Morocco

The first time A drafted a Morocco traivel plan, A thocht the map wad stairt at Casablanca airport—drawin a line throu Marrakech, Fez, Merzouga, aa the road tae the Sahara. Efter truly laundin, A learnt Morocco disnae unfauld by kilometres. It claims ye wi scent first. In Marrakech's gloamin, the wind sweeshes throu the spice souk, an the smells o saffron, cumin, cinnamon an dried rose come at ye like a pack o merchants aw speakin at wance—nane o them willin tae gie wey. Walkin atween the hessian sacks, a stallhaunder pit a pinch o Ras el Hanout in ma palm: thirty-odd spices mingit thegither, smellin like an auld road fae the Sahara caravans doon tae the Reid Ceety waws.

Efter dark, Jemaa el-Fnaa sets that road alowe. Chaarcoal fires row up in a line. Mutton fat drips in, white reek curlin straucht up. The fennel-scent o snail soup, the char o sausages, the clean sweet o fresh-cut oranges—aw o it pressed doon unner drumbeats an hawkers' shouts. Somebodie pulls ye toward a menu; somebodie shoves a chair at ye; somebodie lauchs oot the reek, 'China?' A sat on a shooglie plastic stool, watchin skewers turn, an suddenly kent why owre mony fowk say Marrakech wearies ye. It isnae the noise—it's that it's ower fu; there's no ae blank inch in the air.