'He says he knows where we can go,' Simon said, seeing my hesitation.

'We can't just follow some random bloke,' I whispered, in case he understood English. 'He's just going to lead us into some alley and pull a knife out.' I groaned with real feeling. 'Oh God, all I want to do is get to Essaouira.'

But Simon had made his mind up and I didn't have the energy to argue with him, so we trudged off again into the downtown area. Our guide walked quickly through the streets, and I, never with the best sense of direction, was lost in no time. We walked purposely behind him, me muttering, 'I can't believe we're just following this bloke,' and feeling tired. He turned into one darkened deserted street after another until I felt we must be miles away from the bus station.

Finally he stopped in the middle of the road. 'There,' he said, pointing.

Ahead of us, up the street, was a flashing electric sign saying Lights. The windows of the building were blacked out but it was clearly a club or a bar of some sort. Outside, on a tiny wooden chair next to the door, sat an enormous black Moroccan man with a bald head and folded arms.

We stared at the place in horror. Our guide went up to the bouncer and they held a huddled conversation, our friend pointing back to us occasionally and whispering in urgent tones. We were beckoned over, and our guide disappeared quickly into the night without saying goodbye or waiting for thanks. Wordlessly, the Moroccan heaved himself off his chair and, with some degree of ceremony, produced a key from one of his pockets. He unlocked the door, and opened it a crack. We heard the sound of music and shouting and saw a strip of smoky darkness through the doorway. Then we were thrust inside, the door shutting somewhat dramatically behind us.

The music didn't quite squeak to a halt as we entered, but it may as well have done for the uncomfortable and ominous silence our arrival provoked. We saw all eyes, from men hunched on bar stools or bent low over pool tables, fix themselves on the two of us as their conversations abruptly died out. We walked up to the bar, two foreigners with enormous rucksacks among the smoke and the local lowlife: 'Two coffees please!' I said to the dour barman in what I hoped was a confidently jaunty tone.

We must have looked so out of place, sitting with our bags at a table, clutching our coffees tightly, surrounded by unkempt Moroccans shooting pool and-I saw with amazement-drinking beer during Ramadan. In thirty seconds our table was surrounded by most of the clientele, all pushing each other to get a place beside us. The guy who ended up next to me was frighteningly friendly, talking in broken English about football. His attempts to get a grip on English culture were inspired: 'Ah, English-fish and chips. Manchester United. Lovely-jubbley.' I kept nodding and smiling, unable to take my eyes off a huge fight between three men armed with pool cues at the back of the crowd surrounding us.

'Simon. Drink your coffee,' I said to him, gulping mine down like it wasn't boiling hot. He was engrossed in his own conversation. My new friend was busily writing down his name and address on a card-'We shall go to my house,' he was telling me, 'there is a party there. We can have some dancing, a little hashish, some wine...'

'Um, look, I'll tell you what,' I said, 'I can't tonight, but why don't I meet you here tomorrow, about midnight?' The man nudged his friends triumphantly and they sniggered.

'Okay,' he said. I reached over and downed Simon's cup, dragging him up in the process.

'Come on,' I said, 'we're leaving.'