In honour of International Tequila Day.

¡salud y pesetas!

Early June morning at macchu Pichu, Peru. Cheap labour employed to take care of the grass.

Chilly July morning in Copacabana, just before a cruise around the Bolivian side of Lake Titicaca.

Don’t hang out in San Jose

Allegedly there are some nice areas and cool sights in San Jose. I wouldn’t know because I was too busy trying to fend off muggers, not step on heroin shooting junkies on the sidewalk, all while pretending not to look at the hookers literally earning their money in the alleys.

The taxi drivers also refused to take me anywhere cool because I didn’t want to pick up one of their prostitutes.

Do stay in Alajuela

Assuming you are flying in to SJO (Juan Santamaría International Airport) Alajuela is much closer than the actual city of San Jose. A taxi will run you around $25 to San Jose or just $3 to Alajuela.

There are plenty of small hostels / guesthouses in Alajuela and it’s very safe compared parts of San Jose. It’s not a bad launching pad for the sights and activities around the Poa volcano either.

Don’t take the Interbus shuttle

Nothing against them personally. I’ve heard nothing but good things but they run around $35-40 to the destinations I scoped out.

Do take a local bus

Most of the buses in Costa Rica are very nice and comfortable and they’re also considerably cheap. Last time I checked, it cost around $4 to go from San Jose to La Fortuna or $6 to go to Quepos. Both rides are around 4 hours so that’s not a bad deal for such a long distance.

This schedule should help but get there early to make sure it’s accurate.

Don’t reserve a hotel online

It’s true that Costa Rica is a major tourist destination, especially for backpackers, but it’s not as crowded as you would imagine. If you arrive late a hostel might be booked by the time you get there, but if you have the time, consider checking out the area for good deals.

Do just show up and look at a few rooms

I booked a private hostel room for three last year in Quepos which ran about $50. Not bad for three people, but when we took the bus to the beautiful Manuel Antonio beaches we found that there were plenty of hotels with amazing views of the Pacific Ocean for $25-50. These exact same places were listed online at a minimum of $100 per night.

Talk about slashing prices.

Don’t eat anywhere listed in the Lonely Planet

It’s not that the places listed in the guidebooks are bad by any means, but it appears they double or triple their prices once they get published. If it was listed as a budget restaurant in the Lonely Planet it ran around $10-15 for a standard meal. That’s around the same price as a standard meal where I live in Southern California–one of the most expensive areas in California I should add.

Do find the local soda

Soda’s are your typical Costa Rican eatery. Smaller than most restaurants, most soda’s only have a couple of tables and chairs outside. Many soda’s operate on the street corner with nothing more than a window for you to order your meal. They’re a step or two above food carts on the street.

The best meals I have had in Costa Rica cost around $3 from local sodas. The menu usually isn’t very large and will feature several comidas (typical meals) with your choice of meat. One night it’ll be fresh vegetables and rice, the next it’ll be french fries. It all depends on what they have on hand and what’s fresh.

Don’t party and drink your vacation away

I’ve met plenty of backpackers who sleep most of the day and party most of the night. That’s fine every now and then, but Costa Rica has a lot more to offer visitors than $1 Imperial beers and happening clubs.

Do get out and enjoy the scenery

There is too much to do in Costa Rica to list them all here. Consider white-water rafting, zip-lining through the rain forest, a beautiful hike, or even renting a surfboard and chilling on a beach.

Follow Jeff on Twitter or read more of his travel tales at Have Pack, Will Travel

“Welcome to Mexico City. There are 5 rules you most obey to make this a memorable visit for you. Uno: You will be at your hostel soon, because I drive fast. Muy fast. But you cannot make any Speedy Gonzales jokes. I mean this. The last man to break this rule lost a kidney. Dos: Any tequila you plan on drinking in the next 30 minutes must be shared with me. In fact, why don’t you just give me any tequila you have now, and I will tell you if it’s good or not. Tres: Do not get into a drinking competition with a Mexican. You will lose. Cuatro:  Learn in español the words for toilet (baños), more beer (más cerveza), and I like your moustache (Me gusta el bigote) –  and you will be fine. Cinco: Here is my card, don’t forget to call me when you need to go back to the airport.”

I’d been in the country for only 5 minutes, and knew straight away I was going to love it.

I could wax lyrical about Mexico City, but I’ll spare you an overuse of adjectives.  Vibrant is the best way to describe this place, the largest metropolitan area in the Americas, home to over 23 million people.

There are 16 districts or delegaciones that make up Mexico City, all built around the Centro Historico, home to the Zocalo – the 3^rd largest square in the world.

A few misconceptions that need to be cleared up;

Sure, it’s polluted. But what city this size isn’t? Mexico City sits in a plateau and as such gets smoggy. But it’s certainly livable and comparable to Los Angeles, and is much cleaner than Bangkok or any city in China. There was an incident in the 80’s where birds fell dead from the skies, but it seems the government took that as a warning and have since cleaned up their act, and the air.

You won’t get mugged. Well, probably not.  I found Mexican’s to be some of the nicest people I’ve ever had the fortune of meeting, and not once did I feel unsafe in Mexico City (There was one incident with a guy plying us with nachos and trying to sell us pot, He was agitated and kept looking outside the bar to where there were some policia conspicuously standing around, seemingly waiting to nab some Gringo’s for possession, so we politely declined. Good nachos though). As Chuck Thompson wrote in his book ‘To Hell Holes and Back’;

“Being stood up by Mad Max (to score coke) is the only outright act of discourtesy I experienced in Mexico City”

In fact, Mexico doesn’t even get a mention in the listverse.com Top 10 most dangerous places on earth, and Antarctica comes in at number 6. So there you go, safer than Antarctica. Obviously if you’re strolling around the districts of Tepito or Iztapalapa Sporting a Rolex or fiddling with your iPhone, you might have a different experience.

The food is awesome. Not once did I get sick of or from eating tamales, Quesadillas, Sopa de tortilla, taquitos or tacos. The only time I had a standing date with the porcelain in Mexico City was as after a sojourn in Havana. You know what’s good for Cuban food based tummy upsets? Tequila. Kills everything.

Mexican food is very meat based, but there’s still heaps of variety for a vegetarian, and if you’re a fishacrit (aquatarian, pescatarian etc) hit the coasts for a mean Pulpo Diablo. Still, I’d steer clear of the ‘Pesca del dia’ in Mexico city – the closest beach is 500km away.

The coolest thing about food in Mexico City? McDonald’s have self-service jalapeños.

A few things you can’t leave Mexico City without doing:

Witness the battle of the Mariachi Bands at Paza Garibaldi. Sit at a makeshift bar, downing margaritas and Negra medelo cervezas while being serenaded by some of the loudest singers you’ve ever heard, for a few pesos a song. Your ears will be ringing by the end of the night, but you might get asked to join in on a verse of La Cucaracha, guaranteed to be the most fun you’ve had in ages.

Stop by for a pot of tea at Frida Kahlo’s house. You can’t miss it, it’s the giant blue building with hundred’s of people queuing outside. Once you’re inside though, you don’t seem to notice the crowds as you idly walk through the rooms, checking out paintings, Diego Rivera’s murals, and the bed that Frida was confined to for over a year; right where she first started her self portraits while recovering from a horrific bus accident. It’s a beautiful house with a large courtyard that has been painstakingly restored and maintained as it was 60 years ago.  In the courtyard is a small café where you can grab a cup of tea and cake, served on plates emblazoned with Frida’s mono-browed image, along with a heap of other Frida y Diego memorabilia.

Drift down the Xochimilco floating markets. You know it’s going to be a great tour when your guide stops to pick up an esky full of corona’s. The Xochimilco floating market boats are painted in incredibly bright colours, the procession is very slow, with traffic congestion that borders on insanity, but hey, it’s not your problem. Take the opportunity to relax, drink a beer, and eat what ever is on offer from the old ladies that plow into the side of your boat.

Run up the Teotihuacán Pyramids. The 3^rd largest pyramid in the world is the Pyramid of the Sun, at Teotihuacán. A lot of people run up the steep steps of the pyramid, if only to get away from the touts at the base. Still, once you’re at the top (or as high as your guide will allow) it’s a breathtaking view. Once you have your breath back, it’s time for another dash through the maze of souvenir sellers along the calle de los muertos (street of the dead) to get to the Pyramid of the moon. Bring Ventolin.

Fill up on Mezcal. Or tequila for that matter. Infact, if you’re super adventurous there is a train that takes you from Guadalajara (the second largest town in Mexico) all the way to the town of Tequila, in the north. But I’m the sort of guy that would watch the tennis on TV instead of going to see it at the arena, so you can imagine I’d also subscribe to the  mantra of ‘fuck it, there’s perfectly good tequila, right here in Mexico City.’ I was not disappointed. A lot of bars I’d frequented in Centro Historico and Roma Condesa (two neighboring delegaciones known for art deco buildings, great restaurants and über grungy- cool drinking establishments) have over 130 types of Tequila and Mezcal, quickly resulting in a messy, and expensive night. (Rule of thumb, if the tequila bottle has the brand name plastered in gold, it’s most definitely more expensive than you can afford. It’s good to learn from past mistakes.)

I’ll be heading back to Mexico City in the new year. It’s such an exciting city to be in, the festivity of the city is palpable. So forget what you’ve heard. Just go. You won’t be disappointed. But maybe lay off the Speedy Gonzales jokes.

A last minute road trip I couldn’t refuse.

Jeff from Have Pack, Will Travel had a just over a week in Thailand, visiting the northern city of Chiang Mai – a place I hadn’t been to in my previous trips to Thailand.  He was gracious enough to invite me to tag along.

I rarely need an excuse to go overseas and this was no exception. While it would mean stretching all available leave options at my office job, it would afford me the chance to finally meet my travel writing boss and it’s hard to turn down a opportunity to eat some cheap and tasty Thai food.

I booked my tickets and we brainstormed a few activities to do, trying to fit in as much as we could in as little time as possible.  There’s always plenty to do in Thailand but our trip this time took on a purpose a bit different from the norm: we were going to motorbike from Chiang Mai to Pai – some 762 hairpin turns through the Mae Hong Son loop – one of the most scenic regions in the country.

View Larger Map

The first cool thing about Chiang Mai is that everyone seems pretty ok with you being there.  Not including the night bazaar, there were next to no touts trying to sell you treks, suits or prostitutes. In fact the whole lack of visible sex tourism was a welcome difference from some of the other well-known tourist haunts. People wanted to talk to us with no hidden agendas, and that’s a refreshing change to Bangkok and some of the places down south. Another cool thing about Chiang Mai is the food.  It’s spicy. You’d be right in guessing that the author of SanchezJalapeño is partial to a bit of chili, so the food was a bit of a highlight. It’s frustrating when you say you want something spicy but perhaps because you’re a farang you’re dished up a mild green curry, which has happened many a time. Not so in Chiang Mai.

The first stop for us a stroll through a few Wat’s, then dinner at the walking street market, which happens on Sunday nights.  Walking street however seemed to be a bit of an understatement as the fucking thing continues for miles. Blocks were sectioned off to house all the market stalls – everything from I heart Chiang Mai shirts, giant funky oil paintings, and dried fried insects.

Video © havepack.com

We planned an early night these things rarely go to plan and I spent a majority of the night drinking cheap scotch on the roof with an ever-rotating group of backpackers and my Australian friend Steve, who was along for the ride.

6am came and we groggily woke, showered and mounted our beasts – 3 automatic 100cc scooters which were to be our chariots for the trip to Pai.

The outskirts of Chiang Mai is an amazing place to be early in the morning. We passed songthaew’s crammed full of school kids waiving at us and Monks holding out their alms bowls collecting rice from the people on their way to work.  It’s probably an hour on the main road out of town before you reach the turn off to Pai.  Immediately the scenery changed, and the temperature dropped about 5 degrees. We stopped for breakfast at a small little café situated at the first of the 762 turns to come. After a breakfast of champions (or plain omelette and coffee, depends what your perspective is on such matters) we rode for a while before coming across a dirt path with a sign for waterfalls. We followed it 6km down an eroded dirt track, climbing little hills (no small feat considering we were on automatic scooters) finally arriving at a less than spectacular waterfall. But hey, the trip was good and I got the opportunity to place with a mangy dog I called bush puppy and take a photo of a scarecrow/laundry day.

Back on the main road we drove for a few hours before stopping for lunch.

I ordered the Tom Yum, then realized just how far we were from the ocean – my prawns were hardly going to be the catch of the day. Oh well, it still tasted pretty good and my chili quota for the day was met. We found another side road that led to a geyser so we followed it, almost crashing into a family of elephants being walked up the road.

Video © havepack.com

It was this encounter that reaffirmed my love for travelling (not that it had ever really waivered) – To see these awesome animals being walked up a road at least 20 kilometers from civilization, their owners waiving at us and smiling for photos. The bush puppy that earlier had come bolting up to me, almost making me fall over the top of my bike. I was getting sad that the purpose of my trip here to Thailand was halfway through, the realization that I’d soon be back in my cubical set in. But still, can’t go around forever with that frame of mind so I snapped out of it and  we continued riding, Pai being only a few hours away.

The trip takes a lot longer than you think it will. Any traveller who says they can do it in less than 2 hours is a dirty liar. A local guy we met later that night said he did the same trip, does it every week and it takes him 3 hours. But no matter how long people say it takes them, all agree that the hardest and most complicated part of the ride is the last hour; basically a freefall decent down hairpin turns on the side of a giant cliff – made all the more difficult due to my lake of fuel, but luckily I could turn the bike off and coast most of the way down the mountain.

Before I knew it (well, in fairness 8 and a half hours after we left Chiang Mai) we were cruising into Pai – A small hippy town with a surprisingly large Muslim population set on the bank of the Mekong Pai river, near the Myanmar border. The town is a good base for exploring through some of the Hill Tribes, hot springs and elephant camps, but mainly survives on tourism, with Farang’s counting for most of the visitors until the release of two Thai romantic movies set in Pai (they do love their sappy romance movies) which has resulting in a huge swing in domestic tourist numbers.

Riverside Bungalow in Pai

We spent a few days in Pai, writing notes and checking out the town before we started to think about how to get back to Chiang Mai. We thoroughly enjoyed our epic trip here, but the prospect of doing it all over again wasn’t exactly high on our agenda. So we flew. Nok Mini flies a 12 seater plane daily from Pai to Chiang Mai for about $60 –which was was worth it just for the amazing views over Mae Hong Son, an added bonus being that the flight took 25 minutes.

If you are considering doing the same trip, here’s a few tips:

• Aya are the only company I could find that offer one way motorcycle rentals between Chaing Mai and Pai. At 120 baht they are incredibly cheap but the bikes were well looked after and services.

• Consider getting a GT rider map of the Mae Hong Son loop. It features detailed topography, dirt roads and suggested itineraries.

• Get travel insurance. The last thing you want is a hospital bill that  is $10,000+ just because of a motorbike accident.

• If you can, leave enough time to see some of the hill tribes, and continue onwards past Pai on the Mae Hong Son loop, I hear amazing things about Cave Lodge and can’t wait to explore there in early 2011.

Follow Shane on Twitter, read his posts at Havepack, or catch up on his travels here.

Backpackers sometimes get a bad rap. We’re considered lazy, dirty bed bug riddled floozies that fill up all the seats on the chicken bus with our backpacks, float between tourist slums so we can drink cheap beer and tick off another place on our itineraries. We’re called cheapskates; spending as little money as possible to delay having to go back to the real world and do real things, like getting a job.

And it’s sort of true.

Stereotypes are stereotypes for a reason. But just because the majority of us portray some of the characteristics listed above, it doesn’t mean we’re all like that, all of the time.

Ahem.

It’s a very broad generalisation, but what I’ve noticed is that as well as that ‘backpacker group’ I’ve listed above,  there’s a few subgroups – the Hippies, the Lads, the Bogans and the Wankers –  so I’m going to jump right on the typecasting bandwagon and share some of my observations on these groups that I’ve come across during my travels. Allow me to put on my judging cap, strap yourself in and try a few of these pigeon-holes on for size;

The Lads (and ladettes)

Cashed up Brits are forces to be reckoned with. Generally found in SE Asia they’ve exchanged their pounds

Lads. Nature's idiots.

for about a gazillion Baht and are living like kings; Eating and drinking their way around town, though you’ll find them at the pubs more often than at the street markets. Often acting like drunk raging lunatics anytime after midday (which is about the time they wake up) you’ll rarely find the lad on the tour bus, but once you’re at the pub you can’t swing a cat sideways without hitting one. -they’re no doubt at the bar trying to pick up anything with boobs. Like a moth to a flame they all migrate to Ko Pha Ngan for the full moon party once a month, which means it’s a great time to see, well, any other place.

Likes: Alcohol buckets, pub curries and cheap cigarettes

Dislikes: Most other things – notorious whingers.

The Aussie Bogan

Southern Cross Tattoo? You my friend, are a Bogan.

Thailand and Bali are both incredibly cheap to get to from Australia, which means that even those on the dole can afford it, and the Aussie Bogans are out in force. Wearing wife-beaters (singlets) and sporting a mullet, these bogans are often found in the beach side pubs with the British lads, drinking cheap beer and watching the cricket. Bogans do like to get a bit of ‘culcha’ so there is the chance you’ll get stuck next to them on the mini bus to the Tiger Temple. Be prepared for some ear piercing Aussie vernacular when ‘Nicko’ yells at ‘Cheryl’ to ‘look after the fucking kids’, because ‘they’re given me the shits!’

Likes: Tribal Tattoos, Tiger Beer, a liberal approach to personal hygiene.

Dislikes: Immigrants, Hippies, New Zealanders, Bok Choy.

The Hippies

Old saying: A hippy a day... will give you syphilis.

You can spot them a mile away. Reggae Dub blaring from the speakers at the Rasta bar, mango shake in hand, The Hippies can be found lounging around all day on fancy triangle cushions discussing the who has the biggest dreadlocks and the differences between normal and organic chickpeas. Harmless more than anything, though you should be prepared  for enough glaring to make you want to crawl under a rock and cry, bucket loads of indignation and the faint odour of Roquefort – The Hippies feet (not unlike the rest of their bodies) are somewhat unaccustomed to warm water and soap.

Likes: Tofu, cheap dorms and armpit hair

Dislikes: Things that are not Tofu, cheap dorms or armpit hair

The Insular American

On my recent trip overseas I asked as all the Americans I crossed paths with if they knew the name of the Australian, Canadian, New Zealand or British Prime Ministers. Not one person got any of them right. Insular Americans tend not to know much about anything that doesn’t happen within their own borders. You could blame the education system, their mind numbingly stoopid TV (Survivor, anyone?) or the perhaps misguided perception that USA really is ‘Number 1’. It’s probably a combination of all. It’s sometimes frustrating sure, but don’t blame them too much, they are after all a product of their environment. Just smile, bite your tongue and have a bit of a chuckle about how much more worldly you are… which is an excellent segue to…

The Stuck-up Backpacker Wanker

Travel Wanker? we'll find out in 15 years or so.

They sleep on potato sacks in a horse stable instead of forking out for a dorm bed. Dinner is a bowl of cold rice.  They don’t fly, take the train, the bus or the boat, instead they hitch lifts on the back of  donkey drawn carts or float on a hand made bamboo raft dkown the Mekong. They can’t wait for you to finish talking so they can role their eyes and chastise you for being a ‘tourist’ and not a ‘traveller’. They’ve always done everything cheaper, harder, longer and immersed themselves further into anything you’ve ever done. Ever.

And they give me the shits. Easiest way to avoid them? –  Forget South America or South East Asia, go to Europe instead.

Likes: Hating other backpackers, not spending any money, taking the hardest, longest possible route as they believe it gives them ‘travel cred’.

Dislikes: Other people. Unless they can wrangle those other people into buying them dinner.

I see bits of myself in about three of those groups.

Notable mentions include The Lonely Planet Army, The Tight-Arse Angry Israeli’s, The Contiki Clubber’s and The Spoilt Princess/Daddy’s Credit Card Troupe.

* One final note regarding Insular Backpackers – it’s not just the American’s. I once had a conversation with a British girl who was quite surprised to hear that Australia had a queen. Imagine how her mind exploded when I explained that it was in fact the very same Queen that she had in the UK, and that the Canadians share her with us too.

Over 15,000 people can’t be wrong.

The Local Fauna

That’s the number of  holiday makers that have attempted to reach Australia by boat in the past few years.

Most never make it to the mainland, instead their short detour to Christmas Island turns into a permanent stop over. But can you blame them? Christmas Island has it all. From the flora and Fauna (like the bigger-than-a-child coconut crab, pictured here climbing a freaking garbage bin), to the super friendly locals, oozing with charisma – you’ll often seen waving their bright shiny guns at you from the other side of the razor fence. For what ever reason, Christmas Island is quickly turning into the must visit destination of 2010, especially if you’re from Asia or the Middle East.

A trip to Christmas Island doesn’t come cheap. Most tourists end up exhausting all of their savings just for a seat on a rustic yet charming raft type contraption. Lovingly refered to by Australian’s as ‘Boat People’ these adventure seekers don’t have a lot of mid-voyage entertainment to keep them occupied, but that doesn’t really matter as they’re too busy trying not to drown. Nature Buffs would love it – you can’t get much closer to nature than you do when your raft capsizes during the monsoon.

Reception

What ever your trip lacks in aesthetics it makes up in customer service. Before you even reach the island you’ll be greeted by a boat load of government officials who have come out to greet and escort you in. That’s a nice touch. Once you’ve docked you’re whisked away to the reception area of the islands only resort. After you’re processed checked in, you’ll be shown to your room – conditions in the garden & electric-fence view rooms are a little cramped but that’s just because the place is so darn popular. The owners prefer not to use terms like ‘over capacity’, instead referring to it as cosy.  Just be mindful of a weird process where they tend to sepeate you from your family – we’ll call them travel companions- but think if it as a good way to meet new people.

In house activities for the lucky refugees guests include English lessons, some sports, competitive fasting and an interesting game called lip sewing (usually only played by those Negative Nancy’s that whinge about everything… there’s always one, right?)

Money exchange is not a problem, you simply wont need any. This is an all inclusive resort – you’re provided with a $50 dollars worth of resort points per week, redeemable for such luxury items as toothpaste and medication.

Spots are limited so to secure your place at this amazing resort, speak to your local Travel Agent (people smuggler) about this once in a lifetime trip.

For further information or to request a brochure contact the UNHCR

The square of Djemaa el Fna sprawls out haphazardly, a big area that early on in the day can seem a bit vacant, but fills up completely come nightfall. At one end of the square there are restaurants and cafes, At the other -beginning of the Souqs, and if you venture that way can see the fine art of selling in overdrive as storemen press T-shirts and jewellery into your hands.

Locals and tourists alike find themselves here in Djemaa el Fna as the afternoon turns to evening, to meet friends or snap a photo, and of course to eat. This is why I’m here, to fill up on fresh food from the famous night market.

As I walk into the open space it is still very warm and at this time of the day more stalls are being set up for the nightly show. I’m early.

Take a breath and look around for a bit, you’ll be eating soon, I tell myself grumbling stomach. There is an atmosphere of excitement, as if a big party is about to take place.

This is exactly what it turns into in an hour or so, when all the stalls are up and running, people are everywhere chatting excitedly and looking around at the feasts in front of them. Produce is set out proudly and tantalisingly – a variety of fish and other seafood, kebabs of meat or vegetables, piles of fresh salads, olives and dried fruits. Other smaller stalls are selling mint tea or coffee with deserts of cakes and biscuits. Some I walk past specialise in just one thing, like snails, and a huge bubbling pot fills the entire little shop with a line of bowls next to it waiting to be filled and someone squeezed behind it smiling and waving for you to come closer.

The sounds of cooking are all around me – things are chopped, then sizzling on the stoves while spices and herbs are added, and smoke wafts around you as you walk, giving you delicious hints at what you could have if you stop at this one for dinner tonight. The stalls go on and on, a little temporary labyrinth built each night in the centre of the square.

Beside the food is an area where a visual feast is decked out – ladies sit doing henna tattoos, street performers all dressed up sing and dance, and round each corner is the possibility of walking into an area where snakes and their charmers, or a monkey on a leash can be found. I stick to the food but many are seduced into getting a photo taken with these animals – that or they have a snake or monkey draped on them before they know it.

Lights come on, the music swells and the food smells become too good to continue looking around any longer. I stop and see the variety on show in front of this stall, decide its where I want to be and point a few things out as my order, then sit down. A man places a paper mat down in front of me and some olives are set out. As I watch my food being cooked, I realise all my olives are gone – should never leave them alone with me for a minute – I’m given some more.

Then my food comes out – roast eggplant, kebabs, vegetable cous cous. Prawns, Moroccan salad, beetroot. I have been waiting for this all day. I get to work and more bread is placed beside me. The flavours are fantastic, that freshly grilled taste coupled with coriander, cumin and others flavours I don’t know. The olives are simple but with a light marinade of herbs. The bread is fresh and I mop up the juices from the salads and sauce from the kebabs and vegetables. I eat and eat and the night world goes on around me. More people duck in to sit at the long tables next to me and the routine begins again as they pick their food and the chefs get to work. The music seems to get faster as I eat, whirling as the tastes whirl in my mouth.

After I’m done I slowly get up and decide I need to walk my eating odyssey off, still steering clear of the monkeys and snakes. The night is warm and everyone is happy, me most of all.

Marrakech is my first stop in Morocco and I don’t want to leave, a day here in Djemaa el Fna makes me hungry for more.

Follow Milli on Twitter, Flickr or read more of her travels here

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Day one.  4:30pm.

My Easyjet flight arrives into Marrakech an hour early, but any time saved is quickly lost during the 2 hour wait in the Immigration line. The queue isn’t even that long, but it’s excruciatingly slow because all the immigration officers keep chatting to each other. The guy in front of me waits ten minutes while two officers seemed to be talking about the size of different breasts. Or watermelons. I don’t speak Arabic and it’s hard to say just by reading hand gestures.

© Milli Vukovic

Our Taxi driver flies through the peak hour Marrakech traffic, trying to get us to the Medina before it pours with rain. We dodge scooters carrying whole families, and men riding donkey’s with gas cylinders strapped to their backs (the donkeys, not the men) heading for the Djemaa el-Fna – The centre of the Medina and the location of the nightly food market.

We arrive at our Riad, or as close to it as our driver wants to go – the alley ways become increasingly narrow, so we are unceremoniously dumped by the side of the road. I scan the maze before us, scratch my head, and start to panic. Out of nowhere comes a guy with a cart – sort of like a wheel barrow mixed with a car trailer. Thinking it was a little primitive, but my feet were aching from the wait in the immigration queue, I start to hop in. The guy just grunts, glares at me and points to my backpack. Seems I’ll be walking, but my bag hitches a ride. I’m just happy that I’ll be getting to my Riad at all. After we arrive it’s starts to pour down rain, so I go to the roof and watch the electrical storm, getting drenched in the process. We go to bed early, I’ve got a busy day planned in the souqs tomorrow.

Day two. 7:00am.

© Milli Vukovic

No one is around, so I unbolt the giant Riad door and sneak out, headed for the Djemaa el-Fna. I want to see Marrakech go to work. The Orange juice sellers are just setting up so I get a freshly squeezed juice out of a dubious looking glass. I remember my guidebook telling me to not use the utensils and cups in the market– sound advice but how do you do that when it’s already been poured in a glass? It’s silly to be too precious about this sort of thing anyway, so I shrug, gulp down my juice and continue walking.

The square is slowly coming to life, and we go for a walk to a nearby Mosque. It’s especially beautiful, and it seems to have some relics in different states of repair dotted around the outside. Unfortunately some angry looking youths start walking towards us, one of them making suggestive comments towards my girlfriend. Her father tells me not to accept anything less than a Mercedes and two camels; these boys hardly seem like the type to pay up, so we quickly scat.

There is a fair bit of sugar in the mint tea

It’s souqs time. I gather my thoughts, attempt a calm Zen like composure and dive in. The Labyrinth is full of butchers carving camels heads, men selling ‘Genuine’ Genie conjuring rubbing lamps, leather bound journals and jewellery. There are dried fruits, olives, spices and preserved lemons in one lane. In another I find men cooking shawarmas , drying fish,  and a Dentist for good measure. My plan is to get hopelessly lost and maybe arrive back in the square for a tajine about lunch time. It works, if a little to well. All roads may very well lead to Rome, but they seem to stop by the Djemaa el-Fna first.

Lunch is a Moroccan Salad (coriander, tomato and onion) for starters, a vegetable tajine for the main, followed by a pot of piping hot mint tea. This comes to about 3 dollars making me a very happy little backpacker. After lunch it’s a quick trip back to the Souqs so I can pick up a new pair of sunglasses. The shopkeeper is friendly, and he asks what I will take to give him my girlfriend. I relay the conditions to him, he says that’s ok – he has  a Mercedes, it’s the name of his camel. No deal.

Before I realise, it’s dusk. The Djemaa el-Fna is alive with snake charmers, acrobats and the smell of roasting lamb. The nightly food market is well underway and we navigate through the stalls, being pulled this way and that by touts offering up such tasty morsels as lambs brain and cow intestines, we settle on a small restaurant and order olives, Moroccan salad, tajine, and fried prawns. A monkey escapes his handler and runs for freedom, but is caught after about a minute. Another monkey aided in the escape by jumping on the face of the handler. Good teamwork.

Fried lambs brain, if you're keen.

Day three. 2:00pm.

The train to Fès has broken down many times today, but this is the final nail in the coffin. Everyone has jumped out onto the tracks and we walk for a few kilometres to the next station. We’re packed like sardines into the back of a Mercedes, 4 people each over 6ft tall sitting and sweating uncontrollably on each other. It sounds much saucier in print than it was in reality. You haven’t really lived until you’ve had your nose crammed into the armpit of a ginormous, sweaty Moroccan man.

A bonding experience

With Fès still a few hours away we settle on the nearby town of Meknès. Again we are unceremoniously dumped from the car – it seems to be a national sport – and we find a hotel for the night. Meknès is pretty and cosmopolitan in the Ville Novelle (new town), and there are no other tourists around. The reason for this is that it’s a fairly boring city with not much to occupy a traveller. Still, I’m happy to see something off the tourist trail. 

Day four. 8:00pm

The train breaks down a few more times today, but always seems to spring back to life just as everyone disembarks. We arrive a few hours late, but it’s better than not at all. Tangier is beautiful. It’s a vibrant city where everyone seems happy, teenage couples hold hands and overlook the Medina from the lookout in the Ville Novelle, and bars give tapas for free. Yep – free. All you need to do is buy a drink, and they bring you tajines, fish, chickpeas and salad. I vow not to buy dinner once in the next 3 days.

© MIlli Vukovic

I’m enjoying a beer and some tapas in the ‘America’s Pub’ – which is decked out like a London tube station. A local introduces himself to me, when I ask what he does he tells me he’s a ‘business man’. He doesn’t elaborate. He does mention later that his job takes him to Spain all the time, and that he can speak 5 languages fluently. I feel very embarrassed with my one and a half languages, but he’s happy to speak in Spanish with me so I can work towards getting that to 1 and ¾ languages.

My new friend seems to know everyone in this town, he’s constantly shaking hands with people, and he commands the attention of the bar staff by a mere click of his fingers. It’s almost as if they fear him. He tells me he’s good friends with the chef as he walks into the kitchen like he owns the place. On his way out the bar he tells me that the chef’s going to look after us. He wasn’t kidding, I’m presented with fish piled so high I can barely see over the plate. I think I’m in love with this town.

Day five. 2:00pm

Holy crap, next door to the hotel is a Spanish donut guy! He’s got a tiny hole-in-the-wall shop where he sells these tiny morsels of heaven in bags of ten for about 30 cents. I’m in love even more now.

I go for a walk in the Medina, the souqs are much different to those in Marrakech. For one all the roads are paved here, and the shops have security systems and fancy lighting. Also most things are priced in Euros and are about 3 times as expensive as they were in Marrakech. I guess it’s to do with the proximity to Spain.

Lunch is at Anna e Paolo’s Italian restaurant. Freshly made ravioli and a bottle of Moroccan red wine for about 10 dollars each. I don’t think I can love any harder than I am right now.

Day six. 5:00pm.

Pretty much a repeat of day five. Lunch with Anna e Paolo, a walk around the Medina and up along the coast. We go to the bar which was the inspiration for Rick’s café. It’s an amazing piano bar in the ritziest hotel in Tangier. A scotch on the rocks cost me about 14 dollars. So I tell him to ‘play it again’ and then steal the toilet paper to take back to our hotel room;  we’re running out. It’s the little things.

Day seven. 11:00pm

© MIlli Vukovic

I’ve tried the tapas at most bars in the Ville Novelle. I’ve eaten so many Spanish donuts that the guy selling them has asked me to move in with him. I’ve walked around the Medina so much that I’m now timing myself doing laps, trying to beat my personal best of 10 minutes 22 seconds. And finally I’m relaxing with a coffee in hand, MacBook in the other watching Tangier pass me by. Tangier is the most un-Moroccan city in the country, but I find that I could easily live here, like so many artists have done before. William Burroughs and some others from the Beat Generation used to have a room in the hotel I’m staying in and Oscar Wilde, Tennessee Williams and Winston Churchill have all at one stage stayed longer than planned. I can see myself living in the shoddier, run down part of town, just me and my laptop in a sea view room writing away about the artistic decadence of Tangier. But then I look at my bank account balance; While the tapas are free the drinks certainly are not, and I realise I need to move on to cheaper pastures – I can’t live on Spanish donuts for ever, despite what the guy working there keeps telling me.

Follow Shane on Twitter , read his guest posts at havepack.com or catch up on his travels here.