An unreliable representation of Marrakech, Morocco

First night in Morocco
Smoke, crowds and Arabic.
We navigated along the chaotic streets, fumes in the air, throngs of people in the crowds. People were constantly walking past me and I was dazed. The traffic was chaotic from my risk-averse point of view. (Refraining from being judgemental)
I sincerely feared for my life as we crossed (crossed? Gosh, squeezing past the cars and pleading with my heart they will slow down) the roads in the evening.
The night square was lively, and filled with people. There was a film Fest going on, and at one point the woman flashed her tits. The crowd cheered.
We got lost on the way back, it was dark and the brown alleys blended into one. The stalls, the hanging lights, the Arabic signs I could not fathom for abit, they melded into one long street. We walked and we walked, ‘this looks familiar’, ‘I think we turned this way’. We turned into a narrow alley, hoping to find number 45- and we did, except we were in the wrong lane. We rung the door bell anyway, and a lady in blue appeared. We showed her the address, and she shook her head and pointed ahead.
She led us out along the alley (Fig. 1), past the group of teenage boys gathered kicking a tin can under the dim light, out to the main streets and turned right. We followed ahead. I followed because I did not know where else and how else to go. We walked and walked and walked, and she asked in a language I could not comprehend, presumably Arabic, some shopkeeper on the way. They called the number on our lodge’s namecard, and we walked on, and then a man waved and we knew we were near. We bid our dear lady goodbye, thanked her, and I blessed humanity for all of its goodness. Navigated through the indistinguishable alleyways and reached the lodge safely, bumping into a group of men gathered at the front of our lodge’s door.
I quietly heaved a sigh of relief as I entered.

Fig. 1

dusty doors with its gracefully curled patterns


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