Barcelona

Checking in amidst the madness that is Marrakesh airport, I got chatting to a Kiwi couple. Horrified that I planned to overnight at Barcelona airport between flights, they insisted that I came back to their appartment for the night.

It was late when we got to Barcelona, but they waited for me to get my luggage, organized a taxi big enough to add me to their group of four, and off we went to their place. They blew up a mattress and gave me directions to the bus stop for the early morning airport bus I'd need. The door was left unlocked so I wouldn't need to disturb them as I left.

I am moved by the generosity and trust these people showed me. Like a glimpse into an ideal world, it was immensely touching and somehow hope-affirming.

The kindness of strangers.

Marrakech

Back to a city of crazy traffic. Manic taxi-drivers, horse-drawn carriages full of tourists, donkey carts, mopeds, bicycles, trucks, the odd trishaw and huge tour buses all vie with each other for their piece of road, performing some startling manouevres and making road-crossing an adventure not for the faint-hearted. A fork-lift truck chugs sedately the wrong way round a traffic island.

The main square, D'jemaa el-Fna was packed with evening revellers. Drumming groups, dancers, singers and story-tellers busked their hearts out to the heaving crowds. People sold strange herbal remedies from mats on the ground, or sat on little stools selling off single cigarettes from their single packet. Approaching the lights on the far side it was hard to make out what we were heading towards, just a sense of thousands of shadowy people heading the same way as if to some pilgrimage site whose lights blinded you to your own surroundings. There was a row of orange-juice stalls, another row selling bowls of steaming snail soup. One stall offered sheep's head, which we resisted. Most of the stalls were quite large restaurant operations offering cheap, freshly-cooked staples such as salads, brochettes, tagines and soup. Smoke rose from their grills into the bright lights and a hundred smells wafted on the air. Most of the staff work at getting customers to come and sit down so the service was merrily haphazard, but the food was good and the atmosphere buzzing. People sat crammed at narrow tables rubbing backs with those at the next stall's tables. After dinner we headed for the spiced tea and cake stalls. The tea was delicious, zingily spicy and syrupy sweet, it would make a perfect winter warmer. It seems to contain half a dozen different spices, the predominat tastes being ginger then cinnamon.

In the daytime, the square looked quite different. The restaurant stalls unbelievably had completely gone, leaving the juices and a row of dried fruit and nut sellers who offered samples as we passed. There were no big crowds, just small groups wandering among the snake-charmers, hawkers, acrobats and story-tellers.

We took a morning walk through quietish back-streets, learning quickly to dodge out of the way of motorbikes which roared with alarming speed between pedestrians and donkeys on the narrow lanes. There was a mixture of tourist shops and local, practical shops and the pace was fairly gentle until we hit the main souk area. Along the way Katrina decided that what she needed in her life and luggage was a large brass door knocker. I have to say, it's pretty gorgeous.

In the afternoon we headed out to the Jardin Marjorelle – a lush tropical oasis of a garden designed by the French artist who used to live in the small deep-blue villa withing the garden. The place was amazing – beds of enormous cacti, heaps of bougainvillea cascading from trellises and gazebos, pools and fountains, bamboo, exotic grasses, trees and flowering creepers. All the paths were lined with plants in huge clay pots painted a vibrant yellow, blue or green. Unfortunately the garden was overcrowded, so lacked some of the calm we'd hoped for. Still it was good to breathe in the moist greenness after three weeks of dry, dusty air.

Friday was a morning of farewells as members of the group began to leave. It was sad to say goodbye, especially to Katrina and Esther, but I enjoyed a day on my own wandering around the kasbah and mellah. The area was full of would-be guides and salesmen, along with a number of genuinely selfless advice and direction givers – unfortunately it's not always easy to tell one from the other at first. One man gave me a leaflet for a spice shop and told me to visit the tombs first before they closed for lunch. I gave a very non-committal 'maybe' to visiting his shop later. I sat outside the tombs for a minute to read about them to see if I even wanted to visit and spice man reappeared to ask why I wasn't going in. Later as I left that area he chased after me with a barrage of complaint about tourists who lie and don't go to his shop and steal his papers. He then demanded his flyer back and left with it, still muttering abuse.

I visited the Palais el Badi, a huge place comprising one large courtyard, a summer residence and a series of tunnels leading to underground rooms and dungeons. It was buit around 1600 and although it has been plundered of its finery it is easy to imagine what a palace it must have been. The main courtyard includes a 90m pool (now empty), two smaller pools and a number of sunken orange groves, ponds and fountains. An area of ruined buildings gave a good view of underfloor water channels and an idea of the layout of in living quarters. From a roof terrace in one corner there was a fine view of its mud-plastered walls against a backdrop of snowy mountain-tops. A small side room housed the restored minbar from the kasbah mosque – a free-standing wooden structure from which the immam preached. Overall, it is a tall wedge shape light a steep narrow staircase. Eight deep steps lead up to the seat at the top, the sides intricately decorated with marquetry in islamic designs.

In the afternoon I shopped in the ville nouvelle for a picnic dinner, but amazingly failed to find bread. I walked back to a fairly smart cafe I'd seen, where I explained what I wanted and was presented with a neatly halved and wrapped baguette, free of charge. Just when you've been hassled and sleazily chatted up once too often, someone reminds you how good and kind people can be. So back in the hotel I enjoyed bread and cheese, olives and fruit, washed down with a beer – something of a rare treat and very hard to track down in Morocco.

On Saturday I wound my way through the maze of souks to find the the merdesa, an old islamic school. It is a marvellous, calm and beautiful place. A cool shallow pool nearly filled the courtyard and every wall was finely decorated with carved stone. Gorgeous dark wooden ceilings meant wandering around the interior with my neck craned, or the camera lying on the floor flat on its back. On two sides of the courtyard were the students' rooms, apparently a hundred and thirty-two of them. They were basic cells in a variety of compact sizes and I'm assuming that the power point in each one means that they were used until fairly recently. Rooms either overlooked the central area or their own small well-like courtyard, only a couple of metres across. The ablutions block housed a washing pool and what looked like original cubicles around this had been refurbished with modern toilets behind their rather attactive old wooden doors.

Nearby is the museum of Marrakech. While the collection wasn't anything unexpected the museum building was. It's a restored palace and quite magnificent. The central courtyard has been covered by a transparent roof that allows light to flood into the tiled and ornately decorated area. The ceilings and stucco are grander and more intricate than I could have imagined and an unbelievably enormous chandelier hangs over half the space. Rooms leading off the courtyard are framed in carved wood, with elaborately decorated alcoves where sofas sit, almost throne-like. The whole place was both mind-boggling and relaxing and I enjoyed sitting back and imagining living like a king.There's an original hammam, although the only signs of its purpose are the drainage channels around the sides of the rooms. Rounding the corner, I bumped into John and Ayesha so we navigated our way back (much easier) together.

Some Marrakech moments:

Gridlock in the souk, and just when the pedestrians have come to a standstill, two men on bicycles come round the corner in the middle of an animated argument.

A tanner tried to persuade me to visit his tannery. I said maybe, after the museum. He pointed at a random door in the wall nearby and told me, “See, the museum is closed,” - and I was supposed to believe that?

Hundreds of bees in patisserie windows.

The koutoubia minaret, a beautiful beacon by night.

Three men sitting sitting singing on a wall serenaded me as I walked past.

A restaurant with camel tagine on the menu.

Mints called Mental

For sale: small plastic train circuits, Bush in a big tank chasing Bin Laden on a a little pallet round and round the track.

A last night out - fantastic tagines - with John and Ayesha. I know they'll be expecting humorous anecdotes in this blog, and yes, they deserve them, but how can I sum up the witty comments, Ayesha's funny faces, sheep noises, the jokes and warmth of these people? So as with the others who've made this trip such fun, I'll just have to wish them a fond farewell and leave it at that.

Today is cool and cloudy and I'm filling time until my flight. Besallama, Morocco.


19 april

Essaouira

What a lovely town. Old city walls, wave-lashed ramparts, a fishing port and a medina packed with souks and a wide square and streets of tempting shops, cafes and restaurants. Again, the shop-keepers and stall-holders are laid back, not nagging you to buy, making browsing and shopping a relaxing experience. Essaouira also feels very mediterranean and although it is running with tourists, there's a lovely atmosphere.

In a spice shop I stocked up on various delicious mixtures while the shop-keeper gave me cooking advice. These mixes were heavenly, almost sweet, making you want to go back again and again for another inhalation. I wandered all day with Esther and Katrina, enjoying the atmosphere, a bit of shopping – the textiles are sumptous beyond belief – and a few refreshment stops. We were invited for tagines, family visits and of course repeat business by a range of exuberant characters. One hugely enternaining man couldn't quite believe that we didn't all need jellabas to wear when riding our camels back home in Australia. Another man came down from a ladder to give me a present: a nail. Hope this is not symbollic. But as he mimed using it to clean out his ears, probably not.

We even found something we've been looking out for – sticky sweets. Little Moroccan pastries and sweets, stickily packed with honey and nuts and who knows what else. The best were little pastry balls, the size of a large marble, filled with moist figs. Delicious.

Esther, Katrina and I started the next morning with a visit to a hammam, a traditional bathing house. After a bit of fluffing about unsure of the routine and etiquette we entered the main room. Low arched ceilings and dim lighting gave the place a crypt-like feel, but what with the warm steaminess, mosaic-tiled walls and floor, it was immediately relaxing. I sloshed hot water over myself, while two generously proportioned women wearing nothing but huge, soaking wet underpants began to wash Katrina and Esther, who had opted for the full service wash. I gently steamed, failing to surpress giggles as they were then scrubbed energetically with scouring mitts which made no allowances for nipples or any other body parts. Then they were smothered in liquid mud and left on the floor while I was given my massage. This was very gentle but not unpleasant, the argane oil seeping into my skin easily as I tried to avoid being slapped in the face by low-flying breasts. Getting up was a slippery comedy act, atop the wet, oily floor. The others also had a massage and we spent the day glowing and squeaky-clean and most of all delighted to have sampled this most traditional bathing ritual – even if I'd been too chicken to have multiple layers of perfectly good skin forcibly removed from my inner thighs.

We walked on the ramparts the sea on one side, the town on the other, shopped some more and had a point-and-grill lunch of fresh sardines, baby squid and calamari at one of the many stalls on the sqaure by the fishing port. Followed by the most chocolately chocolate ice-cream at a small cafe. Essaouira really is a wonderful chill-out town and it would be easy to potter here for a few lazy days.

Mid-afternoon we took a bus to Marrakech, playing chicken with the oncoming traffic, deranged bus-baiting old men and a donkey with a death-wish.

Trip statistics

Tagines: 13
Couscous: 5
Olives: 712
Mint teas: 61
Freshly squeezed orange juices: 18
Perilous corners on mountain passes: at least 1093
Places I'd like to revisit and spend more time at: 4
Marriage proposals: 1
Proposals possibly accepted due to poor French: 1

Some of these may be approximations and no responsibility can be taken for accuracy, or lack thereof.

Imlil to Essaouira

Who could but look forward to driving the Tizi n'Test road, described by the Lonely Planet as “one of the most spectacular and perilous passes in the country”? It lived up to expectations in both respects. The views were jaw-dropping and often stomach-dropping, the road often hair-raising and generally body-part affecting. This route took us once more over the high atlas to Taroudannt.

In Taroudannt we spent an afternoon exploring the numerous souks, where traders were friendly and easy-going. There were numerous shoe-shops selling camel-leather sandals, sometimes decorated with bits of carpet or generous helpings of goat. We sampled and bargained for soaps, solid perfumes, deoderant rocks and hammam mitts, chatting and joking with these good-natured vendors who were generous with their informative banter. A slightly odd man waved huge ladlefulls of spices under my nose while my companions bargained over jewellery next door. One young man tried to persuade us into his stall for a look with the promise that a look was free. He kept repeating “it's free!” so I pointed to the old bike leaning outside and asked if it was free too – he caming running after me with it shouting yes, it's free, free bike for you, amid much laughter. In the evening we sat on the hotel's roof terrace eating a feast of market fruit and bread. As the stars came out I looked up and saw the perfect half moon directly overhead, surrounded by an enormous ring of a halo that hovered a third of the way between the moon and the horizon. We lay on our backs and enjoyed.

On our way out of Taroudannt in the morning we stopped at a tannery, where we wandered among the tubs where the leather is treated as a guide explained the process. We were given sprigs of fresh thyme to sniff on to protect us from the all too pungent smells, which apparently are mostly due to the ammonia in the 'pijine peu' used for one stage of the tanning.

From here we drove to Agadir, stopping twice on the way to watch the most amazing spectacle – tree-climbing goats. It makes sense, there being so little grazing on this stark, parched soil, that goats would want to nibble the occasional leaf of an argane tree. But there is something pretty amazing about seeing half a dozen goats bouncing around in the furthermost twigs of a small tree. And let's face it, something inescapably funny. They were lovely, incredible, and had to be seen to be believed.

Agadir is a very mediterranean feeling beach resort with a long strip of cafes facing the beach. We spent a somewhat inexplicable three hours here, time that it was a struggle to fill even with lunch, a walk, a paddle, ice-cream and a browse in a post-card shop. The Atlantic was cool and calm and alluring, but our swimmers were out of reach. Especially mine, as they're in Scotland.

Past more goats, the coast road took us to Essaouira.

Breakfast at Ait Benhaddou

So I'd loaded up with bread and honey and then the pancakes appeared. In the time it took me to eat my pancake, the teapot had been refilled with plain hot water, making my second cup a bit of a disappointment. But these were minor irritations compared to the marmalade debacle. We'd been discussing apricot jam and it's eternal ability to disappoint, when I was forcibly informed by our inexhausible oracle of dubious accuracy that the vat of orangey gloop was in fact marmalade. I ladled a piggish amount onto my plate, then slopped it onto my bread. Extra, greedy bread taken just for the joy of marmalade. It was apricot jam. Still I was corrected, no it was marmalade. It was such good apricot jam (if you like that sort of thing) that the apricot flavour was quite overwhelming. This stuff had never clapped eyes on an orange. Luckily, the day had better moments.

The kasbah was magnificent, leading up the hillside to one small ruined building perched at the top. Parts have been restored, other parts are crumbling and being patched up like everywhere else. At each upward turn it was possible to look down at the rooftops below and the valley stretching away into the distance.

From Ait Benhaddou we took a minibus up into and over the mountains, passing first what looked like Scottish hills, sheep country, grassy and vegetated against a stark rocky outcrop. Then we climbed steeply, crossing three main passes. The first was the highest, at 2260 metres. The road hairpinned upwards for hours and at the highest point Dizi Tichka, I leapt out to take a quick photo and clear my nauseous head. I nearly took off. The wind was crazy, exhilarating, energizing. I ran into the wind making so little progress for my efforts, and it was good. I couldn't help but laugh, the sound forced back into my mouth where it echoed with life. So good.

Then down again, then up again, the narrow road clinging to the mountainsides for dear life. Cyclists fought their way up, past tiny souvenir stalls perched on the most improbable corners. To the side we looked down on valleys which pulled me in, making me long to flow down into the beautiful, bleak unknown.

Lavender grew on the hillsides, and thyme. Boys held out small bunches for anyone with good enough brakes to buy. The scenery opened up, folding and unfolding like an origami toy, constantly changing, enchanting, yet always on the same theme. The houses are darker here, using the local mud and stone. I love the way the local materials mean that buildings blend naturally into their surroundings – here they are dark and rocky and I think more solid – but maybe I'm just seeing what I want to see.

We left the main road after the mountains and followed it to its end here in Imlil. It's an appealing little village, packed with trekkers and guides and mules, as this is the trailhead for many of the best treks in the High Atlas, including Morocco's highest peak, Toubkal. Four of us have arranged a day-hike for tomorrow, though I should call it a tramp as I'm outnumbered by antipodeans. It's cold here and the mountains are hiding their peaks in the clouds. I like this place.

Dades Gorge

Another breathtaking drive to a sand-swept auberge. This was not so much a gorge as a river valley, sided by some fascinating outcrops. The local name for the area is 'monkey's fingers' because of the strange formations. I could see why, but more than that the rock looked like elephant skin on a mountainous scale, or dinosaur bones, while the boulders lay around like heaps of enormous potatoes. The rock must have been sand-blasted over the millenia to make the shapes so rounded, with occasional phallic protrusions and eyeholes. In fact the whole area would be a geoligist's dream as the rocks changed so rapidly from here to there.

We left most of our luggage at the auberge and set off up the valley then over the hills to a Berber homestead where we spent the night. The scenery changed along the route but was always interesting, always beautiful. The walking was slow, with lots of waiting, but eventually we reached the house where our hosts greeted us with the warmest of welcomes. Our home for the night was a room that just fitted nine prone bodies, in a house with a number of small rooms all on one level. Across the valley, homes appeared to have been dug into the hillside, their small doorways looking like cave mouths. It was a pleasant afternoon and evening, but I found myself beginning to suffer from group claustrophobia and retreated into myself and out to the hillside.

In the morning I walked back with Lassen, our gorgeous young host, who set a proper walking pace. We soon left the rest of the group behind and as Lassen spoke only a couple of words of French and no English, we walked along in a companionable silence and it felt as good as having the hills to myself. So much space and so much silence, only broken by a herd of goats. It was heavenly to be alone. My head cleared and I felt energized by the walking and solitude and my huge surroundings.

The return journey took only an hour and a half (it had been over three hours with the group) so on my return to the auberge I had plenty of time to myself, most of which I gladly shared with Moulay who spoke both English and French, as we glugged down glass after glass of mint tea, discussing trekking and Moroccan life. This would be such a fabulous area for some proper trekking – it would be tempting to return.

In the afternoon we took a bus to Ouazarzate – the buses here are surprisingly spacious, well-mentained, comfortable and punctual. The highlight of the journey was when at one stop the driver got off for his tea. A man got on board with a stereo playing what sounded like a sermon in Arabic, followed by singing from the Qu'ran. He joined in with the singing as he wandered up and down the bus trying to sell cds and tapes. Meanwhile, he was joined by a beggar and an old man selling packets of dried flowers. Once the cd sales were over (actually, I don't think there were any) the same man produced herbal eyedrops which he raved about for a while before returning them to his bag and trying his luck with some scented balls. They smelt pretty good but I wasn't sure what they were for until the man in the seat in front of me tucked one into his turban.

In Ouzerate we visited a traditional pharmacy. It was a bit touristy, but well worth the visit. A dashing African Moroccan pharmacist gave us a talk and demonstration which included sniffing and sampling herbal teas, spices, natural remedies, perfumes, lotions and oils. We smothered our hike-sweaty bodies with lush creams and of course ended up investing in some rather pricey goodies. His talk was really interesting – very informative and entertaining – but unfortunately there wasn't time to take up the massage on offer, and anyway I'd have had to fight Ester for it if our pharmacist was the masseur.

Todra Gorge

Todra gorge is, well, gorgeous. Our auberge was at a split in the gorge, the rock faces looming above us, too huge and close to photograph properly. Still, the views from the roof terrace were stunning. An icy-looking stream ran through the gorge, irrigating small river-side plots of well-tended land.

We hired a guide for a trek, which led us up the side of the gorge and over the plateau. At every turn the view took my breath away. The sun shone strongly but a brisk breeze kept us cool. We stopped at a Berber home for mint tea and were looked after by a fifteen year-old girl and her four-year-old brother, the rest of the family being out tending their goats. This was a permanent home for these semi-nomadic people. Every day they carry water up from the river in the gorge. The little boy ran off to bring us a baby goat and presented it to Pam who had been fairly vocal in her longing for one. She squealed with alarm and the kid ran away, whereupon Gerard picked it up to take it back to where the other kids grazed. The little boy chased after him, tugging at his clothes and demanding the goat – obviously well trained in goat-herding and determined to defend his family's stock from marauding tourists.

The walk continued over the high, barren rocks, then looped around as we began our descent to the main village. Here and there we saw Berber men on the hillside, often with donkeys carrying their goods or water up or down. A camel grazed somewhat incongruously on next to nothing. We came back into the village through the old kasbah, maybe two or three hundred years old. Here, at last, I could see up close the building – the use of clay packed or bricked around wooden frames, crumbling in places, recently mended in places. It was a tiny but still a maze, tunnels in between homes, tiny doorways set into the packed clay. But there was electrical wiring and even the odd satellite dish. A short riverside stroll from here took us back to the auberge.

In the evening, Katrina and I went to dinner with Ali, who by now we had met a couple of times. It turned out that he lived in the old kasbah, so we had an even better opportunity to examine the architecture. From his roof-terrace we had a wonderful view, the evening light was perfect on the clay buildings and rock-faces beyond. Of course, I didn't have a camera with me. Inside, the house was plain, furnished only with carpets and a small table that was brought in when we were ready to eat. The ceilings were a higgledy-piggledy collection of logs and branches supporting the clay of the next floor – four storeys in all including the roof terrace – although the floors had been surfaced with something over the clay.

Ali taught us how to make mint tea, all the ceremony of the step-by-step preparation. Later, we made tagine and as it cooked we looked at the carpets made by his little cottage industry. There was no pressure to buy, but it was great to see the different fabrics – including cactus silk – and the variety of designs. He explained the significance of various motifs and the natural dyes used to colour the wools. I loved the shaggy on one side, flat but beautifully patterned on the other side Berber rug that I sat on, but buying one was too impractical to contemplate so I didn't even ask a price. The evening went well, although we weren't surprised that he lacked enthusiasm for our leaving. The young boy and woman had also left and a friend appeared, which didn't seem to bode well. However, the friend went off to a Berber disco, leaving us with an increasingly disgruntled Ali. He walked us back to the auberge and the stars were amazing. I walked along oohing and ahing until I walked smack into someone, who rather politely simply wished me 'Bon soir.'

Into the Sahara

I've been on camels before so I know there was no need for an hour-long ride to be so painful. I think Gary had a particularly vindictive hump, which would make sense seeing as how he had a fairly nasty disposition. I love camels – their look of serene superiority and big stable feet. But Gary? He had a nasty snarl. He growled. He jerked about and tried to overtake the camel to whose back end his rope was tied. And he'd obviously skipped out on his orthodontic appointment. I'd forgive him all of these things though, if he'd had a more forgiving hump.

Our camp was a delight. Big, sort of traditional tents arranged around a huge central carpet
surrounded by mattresses where we sat, chatted, ate and drank mint tea. After dinner, Mohammed, our camel man, lit a frugal fire and a few of us sat and listened to him drumming. The ceramic, skin-topped drums made a wonderful sound and soon he and Omar were singing in Arabic. Mohammed's hands were a blur in the dim fireliight. I went to bed, outside the tent, listening to the beautiful sounds of the drumming and singing as the sky finally opened up and stars began to show themselves.

Fes to Merzouga

A beautiful journey, South from Fes, over the Middle Atlas range, down again then over the High Atlas, through dust storms, rain and more dust storms to Merzouga on the edge of the Sahara not far from the Algerian border. As we went, there was so much to see, so here, in note form, are some of the sights that caught my eye or captivated me for a passing moment.

In the lowlands, green fields, dotted with wild flowers, poppies, something minute and purple, yellow blooms between vegetables. Apple trees in blossom, fields of grain.

Climbing higher, the landscape got drier and drier bit by bit, but still there were well irrigated areas where crops grew, water channels clearly visible.

Rocks, rocks and more rocks, some gravelly bits in between. Donkeys carrying loads or grazing by the roadside. Women doing their washing in streams, a herd of silky, shiny-coated black goats perched on a rocky outcrop. Suddenly a hillside of extraordinary trees, like brocolli. Irregular, but each one just like a thick-stemmed head of brocolli.

The High Atlas mountains appearing ghost-like through the haze. Snowy ridges and gullies against a hazy grey background, they looked as if they had been chalked onto the sky.

Looking down on folds of buff-coloured hills, freckled with tufts of scrubby grasses, like a crumpled blanket. The road snaked over the mountain passes.

Gnarly trees with trunks like dried rope. A wind of dust. A coca-cola stall that consisted of three bottles perched on a rock.

A high point of 1900 metres.

Like Rannoch Moor, bleached pale by sun and sucked dry, a huge and barren expanse of hill and valley, occasionally a small house in the middle of nowhere.

Tiny villages of semi-crumbling sand-coloured buildings, new houses under construction, a meagre looking population of a handful of people. Tents beside houses.

Dry river beds winding through valleys. Pylons bringing electricity to the remotest of places.

Suddenly, strips of vibrant greenery beside streams.

Clouds closing in, then rain twanging harsh and metallic onto the minibus, dark rivulets of water running down the glass, then it was over as quickly as it had begun.

Wind and dust, a dust-storm, sand whipped up here and there in thick wafts, but always everywhere. Dust in my eyes, ears, nose, throat.

A lake, seen through the dust, whitish blue as if mineral rich.

Hills of rocks like rolling waves, on the point of breaking, lined with extravagant strata at crazy angles.

Houses built of mud. Mud blocks or bricks, cemented with mud, plastered with mud. Some simple, some remarkably fancy. Many beginning to crumble. Remnants of houses and walls that have been washed away by the rain. Corners and edges rounded by rain, holes where collected water has broken through. They looked like sandcastles as the tide comes in, that same smooth washed-awayness.

Ten hours later, after an even dustier off-road section, we changed our minibus for camels and set off into the desert.

Fes

We hired a local guide to explore Fes – a good decision with only one day to see so much. He was superb, providing an interesting commentary in excellent English while leading us through back streets we would never have found – or found our way out of.

The palace gates were awesome, beautifully decorated in brass and surrounded by intricate mosaics. Of course, we couldn't go inside, but the walls, gates and boulevard leading to the gates were impressive. The palace is at the meeting of the old town and the new colonial town. From here we drove through the Jewish quarter, where the architecture was markedly different from anything else I've seen in Morocco. Most noticeable were the inset wooden balconies and wooden awnings; the balconies were a place where Jewish women could step out and be seen but only from a distance. The Jewish population of Fes no longer lives here but stereotypically, the area still boasts many gold shops which were originally Jewish owned. Our guide took great pride in telling us that in Morocco there has never been any conflict between Muslims and the Jews, who originally came here when forced by Christians to flee Europe, pushed South through Spain in the 14th century. The Jewish quarter is known as the mellah, meaning salt, derived from the Jews' use of salt for preserving meat.

We visited a ceramics co-operative where we watched every stage of production and learned about the use of pigments such as indigo, which turns from lavender to dark blue on firing. Some of the work here was gorgeous but I let logic rule so my backpack isn't now full of heavy and fragile pottery.

After viewing the city from a high vantage point we decended and entered the medina. The place is huge and in its 17 square kilometre area contains some nine and a half thousand streets. It's a maze. The streets are too narrow for cars and are therefore thronging with pedestrians, handcarts and donkeys, some of which bear loads almost the width of the streets. The walls are crumbling stone and plaster – none of that pretty white or blue here – and in many places buildings have been joined at first floor level so that streets begin to feel like tunnels. We entered through a residential area where the ground floors of most buildings housed tiny hole-in-the-wall workshops where people sewed, sawed, chipped tiles for mosaics or beat metal into ornate trays and plates.

From here we came to more of a shopping area, where some streets sold shoes and clothes, others homewares or fresh food. In a market street, fishmongers used big scissors to top and tail small fish, plates of dates and figs and apricots were stacked up and offered for free tasting. And the olives! A dozen different kinds at any one stall. Certain areas definitely kept to a theme, and in one area there were many thread, fabric and embroidery shops and here there were coloured threads, ten or twenty metres long, stretched up and down the streets, being twisted ready for embroidery. And everywhere children nipped round to bakeries with trays of home-made bread, old men pushed carts of oranges between the shoppers.

We visited a tannery, where bags and slippers and jackets of the most exquitely soft leather hung for sale in a warren of rooms up tiny flights of stairs, the whole place thick with a slightly fusty leather smell. From a floor or two up we looked down on the tanning area, where skins were bathed first in a mixture of salt, lime and pigeon droppings, then into tubs of colour where men trod the skins, stretched and trimmed them. The tubs were like a liquid filled mosaic of irregular roundish pools and looking down on this colourful, industrious scene was like a look into another world.
In a fabric workshop we saw weavers at work, creating great lengths of cotton, silk and wool in vibrant colours and muted tones. I resisted enormous throws in glorious colours, spectacular and softly inviting, but gave in when it came to the scarves. Once the salesman had wrapped me in light white cotton with a silver thread till I looked like Lawrence of Arabia, I could resist no more and chose a similar scarf in a different colour. So I've just been practising the art of turbanning that he kindly repeated for me step by step, so that I can look the part on my camel tomorrow. And hopefully keep the sun off my neck and the sand out of my nose – hey, it's not just about looking good.

Meknes

Five hours on the bus took us to Meknes. The journey was quite pleasant, although the conversation of my neighbours stretched the limit of my French and at times my patience as I longed to get back to my audiobook and the lovely views on offer. Still I am amazed at how much French I have managed to dredge up from the depths of my memory – a good thing, considering the hopelessness of my attempts to learn Arabic.

In Meknes, the city walls and many buildings are a warm pinky brown. We visited the granaries and stables of Moulay Ismail, built in the seventeenth century for the stabling of 12,000 horses. Not surprisingly, the complex was massive. In the granaries the air was cold. The walls, even those separating different chambers, were four metres thick. It had been built with underfloor water channels for cooling and apparently some bamboo in the roof as primitive air-conditioning. There was little to see inside, but the sense of space was incredible.

From here we walked beside the city walls, past the palace to Bab el-Mansour, a huge and ornate gate in the walls. Revived by yet more freshly-squeezed orange juice at a cafe in the square, we set off for the ruined Roman city of Volubilis. Along the way we passed through many olive groves where small flocks of sheep grazed on lean pickings, watched over by old men or young boys. The earth is dull and deeply dry and you can smell the dry reddish soil in the air. The sun is fierce, the dry air leaves you feeling parched and the taste of dust hangs in the back of your throat.

The site was enormous and has been only partially restored so it is possible to wander the streets and lanes exploring and conjecturing. There were bakeries, temples, baths and olive presses along with the grander edifices of the forum, colossus and triumphal arch. Best of all were the many mosaics still lying it situ, simply roped off. It was easy to see the details of images of Hercules and his labours along with many geometric designs, fish, birds and other human or mythical figures. Sitting still for a few moments, it was good to imagine the city a couple of thousand years ago, to try to visualise the bustle in the narrow side streets, the calm of the private courtyards within houses where people would have rested by their pools or fountains.

Chefchaouen

The bus journey to Chefchaouen was interesting at at times alarming. Well below the road up into the Rif mountains lay the remains of another bus which must have rolled many times. The countryside is surprisingly green and lush below the rocky barren mountains. The first sight of Chefchaoen was enchanting – a mass of white buildings huddled on the hillside.

This town is picture-postcard pretty. Our hotel is in the heart of the medina and from its roof terrace we have gorgeous views both down onto the town and up to the mountains. Its obviously a tourist mecca but not unpleasantly so. Walking around you constantly receive friendly greetings and if you decline an invitation to shop, shopkeepers simply smile and say goodbye, without even trying the hard sell. People offer directions when you're lost – although the medina is small enough that eventually you find yourself back at some place that you recognize.

Everything is blue. Front doors, at least the bottom half of walls and even the surface of some alleyways. Rounding each new corner, I reach for my camera. It's cutesy pretty. And so blue, so blue. Bright fabrics, clothes, leather slippers and a thousand tourist knick-knacks hang outside shops. Powder paint, or possibly dyes, are heaped in sacks, while other stalls boast huge baskets of herbs, beans, chillies and chickpeas. Boys deliver home-made bread to bakeries for baking as people don't have ovens at home. Through open doorways you can see carpenters or weavers at work in their dark front rooms. Old men in ankle length, pointy-hooded robes make their slow way between tourists, children careering down steep cobbles on bikes or scooters and the hundreds of people simply going about their business.

Yesterday, three of us walked out of the medina, across the river where dozens of women hand washed their families' clothes before laying them to dry on the grass. From here we followed a path up the hillside to the remains of a ruined mosque. The views of the town from here were wonderful and we sat in the hot dry sun, enjoying the peace. We climbed the tower of the mosque and looked down on the cemetery a little further down the hill. We returned to the town on the path through the cemetery, where even the graves were painted white and blue, before settling down for more refreshing fresh juices, mint tea and salads.

This place is so calm and friendly and relaxing, it would be easy to stay longer.

Tangier

A five hour train journey took us from Rabat to Tangier. I settled down to listen to my Arabic lessons on MP3 and Katrina got her phrasebook out. This aroused the interest of some of our Moroccan travelling companions, so soon we were involved in live lessons which seemed to amuse everyone in the compartment. Ester quietly stayed out of it most of the time, though I'm sure that, being Dutch, she would have no trouble with all these throaty h's, ch's and r's. One man put huge effort into making these sounds for us, showing where he put his tongue, before collapsing into laughter at each of our attempts.

It's been fun to try a bit of Arabic though, and it certainly causes much merriment whenever I do. The rest of the time I have been trying to resuscitate my nearly expired French. I was quite surprised how many words came to the surface, sometimes even accompanied by a smidgen of grammar, but often after just a few words I get the response, “you're English, aren't you?” which stops me getting too full of myself. However, I find myself shamelessly unembarrassed – old age has made me less shy about flaunting my shabby languages. So what do I find here in Tangier? The language of choice is Spanish. Luckily, Ester speaks that very well.

Tangier was billed as a sleazy port town populated by hustlers, petty thieves and prostitutes. The reality was much more pleasant, the level of hassle nothing but the invitation to buy things I didn't want. The medina was wonderful – beautiful colonial buildings, winding streets (I've a feeling there are going to be lots of these) of cafes, homes and shops, which seemed to bear no relation to the map.

We were on our way to the kasbah when we were befriended by someone who assured us that he wasn't a guide. He proved to be quite useful, so why he had to lie about his role beats me, but there you go. He earned his tip but predictably asked for more. According to him, nearly every house in the kasbah was owned by one movie star or another; I tuned out as he reeled them off at each front door. No doubt a couple were true, but I was just waiting to see the house where Elvis still lived. It was all harmless fun and it certainly saved us from being lost in the maze of nearly deserted alleyways. From the kasbah it was easy to find a route back through the medina by following the tourist shops. If an alley turned out to offer only bucket and mops shops or whatever then we simply turned round and followed the shiny slippers and carved camels till we found ourselves back on familiar ground. At a large open air cafe we sat back and drank mint tea – a delicious blend of green tea and masses of fresh mint – and watched the world go by.