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?

But this is Morocco - where everything is ‘inshallah’ - God-willing.

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 prepare me for discussions about trekking across the Sahara Desert, unfortunately. The term ‘faire un circuit’ (doing a trek) was to come in very useful later in my trip though.

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 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. But this was where my room was. Sharon, my Kiwi room- and tent- mate for the next 2 weeks, was already installed, and gave me a much-appreciated friendly welcome.

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