It’s holiday season, and I find myself in Marrakech, far from the cold, dreary grey days of Christmas markets, glühwein, and red faces.

What I knew about Morocco—beyond their brilliant football team, olives, and argan oil—was almost nothing, despite sharing the same continent.

I expected vibrant culture, beautiful people, a warm climate, and wonderful hospitality. I found all that and more, in ways both surprising and baffling.

Travelling light has its bureaucratic snags. I was perplexed that Morocco imposes visa restrictions on fellow Africans and horrified by the cost of a tourist visa for us. But I know it’s an unwinnable battle.

The low-cost airline was surprisingly comfortable, but take my warning: never arrive in a foreign country past midnight without a SIM card and relying on public transport.

Our pre-booked private taxi driver promised to drop us close to our riad. Somehow, his little English and our basic French fell on deaf ears. He left us at the edge of the medina, waving vaguely: “This way, that way, tra la la boom—Riad El Jazouli.”

If you know a medina—the labyrinth of riads, narrow, dimly lit, derelict alleys of Marrakech—you know it’s not a place to navigate at night, exhausted, with a frightened lover.

It took less than a minute to realize we were well and truly lost. Collapsed buildings, men whispering in shadows, vagrants flashing themselves, hordes of stray cats yowling desperately—it struck terror into my partner. Her silence and iron grip snapped me awake. I prayed she wouldn’t cry. Not yet.

We knocked on lavish doors to no avail. I zigzagged after the red dot on my phone, only to hit dead ends and darker corners. The blame game started: why didn’t I insist on that fucking SIM card? Could a missing SIM be the dumb reason we ended up dead in a Marrakech medina? Fuck no. Not tonight.

Before despair won, I pounded on another elaborate door. After grunts (or curses), a sweet elderly man opened and ushered us in. He ran a guest house, heard our plight, called our riad, and said someone would come fetch us—they were literally around the corner.

We waited in silence. Color returned to my beloved’s face, though I got the silent treatment. I admit it: I fucked up. We were safe, but the near miss felt different when someone else looked to you for protection.

I’ve escaped danger before, but always alone. The stakes change when you’re shielding another.

Our hosts arrived: a quiet elderly woman and a chatty young man who translated. She’d been worried—we were late. We zigzagged through more broken alleys while he talked nonstop. I seethed at the driver’s cruelty, knowing full well how impossible the maze was. Sadist. I wished someone would investigate the depth of his anal shaft with a cylindrical object.

The boy advised a simpler route home, but every path looked equally dire to me. Finally, we reached paradise hidden behind walls of decay: Riad El Jazouli, a resplendent four-story sanctuary of ceramic, brass, tin, fabric, and wood—colorful, warm, and elegant. A calm oasis.

Breakfast was lovely and generous. Then the chaos returned.

We started the day with street food. The first stall’s host bellowed that we’d return anyway—and we did. Delicious vegetarian dishes and fish swimming in oil. Cats stared at every bite. No menu, no prices. The chef sized us up, named a figure on his phone—upmarket hotel rates—and asked for a tip. As my partner said, “We either eat or are eaten.”

It took hours to warm to downtown Marrakech’s frenzy. Jardin Majorelle was a necessary respite: exotic plants, perfect manicuring, and magical quiet amid noisy streets. Yet the iron fist of French ownership and Yves Saint Laurent loomed large. Few Moroccans enjoyed it; security and janitors muttered when we didn’t tip. How could a society not resent extraction that still feeds colonial coffers? I come from a country where a minority plundered the majority’s resources and dignity without apology. I wanted to grab a Moroccan and say, “I see your anger. I’d be furious too.” But it’s not my battle.

The souk was overwhelming: one bottleneck street lined with exquisite rugs, linen, spices, oils, and ceramics—unique treasures mixed with cheap knockoffs. Prices are abstract; negotiation is war. Sellers snatch items back if you hesitate and push you away to “think elsewhere.” I got conned on argan oil and heckled to harassment. Holding my partner’s hand marked me as easy euro-carrying prey. My excitement faded.

Getting lost again in the medina, even with Google Maps, tested patience. Two open-faced teenage girls offered help. With no Arabic and their little English, they took my new phone to navigate. My partner panicked; I didn’t. Street-smart, I clocked their circling and hidden signals and noticed that they wanted to make a dash with the phone. Part of me almost dared them to run. Sadistically, I wished to unleash unspeakable acts of violence on them, but a dead end exposed their inexperience. Reluctantly, they gave me the phone back. Disappointed, they asked for money. We laughed and walked on until some guy misdirected us. My day’s frustration boiled over; I screamed at him. Alone, I might have gone further. Time to rest.

Yet I craved more of this strange place—a real conversation, a thread that bound us together as humans. I thought food might offer it: tasting Morocco through spice and salt.

The near-fight at the market, the pushing past my partner, the harassment masked as culture, and the “hey gentleman black” and “where are you from” triggers—all synonymous with parting me from my coin. I don’t come from a haggling culture; my people carry a quiet arrogance in their wares. But a souk trader sees my loafers and manicured hair and resents our different roles. So I pay the extra euro for argan oil and shut up. We’re tied in silent, symbiotic exploitation I never signed for.

The evening turned stranger. Jemaa el-Fnaa food stalls: past snake charmers and chained monkeys, young touts accosted us like bouncers, shouting, wearing us down. We refused; they insulted us. One pushed my partner. I felt besieged, and my stress exploded—I wanted to crush his throat. I screamed curses and insults and dared him to a fight. Some tourists looked on in shock, but I didn’t care. I was ready to go to the gutter. Again, her presence stopped me. Our appetite was gone, and we drifted to quieter ground.

Sleep evaded us. Sensory overload replayed the days. I needed not to regret coming here. My beloved’s plan to escape to Essaouira was a godsend.

Three hours on a tourist bus. We craved sea breeze and calm. Essaouira delivered: gentler, far from Marrakech’s madness. Women cooperatives turning argan into products for tourists—exploitation dressed as empowerment. Eat or be eaten. I stopped fighting the current.

Here, haggling felt satisfying when I won on fresh fish and a mountain of prawns. Score leveled. The game turned oddly pleasurable.

Seafood under seagulls and cats restored me. The promenade, the vastness, and the Mediterranean-Arabic-African blend were beguiling. Calmer days in a quieter medina, Spanish-influenced architecture, and galleries soothed and fitted us into the city’s groove.

The existential horses, leashed monkeys, sick stray cats, hurled insults, and catcalls of “Shakira” at my partner—all became fabric. I still felt murderous rage at times, but I understood there’s also Bahia Palace, secret gardens, the YSL museum, and generous hosts giving unforgettable experiences.

The last days blurred into cheap delicious meals, ceramic shopping, and tea poured with finesse from impossible heights by deft hands. Alone, I wandered alleys seeking speakeasies or pristine corners for photos. No harassment, no misdirection. I felt insignificant, free to discover.

I found splendor and squalor in equal measure, beauty among ruins.

I would never see the whole of the country, but the Morocco I saw was alive: life pulsing from every stall, medina, and café. Everyone doing their best, living with purpose and duty—to family, community, country, and Allah. A quiet resilience I hadn’t witnessed in years. It touched me unexpectedly and connected me to this very, very strange place.