Day 1: London to Marrakech

Djemma el Fna from Hotel Ali rooftop.
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‘Ladies & gentlemen, we will shortly be commencing our final approach into Marrakech airport, where we hope to be landing.’

Hope?

This is Morocco - where everything is ‘inshallah’ - God-willing

But this is Morocco - where everything is ‘inshallah’ - God-willing.  And as we lurched around the skies above Morocco, in the middle of a storm, and holding the plane up by the armrests (like it makes a difference....), there was a lot of god willing going on.

Land we did, and after witnessing the minor miracle of my bag being the first on the conveyor belt in Baggage Reclaim, I was in a taxi and speeding through the damp Marrakech suburbs, attempting to converse with my French-speaking taxi driver. My rusty A-Level French didn’t really prepare me for discussions about trekking across the Sahara Desert.  I can ask the way to the beach, but that's not really the same thing...

Cyclists went the other way, with umbrellas fixed to their handlebars to keep them dry. Now why don’t we do that at home?

My taxi deposited me at an unpromising barrier, and my driver indicated that I had to walk the last bit to my hotel. Shouldering a very heavy pack, I teetered through the crowds of djellaba-clad locals, and camera-clad tourists, to the Hotel Ali. Where, after nearly being run down by a scooter being ridden out of the hotel, I had a prolonged and difficult conversation with the receptionist, to convince her that she was expecting me and that she needed to tell me which room I was in.

4 flights of dark stairs later, with my pack becoming increasingly heavier, I seemed to be on the roof. In fact, I was on the roof. But this was where my room was, although it did have walls and a roof of its own. Sharon, my Kiwi room- and tent- mate for the next 2 weeks, was already installed, friendly, and appeared sane.  Good.  I wasn't sharing with an axe-murderer for the next 2 weeks then.

Tired and slightly culture-shocked, I decided Marrakech could wait, and fell into bed.