Primary Colours

If I were a third grader creating my own Morocco, it would be a country of primary colours whose cities, rivers, and borders - I would add - would be painstakingly coloured within the lines (much to the relief of Western Sahara and a handful of child psychiatrists). And this would be my colour palette of crayons (remember, I am only 8 years old):

* Marrakech is the red city.
* Meknès is the yellow city.
* Casablanca is the white city.
* Chefchaouen is the blue city.

The truth is, in spite of what guidebooks may say, Marrakech isn't particularly red, and Meknès (whose amber epithet I just made up) is only marginally yellow-ish. I did make that one up after all. Casablanca isn't so much white as the colour of snow in March, complete with dog turds peeking through the slush after a nice acid rain shower. And 'Chaouen? Only time will tell. And by time, I mean tomorrow.

The hotel has been reserved - albeit with a modicum of difficulty as few hoteliers here seem inclined to respond to e-mail enquiries. Which leaves me thinking that the 'contactez-nous' link on their reservation pages is more of a decorative whimsy than utilitarian in any way. Remarkably, the bus tickets were purchased without incident. The knapsacks are, if not packed at least in a state of hopeful anticipation.

Dare I say - as I take pause to consider those tortuously precipitous and often fatal hairpin turns which go up up up and down down down the Rif Mountains - what can possibly go wrong?

Perhaps not.

So this, our last weekend in Morocco will be spent verifying the azure-ness of the country's fabled Blue City - a city which once, during its tenure as a hotbed for religious extremists, barred Christians from entering it. Not that Bilal Mr. CinR & I are Christians but we can still take one for the team. Even if it's not our team.

Until Monday. In sh'allah. If the fates allow.