Chercos town was no bigger than a central square in a Moroccan city and there was one pay phone, no internet access in town hall because the mayer picked a fight with my buddy or vice versa, one small food store, no cafes, and a half hourīs walk into town during siesta. Siesta didnīt really exist between noon and 5 because there were so many damn flies and if they werenīt keeping me awake, it was the fact that I was lying on a cardboard box for a bed. We all thought we were going to work on a house already refurbished, just needing finishing touches. Instead, we hauled and laid cement on rubble floors. 180 year old house lacked everything and we made due with empty water jugs for seats, concrete dust on everything, and just our wits to entertain us. It was a grueling week of illegal labor we had hooked up from a hitchhiking connection with some English property developers. Yeah, I was working for the man of sorts, but I needed the cash. The people in the town were half receptive to us but also seemed a bit cold either because we were in fact illegal immigrant laborers or because well, no one ever seems to go to Chercos for anything otherwise. Whatever, it felt good to be put to work, call someone boss for a week, and remember what it feels like to be young. we decided our schedules, worked as hard as we could regardless of broken tools, fickle water pressure, malnutrition, and heatstroke. We just needed the cash to keep the journey going.

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