On Saturday morning an army of blood orange hoodies took over Gatwick airport and hijacked the British Airways flight to Marrakech. Okay it didn't quite go like that but I did go to Morocco in a matching hoodie to 42 other people - talk about making an entrance.
Before we'd gone, I'd read some reviews on the first hotel which weren't exactly positive to say the least - "worst possible hotel EVER!!!" and "deeply unimpressed" to name just a few. Either I have unbelievably low standards or the "never judge a book by it's cover" saying really is true, but personally I didn't think it was that bad. Apart from the fact that it was next to the main road, the rooms weren't that big and you get woken up by the call to prayer at 5am; the bed was reasonably comfy, the toilet worked, and there was WiFi. What more do you want? Then once we'd got our rooms and met our tour guides for the trip we set of into the city unprepared for what came next.
I'm not sure how to describe Marrakech. It's a mixture of culture and complete madness. There aren't any rules like in England - the cars drive around wherever and whenever they feel like it, people come up to you without any dignity whatsoever and these people are everywhere. The "short walk" from the hotel to the restaurant was literally a game of dodgems and an attempt not to get raped. And then we reached our restaurant, where we were greeted with the food which we were going to be stuck with for the rest of the week: bread, couscous, chicken and vegetables.
Georgia.xo
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