A change of pace

Well, we’ve officially landed in Marrakesh—and straight away you can feel the difference. The whole place runs on this wonderfully relaxed, “we’ll get there when we get there” kind of energy. Even at the airport, no one’s in a rush. The staff are just calmly processing visas like they’ve got all day, which, honestly, they probably do.

But the real surprise was inside the terminal—there’s this section where all the parcels are laid out in rows, and you literally have to go hunting for your own parcel. It felt like a challenge on The Amazing Race—everyone wandering around trying to spot their parcel before presenting it to staff.

Security or not to security

Then, just when you think you’re done, you have to scan your bags again before leaving. That’s where Digby hit a snag… turns out drones are a no-go here. Confiscated on arrival, held until departure, and returned for a neat little 10 Euro fee. Would’ve been nice to know that one earlier!

Once we got out of the airport though, everything eased right off again. Even getting cash from the ATM felt unhurried and lax. And the taxi system—brilliant. You just pay at a counter, get a ticket, hand it to the driver, and off you go. No haggling, no meter-watching, none of the usual chaos.

Tradition or Tourism

Now, staying in a riad right in the heart of the old city threw us straight into the deep end—in the best way. The noise, the movement, the organised chaos—it’s all part of the charm. Step outside and you’re instantly in it. Inside the medina which is the walled historic city, one direction takes you into the local markets, where you’re seeing everyday Moroccan life unfold. The other direction? Full tourist mode—colourful stalls, persistent sellers, and plenty of “special price just for you!” moments. We made sure to do both, just to get the full picture. Suprisingly outside of the walled medina life is pretty modern from buildings, cars and restuants and shops.

Time to Detox

This week’s shaping up a bit differently… let’s call it a detox, no driving for Digby, no rich foods just simple fare, and—brace yourselves—no casual beers. Alcohol’s only served in licensed venues, and our riad isn’t one of them. So, it’s mint tea and fresh juices for now!

We did treat ourselves to a dinner and show one night (again a dry venue), in the Agafay desert which was green not a sandy dune in sight.

We then spent another evening soaking up the madness of Jemaa el-Fnaa. That place is something else—performers everywhere, snake charmers, monkeys, food stalls, the lot. It’s where the whole city seems to come alive at night. But you’ve got to be careful—try to sneak a photo and they’re on you in seconds asking for money, especially the snake charmers and monkey handlers. So watching others learn the lesson pretty quickly was entertaining.

From there, we switched gears and took a train up to Casablanca—nice and easy, actually. Clean, comfortable, and we made sure we actually paid for first class, so no complaints there. Then we hopped onto the high-speed train to Tangier, which was surprisingly modern—felt like we’d jumped countries for a moment (not that Australia has a fast train). From Tangier, it was a three-hour bus ride into the mountains to Chefchaouen, the famous blue city.

Seeing Blue

Chefchaouen’s an interesting one—it’s only just starting to really embrace tourism. You can tell it’s still finding its feet a bit. There are more day-trippers coming in from Tangier, and the restaurants and services are slowly adapting to a broader crowd. But that’s part of what makes it feel authentic—it hasn’t been completely overrun yet.

So now, we’ve looped back to Tangier for a couple of quieter days, a bit of downtime to recharge before heading off to France, and the next adventure—and probably a chance for Digby to start dreaming about his first proper beer again!

© Michelle Brown 2026. All photographs and content on this blog are the property of the author and are protected by copyright laws. Unauthorised use, reproduction, or distribution is prohibited without prior written permission.

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