Our first attempt to cross the Straight of Gibraltar had been less than successful, and at last check the weather didn't seem to be getting any better. So we slept in, had a hot shower and trudged back down to the ferry terminal at about 11.00. Where we discovered not only that we hadn't missed any ferries, but there didn't look like being one for a few hours, possibly days.

We also discovered our gringo friends from the other night, the Americans and, in the distance, our two smoking friends from Bobadilla train station. We started chatting to the American hippies (Kerrii and Kevin) and shared a coffee or two with them. It wasn't until we got to the departure lounge that we spoke to the other two gringos, and discovered that they were Italians, their names were Vito and Vanessa and while they spoke excellent French, they didn't really speak much English. Not to let a little thing like language get in the way, Vito and Kato had a very rudimentary conversation in Italo-Spanish and discovered that we all had similar plans for our Moroccan travels.

The ferry finally arrived and we all boarded, the seven of us setting up camp together on the rather cosy lounges. As soon as the ferry departed, we all started wishing it hadn't particularly Nato who was staring determinedly out the window at the horizon.. which was no mean feat as it was frequently disappearing above and below the level of the window. As for the others, Vanessa promptly went to sleep, Vito smoked furiously away (a habit we were later to discover had nothing whatsoever to do with the boat) and Kerrii and Kevin drank coffee and chatted cheerfully with Kato about Morocco. About half an hour into the journey, the staff, after securing all heavy objects, started handing out scented sick bags, which most of the other passengers began using with great gusto (an empty one of these made it into the Hobbit's day pack and the fragrant smell of it made us all nauseous weeks after the boat trip..)

To cut a long boat trip short (if only we could have), our one and a half hour tour ended four hours later with no serious reported casualties... at least from our party.

We passed through Moroccan customs, which seems to be based on the honour system, into a miniature of the world we would experience for the next two weeks - hawker upon hawker, selling taxi rides, restaurants, hotels, knick knackery and tours.

One taxi driver in particular, his eyes lighting up at the sight of six sea-legged gringos and a bear, set upon us and didn't quit until he'd negotiated a 100dh (about 10 euro) trip for all of us in two taxis to the train station (about 40dh too much we later discovered).

At the train station the Hobbits decided to round off our 48 hours of travel with a night train to Marrakech. They and their new friends purchased tickets (in some kind of new Frangloitalish language) for the 11.30pm train, leaving us all with about 5 hours to kill.

Knowing a good hawk when he had one, our new taxi driver friend had stuck around and now negotiated another deal - 50dh into the medina to drop off our bags and then on to a restaurant he knew. Our American hippy friends were feeling a lot of trust (fairly short lived, as it turned out). Our Italian friends were a fair bit more sceptical (as were we) but we agreed, piled into another couple of taxis and headed for the medina.

After dropping off our bags, our new guide took us to the top of the Kasbah to a 'restaurant' which turned out not to be open (I think it might have been his house, and his wife couldn't be bothered to cook for 7 hungry travellers...). So it was back to his brother's restaurant in the Medina, where his brother's wife was happy to cook for us for about 90dh a head (about 40dh a head too much, we later discovered). But we were hungry and tired and had a long train trip ahead so we agreed.

It was here that our taxi driver left us, but not before charging us not the 50dh agreed, but 150dh (we settled on 100dh and the American's trust, which he seemed happy to take). After dinner (the first of much Tajine and Cous Cous) we wandered through the maze-like medina, where we were both the tourists and the sceptical, attracting many bemused gazes but surprisingly little hawking.

All of a sudden the shops started closing. It was about 9pm. Coming from Spain, where 9pm is around when everyone gets up from siesta, it was a little disorienting. So we made our way back to the train station (this time letting our Italian friends do the talking and paying the more respectable sum of 60dh) and resumed prior boat positions - Vito smoking, Kev, Kerrii and Kato chatting cheerily, Vanessa napping and Nato trying not to chuck.... well, all expect Nato...

Finally our train arrived. The Hobbits had rather sensibly opted for a sleeper carriage this time, so they hopped on and got acquainted with their cabin mates, two more gringos, conveniently enough both called Mark, who were about the two most unlikely travelling companions we have met - Mark 1 was an American consultant from Nebraska, travelling large on the green back - Mark 2 was Switzerland’s answer to Che Guvera in the middle of his own Motorcycle Diaries but on a more global scale (the bike, we later found out, was somewhat indisposed in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, answering the question as to why he was on the train..). But they were friendly enough and after the usual traveller chat, we settled in for the night...

The Marrakech Express chugged slowly through the night.