Sometime in the spring of 2008, I can’t exactly remember when, I found myself in Spanish port of Almería. I was standing on the ramparts of its Moorish castle and looking out at the harbour below. The ferry that was to take me across to Morocco sat motionless in its still waters. It, with me on it, was going to set sail later that evening. I had just hitched a ride from Granada that morning but my journey had started long before that. It had started in a state of deep depression.
After finishing university the previous summer, I had fallen into the bleak reality of life with no job and no prospects of getting one. The economic crisis of 2007 had hit and my lofty ideas of what I should do with my life were no match for these hard times. I was directionless. In desperation, I had forced an idea upon myself. I’d make my way down through France and Spain, where I’d board this overnight ferry to Melilla on the North African coast. From there, I’d make my way through Morocco. That was the entirety of my plan. Fate would be my guide, I reassured myself.