The echoes of horns and scooters are ringing in my head and the scents of spices and petrol still linger on my clothes. I’ve returned to Africa and this time I’m in Morocco. More precisely, I’m in a small riad just off Djemaa el-Fna in the central medina of Marrakech.

The accommodation is not quite what I expected, with no towels or toilet paper being the obvious missing items. There’s also no lock on the door, but the ‘hotel’ does have security in the form of an 80-year-old man who sits on the floor at the entrance of the building.

The huge square in the centre of the medina houses dozens of stalls with waiters trying their utmost to draw you in. Settling for one, I’m disappointed that any menu choices I make are ignored. Funnily enough, the only options available are the more expensive ones. It’s comical to see couple after couple sit down and look completely bewildered when random food is dumped in front of them!

Surrounding the food stalls are many musicians and acts to pull in the crowds. I was warned about the relentless demands for payment if you take someone’s photo but I can barely point my camera anywhere without someone jumping in front of me demanding money. One act catches my eye; a man is forcing a chicken to smoke a cigarette and a crowd of about 30 surround him. My shutter barely snaps shut before a ’spy’ in the crown tells the performer that a photo has been taken. Immediately he stops the show and suddenly he’s in my face asking for money. With everyone staring at me, I stutter to find the right response in French. He’s not dissuaded when I tell him that I didn’t even get a photo of him (which was true), so I tell him I’ve got no change anyway. However, his reply to that is that he’ll take my bag instead! He then touches my shoe and says that will also do! What’s crazy is that I’d be glad to give him money if I actually got a decent shot or if he finished his act, but his aggressive stance leaves my unsympathetic. I quickly walk away and disappear into the crowd.

I spend the next hour lost in the labyrinth of streets, shocked by the lack of civilisation and chaotic mix of tourism and poverty. It’s a shocking start to my journey and a mentally exhausting day comes to a close. I’m looking forward to tomorrow, but I can’t help but wonder how many packs of cigarettes the chicken has had…

14th October 2007 – Marrakech

The city guide is informative but reminds me of being in school. He starts every fact with a question, and only continues when I give him an ignorant blank stare. The tour starts south of the riad in the Jewish quarter. The Palais de la Bahia is impressive but just exaggerates the difference between rich and poor. However, I can’t help but smile as I imagine the prime minister lying in his room and demanding that one of his four wives come and entertain him!

Next I see where these men were laid to rest. The Saadian tombs are extravagantly decorated; in particular the men’s, which I think is well-deserved after such a tough life…

A taxi, without seatbelts, hurtles through the traffic and drops us off in the northern part of the old town. Similar to the bazaars in Istanbul, I’m guided through the maze of souqs, stopping occasionally for brief pleasantries with the locals.

Every small area has its own necessities, from butchers to bakers and opticians to dentists, everyone is catered for. It seems that the guide has his fingers in every business; he walks me to a rug-maker, a carpenter and a pharmacist and each one presents me with their best sales pitch (no doubt our guide gets some commission!) The carpenter is particularly impressive; he carves the wood using simple tools and his bare feet. After creating a fancy design on a kebab stick, he then holds his feet and chisel and with a wide grin he says, ‘My Black & Decker!’

The pharmacist is a pleasant coincidence; I woke up with an awful sore throat and the shop-keeper is only too keen to present me with a solution. Snorting this black powder (which also passes as a treatment for many other random symptoms), my nose feels like it’s on fire, but I’m told in good faith that it’ll work…

The tour ends in the Djemaa el-Fna square. It’s totally different to last night and with the bright, blue sky you can see how big it really is. My photography experiences this time are also better; the entertainers suggest I take photos and hold out a tray for their tips; much better than last night’s aggressiveness.

The huge Koutoubia Mosque towers over the square, but it’s behind this mosque that Marrakech shows its modern side. There’s a huge colourful park and the locals clearly gather here for a little tranquillity away from the buzzing atmosphere of the main square. Further west and outside the walls of Marrakech is the new town with wide and modern roads surrounded by fancy hotels.

It’s already time for dinner so after a quick shower, I head towards the Djemaa el-Fna. This time I get to enjoy the madness from a restaurant balcony. As the sun sets behind the Koutoubia Mosque, the scents and colours of the Central Medina come alive.

Gazing down onto the square, it’s the perfect spot to end the day, watching the mix of donkeys, cars, scooters and bikes, weaving their way around the pedestrians and snake charmers!

15th October 2007 – Aït Benhaddou, Ouarzazarte, Zagora

It’s a 6 o’clock start this morning and the new guide is already waiting. We jump into his huge 4×4 and within an hour we’re climbing the High Atlas mountains. The views are incredible, in particular the formations of the rock that look like they’ve been carved out purposely, like the carpenter we met yesterday. Although it’s very warm and there isn’t a cloud in the sky, there is still a tiny amount of snow on the highest peaks.

Aït Benhaddou is the first stopping point and we’re lucky to be there so early when this Kasbah is practically devoid of tourists. The view from the top is incredible but it’s the view from the river that really impresses. The buildings look like sandcastles and the whole town almost looks fake. Of course, the locals take advantage and get money out of me in every possible way, including holding my hand as I step across the stepping stones in the river. One young boy rides a donkey towards me and it’s a stereotypical photo opportunity. The boy is whacking the donkey with a huge stick and the poor animal doesn’t have a clue what it should do, so when the boy holds out his hand and says, ‘Money, money!’ I can’t help thinking the donkey deserves it more than him!

Halfway up the hill, I’m invited into a small house, built with mud and stone. Inside, there’s loads of memorabilia from Gladiator, and I’m told which scenes were filmed here.

Further south-east, we reach Ouazazarte, which is the film capital of Morocco. Lawrence of Arabia and Cleopatra were both filmed here. After a soup and Tajines lunch, I’m back on the road and heading further south-east down the Draa Valley. The valley looks totally out of place, with a luscious green centre, full of palm trees and the bright reflection of the river makes a pleasant change from the dry landscape of the High Atlas Mountains.

The destination is Zagora, the ‘door to the desert’. It’s the last place you’ll find shops, petrol stations or any other commercial activity. There’s a buzzing atmosphere with people everywhere, all getting from one place to another by foot, bike or donkey. In fact, it barely feels that on the other side of Zagora, begins the Sahara Desert.

However, that’s no journey for a 4×4; those steps will be taken by camel.

Before I mount the beast, I’m offered more Moroccan tea. These people have an obsession! To say the English like tea after being to Morocco is laughable. The Moroccans drink it around every corner! There’s even a procedure for pouring the stuff, repeatedly sloshing it back into the teapot until it’s fully brewed.

Anyway, tanked up on tea I prepare for my camel adventure. It doesn’t take me long before I name him ‘Hungry’. Hungry belches and burps throughout the whole 7km walk into the desert. If Hungry gets anywhere near anything that resembles shrubbery, he swings his neck towards it and snatches a mouthful. He’s taking dumps on the move and it’s at least a comfort that if we ever got lost in the desert we could follow the breadcrumbs back home…

Emma’s camel behind me is called ‘Sleepy’. Every time I turn around he looks like he’s got his eyes closed and he’s staggering around like he’s either sleepwalking or pissed.

Our guide is a pleasant chap who seems to live and breathe the desert. He only speaks about as much French as I do, but it’s enough to have a bit of a chat and keep asking ‘are we there yet?’

When we finally do arrive, the sun is setting and the mountains in the distance light up in a beautiful array of purples and oranges. The nomad tents are already set up. We’ve one huge tent just for relaxing and dinner and at 100 paces rests another for sleeping. Of course, before I’m allowed dinner, I’m treated to another session of Moroccan tea…

The only light is a gas-fired cylinder and although the sun has disappeared, it hasn’t got too cold. It has become dark though. Incredibly dark. In fact, I’ve never seen a landscape so dark and I only have to look up to the sky to see something else I’ve never before; so many stars. It’s like someone has shifted the earth into a different part of the universe, as the sky is littered with thousands and thousands of bright stars. There are so many more than I’ve ever seen before and it’s simply breathtaking.

After dinner (tajines again), I’m all ready for bed. My sore throat has turned into a bit of a cold and I’m cursing myself for being probably the only person who could ever catch a cold in the Sahara Desert! Mind you, it’s another early start tomorrow as I’m told the desert sunrises are something not to be missed.

16th October 2007 – Sahara Desert, Zagora, Tamgroute, Tamnougalte, Ouarzazarte

My first and last night in the Sahara Desert is superb. Surrounded by nothing but nature, it seems a little odd to wake to a mobile phone alarm clock in order to catch the sunrise. The sun is already trying to peak over the mountains in the horizon, but before it does I’m treated to more wonderful colours.

The camels are enjoying them too, although Hungry seems to be heading in the opposite direction. With one leg tied up, he’s hopping on three legs towards some shrubbery in the distance. Every few steps he slips and smashes his front knee on the ground, but he’s relentless, determined to reach his goal.

As Hungry disappears behind our tent, I go towards the sand dunes. It’s these that were probably the thing I was looking forward to most and although a lot smaller than I hoped, I’m like a school boy at playtime, launching myself up and down the dunes. As the sun rises, the contrasts of colour on the sand dunes are amazing. It’s exhausting walking along them and as the strength of the sun grows by the minute, it’s easy to see how unforgiving the desert can be.

After a simple breakfast, it’s time to leave. Our guide has found Hungry and before we know it we’re on our way back to Zagora. It’s a different route back, through a desert village. There are locals around, but it’s the children that shock. They are full of life and have so much energy (’Bonbon?’ They ask, again and again…); it’s crazy to think how different one person’s childhood can be from another.

I’m relieved to get back to Zagora as this time my arse has taken a beating! It was only a couple of hours of riding but desert travellers must have buns made of steel – it absolutely wrecks!

Next on the agenda is a village called Tamgroute. I’m taken to an Islamic Library that contains over 4,000 books, all written out by hand over hundreds of years. It’s impressive, but even more so is the Librarian as he has so much passion for his collection and yet he looks old enough to have written the first one.

It’s not just the library that Tamgroute has as its claim to fame. It’s also well-known for its pottery. I’m introduced to another guide who takes me around the village. Ducking and weaving through the streets, it’s another fictitious-looking town. The guide takes us through someone’s home just to get to another street and it’s absolutely pitch black as the guide holds our hands as we carefully tip-toe through the darkness. When I reach the other end, I turn and look back through the passage and take a photo of the entrance just as a woman walks past. The workers use holes in the ground to heat the pottery and simple tools to carve and create these items that will then be transported to the major towns for all the tourists to buy. Yet, half of the workers walk around with mobile phones! What is very interesting is how the colours are created. Each colour, from red to green, is created using different flowers, plants or other natural ingredients. He shows me one colour that he’s very proud of – they only discovered how to make it three years ago!

As we travel north-west up the Draa Valley the landscape turns from a monochrome brown to a mix of contrasts with green farmland and blue rivers. Ghost villages don’t appear that different to the inhabited ones nearby; they all look like sandcastles, strangely linked with telephone cables. The lucky ones also get electricity.

There’s one area that is made up of what looks like finely compressed sand and the way it bobbles up and down and forms row upon row of hills, it looks entirely man-made. Not that the dirt-bikers care. The quiet landscape is ripped apart by some tourists flying through on dirt-bikes, taking advantage of the dusty road and flying up and down on this alien-like terrain.

An average meal in a deserted (but incredibly unique) restaurant is followed by a tour in Tamnougalte. Here, the BBC is filming a new series based on the life of Jesus. It’s called ‘The Passion’ (which sounds awfully like a certain Mel Gibson film) and the film makers have turned this small village into a living example of village life 2000 years ago. There are dead animals hanging on a ‘market street’, pools of red and blue water to colour clothes and general props lying around – none of which are fake. The meat is practically cooking in the sun and the smells are absolutely real. The tour around the village is very interesting and our guide is brilliantly informed and has a cracking sense of humour. I particularly like the key and lock which opens the Kasbah – it’s made of wood and the way it has been finely carved seems like something you’d really find around the time of Christ. Incredibly, the key isn’t a prop; it’s the real way to unlock the Kasbah nowadays!

The next 75km brings us back to Ouazazarte and although it’s nice to be welcomed into a hotel, it was probably more comfortable in the desert last night! The hotel’s restaurant is pretty poor and a long and eventful day comes to an end.

17th October 2007 – Ouazazarte, Tamdakhte, Telouet, Marrakech

Breakfast is no better than last night’s dinner. I’m also starting to feel a little rough and it looks like the cold I’ve picked up is starting to get the better of me. Nonetheless it’s another active day which hopefully will keep me going.

Heading towards Aït Benhaddou, we pass many small villages. Occasionally they have electricity and some even have sporting facilities (well – a football pitch on a flat area of rock). Many look similar but it’s always interesting to see the locals go about their life. Time seems to stand still here. Most people live off their land or their local village and the lack of tourism means I get to see Moroccan rural life as it really is.

So it came as a bit of a shock when our guide takes us off-road to taste some of the real rural communities. The road steadily becomes more and more narrow, just as the drop at the edge of the road becomes bigger and bigger. Soon we’re climbing around the edge of the Ounila Valley with a sheer drop just centimetres away from out tyres. We crawl from village to village and in each one we see the hard working farmers in their fields and the small gangs of children who wave us hello and goodbye.

Out here you really see the true colour of Morocco. The earth is a striking red and it makes for some dramatic views alongside the harvested valley, despite the overcast weather. Some buildings are practically carved out the valley itself, supported by nature alone. The road itself brings some surprises. Occasionally there are locals walking or even cyclists braving this landscape, but there’s always the worrying thought of another vehicle coming the opposite direction. Fate showed its sense of humour when we approach a blind corner and suddenly a deafening roar brings us to a halt. I half expect a rockslide as an absolutely enormous tractor bellows around the corner and stops in front of us. I’m not so keen on us reversing along this narrow road, so I breathe a sigh of relief when it’s the tractor that squeezes past us on the outside!

Lunch is in Telouet and the food is another disappointment. I’ve heard so much about excellent Moroccan food but bar the odd meal, most have been quite average. Furthermore, the flies are so incredibly annoying and constantly land on your food; it’s a wonder I haven’t picked up a dodgy stomach.

Fortunately, Telouet is a great place at 1800m and it has been standing ever since the karavans made their long journeys between Marrakech and the Sahara. It houses the impressive Kasbah of el Glaoui, which unfortunately will not last much longer. Many parts have already fallen and what remains is practically ruined. The young guide for the palace is very knowledgeable and very witty. He obviously speaks Arabic, Berber and French, but his English is spot on too. He even uses slang expressions and continues to speak even when he has nothing to say; he practises words and pronunciation and then laughs at himself. We encounter some Germans and he then speaks German to them. To top it off, when he discovers I speak Italian, he’s proud to continue the tour in Italian!

There’s one area of the Kasbah which has been kept in very good condition, with marble that has been imported from Italy (traded with salt – the ‘gold’ of the time). It’s incredible to think that this crumbling building holds a floor of marble!

Climbing back into our 4×4, we relax for the drive back to Marrakech. I say ‘relax’, but the driver decides to put on a music tape; the five awful songs are repeated for the next two hours and by the end of it I’m convinced I know most of the Berber words… Fortunately, it does keep my mind off my dodgy cold that seems to have taken a turn for the worse.

My cold becomes even more of a problem after arriving back in Marrakech. It’s a slightly bigger, nicer riad that again is within a stone’s throw of Djemaa el-Fna, but I can barely bring myself to move, let alone mix with the crowds of the central medina so I go to bed at a ridiculous 7pm.

I wake up over 12 hours later and I’m dripping with sweat. It’s terrible to say but I’m grateful it’s the last day and even more grateful that this didn’t happen 2 nights ago in the Sahara Desert! Furthermore, I have picked up a bug from something I ate (damn those bloody flies!) and my whole immune system seems to be giving up the ghost. I drug myself up with anything and everything from the medical bag that looks like paracetamol and I force myself to wander around the souqs to try and find any hidden corner that was missed on the first couple of days.

If ever there was a sign that I wasn’t well, my camera doesn’t even leave my bag. So, as my shutter has a holiday of its own, the next stop is Marrakech airport to catch the flight home to London.