Backpacking in Morocco

Can't quite believe I'm doing this....backpacking again after about 100 years. But I am, and so far, so good. And at least Morocco is warm and sunny. We rode through it last year on the Scooter trip to The Gambia but there was only limited time to see stuff then as we were passing through, although we did get to see more of the rural towns, the countryside and the mountain passes, as well as the desert. But  such places as Casablanca and Fes remained unexplored. So that's what we're here to do - the cities.

So Tuesday morning, bright and early, we (Nadine and Belle) and armed with just one small rucksack each, were on Mr Easy Jet's flying express  from Gatwick to Marrakesh, leaving rainy old London for close to 30 degrees three hours later when we landed.

The flight and a hotel for the first night were the only thing we had booked prior to leaving, the rest we intend to make up and find out as we  along. Fortunately, we have a reasonable smattering of French,which Morocco being a former French protectorate, is very handy, particularly when working out systems as well as translating signs and the like.

First test of the trip was getting to the train station from the airport and buying a ticket to Fes. Not surprisingly the cab fare became the source of some wrangling, with the driver trying to charge us double what we'd agreed prior to getting in. We used the Lonely Planet guide for an idea on what to expect, and providing you allow a bit of leeway for things getting a bit out of date, they are usually a good reference point to work from.

But the train ticket bit was easy and we knew to book first class (said so in Lonely Planet) because its air conditioned.

And proper seats. Two tickets cost us about £50.00 for an eight hour trip north to Fes. And it was on time, and very comfortable, just as Lonely Planet had said it would be.

The train is actually a great way to travel because it reveals so much about the surrounding countryside. Just as in Asia this summer, we saw local life going on as we rumbled past as much of it goes on alongside railway tracks, the train being a major conduit for the movement of goods and people, far more so than the roads, which are invariably pretty hard going. Its a bit like going to the cinema, with everything brought to you, but where you still get a bit part in terms of smell and noise and pushing and shoving.

The train from Marrakech goes north towards Casablanca, then up the coast to Rabat, before turning inland towards Meknes and Fes. The sight of the Atlantic Ocean at the far edge the parched empty, dusty plains alongside the tracks looks quite odd. Over blue and sparkling silver, like one of those dodgy backdrops in greasy spoon cafes. But the smell of the sea was so unmistakable, despite if being several kilometres distant.

The landscape changed noticeably in terms of use as we moved north too. Nearer to Marrakesh, it was empty and sparsely populated with square mud brick villages dotted  here and there, with a few herders wandering along with scrabby sheep.

The hills were devoid of any vegetation too; no trees here or even  bushes. Then cactus started to appear; those big oval leaved things with nasty spikes, that bear prickly pear fruit, but even these looked like they didn't belong as they were planted as fences, either to pen sheep in or to surround bits of land that had been designated for something or other.

Further north still, meadows stated to appear. Long grass and carpets of wild flowers adding colour to the previously dull and sandy coloured look of the place. Villages too turned into towns, which somehow looked more modern and what we would perhaps term prosperous, with cars and satellite dishes on almost every roof. And there were trees; healthy big trees, shading the streets.

The French influence is everywhere, from the tree lined avenues to the structure of square faced utility buildings, plastered and washed in pink, just as they are in the south of France. And from the train, peoples' dress also reflected outside influences, with a curious mix of Berber, Arabic and western, worn in various combinations, but without exception, people were wrapped against the cold, even though the outside temperature was still in the high twenties. Interesting, given that this would have been a nice summers day not too far north, and they were wrapped as opposed to  wearing baggy cooling clothes as most had scarves or gloves or jumpers under jallabahs.

The train gave us an opportunity to chat to people as well. Almost everybody insisted asking us if we ate fish and chips, and remarked on the death of Margaret Thatcher, before attempting to persuade us to take a tour with 'their 'cousin, or give us phone numbers to visit their family etc. it was nice chatting to them but a bit wearing after a while.

Nadine called the riad from the train and arranged for somebody to pick us a up, a good move as we would never have found the place in the maze of tiny streets and alleyways. Although we have hardly and gear with us, carrying what we do have and trying to navigate after a three hour plane journey and an eight hour stint on a train, would have been more than enough.

The riad - a sort of local B&B is nice. Run by two brothers, its a traditional Muslim building with rooms and windows opening into a central courtyard rather than the street, so its quiet and cool and quite spacious with two beds, a loo, shower and wifi.