I landed in Marrakesh after a five-hour flight from Stockholm. It’s late afternoon in October, the light was fading, the air calm, almost welcoming. That illusion lasted thirty seconds. I met Lahcen, our rental guy, grabbed the keys, and dove straight into one of the most chaotic traffic jams I’ve ever seen.
I hadn’t driven a stick in ten years. Between relearning the clutch and trying not to crash into scooters, donkeys, and cars jammed into narrow streets, the first hour in Morocco felt like a stress test. GPS glitched out, directions blurred, and I was swallowed whole by the madness. This was exactly what I came for—total immersion without warning. But at least I wasn’t alone.
Somehow, we clawed our way through. A few scraps of French—à droite, à gauche—and the kindness of strangers pointed us toward our Airbnb. We kept repeating the directions until we saw exactly what Lahcen had described: “a big plaza full of kids playing soccer and a gate at the back.” Miraculously, we made it.
Marrakesh Score
Like Lahcen said, the moment I stepped out of the car, kids appeared, offering to guide us to the door for a tip. Within seconds, one of them flashed a thumb-sized ball of hash.
“Ten euros,” he said. I hesitated. He dropped to five.
“I’ll take the five grams for twenty,” I countered.
“I need to go get it. It will be another 15 minutes after we get to the hotel.”
We set up to meet an hour later so we could check in and grab food. He dropped us off at our stay and disappeared in the crowd. We were staying in a riad turned Airbnb. Riads are classic Moroccan buildings constructed around a central courtyard. Most rooms face …
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Author: Holly Crawford / High Times
