We land in Marrakesh late at night (the only airport I’ve been to where they X-ray your carry-on bags again when you get off the plane) and hit the ground running, hopping out of a taxi to drums, swaying naked bulbs and the smoky grills of Djemaa el-Fna.

The most sprawling and famous market in Morocco thrives on a state of constant flux as scooters, bikes, cars, horse-drawn carriages spin circles around snake charmers wooing cobras and kids wooing tourists to communal tables of kebabs, snail soup, couscous and tagines — ceramic hot-pots of stew.

The first time you almost lose a leg to a speeding scooter, you realize there are no traffic lanes. There are no set prices either. Depending on your haggling skills, you may pay twice what the last guy paid for a black-market CD. (You gotta know when to laugh, when to shake your head, when to walk away).

The next day, sitting at a rooftop cafe watching it all unfold from above, I’m ready to chalk it up to the unlikely harmony of perfect chaos.

Then I see a woman on a scooter get hit by a taxi. It’s enough to knock her to the pavement. Her black burka stays on. Quick to her feet, she pops up and shakes a finger at the cab driver who gets out of his car and gives it right back to her.

A crowd gathers around, all men. She keeps at it. They go back and forth. Others intervene. A few pats on the back. They drive off and the dance begins again.

The eggman passes by, a winding tower of crates on wheels. A man in a fez tries to foist it on unsuspecting passersby. A tourist tries to take a picture of a cobra for free, quikcly realizing he’ll never get away with it.

But getting back to the cobra: Hypnotized by his eyes and intoxicated by the musical liquor, Pierre saunters right up to the serpent.

That lasts about five seconds before he gets fanged. But like old lovers (you gotta break up to make up), they eventually cuddle up together.

Just watch them tango…