We arrived in Zagora, the seven of us, by taxi from Ouarzazate.

It was an illegal number of passengers, so on top of the discomfort involved in sitting on a two and a half-inch space for two and a half hours, Lois had to dive on to the floor and hide under our legs every time we passed a police roadblock.

We got out at Zagora bus station, and performed the spasmodic dances of people who have been in the same uncomfortable position for too long, jerking various limbs around frantically, making 'ooh' sounds, and discovering pains in muscles we didn't even know were there. The locals standing around the dusty square, which held a few ancient buses, looked at us as if we were loonies, but unfortunately it didn't deter the usual assortment of hotel-owners, cab-drivers and salesmen from gravitating to our group and all shouting at once. It did not seem a particularly relaxing town for tourists.

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