The first place we were going to stay was the coastal town of Essaouira, a few hours drive by luxury taxi from the magnificent new Marrakech airport. We’d wasted quite a bit of time at the airport form filling, because the Moroccan authorities like to maintain a strict control.......of everything really. I’d just been reading about the alleged torture of terror suspects in Morocco on their way to Guantanamo, and wasn’t about to upset any of the men in uniform by making light of their import procedures.
The next stop was another queue at the currency desk; unfortunately the dirham is not available at Marks and Spencer or a Post Office counter in exchange for our own weakening pound, but we were bound to benefit from the very low cost of living, or just about existing, for many in Morocco.
‘It seems rather hot’ observed Jess.
‘What did you expect, the feel of a rainy day in Blackpool ?’
‘I’m just glad we didn’t come in August.’
‘It should be a little more refreshing by the sea.’
‘Do you think they’ll have Essaouira rock ?’
‘And donkey rides !’
‘Mainly camel I think.’
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