The two-lane road we've just pulled off is choked with traffic. I swerve from side to side to make eye contact with our guide Mustapha, who is trying to make himself heard through the hordes.

"The taxi on the other side," he shouts, pointing to one of Morocco's ubiquitous grand taxis, an early model off-white Mercedes-Benz.

"Tell him you want to go to the Hotel de la Menara; 40 dirhams ($6), no more!" With that I motion to Jildou, a 27-year-old Dutch dietician, and together we brace for the crossing. An elongated bus roars past followed by a trio of motor scooters. Spotting a gap, we wade in. Once past the dividing line I simply put my hand up and continue, forcing the oncoming traffic to a halt.

I'm wearing my black jeans for the 17th straight day; the sleeves of my once-white linen shirt are rolled up, and on the bridge of my nose sits a pair of faux Ray-Bans, bought earlier in the day at the medina in the southern resort town of Essaouira.

Source: The Australian