Morocco. Just 35 minutes from Tarifa by boat, but a million miles away in terms of culture and ambiance.
The intrepid travelers were: Marsha and Simon, Jenni and Neil, Helen, Jenny, Erica, CJ, and Emma. Our numbers were diminished as Hannah and Carl rightly spotted that carting Milly around a Moroccan souk would prove difficult, Pat forgot his passport in Barcelona, and Rob wanted to go kite surfing.
Our trip began with a slight conflict. There were two schools of thought - those that wanted to have a pee, get a smoothie and then amble down to the ferry port about 11 (ish). Then there was the group that was thrown into extreme anxiety by the thought of not arriving EXACTLY when instructed to do so. The Amblers won out in the end, I think by virtue of the fact that they had the tickets.
The crossing was uneventful, spent mostly marveling at the fact that a large group of Germans were perfectly comfortable handing over their passports to a man who proceeded to store them in a very flimsy plastic bag. Not something we would choose to do when going to Morocco - then again, perhaps elderly German IDs aren't the ones that get stolen. We decided to look after our passports ourselves, thankyouverymuch.
Once free of the ferry, our authentic Moroccan guide (in pork-pie hat) whisked us away to a waiting minibus, picking up a couple from New Zealand and a couple from Canada to make up the numbers. From the ferry port we were driven around the town to a stop where we could ride camels. Oddly, no-one but Marsha was thoroughly taken with this idea. From there, we drove past a few palaces owned, incongruously, by the King of Saudi. And Barbara Hutton's House....(more of her later).
After our drive past the Dog cemetery, and another look at Barbara Hutton's house, we hopped out of the minibus and wandered about the Kasbah. Fascinating - the twisting and impossibly narrow roads were flanked by rickety whitewashed buildings that provided cool respite from the heat and sun. Men flocked to us, trying to flog bracelets and trinkets. It got to the stage where eye contact and polite refusals just brought more hassle, so we ended up as voyeurs, looking at the lifestyle rather than the people. Very odd.
A not-so-charming snake charming show, and a whizz past the markets took us to lunch. The only Moroccan people in the restaurant were serving food, so I am not sure how authentic it was, but it was tasty and all incl.
We then got sold to - carpets (tho we all resisted) and herbs, which some of us bought in massive quantities. Having got home and tried the 'mint tea', we were totally had. Don't even get me started on the rose cream. The only bargain was a HUGE bunch of mint that lasted provided lashings and lashings of mint tea for the rest of the holiday.
Mint!
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