As we stepped out of the airport, the sight of purple mountains in the distance greeted us, reaching up suddenly from the flat, red earth that stretched out in every direction. The sun was setting, adding to the crimson glow of the land around us, as we waited for the bus to take us into the city centre.

We caught the bus to the Medina, the bustling old quarter of Marrakech, Morocco. It was fully dark by the time we arrived, and to reach the inner workings of streets and alleyways where our hostel was located, we crossed Jamaa el Fna, a large square which is apparently the busiest plaza in Africa. My head swivelled back and forth as my senses were seized by the myriad colours, lights, sounds and smells around me. Clusters of bejewelled candle holders glimmered with flames within; groups of drummers and other musicians played rhythmic songs from within tightly-knit circles of observers; mysterious glowing objects in various neon colours leaped up into the air and floated back down (what were those things?!).

There were stands and shops selling everything from dried fruits to cells phones, piles of colourful, fragrant spices to silver jewellery, incense and perfumes to sunglasses. There were also wandering salesmen, offering shoeshines and cigarettes, and wandering saleswomen too, targeting other women to have their hands decorated with henna. One tried to offer me a “free sample” with a surprising amount of force, and I had to give quite a tug to free my hand. Every once and a while a man would whisper “hashish” as he passed us by. We could hear the call of “Salam! Hola! Bonsoir! Hello!” coming from every direction, and see the waving hands and smiles of what felt like every city dweller trying to sell us something. “No, no, shukran (thank you)!”, we would call back, and continue walking, as many people kept on calling while others switched tactics and enthusiastically entreated us to come back “tomorrow” or “next time!”

Every time we pulled out our blurry little map print-out, lacking the names of most small streets, someone would offer to help us, but we were too paranoid to accept—having heard that help never comes for free—and so promptly got lost. Our hostel host had emailed us directions as well, but just one confusing sentence threw us off the scent early on and had us wandering nervously up and down the wrong street, looking for a side lane that wasn’t there. Too narrow for cars, scooters whizzed through the pedestrian crowds at dangerous speeds, and we quickly learned to get out of the way at the sound of any approaching put-put-put. The overwhelming smell of two-stroke exhaust billowed in the wake of each moped, making me cough, while my backpack straps were digging into my shoulders and my hands were cramping up from gripping my purse so tightly. We were both getting more nervous, overwhelmed, and hungry, taking it out on one another in snappy, anxious bursts. At last I worked up the courage to dust off my long-neglected French in order to ask for directions, and a friendly woman in a shop helped us get back on track.

Twenty minutes later, we had found our hostel, dumped our bags, and set out once more to find a restaurant recommended by our host which did excellent veggie tajines. We sat on a rooftop terrace bundled in our coats and sweaters, looking out over the non-stop bustle of Jamaa el Fna down below, sipping mint tea and munching tajine and couscous.

Despite feeling much better with the help of our dinner, we were both exhausted and went to bed early that night. The next day I felt more resilient, though I still found myself rather nervous while dodging motor bikes and saying “No, shukran, non, merci,” and shaking my head a hundred times a day. I find it hard enough to say no at the best of times, so it was quite exhausting. We soon realised, however, that despite the intensity of the sales pitch, people were quick to smile, and some were quite happy to help without asking anything in return, such as the shopkeeper who gave us a small bag of salt for free because we didn’t want to buy a large container.

The Medina is full of crooked, winding alleys, both open-air and covered bazaars (called souks), and the commercial areas are always packed with locals, tourists, mopeds, donkeys, etc. But as soon as you take a side street off one of the main alleys, you leave the din behind. Our hostel was located but a moment’s walk from one of the main souks, but we couldn’t hear any of the commotion from there. We usually spent a portion of the afternoon on the rooftop terrace, enjoying the sunbathed peace and quiet, and later watching the sun sink behind a the tower of a mosque in the west. The colours spilled out over Marrakech’s low skyline, and as darkness deepened, we heard the first call to prayers ring out. Morocco is a Muslim country and the call to prayers sounds at least five times a day from the loudspeakers fixed to the top of each mosque tower. It is impressive to hear the call from below and see people file into the prayer halls, removing their shoes as they enter, but to hear it from the top of a roof is something else entirely. From the ground, you really only hear the call that is closest to you; from the same level as the towers themselves, you hear all of them at once, as they boom and echo out of sync like wolves calling to each other around the city. Deep male voices chant the call in a cascade of sound; one starts, then another, and soon they are all resounding in a powerful wash of eerie yet enchanting notes from every direction, until only a few are left, then one last call all on its own, and then silence again.

We left Marrakech on Saturday morning, ambling comfortably through Jamaa el Fna, quite a contrast to the anxious manner of our arrival. The square is just as busy by day, simply lacking in the eye-catching contrast of glowing lights against the darkness. On the other hand, the sunlight reveals other sights, such as snake charmers with suspiciously docile cobras and rattlesnakes at their feet, and rows of orange juice stands that shine brighter by the light of day. There are 63 orange juice stands in total (they are numbered), and all the juice men call and smile and wave at you to buy their juice as you walk by. The prices are exactly the same in each stand, and they all offer fresh orange, lemon, grapefruit and pomegranate juice, so you often just end up going to whichever one is closest to you, keeping your eyes averted as you disappoint the vendors on either side of your chosen stand. But I have a hard time saying no, as I said, so we would have a juice at one stand only to have another one a little further along (and sometimes a third on the other side of the square).

That last morning, mulling over which orange juice stand(s) to patronize, I reflected on how grateful I was to have had the opportunity to experience this city.  Morocco is probably the most different country I have ever been to, compared to my homeland, although sometimes its market culture reminded me of Central America. One hears a lot of fearful news about the Muslim culture these days, and I don’t appreciate the prejudice that permeates much of it. However, I couldn’t help notice how nervous we both were at the beginning of our sojourn in Marrakech. Despite our aims to be critical thinkers, the fear had weaseled its way in and made us a little paranoid. Spending time in a Muslim country reminded us that the vast, vast majority of Islam followers are simply going about their own business and leaving others to go about theirs, just like the majority of people in any country around the world. Most of us just want to take care of our families, earn our living, enjoy time with our loved ones, eat good food, share a laugh, etc, and no culture deserves to be demonized because of the unbalanced few who violate the lives of others. A few days in Morocco was not only a very rich sensory experience, but a reminder that humans often react to difference with fear; however, a bit of patience not only reveals that there is not nearly as much to fear as we originally thought, but also that we’re not nearly as different.