“And something for Mohammed?”

Where do I start??? Let's start at the beginning. Sophie and I, queens of admin and veterans of international crossings, march purposefully up to the border, clutching all relevant bits of paper. Entering Morocco is notoriously chaotic, but we are well prepared for once and determined not to require “assistance”.

One booth clearly says “Police” and another “Vehicules” - how hard can it be? It soon becomes clear, however, that “assistance” is not entirely optional. Mohammed firmly plonks us into the appropriate queue with strict instructions not to move until he returns. 

Suitably attired in full Berber robe, Mohammed is equally determined to “assist”. It's just easier to demur. His sidekick, also called Mohammed and dressed in a rather fetching turquoise ensemble, skips about from one booth to another, trying to make it look very complicated, when it patently isn't. Just slow. Very slow.

One hour later and five euros lighter, we're almost there. Customs Man cheerfully informs us: “Beer! Wine! No problem!” They really don't care - I guess the more you bring, the longer you might stay. “Pistols?” No. Just one more piece of paper to hand over ... “and something for Mohammed?”

Flipping heck, another two euros seems to do the trick and we're in – welcome to Morocco.

First impressions

The blues are bluer, the greens are greener, the sky is bigger. Africa is in technicolour and Morocco is an assault on all the senses. We can't quite believe we're here.

At Asilah on the north west coast, the medina is everything you expect: white washed alleyways, tiled walls, bright doorways, tiny shops selling carpets, glassware, jewellery, shoes, fossils... and the colours! We're hooked.

At the guarded parking, our host requests a beer to “keep him warm” through the night. Ah, maybe that's why you can bring in unlimited alcohol – it's hard currency in this “teetotal” country.

Immaculately dressed policemen are everywhere. Not since Bulgaria have I seen so many speed guns and police checks. At every junction, some poor unfortunates are being fined, but they leave us alone. The Moroccans know which side their bread is buttered.

We're travelling in proper convoy fashion. To my great excitement, we even have walkie-talkies! How cool is that? Adam and Sophie have fortunately purchased all the necessary maps, satnav, books and camping guides that we have signally failed to procure.

A voice says “Turn right!” and I am bemused. I thought Stacey didn't cover Morocco? Then I realise it's Sophie very efficiently instructing us via the walkie-talkie – doh! I can't resist saying “Ten four good buddy” but the Glare makes a brief appearance with the subtext: “Stop being so childish, they'll think we're a right pair of eejits!” We're trying to make a good impression and make them think we're grown-ups.

Whizzing down the main toll road, we note that the heavy-duty police presence doesn't stop chaps from pulling onto the hard shoulder and whipping out their prayer mats at the appropriate time of day, nor does it prevent lads cycling the wrong way next to the fast lane of the motorway, or small children crossing four lanes of traffic, with or without the obligatory donkey. There's never a dull moment.

Manic Marrakech

Basecamp Lobster, at Le Relais de Marrackech, is an oasis of calm. Before tackling the city, we spend a couple of days sitting in the sun, congratulating ourselves on being here and barbecuing a lot of very cheap and very tasty meat.

Technical whizzkid Adam helps a Dutch guy with his dongle. “Your son is very helpful”, says yer man. My WHAT??? I suppose I am old enough to be his mother, but I can do without being reminded of it, thank you very much.

Mustafa stops by to sell Sophie a palm tree sticker, the price of which is ten dirham*, plus a glass of red wine, which he downs in a split second. He offers Chris five hundred camels “for his daughter”. Deep sigh. That's it, we're officially A Family.

A taxi into town seems like the best option for the family outing, or perhaps I should say the least worst option. The journey requires nerves of steel, as the driver of our ancient Mercedes negotiates donkey carts, bicycles, scooters, overloaded trucks, buses, pedestrians and other ramshackle taxis, none of whom seem to understand the concept of lane discipline or giving way.

Once in the city, we're immediately utterly lost. “Dad” marches purposefully in the direction of nowhere in particular, muttering “don't look lost” and the rest of the family obediently trails behind, shaking off traders as we go. 

Marrakech is bewildering: narrow lanes, hustlers, carpets in every hue, live chickens, beggars, donkeys, small children, scooters squeezing past, handcarts, tiny food stalls on the pavement, the smell of spices... and the noise!

Stumbling across the Bahia Palace by accident rather then design, we opt to spend ten dirham each to get in, purely because it's QUIET. We all take a deep breath and spend a while marvelling at the intricate decoration of this now abandoned vision of opulence.

Then into the souq, where we are predictably nobbled by a spice seller. We end up with a lifetime's supply of Moroccan mixed spice and the “kids” walk away with an equally ridiculous amount of Berber tea, but the guy's patter was impressive and we enjoyed the show, even if we were being hoodwinked. “A picture of the family?” he asks helpfully. Whatever.

At the Ali Ben Youssef Medersa, former school for Imams, Sirdiq (allegedly an Imam himself) attaches himself to us like a limpet and delivers his repetitive patter in an intriguing and unintelligible mixture of French, English, German and Arabic, interspersed with a bit of Islamic chanting for good effect.

“Five times day pray, five minutes, five years, imam, seizieme siecle, Mecca mihrab,  waschen, kuchen, Allah, essen, schlafen, cinq ans, fifty dirhams please”. We get the last bit, and cough up fifteen between us. He shuffles off muttering grumpily, not very imam-ish behaviour if you ask me.

Then to the circus that is Djemaa El-Fna, the giant main square which leaps into life as darkness falls and mobile food stalls set up for the evening. “Number one one seven, eat in heaven! Jamie Oliver, lovely jubbly!” They might be hustlers, but boy they do it well. How can we not?

Replete, we watch the show going on around us: monkey trainers, snake charmers, musicians, dancers, witch doctors, henna tattoists, stalls selling dried fruit, fresh orange juice, piles of snails and whole sheeps’ heads for a tasty dinner.

And the noise. Have I mentioned the noise? It's exhausting. But when the call to prayer starts, everything else stops, a magical moment when the only sound is the Imam's chant echoing around the square for a precious few moments. Then it all starts again, the drums, the flutes, the hustlers, the beeping... I wouldn't have missed it for the world, but that's enough of Marrakech.

And finally...

Thanks to everyone who has responded to our Icelandic dilemma. Poor old Iceland, nobody has a good word to say about it. Advice ranges from “don't bother” to “just put on some Bjork and pretend you went”. Plus there's a rumour that a volcano might be about to explode again, which might make the decision for us.

The upshot is that we'll fly over in March sometime, hoping to catch the Northern Lights. That's if we can ever tear ourselves away from the madness that is Morocco...

1. *￡1 = 13 dirham
   

For Adam’s version of events: www.europebycamper.com