Marrakech: a whirlwind through spice stalls, concrete dreams, and 28°C chaos

when you land in Marrakech, the air hits like a slap to the face. “eight point three four” i muttered to my phone screen, eyeing the thermometer on my weather app. it ’felt’ like somewhere between a kiln and a sauna-humidity clinging to my skin and the sun baking the red-tiled roads into a tarp. my finger moved one night through a labyrinthine souk, collisions with stallkeepers shouting ’vendredi‘ louder than anyone should have to yell. ordered beef tagine with a side of regret. woke up with a mosquito bite shaped like a tiny curse.

my buddy yusuf, who only speaks in half-sentences and three-quarter-mounted-it-backstools stunts, dragged me outta bed at dawn. “early’ he said, tossing his full-sleeve navy overalls at me like the pants were the last shipment of grenades. spent three hours charcoal-sketching the medina under a dome of cyclists, honking like angry llamas. photoshopped a raccoon into one of the mosaics later. still looking at him.

some guy in the riad next door claimed the riad founder’s spirit haunted the garden. i believe him. heard that from a bartender at a place called “casablanca’ … which is just across the square, so maybe same block. not sure if it’s true. either way, ghosts trip over that nerf-domed sun, right?

switched to night mode cuz the streetlights here are brighter than a canadian’s cellphone camera. met a poet with a beard like tangled barbed wire who recited verses about trickle-down sunburns. drunk advice: “never drink mint tea from a guy offering ’flavors’”. learned that the hard way. woke up with a second bite on my ankle. open sore. feeling luckier than alabama.

wandered into a dj studio and knocked on the door. found three guys mixing techno into a maracato band’s weddings tunes. crowd gathered, everyone had a soda can. pulled out my old toothbrush (vintage, 2015 model) and spun it into a PCR test for the crowd. how nice.

police came. no idea why. maybe they thought i was the dj. stayed anyway. ended up at the roof bar for a meal that cost less than three croissants. tried to order lamb off a menu that scored 454 outta 5 on TripAdvisor. they said ‘’y’okay, but the owner’s mum used to feed it to stray dogs ’¢’. documentation? no thanks.

if you’re bored, Casablanca’s a two-hour bus ride south. but bring earplugs. heard that from a nun at the airport. also, never trust a man in a fur hat. unless he’s selling wool.