FOOTNOTES Journal-ista Andy Turvey went to Morocco for Christmas last year, and frankly, we're all surprised he made it back

We reached Algeciras and, having waved goodbye to the statue of Don Paco de Lucia, Spain's greatest living Flamenco guitarist, boarded the ferry for Morocco via Ceuta to fuel up on duty frees and cheap petrol. Refuelled with cigarettes, alcohol and Imodium we broke for the border and the chaos beyond it. A swift hour later we were in Morocco and the white lines on the roads meant nothing any more. The free for all game of chicken had commenced and we were cruising with the stereo at full volume in the direction of the Rif mountains, the toker's Mecca; land of double zero, sputnik, red bubble, kif kif, hash oil, whatever took your fancy or, more to the point, how good you were at handling your dirhams. As the road rose and we started climbing the dealers started emerging from the woodwork. From behind trees jilhaba-clad Moroccans waved tennis ball sized lumps of hash at us and ran out on to the road for us to stop. Not having had a smoke since the night before we pulled over and, to the guys disappointment, bought just €5 worth to see us through to Chaouen where we could do our real purchasing.

Keeping our eye out for Hotel Ibiza where a couple of friends were already staying, our van slowly weaved its way through the evening traffic and the sea of people that swarm on to the streets of Chaouen at sunset. We located the hotel and found Loren and Marta already bleary eyed and grinning.

As on the previous two occasions I'd been to Chaouen we headed for the campsite at the top of the village where we could park up, pitch the tent and retreat a little from the hassle of people wanting to take you on a guided tour of a plantation (with full explanations of the production process from marijuana to hashish) or wanting you to swallow a gut full of hash to take back to Spain with you.

Chauoen

We spent a couple of days taking it easy in Chaouen, as you do, and doing the odd bit of shopping, which came to an assortment of products from the local herbal production, the odd trinket, the obligatory teapot and a kif pipe. We'd stocked up well on food at the heaving market with fresh goat's cheese, which we were sure had a faint taste of the ubiquitous herb, olives, fresh round bread, which when warmed was delicious, kilos of oranges and tangerines, ground herbs and a pocket full of dirhams from the nearest ATM.

We headed in the direction of Sefrou and, not really knowing what the weather was like in the mountains, set our hearts on going snowboarding and skiing. Unfotunately, the weather was nowhere near good enough for it (or bad enough) and we came up with other hair-brained ideas like heading into the hills on donkeys, but soon got over the urge to do too many strenuous things by channelling our energies into the more pacific customs of the land. It was enough to sit back and let the breathtaking scenery roll past the windows of the van. Vast skies and endless rolling hills unfolded in front of us after every turn, and now away from Chaouen we were really on the move, Africa for thousands of kilometres ahead of us.

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