Our trip to Morocco was a sadly truncated affair. Originally, I’d envisioned catching the ferry to Tangier from Spain and making our way across the country over the course of three weeks; instead, because we had to replace Rachel’s passport after it’s tragic theft and because I’d booked flights out of Marrakesh six months earlier in a fit of never to be repeated planning, we had only seven days to play with.
Note, as an aside, I’m currently reading Joseph Conrad’s Lord Jim which is providing me with an internal justification for my rambling sentences.
We arrived in Marrakesh at midnight and found our way to a hostel, a huge, rambling affair with more couches than beds and more colours than couches. The next day we headed out into the bustle of the city and continued our trend of being somehow scammed on our first day in each country. This time it was the old trick of being palmed off from accommodating local to accommodating local before suddenly we were having a tour of a leather tanning yard, to nauseating effect.
The main square. Not pictured: tanning yards
Bill and Red's Excellent Adventure 