I grip the seat in front of me as our taxi driver jerks the wheel and punches the gas. Bumpers flash, dirt plumes, and horns blare. Despite the commotion, a small girl blinks sleepily in my direction; face plastered to a rider’s back, dark hair swimming in the crosswind. I blink back and she’s gone. The anonymous blur of traffic. “You’re a pretty good driver.” Laughter bubbles up from behind the steering wheel. “In this place, you have to be.” Wear-speckled storefronts hem the narrowing street as cabs and motorcycles compete for mileage. Women in hijabs ferry children through the din of motors, while others unfurl sheets on the sidewalk to display their wares. Men speak vigorously beneath the shade of palms, pinching their beards. After more aggressive maneuvering, the cab stops and the door slides open. The smell of spices and refuse fills my nostrils. I shade my eyes from the harsh sun and step onto the courtyard, disoriented. A donkey brays nearby. “Welcome to Marrakesh!” The taxi peels off. I stand with my parter Sarah somewhere within walled ‘old city’ of Marrakech, Morocco. We stare at each other for a moment, wide-eyed and bearing goofy grins born of culture shock. Like debris amidst a queasy tide, we bob and sway as people swirl around us. Lost at sea. “Sarah…? Julius…?” We turn to meet a voice echoing over the square. An exuberant, youthful face emerges. An out-stretched hand. “Hello, I’m Walid! Sorry I’m late, other guests arrived just before you. It’s a pleasure to meet you both. Please, follow me!” He leads us through the vendor-choked corridors of the Medina, amiable and patient as we struggle with our bulky packs. A stray cat eyes us from beneath a packing cart, judging our lack of grace before performing a gossamer dive into the shadows. We continue on until Walid pauses at a a thick cedar door, plucking keys from an iron ring. After a series of heavy clicks, the door swings open. “Please, come in.” I find Walid the following afternoon, blue smoke coiling from a hand-rolled cigarette as he reposes beneath the roof-top pavilion. I ask if I can join him. “Of course! Rest easy my friend.” Smalltalk ripples gain traction, rising and crashing in waves of inquiry and response. He insists that his English needs work, but I understand him perfectly. I ask if he’s always lived in Marrakech. “No… I am from a small village South of the Atlas Mountains on the cusp of the Sahara. I am Amazigh, though you may be more familiar with the term ‘Berber’.” He’s right, I’ve only heard of the latter. A conqueror’s brand. ‘Barbarian’. Twin eddies of smoke surge from Walid’s flaring nostrils. When the fumes part, it’s not a scowl that meets my pensive eyes, but a sympathetic grin. “Don’t worry!” He laughs. “Amazigh, Berber, it really doesn’t bother me. Just call me sadiq. It means friend.” He tells me of his nomadic upbringing, scuttling the dunes of the Sahara with his brothers and camping beneath the stars. “The night sky is so beautiful out there” he says longingly, “much better than in the city.” He tells me that he came to Marrakech for university, graduated, and now works at the riad to help support his family. He can speak six languages. He says gainful employment is hard to come by. I ask if he’s ever traveled outside Morocco. For the first time during our conversation, Walid’s demeanor changes. A gulf of silence yawns between us. “I cannot. It’s very difficult. So much paperwork and no guarantee of success. It is very hard to leave Africa. In Europe they’re afraid that if you come, you won’t go. I would love to travel… But for now, it is impossible.” He sighs. “But that’s why I enjoy this job, I get to experience world from right here.” His smile resurfaces. A lighthouse keeper bound to his post, mooring foreign vessels. Post-colonial wreckage. Guilt. The following day I approach Walid again. “Amazigh. That’s what I’ll call you. I did some research last night. In English, it means ‘Free People.’ Someday, you’ll get out of here.” He clasps my hand. “My sadiq.”