It’s a two-hour drive south from Casablanca Airport to Marrakech through a patchwork of lush crops. Donkeys, known locally as 4 x 4’s, dot the landscape. Our driver tells us Moroccans are ‘mad as anything and love a party’. Friday, although prayer day, is more about cous cous with fifteen vegetables, recipes passed down through generations.
The dusty landscape is punctuated by a sea of red villas on the city fringe, many owned by wealthy Europeans. Once a Frenchman moved in and painted his house blue. Instructed by locals to paint it red again he refused. One night while sleeping, dozens of local men gathered with tins of red paint and painted his house red for him again. A week later, the Frenchman left Marrakech never to return.