Fez. That's Africa folks!!!

I have never known people stand up during take off before. The cabin crew who are strapped safely into their jump seats bellow, "Madam please stay in your seat! Please stay in your seat!" The woman turns and gives them a look that could open a vein and reluctantly sits back down.

I know absolutely nothing about Fez or Morocco, what there is to see, the food the culture, or even where it is on the African continent. This does not improve my confidence. I do have my trusty little tent with me, but have booked to stay in a hostel. The only directions I have are that it is in the medina near a taxi rank at Batha. I'm not even sure what a medina is.

The one saving grace is that I speak French which is widely spoken as the second language in Morocco.

Having landed and got through passport control, I have to leave the airport, so I do. Then I realise I haven't got any local currency so I go back in. I change euros for Dihram. The exchange rate is 140 dihram to the pound. I am lost already.

Outside the airport is a bus. I don't know where its going but I get on it.

As we drive into Fez I begin to wonder if the bus driver I bought my ticket from has swapped seats with Meatloaf and they are reshooting the video for "Bat Out Of Hell" on this bus, or if a terrorist has planted a bomb in the engine and he can't slow down below 75 mph, I look around for a manly chested Keanu Reeves type for me to bury my scared little head into, but as on buses around the world it's just me and the old ladies. There appears to be a third lane that I can't see in this two lane highway that people use for overtaking. It's a shame the planners didn't mark one out. I guess the reason they didn't was because there is no room for one and they didn't want to encourage the wildly swerving near death encounter manoeuvres that my bus driver is calmly repeating right now.

The bus stops in a bustling area and everyone gets off. Except me, I don't know what to do. The bus driver tells me I have to get off and take a taxi or walk about 20 minutes. I have no idea in which direction I would walk or any map to stare at hopelessly either. As I get off there are lots of little red cars with "petit taxi" signs on their roof, pulling up at kerbsides and speeding off again.

We are at the train station, one taxi driver beckons me to come and get in his car, and he already has a man in the back. I ignore him, he continues to gesticulate and I cross the road, like the one eyed chicken not knowing why. A woman gets out of a taxi and I get into it. I say "batha" in my best North London Arabic accent and we are off.

On the way I desperately try to do a calculation in my head of how much this might cost. Numbers multiply and divide but I can't hold onto them. When we get there he asks for money and I give it to him not knowing if I have just paid £2.00, £20.00 or £200 for a two-mile taxi ride. I have become so paralysed with fear about being here, so sure I am going to be bundled off and sold into slavery or have my kidney cut out and lose all my money that I am unable to function.

I am in a busy junction of narrow roads filled with laden donkeys and honking cars. My only reference to anything on this entire huge dark continent is that I have made a hostel booking online and that it is "near here."

I am actually physically suffering from "culture shock". I do not feel in the least adventurous, I only feel scared. I don't know anyone within about 1500 miles, I don't know how things work, what to expect, what I will eat, where I will sleep, or if I'm dressed appropriately I don't know anything because it is all so different, with a capital "D". I can see two other hotels and think I may just have to ditch the booking I have made and paid for and book in somewhere else.

Just then around the corner come two women "you look a little lost, do you need help?" they ask. What more could you want when you are lost but a pair of walkabout warriors from down under to whom culture shock is mothers milk. I tell them where I am staying.

They do the obvious thing that I was for some reason incapable of and ask the first man walking by where it is. He speaks a little English and takes us to the end of the road. The Aus Angels come with me to the hostel door and wait until I am safely inside. I can hardly talk and so do not get their names or arrange to meet with them later, which I very much regret as they saved my vegetarian bacon.

It has been an early start today and with the time difference in Morocco it is still only 9 am. It feels like 3 weeks since I left France and I am exhausted. I am led into the cool air of the courtyard of the "riad" where I am to stay.

It is like stepping into a soothing dream. The courtyard is covered with a glazed roof three floors above it. In the centre is a white marble fountain in a circular pond. It sounds like a mountain stream. Mosaic covered columns reach to the second floor and support a landing that forms a gallery on all four sides of the courtyard. Moorish shaped carved wooden doors lead into bedrooms off the landing. Every inch of the walls and floor are decorated in jewel and gilt coloured blue and yellow mosaic. It is unbelievably pretty and my eyes have a hard time taking it all in, there is so much loveliness . The cool calm quiet and opulence is such a complete contrast from the dusty crumbling facades of outside.

My room is directly off the courtyard. I go through double doors into what must surely be the bedroom of a Moroccan princess. A cast iron double bed draped in azure blue satin stands invitingly at one end of the room, wooden armchairs with padded leather seats are in between. Moroccan sofas covered in the thickest most sumptuous fabric I have ever seen offer another reclining option at the far end of the room.

The mosaic of the courtyard is continued through here. It is a riot of carved stone and gilded woodwork. It is all so pretty and so big, about 20 times the size of my tent and joy of joys I have my own Moroccan blue tiled enormous bathroom complete with robe, slippers and fluffy towels This is really is hotel rather than hostel.

I don't unpack but prop my pack beside the bed. I lie down on the bed and can't quite believe how comfortable it is . Real pillows and everything. I fall asleep instantly. I wake up 5 hours later. I feel horrified that I am in Morocco for the first time in my life and I have spent five hours of daytime exploring hours asleep. I get up, shower and go in search of water to drink.

The alleyways that leads out to the main road are not named and I am worried I won't find my way back. I try to fix the twists and turns in my mind, but they pretty much just fall right out straightaway. I don't know how I do it but I find my way to the souk.

It is like entering another world within another world. The alleyways become narrower again and they are filled with people, donkeys, children and cats. I walk past stalls selling butternut squash the length of my leg, sacks of coloured spices, and huge plates of sticky little pastries piled up a metre high. The scent of fresh mint is strong as there are barrow loads of it being sold.

This doesn't quite cover up the stench of entrails and bloodied bits of animals that are on the counters of the numerous little butcher's shops. I see goat's heads and what I think might be two enormous tongues. I try not to look. Dozens of little skinny cats lurk by these shops hoping for scraps.

As I walk through the narrow twists and turns of the souk, hoping blindly that I can find my way back, I get the sensation like I have taken mind altering drugs, the whole souk moves towards me and there is no space to just stand and take it in calmly. I clutch my bag to my side and hope that it is not really inappropriate for me to be here on my own.

I duck in to a little shop selling pottery. A young tall man is in attendance. I ask the price of a bowl that I don't have room to take home. 45 dirham. This seems like a bargain and I nearly buy it, because space or no space I am a pottery whore.

He asks if I like embroidery. I reply that I do. Before I have a chance to think it through he is out of the shop and tells me to "follow me", and I do. From the narrow thouroughfare of the souk he turns down a little side alley with no shops and no one along it, he takes several twists and turns. I am convinced he is taking me to a place where I will be kissing goodbye to my kidney. I wonder if I can bargain with them to whip off a few kilos of fat at the same time if I promise not to struggle.

We enter a smart showroom with tablecloths and napkins on the wall. A man comes over with a woman who has a large needle in her hand. Fortunately it's not attached to a syringe, but a piece of cloth. They show me the cloth and the thread and explain how it is "the best quality". It is all very pretty and the sort of souvenir I would like to take home. I ponder buying it and posting it home. He tells me the tablecloth and napkins are 2000 dihram. I stop pondering and make my excuses.

Pottery shop guy takes me back and I say goodbye. I go further down the souk and stop to look at a sign outside a mosque.

Pottery shop guy appears behind me, he has been following me. He says I can go in and it's worth a visit. So I do.

When I come out he is still there, he becomes my unofficial guide for the rest of the afternoon and we walk miles covering the Jewish quarter, royal palace and huge parts of the souk. My camera card is full so he takes me to three different shops before we find the right sort. I say I need to get on the internet and he takes me to an internet café. He invites me to his house for dinner but I politely refuse. He is quite insistent but the earlier memory of goat heads persuades me to stick to my guns. I hope I haven't missed out on a great opportunity. If I was with someone else I would do it but I am still a little Morocco shy to go by myself. He offers to meet me the next morning and show me around some more.

That evening I am snacking on some dates I bought earlier in the souk, I look down on my lap and there is a worm wriggling about on my thigh. My first thought is, "Where has it come from?" My second thought is "And how many have I eaten?"

Then another thought enters my head, maybe this is a tapeworm, the sort that makes you thin. A sense of euphoria rises slowly up inside me . Now I have license to binge eat for ever. I will have to push everyone out of the way at the bakery and yell "make way, lady with a tapeworm coming through". I dance around the room for a few minutes giving thanks to a God that I don't believe in and wonder if I will ever stop grinning Rocking the Kasbah The next morning I wake up to the sound of women chattering. The hotel kitchen is next to my room and I can hear three female voices talking constantly to each other as they get breakfast ready. It is a very homey sound and I would love to go in the kitchen and join them. I have breakfast of an egg and some yummy sort of bready pancakes with honey. They serve freshly made orange juice and it is just the most delicious juice I have ever drunk.

I chat to some of the other guests. There is a Polish couple who live in Dublin. They have just spent two nights out in the desert staying in a tent with Berbers. They tell me how they rode camels and saw the stars at night and then got up early climbed to the top of a sand dune and watched the sunrise. I am so annoyed with myself for not having organised something like that before I came here and now I don't have enough time left here to do it.

I have to do something.

So I decide to hire a car and drive out to the desert myself. The hotel Manager gets wind of my plan and says she knows someone who can rent me a car. Half an hour later someone arrives with a white Dascia. I ask several times nervously if it is in " bonne etat" and she assures me it is. I have no map but I have the name of a town to head for. The car hire people point me in the right direction and I'm off.

I am completely terrified. Once, I drove back from Bristol to Dorset and was just thinking was lovely countryside it was when I entered Torquay. I have also driven back from Coventry to Dorset and ended up at Scratch Wood Services at the bottom of the MI. I am no good at directions. So setting off by myself in Africa with no map, seems a little ... foolhardy. I drive out through the medina where old women sit at the side of the road imploring me to take them with me. Children and donkeys are everywhere and I just have to push on through slowly hoping I don't kill anyone. I realise I am talking to myself as I hear my surprised, excited voice saying "Bloody hell, I really am adventurous" As I leave Fez I seriously wonder if I will ever return.

As soon as I am out of the walls of the medina, the Moroccan landscape opens up, and it is vast. Huge open spaces of golden and brown rolling nothingness.

Not far out of Fez I come to a small and very busy town. There is an unmanned donkey walking in the road ahead of me. I do not have the confidence to overtake it so loiter behind it for a while. It shows absolutely no intention of getting out of the way, so eventually I overtake it.

I have with me 2 litres of water, my mobile phone and some local cash and Euros. I am hoping that if I break down or get lost that one or a combination of these things will help get me out of a spot.

It is very hot today and I chug the water as I drive. Consequently an hour later I am bursting for the loo. I arrive in a small village and pull over in front of a bar with about 30 little dark skinned men sat outside drinking mint tea. I have spent most of my working life being "the only woman in the building" but here I am still very conscious of being in the minority and this makes me feel uncomfortable. I do not have the guts to go into the bar.

Next to it is a pharmacy, I pop inside to ask if there is a bar or café where I can use the loo. Three women wearing the hajib and pristine white coats sit behind the counter.

One woman lifts the counter top and gestures for me to walk through. She takes me through the back to a store room. In the corner is a narrow cabinet. "This is the toilet" she says. I squeeze my way into it. It is a hole in the ground. I have a real problem with these kind of "toilets" I can't actually bring myself to look at them. I just squint my eyes and open them enough so I can see where I am but not enough so I can actually see anything if you know what I mean. There is an empty plastic bottle in the hole. I try to take it out but it doesn't seem to want to budge, I am worried that it's not supposed to come out so I leave it. I wriggle my trousers down and kind of half squat and try to put my legs as far apart as my clothing and the cubicle will allow, now I don't know if I am made differently from other women, but my wee come out forwards not straight down, so,in a squatting position this makes it come out in the perfect position to soak your semi lowered clothing. If you lower your clothes all the way they sit on the wet floor and you can't put your feet very far apart. So I start weeing, and did I mention that I was bursting, I am like a camel. I can take on literally litres and litres of drink and hold on for hours, but when I have to go it is like the bursting of a dam. I had drunk two litres of water and it all bounces off the plastic bottle in the hole and ricochets around the cabin until I am just paddling in it in my flip flops. When I leave I nearly slip over because my feet are so saturated with my own urine. I hope the nice pharmacy ladies who were kind enough to let me mess up their toilet don't see it running down my splattered calves.