This account of a jaundiced progress around north Africa is a bleak reminder of the perils that lie within the romantic plan of travelAs travellers go,I am an inexcusably snobby one. Not approximately places or cultures, but approximately the concept of travel itself: tourists are abominable. Wherever I go, and 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, or I spend most of my holidays feeling comparatively local. Which is,of course, complete rubbish. In my intellect, and 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, or all the while secretly knowing I will only ever skim the surface.
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Source: theguardian.com