Marrakech passed through us in a blur of noise and colour. as we drove from the countryside and into the city centre, the already narrow streets became narrower, until we found ourselves being led along the roads by a scooter, who clearly trusted in our ability to dodge donkey carts, pedestrians and the occasional car as well as he could. It is a place that I would visit once and never again. Your senses are so overwhelmed by everything around you, your eyes constantly watching your back, hands clutching your bag, and trying at the same time to not make eye contact with anyone who is selling anything, that you become exhausted from the mere act of walking through the market square.
It did hold a magical beauty about it, however, especially when the late sun sunk to rest her golden glow upon the hoards of pop-up dinner stands being set up. The black skin of a cobra dancing to the lilting tune of a pipe took on a movement of its own in this light, the story-telling of a man dressed in red laced in more mystery, the stands of stacked oranges becoming piles of juicy gold. We ventured out of the main square and into the alleys surrounding it for a trip to (possibly) the only vegetarian restaurant in Morocco, trading the usual vegetable tajine for something a little more creative. Even though I had read that the square truly came alive after dark, all plans of this dwindled as we became overwhelmed by the business and harassment of the performers and stall owners. I cannot express how happy I was to crash onto my bed, and find ourselves driving out of the city and towards the coast the next morning, leaving the whirl of the epitome of tourism in Morocco behind us.