This account of a jaundiced progress around north Africa is a bleak reminder of the perils that lie within the romantic idea of travel
As travellers go, I am an inexcusably snobby one. Not about places or cultures, but about the concept of travel itself: tourists are awful. Wherever I go, I gleefully scorn the straggles of tour groups lumbering around town, with their bumbags and schedules, trapped in someone else’s snapshot of a place. From my lofty pedestal of AirBnb sofa mattresses and activity-free itineraries, I spend most of my holidays feeling comparatively local.
Which is, of course, complete rubbish. In my mind, I am the Paul Theroux of every country I visit: in reality, I’ll occasionally eat something obscure, Instagram a bit and fumble with foreign language, all the while secretly knowing I will only ever skim the surface.
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