Since my 20s, in times of wistful despair I have fantasized of escaping to Morocco, longing for its exoticism and anonymity. Now that I’m 70 years old, I finally got it together to go there.
Morocco is a country of desert white sands, snowcapped mountains, shimmering seas, and hectic cities filled with Medinas. It’s a majority Muslim country but still a modern one. Most of the waiters in restaurants are men. Not sure what that means. It’s a country to walk in. There are endless streets, markets, beaches, paths and alleyways to walk along. You will have to keep alert to avoid the constant buzzing presence of daredevils on motorbikes that seem to be coming around every corner at speeds that are capricious and cavalier. The hotels are usually called Dars or Riads and they all have a look of a harem. A traditional Moroccan Riad is a home with multiple stories centered around an open-air courtyard with a fountain. Riads were once the estates of the wealthiest, colonialists, merchants, and courtiers. The building is shaped like a rectangle with different rooms on each side. Riads are a part of traveling to Morocco, and no visit to the country is complete without staying in one. Intricate tilework abounds. Arched porticoes made from stucco and adorned with gracefully draping fabrics, and curtains. The rooms are long and narrow, with windows that go up from the floor to 20-foot-high ceilings. The staff at the hotel desk, in the restaurants and elsewhere, have a welcoming, energetic, eager-to-please nervousness that makes you want to hug them, but don’t do it right away. They work diligence and dedication.
Morocco is close to the Earth. The bricks, tile, the stucco all come from the ground. You can tell by the color. Many buildings are constructed from the red dirt and gravel compressed into bricks. This has been the way for 1000 years. There is a strong sense of the ancient juxtaposed with modernity. New public buildings in the cities have a gleam to them, but still the decor is filled with the intricate, ancient patterns that you see in the fabric, crockery, and tile of traditional Moroccan artisans. Like many “emerging” countries there’s a strong contrast between those who still live in a world set centuries ago, and the modern, well-tailored, urban denizens. There are still horse drawn carts that make their way through the alleyways of the cities and the open landscape of the countryside. The terrain ranges in color from the nearly bleach white of the deserts to the deep red that we so often associate with Africa.
Arabic is the primary language followed by Berber, French and English. You can see the devotion to Islam in the design of furniture, clothing, woodwork, and stonework. The mosques in the cities are just as grandly ornate as the Cathedrals of Europe.
During Ramadan, the people who work every day in restaurants, hotels, medinas and farms are just a little less patient because of their daily fast. Cab drivers are more likely to break out in fistfights. In general however, the population is warm, accommodating, generous, and anxious to sell a wealthy Westerner whatever it is that they can make a Dirham from.
As a country, it doesn’t seem quite as poor as certain other African nations. But it may be a lot closer than it looks. From the main streets there are alleyways that go off into a maze of cool shaded neighborhoods. This is where the true authenticity of Morocco is, at least in the cities. Sometimes there are just a few people in these alleys quietly going about their business, other times there are massive marketplaces hiding away in the middle of a maze of alleyways like the Jewish spice markets in Marrakesh. It’s easy to walk forever in a city like Marrakesh. Young boys play together in large groups well past dark. Maybe the women of the house throw them out until it’s time for bed.
Jemaa el-Fnaa is the big main square in Marrakesh where you can hear musicians, watch dancers, listen to story tellers, or make friends with a cobra. There are plenty of people who are eager to sell you things and they’ll be sure to ask for a great deal of money with the expectation that you will bargain them down. They will often approach with a greeting, “Hello Sir. How are You? Where are you from?”.
There is no shortage of light skinned visitors, particularly in the winter, when the weather is gray and cold in New York, London, Berlin, Oslo, or Copenhagen.
The tourists will discover that Allah has limited the number of places where you can actually drink liquor. It’s a Muslim majority country and most restaurants don’t serve booze. It’s OK to bring it with you to a hotel and some supermarkets will sell wine and beer. Except during Ramadan.
Everything gets quieter once you get up to the high Atlas Mountains. The roads twist and wind up into the small towns.
Imlil is charming little hiker town with lots of small cheap restaurants, and at least a dozen used gear stores. There are aggressive men in the streets anxious to sell Berber apparel and rugs. The desperate owners of these stores will follow you down the street shouting “come look in my shop “, “where are you from? It is important support local people”
I had room on the top floor of a Riad that had an absolutely breathtaking view of the snowcapped Atlas Mountains. Many people visit Imlil in order to climb Jab Toubkal the highest mountain in northern Africa. The international crowd comes here to hike. There are as many Americans as Europeans. Give them a place to hike, and Americans will show up. The hills are steep, and it is a joy to zig and zag up and down the maze of trails that will take your breath away. My riad was nearly 6000feet above sea level and the air was thin right from start.
Returning from the mountains, I spent the night in Marrakesh at a secluded little Riad down three alleyways from any street with cars. My driver could take me no farther than a quarter mile from the riad. From there, I had to find my way through Medina crowds and buzzing swarms of mosquito-like motorbikes only to get repeatedly, confused and lost in a maze of alleyways. Lacking reliable cell service, it was difficult to pinpoint my destination with a GPS. With the help of two different shopkeepers, I was finally able to find the right alleyway and then find the next alleyway by asking still other people, my GPS now worthless, until I finally came to the registration desk at the Riad. I got a little grouchy with them and suggested they put up a few more signs to enable an exhausted, seventy-year-old man to somehow find his way to the accommodation. I later learned that there are usually a gaggle of old guys with carts who are happy to take your bag and lead the way for a fee. Sometimes the riad will arrange for a cart guy to meet you.
After settling in, I began to enjoy myself. I had a rooftop room. The rooftop itself was on two levels and each of them had a little pool that, when I visited in late February, were too cold to swim in. There were numerous lounge chairs that I could settle in and take the kind of nap that energizes me and cheers me up after harrowing trip. That night was the Saturday before the beginning of Ramadan and the main square was just another quarter mile through the Medina from my accommodation. I brought my fiddle out and I sat in with three different Gnawa bands that were playing in square. The musicians were friendly and gracious, and instead of them paying me, I left them a little tip. The rhythm of the music is intense and trance like. The group singing brings together a feeling of brotherhood. Women do not normally play that kind of music in public. By the end of the night, I was howling along with them, scratching away of my fiddle and having a hell of a time. I was exhausted after sitting in with three different bands. As soon as they saw my violin, they invited me to play. They would pull up a chair make a gesture like someone playing violin as a jester to invite me. Back at the riad, I ordered some wine from the bar. Very few hotels have liquor on site, but this was one of them. I ordered a cheap bottle of Moroccan red and drank it while staring up at the stars and sniffing the night air.
The next day, I headed out with my driver to the oceanside ancient city of Essaouira slightly northeast of the Canary Islands. The raw Atlantic Ocean comes into the harbor, making it a haven for surfers. It’s also a fantastic place for people who like to lounge on the beach or drink in the bars along the promenade. There are copious local people trying to sell everything from baked goods, to artwork, to bottled water, to camel rides.
The smell of the sea has always been like a narcotic to me. I immediately melt into relaxation. The seafood plates are ridiculously generous. I enjoyed the calamari and the prawns. The eels with their teeth and eyes still intact seemed a little threatening. The service is grand as always, and the cafés are filled with mostly Europeans from France and England. Due to my white skin a local will always approach me and speak in either French or English. This is fine with me because I find Arabic a very difficult language to learn. I feel as if I’m on a holiday, rather than an adventure as I did during the first week. I’ve got nothing against this. In fact, I booked the hotel room for an extra night.
Fès is another story entirely. Marrakech has a vibrant tourist industry with the streets buzzing 24/7 with pleasure seeking visitors from the North. Fez reveals the medieval, ancient times of Morocco. There is a labyrinth of narrow streets and alleyways. The 1200-year-old walled medina of Fez, with its 9454 cobbled alleyways and 300 mosques, is both the world's largest living medieval Islamic city and its largest pedestrian zone. Thankfully motorcycles are restricted from disrupting the peaceful progress of pedestrians. This is a relief after being in Marrakech for a while.
The tightness of humanity packed into small spaces during Ramadan brings out a special surliness in people. Men are seen arguing and sometimes breaking out into fist fights. Taxi drivers will become agitated with each other concerning the order in which they pick up fares. Adolescent schoolboys on the way home from school break out in rumbles. Due to the division of sexes in Morocco boys grow up looking to each other for human closeness, and they become much more emotionally involved than they do in other parts of the world. Feelings are easily hurt and when the stomach gets empty, the temper heats up.
My wife had joined me at this point in the trip. The managers of our riad had insisted over and over that we needed a guide to truly see everything important without getting lost. I was skeptical. I imagined that we would be led from one historic sight after another and then spirited to businesses owned by the guides relatives where we would be given the hard sell on rugs, leather goods, spices, and ceramics. We allowed ourselves to be taken in and ended up dropping at least $500. I have no doubt the guide got a piece of the action as I have no doubt the riad manager got a finder’s fee from the guide. This is how it works in Morocco.
On our way home we had a 19-hour layover in Reykjavik which gave us enough time to spend the night and have a morning soak at the famous Blue Lagoon.
Fagradalsfjall, a volcano that had buried the nearby town of Grindavik in November of 2024 was showing all the signs of imminent eruption and the hotel management gave us evacuation information, should there be a problem. We were happy to get home safely.
