Morocco: Riding Camels, Rocking Casbahs

If Europe no longer strikes you as an exotic or warm enough continent you really only have two options: the first is to check yourself into a mental asylum, and the second is to visit Morocco. To be fair, Morocco has the tendency to feel like a mental asylum at times but my golly it's breathtaking. I should clarify that I am by no means sick of Europe, but seven exchange friends and I decided to swap continents just for the hell of it. To get the ball rolling, have the traditional "I'm in africa, look at the camels" photo...but seriously.. look!

Now, out of the desert for a second and into chronology. Coming from Spain we hopped off the ferry in Tangier and very quickly felt the full consequence of Ramadan. Because of the whole 'no eating, no drinking' schtick the streets were eerily abandoned in the midday heat. None of us were keen to hang around there so we fast-trained on to Fes which was hotter but cooler, if you know what I mean.

The gate to the Medina in Fes which was later inconveniently revealed to be one of many and thus a really terrible landmark to arrange to meet at when lost... Yes, I got lost. No, I don't want to dwell on it. Loyal friends and brilliant hostel staff managed to fish me out of the marketplace in one piece!

The Medina itself was incredible, a hopeless labyrinth of stallholders selling everything from carpets to iphone covers, camel hides to live chicken all within a semi-enclosed, dirt and terracotta network patrolled by donkey carts (the 'berber 4x4'). Below is the tannery section where animal skins are treated in ammonia, cut, cleaned and dyed.

Looking on was like watching a stinky, dysfunctional game of Connect Four. 

Inner Medina madness. The place erupted each evening as Ramadan broke.

Aside from the Medina, my favourite experience of Fes was the traditional women's Hamam baths that we visited. The girls of the group felt we deserved (and probably really needed) a thorough scrub down with Moroccan soaps and oils and so headed off with hopes set on indulgence. What we found instead was a local bathhouse that consisted of a giant raw plaster chamber with a tap of ice water on one wall, a well of boiling water on the other and a pack of semi-naked to naked Moroccan women in the middle. Nervous glances and whispers of "Oh my God, what have we gotten ourselves into?!" were definitely exchanged. Being the only western girls in the establishment we certainly attracted attention and one Moroccan Mamma who spotted us cowering in the corner trundled over with her buckets and cleaning clothes and without exchanging any words knelt us all down and started (vigorously) scrubbing us down and brushing our hair. It was about the same time that I copped one of her enormous boobs to my face that I had to acknowledge the hilarity of the situation. When in Rome- ey? 

On a dead serious note however, it was priceless to see the Muslim women, who were covered from head to toe in the street (if they were even permitted outside), hanging about in next to no clothing and just chatting to each other and braiding hair etc. I think all of us emerged feeling not only cleaner and better bonded through trauma, but also lucky to have seen a side of Moroccan culture rarely revealed to outsiders.

Speaking of experiences, I ticked a HUGE one off my bucket list: camel riding through the Saharan Erg Chebbie dunes in Merzouga. Weeeeee haaaa!

It was tricky to takes snaps a hold onto my wobbly camel all at once but, for you, I tried.

 My gal pals Imogen, Kate and Renee reenacting (a mildly less glamourous version of) Sex in the City II.

After riding into the dunes we settled down for a mouthwatering Tangine dinner and for the rest of the evening we hiked barefoot up the soft dunes and lazed about under the stars. Our guides were incredible (if practical jokers) and were prone to pushing you over the edges of dunes or dragging you by the feet so you would go skidding hundreds of meters down the shifting valleys. Between fits of laughter they called it 'berber skiing'.

We got an hour or so of sleep out in the berber camp - though with weather like ours nobody bothered with tents. It was balmy even at 4am and later during the day the temperature rose like Matthew Newton's temper and reached a blistering 55 degrees. I was having the time of my life but it DID hurt to breathe!

Here I am with my camel gear on, looking a little like something from National Geographic. I felt I really integrated into the Berber lifestyle. Me and my camel got on pretty well too. No spittle here.

Look at that pretty, pretty lady.

Our  Berber dessert family. They were so good to us- although they did forget to feed us one day. It was like an accidental Ramadan. A day in the desert heat without food or liquids really made us appreciate our next meals!

The drive out of the Sahara to Marrakech was another expedition in itself. The four of us plus our new English friend Jack were driven for eleven hours right across the country, through the Atlas Mountains and the Dadès Gorges. 

Kate taking advantage of one of many picturesque pitstops. Check that Oasis!

Then we changed scenes completely and joined a four day surf camp on the Atlantic coast by Taghazout.

Nikolai, Kate, myself, Daniel, Imogen, Solveig, Renee and Harry in a semi-awkward/semi-knarley family portrait shot.

 I'm proud to report that I stood up on the board several times but the discerning reader will note that I won't mention the size of the swell or how long I managed to stay on my feet for. Our stay by the coast WAS massively swell though. Our instructors even took us to Paradise Valley (the mother of all Oases) one afternoon and it totally lived up to it's name.

After we dried off the salt water and goodbye tears it was onto our final stop: the bustling Marrakech.

The somewhat suspicious entrance of our Marrakech hostel.

I think what I'll remember most about that city are the aggressive orange juice sellers and the kittens. Both of them were irritatingly vocal and crawling the city.

Kitten #365 of 1723.

Another common sight: a shrine to the King.

As per usual, time raced on by like a Moroccan taxi driver and soon enough we found ourselves facing our last night in Morocco. Fortunately some friends of friends helped us stumble across this traditional performance in an old Raid mansion and we had the full fanfare for our farewell.

It was a sandy and surreal ten days - and it meant saying goodbye to many of my friends from Amsterdam as only Renee and I continued on to Spain and Portugal - but it was a priceless (or at least very excellently bartered) adventure.