun disappeared behind a hill, and we realised we wouldn’t get anywhere before it got dark, so we decided to head back to the petrol station to find somewhere to sleep for the night.

We were sat down at a picnic table, playing cards and just about to pull out our sleeping bags, when a truck driver walked up to us and wondered where we were planning to sleep. Mohammed, as he was called, seemed worried about us, and didn’t like the idea of us sleeping outside of the petrol station. He was heading towards Madrid, which was not exactly where we wanted to go, but when he told us he was headed for Morocco the day after, we got very excited.

At first he said he couldn’t take both of us, since he could only legally have one passenger, but after some thought he decided I was small enough to hide in the back when we drove through the tolls and police checkpoints, so it should be OK.

So we climbed into his truck, and back on the road we went. He parked up somewhere outside of Madrid for the night, where he made the extra bed for Sally while I curled up in the front seat. It was so nice not having to sleep outside, as it was pretty cold, with a brisk wind.

In the morning he made us breakfast and coffee from his little portable kitchen on the side of his truck, and then we headed for the south of Spain.

It was a long drive, and we had some Arabic lessons on the way, to prepare us for Morocco. I was laying under a blanket on the bed behind the seats for most of the journey, and it was quite nice to be able to catch up on some much needed sleep. We made it all the way to Algeciras, and parked in the ferry port. The ferry was due at 11.00 the next day, so we headed to the ticket office to confirm that he could bring two extra passengers at no additional cost, before we checked into a guest house for the night, and agreed to meet in the parking lot tomorrow an hour before departure.

We woke up well rested, and super excited that we would actually be in Morocco in a few hours! On the internet there were loads of stories about how difficult it was to hitch a ride across to Morocco, so we were so pleased with how everything just seemed to work out for us.

Or so we thought.. When we got back to the truck parking area, our truck was nowhere to be seen… Mohammed was gone.

As the realisation sank in, we started to panic. It was less than one hour till the ferry left, and we were looking for a white truck in one of the biggest ports in Europe.

We started running.

It was 34°C and blazing sun, and our heavy backpacks certainly didn’t make it any better.

A Security guard stopped to ask what we were doing, and after trying to explain the situation with our very limited Spanish and showing him pictures of the truck, he eventually tried to give us some directions to where the trucks get on the ferry. Turns out taking directions in Spanish is not easy, and the port was massive and confusing, so we kept getting lost, and running down the wrong piers.

After almost an hour I noticed a truck that looked like Mohammed’s truck. Sally scrolled through her photos, the number plate was a match! The only problem was that it was parked behind a tall wall, that seemed to stretch for miles in both directions. Another truck driver was casually strolling around on the other side of the fence, so we managed to get his attention and gestured that we wanted him to knock on the window of Mohammed’s truck

Out came Mohammed, and we were so excited to see him! Can’t believe we managed to find him before he boarded the ferry..!

He told us his boss had called him and ordered him to relocate closer to the ferry, and pointed in the direction we had to go to get in.

We ran down the road with newfound energy, and in our eagerness to get to the truck we managed to run right past passport control, and suddenly had a several police officers yelling and whistling at us. Whoops!

We ran back there with our passports, and thankfully they weren’t angry, but seemed rather amused by us, and chuckled as they checked our passports.

Mohammed spoke to the truck driver parked next to him, who was also called Mohammed, and they made an agreement to take one of us each, so we wouldn’t have to worry about getting fined for being 3 in one truck.

So accompanied by our two Mohammeds, onto the ferry we went.

Can’t believe we actually made it, it was a slightly more frantic morning than we had expected, but we got there in the end!

Morocco here we come!

France and Belgium

Relieved to have made it accross the channel and heading to warmer, more “hitchhike friendly” countries we waved goodbye to Dave. Two options in looking for our next ride – we stay at the station and wait for the next train full of cars off the tunnel or we follow Dave’s instructions to the highway where the trucks will be coming from the much more regular fraight trains and heading either north to Belgium or, in our planned direction, the South of France. Though we would be happy to lay our backpacks down and rest in the sun, our eagerness to cover more ground and continue south got us walking. The enthusiasm did not last… after walking backward and forward for around 1 hour we realised that getting to the place where the trucks were was neither easy nor safe. Sitting on a closed lane on a bridge, wondering why no cars had come off the euro tunnel since we had arrived (were they cancelled for the day?) looking around us at miles of highways and regretting our decision not to take Dave’s ride north into Belgium, we suddenly saw a car off in the distance coming from the direction of the tunnel. Unfortunately, where we stood there was no place for cars to stop. So we ran, heavy backpacks dragging us down, back to the service station only to catch the last few cars driving past us averting eye contact from the two crazy girls puffing and sweating, trying desperately to smile.

Are we really this bad at hitchhiking? We plan to spend 2 years hitchhiking round the globe and now we are stuck in Calais on day 2!

As our shadows get longer we eventually are succumbing to the cold and ever increasing darkness which was quickly surrounding us. Sleeping bags on the concrete round the back of the service station is our new plan. An English truck driver who was parking up for the night gave us water and wished us good luck, kind words which lifted our spirits a little.

Finally as the last of the days light was disappearing, another stream of cars came speeding toward us. Jumping up “smiles on, hat off!” I scream at Tanya. A car pulls up beyond the opening and a young guy asks where we are going (we have long since given up on our sign for “le sud”) “anywhere that isn’t here please…” he looks at us with equal parts confusion and amusement and tells us he will be driving to Brussels and we are welcome to come as far as we want. Two hours later, after some great chat and a French lesson on the way (causing much hallarity!) we are in his flat, cold beer in hand, eating pasta (cooked by his Italian housemate) and homemade waffles with 7 of his housemates, oh and we have a bed for the night and a lift to the highway in the morning. Could things have worked out any better?

For me this is the joys of hitchhiking – had we got a lift to the south we might have been delighted, but we didn’t – and that evening and everything that comes after is all because many people did not stop and Guilliam did.

The days that followed had ups and downs. We spent the next two nights sleeping rough, once on a park bench and once in a car park outside a closed campsite (after a sweaty 1.5km walk in the dark).

It feels good to be in a real campsite, tent pitched, showers and toilets at our disposal so we decide to stay for two nights. Our first night we meet some fellow hitchhikers from Germany. They share their meal with us and as the sun comes down (and the mosquitos out!) we laugh together, trading stories of travel and hitching experiences. After hitchhiking down to the beach and back the following day we treat ourself to some cheese, cured ham and a bottle of local wine. The break has been wonderful, though after two nights here we are ready to get back on the road and see what tomorrow brings.