Like other outposts of British sensibility, Gibraltar extols its identity and ties to the mother country. Spanish and the euro give way to English and the sterling, although drivers keep to the side of the road.
The bulk of commercial shipping emanates from across the bay in Algeciras. Note the number of boats plying the waters. Gibraltar is not Europe’s southernmost point. That distinction falls to Tarifa, nearby, where the Mediterranean flushes into the Atlantic (center left in the second picture). The shortest crossing to Africa is by way of Ceuta, a Spanish enclave in Morocco. This other anachronism (Spain also controls Melilla near the border with Algeria) has become a fortified city of late. As the first point of entry into the EU, Ceuta is the jumping board for border-free travel all the way to Finland.
The region is a hotspot where tensions in the Arab world can funnel into Europe. In February, al-Qaeda militants kidnapped two Austrian tourists in Tunisia. The pair has been moved to Algeria and then to Mali while two deadlines for ransom and other demands have passed. Morocco and Tunisia appear more stable than Algeria where Islamists pressure the political process. Still, porous borders do little to restrict extremism to one nation.
Unrestricted travel between EU member countries epitomizes the noble vision of a continent where residents may move to other countries without justification. Since President Bill Clinton championed the North American Free Trade Agreement, the U.S. insists on pacts that permit goods and jobs, but not people, to move across borders. Even as it cites its leader’s famous exhortation to “break down that wall” as the reason for the fall of the Berlin Wall, the country erects a fortification on its southern border. The wait time to enter the country from Mexico and even Canada can, at times, exceed one hour.
In the wake of the terrible destruction of World War II, French and German leaders initiated talks about cooperation and eventual free movement between the two countries instead of revenge. Today, one can speed from Germany across the Rhine and be greeted with a “Bienvenue en France” sign but no border controls.
From my perch, Africa pulls on a cloud cover for an anti-climactic transition. Nevertheless, I mark the occasion of my first trip to the continent. Less than an hour later, the snowcapped Atlas Mountains frame the landscape. Since a child, I have been fascinated by the mountain range that arcs across the Maghreb. These are not mere hills: not far from Marrakesh, Jbel Toubkal reaches 4167 meters, plenty high to get dumped on in winter. (In Algeria’s deep south, 2000 kilometers from Algiers and in the middle of the Sahara near the Nigerian border, rise the abrupt Hoggar Mountain range, a desert island with peaks topping 3000 meters.)Within minutes of landing at Marrakech Menara, I learned of a ski area in Oukaīmden! The ski resort has, I read, a top elevation of 3274 meters, a vertical drop of 1013 meters, seven lifts and that ”a ride on a donkey accesses some impressive steeps and chutes.” Way to go Morocco! Read this funny account of a day on the slopes in Africa.
The boisterous street scenes that engulf me as I ride into town – a percolating brew of wandering pedestrians, overburdened and noisy motorbikes, weaving cars and trucks, tourists aboard calèches, sluggish donkey carts, all at various stages of reverence for the rules of the road – will accompany me throughout my four days in Marrakech.
On a return journey from Istanbul five years ago, I switched planes in Vienna and got a new seat mate, a French woman who had ambled for two weeks in the Jordan desert. She shared her love for Arab countries and Morocco in particular. We met later in Paris for coffee and a movie - a Moroccan one at that. I owe my presence in the country today to her evocation.
The width of the street is far too narrow to accommodate a car. It forces my driver to drop me off a few feet from my riad, whose imposing black door and brass knocker is blocked by two donkeys. Without the private shuttle arranged by the riad, I cannot imagine how I would have located it. The Dar Vedra is within the medina, a dense warren of narrow lanes built in 1062 by the Almoravids and razed the following century by the next Berber rulers, the Almohads. Arab cities often have an old town called medina. The word itself simply means town: Marrakech, like New York, is a medina.The term now applies to the historical parts of the modern cities, where architectural styles and urban planning remain anchored in 12th century traditions. Typical hotels exist in Guéliz, l’Hivernage and La Palmeraie, the nouvelle ville districts of Marrakech, I sought a riad within the fortification of the medina. It was not an easy task with a month’s notice. March and April are desirable months in Marrakech when temperatures are pleasant. In summer, it is impossibly hot and air conditioning is the privileged province of luxury establishments.
Riads are traditional homes that have been converted to bed-and-breakfasts. From the outside nothing distinguishes them from other drab residences. Public display of wealth (and of affection – more on that later) do not win over Muslim hearts. This mindset results in buildings not only far from the ostentatious McMansions popular in the U.S., but so inconspicuous as to appear neglected.
Beyond the threshold of massive doors lie gracious homes. French owners Sébastien and Didier restored an 18th century residence with six rooms decorated with Moorish accents and a restful lounge laid out around a verdant inner courtyard with two frolicking turtles. I was able to secure room 6, the last available, through an online reservation with Hôtels et Ryads, a Paris agency that books stays in Morocco. The properties I had contacted directly were either full (never more than a few rooms in riads) or too pricey. All rely on a cumbersome reservation process that requires faxing booking details, but Hôtels et Ryads accepted my online booking and credit card deposit.
Sébastien showed me around and even if my room was small, I felt at home among its subdued décor, the sober tadelakt enhancing the kilims, wrought irons and copper touches. Before I set out on my voyage of discovery deep inside the medina, Sébastien offered a map with the caution that many derbs, or alleys, would not be on it. He accompanied me part of the way to Djemaa el Fna, a simple but valuable step to orient me in a world where a visual riot confounds the senses and where streets seldom have names.
Guide books recommend a dusk visit to the tumult of Djemma el Fna, alive with dozens of food stalls and street performers. It was mid-afternoon and I could not wait until nighttime for my introduction to the rituals of Africa’s busiest public sphere. Sébastien set me free in front of two public telephones that would act as a private landmark. I followed rue Fatima Zohra, dodging all manners of transportation conveyances. Moroccans do not divide private and public space in the way Westerners do. Shopkeepers conquer the sidewalk and their customers spill onto the street. Residents come out to chat, idle, smoke and drink tea, all in close proximity and in languid nonchalance. To stroll down the street is to absorb a bustling humanity.
Which made me quite aware of my surroundings when I stopped to withdraw the equivalent of my neighbors’ weekly wages from an ATM. The freefall of the U.S. dollar against major currencies over the past seven years (quiz: what event is that depreciation tied to?) is well documented. That the mighty greenback has also managed to shed 22 percent of its value against the Moroccan dirham in the last three years should give us pause. The exchange rate in mid March 2008 is 7.32 dirhams (abbreviated MAD) to the dollar.
Moments later, a keen and inquisitive local offers to take me to the tannery, a destination made worthier today, he assures me, by the presence of Berbers. I decline, several times, and explain that I am not all that interested in tanners, be they Arabs or Berbers.
Ten minutes after leaving the riad, I emerge onto Djemaa el Fna, a circus of activity even at this time of day. Identical orange juice stands compete for the thirst of curious, whose attention diverts to henna artists, storytellers, gnaoua musicians, snake charmers and assorted hustlers.
We abandon the wide expanse of the misshapen square for dark and narrow alleys in the souks. Hundreds of stalls hawking every craft under the sun crowd each other out. Tree branches or nets spread out over the alleys allow only the faintest natural light. Marrakech was once at the crossroads of Saharan and African trade routes, but these wares arrive nowadays on trucks. No romanticized camel caravans for me.
Possibly because he cannot stop telling me how safe it is and how friendly Moroccans are, I rapidly lose interest in the distant tanneries. It takes a couple rounds of negotiations, but he eventually drops the destination from his itinerary, although not before calling me a son of a bitch and pulling aggressively on my shirt.
I have no idea where I am but I am determined not to follow my censured chaperone back to Djemaa el Fna. It soon becomes evident that I am lost but I am disinclined to ask a shopkeeper for direction, lest that acknowledgement brand me as easy prey for another round of tannery exploration. I am not sure how to approach men under djellabahs or women under burkas.
The map remains folded in my hand because I know it will not help. Luckily I spot a man dressed in a business suit and carrying a briefcase. I reason that he is unlikely headed to the tannery – or down a cutthroat alley – and set out to follow him at a respectable distance. I lose him at Rahea Kedima and even though I can now see the minaret of the Koutoubia Mosque towering above the square, I can’t find the way to it.
All roads lead to Rome, eventually. Back in the cacophony of Djemma I am relieved and oddly feel at home having survived a rite of passage. Thou shall get lost, unwary visitor!
After a nap at the riad, I proceed to investigate the aisles of the Aswak Asalam supermarket immediately outside Bab Doukkala, one of the gates (bab) in the five-meter high, 19-km red stone fortification around the medina that gives Marrakech its nickname of red fortified city – al hamra. The magnificent Granada monument bears the same name in Arabic, but we know it under a corrupted form: Alhambra. Getting there is half the fun: I steady my resolve not to get run over as I circumnavigate Place Mourabiten and dodge the usual maelstrom of road denizens.
Two women from the states who opted for a side trip before a wedding (not theirs) in Spain have taken residence at Dar Vedra. We talk into the night, share our experiences and head out once more to nighttime Djemma, now packed with food stalls. Storytellers attract big crowds, but I don’t speak Arabic and, regrettably, neither do they.
After breakfast at the riad’s third-floor terrace where I munched on fruits, coffee and behgrir to the sound of the adham from the neighborhood mosque, I decide to walk to the ONCF train station with the dual purpose to spend some time (quieter, hopefully) ambling around the modern district of Guéliz and to get a valid phone card from the gas station where I purchased a defective one last night. On the short stroll to Bab Doukkala, I pass merchants with food stuffs for local people. I pause in front of a goat’s head and at a stall where plucked chicken rest on an unrefrigerated countertop, eyed suspiciously by their live brethren in cages, already defeated. By selecting a live animal, however, the Moroccan customer eats fresher meat than we do in Western markets where foods travel days from the slaughterhouse to the supermarket. Feral cats lounge about waiting for the knife to fall.
The guys at the gas station tell me to take my claim to Maroc Telecom, which happens to be adjacent to the post office on my way to the train station. At each intersection I march, brave and brazen, into the fray of relentless traffic. Between them, the streets of Guéliz are pleasant and come with sidewalks.
The ticket to Casa (Dar el Baīda in Arabic) costs me 84 MADs, a fair price for a 3½ hour journey. Across Place Haīle Sélassié stands the regal Théatre Royal. The cop in the picture came over to ask whether I took a picture of him.
Never.
After picking up stamps and hearing from Maroc Telecom that I have to trek to yet another office, I retreat to the elegant Grand Café de la Poste for an alfresco lunch on the terrace under a cloth umbrella. It is a restful stop in a district of new constructions. The Café’s pedigree goes back to 1925, built during the French protectorate (King Mohammed V negotiated independence in 1956). A postcard shows the building, standing alone near a dirt road that would become Boulevard Mohammed V and sport a MacDonald’s that I should have visited but did not.
Ever willing to carve a new path, I elect to return to the riad by way of Bab Nkob and city hall. After only a day, I was absorbing the lay of the land.
Locating the Palais de la Bahia wasn’t too hard. A good thing, too, because had I followed the instructions from a New York Times article on the sprawling 19th century digs, I would have ended up in Bahia, Brazil. The palace housed a grand vizier, his entourage of four wives, 24 concubines and countless children. It is a peaceful retreat from the craziness of the medina, although the parade of tour groups dampens the tranquility a bit. Far from me to knock them because in the absence of informative signs, I tagged along discreetly, listened to the spiel and learned about the history. The careful, elaborate interiors stand in absolute contrast to the unadorned facades.
The cold I caught in the Alps still makes me cough in spite of regular intakes of medicine. The dust and pollution (catalytic converters have not landed yet) do not calm my lungs, no doubt. The temptation to indulge in a hammam at the legendary (and fully booked) Bains de Marrakech is irresistible, but Sébastien suggested instead that I bathe at Les Jardins de la Koutoubia, an equally delicious spa.By day two I had already walked past the property several times. Its outside appearance and lack of sign give no hint of the opulence inside. One word to the doorman (an indication this was no ordinary rundown building) and I was ushered in a muted world of refined elegance. The view of the hotel lobby, richly furnished in dark woods, and its leafy courtyard spreads out below the entrance. Tall columns border a covered walkway’s high ceiling and delineate a central pool with underwater lighting. Having to walk down a few steps reinforces the sense of arrival into a new dimension.
The décor is sober and peaceful but not cold or clinical. The spa attendant is a stylish Senegalese woman who spoke French, English and Arabic. After a “ritual hammam” at the underground spa where I was soaped and scrubbed before buckets of water rained down on my head, I treated myself to a gentle Moroccan massage. Like the bull’s tail offered to the matador, the glove used for the gommage was mine to take home.
The new Jardins de la Koutoubia has but a few more months of tranquility before the reopening of La Mamounia, a legendary property since 1922 that has welcomed the notables of the world who have fawned over its exotic charms and succulent exceptions. Such establishments – and Marrakech does not lack five-star hotels – cater to visitors who disembark on the shores of the Third World to coddle their Thousand and One Night fantasies in the most lavish expression. The soulful infusion seldom transcends the joyful participation in the sorrows of the world.
Alfred Hitchcock holed up here in the 1950s while filming “The Man Who Knew Too Much.” I saw the movie before setting out for Europe. The scenes shot in the medina could have been captured yesterday.
Tempted as I was to linger with a cocktail around the pool now bathed in twilight hues, I saved my thirst for the Comptoir Darna, a trendy restaurant recommended by Sébastien, my trusty agent on the town.The ramparts looked beautiful under warm spotlights with benches spaced every 50 meters occupied by young couples in the gentle throes of amorous discourse, replicating a Moroccan version of a restrained Lovers Lane. In the shadows of the darkened city, hands were held, bodies were furtively touched. Tentative and innocent as they are, these almost public displays of affection would not be welcome under the transparency of daytime. The prohibition extends emphatically to same-sex couples, although male friends often walk about hand-in-hand or with one arm wrapped around the other’s shoulder.
The Comptoir is a sumptuous affair, far from its humble counter namesake. The restaurant occupies a glamorous Hivernage street. Its terrace and dining room benefit from dark woods and suffused lighting. The menu offers traditional Moroccan dishes and international specialties in a creative fusion. While I dined on a delectable meal of briouates, roasted lamb shoulder and pastilla, musicians played softly on the steps of the stairs leading to an upstairs club.
The restaurant’s Website begins with an animated flyover that skirts a minaret at the last minute. It is an apt metaphor for a hedonistic temple that dodges social and religious codes. Unmarried couples sit together and might even enjoy alcohol, situations that would be awkward or prohibited in businesses patronized by Moroccans.
I had great hopes to drive to the Drâa Valley and explore its kasbahs and ksars. The road over Tizi n’Tichka (2031 meters) promised outstanding Atlas scenery before plunging to Ouarzazate. The attraction was to check out Kasbahs and ksars in the pre-Sahara landscape, and to push all the way to the Erg Chigaga dunes near the end of the road at M’Hamid and the Algerian border.
The famed Paris-Dakar race rushes through this otherworldly terrain. Or used to. The rally hasn’t started from Paris in several years and the 2009 installment will bypass Europe and Africa altogether for an Argentinean/Chilean endurance test.
My own drive to Ouarzazate would have taken a good four hours (for 200 windy kilometers, not quite like the haunting scenes of "Babel," filmed nearby, but still) and it was unrealistic to suggest such itinerary in one day. But the Erg Chigaga pictures stir an urge to go play in the Sahara. I will have to study how a guide can take me there on the back of a camel.
Still in need of fresh air and calm, I hired a grand taxi to get to the Ourika Valley waterfalls. Petit taxis ply city streets and their grand brothers take you between urban areas. This likable adventure proved to be thoroughly forgettable as an impossible quest for authenticity within the tourist machinery. My driver was a pleasant man and he never insisted we linger at the Berber house and argan oil cooperative. I enjoy the educational component of these stops but they came with an even greater commercial impulse. The thoughtful offer of tea is not disinterested; a small oil bottle fetched a preposterous 250 dirhams.
As soon as we pulled into Setti Fatma, a swarm of guides encircled the taxi to offer assistance. My driver said I did not have to hire one, but …He steered me to Hassan, a sympathetic young man whom I understand to be his preferred guide. Seeing no trail sign, I thanked my good fortune. Within seconds, I could spot a half dozen other tourists-cum-guide negotiating the trailside drink stands and vendors (“It doesn’t hurt the eyes to look”) who hawk their wares.
A whole of 15 minutes later we reached the base of the first waterfall (the extent of my fee) where a restaurant with patio also greeted us.Back in the village, I passed on the restaurant my driver recommended – the best, he assured, among the 20 or so that line the creek. The Toubkal National Park (showcasing the tallest peak in Morocco) begins here, but a trip to the commerce of the Ourika Valley is far from a pristine experience.
Even if it were not overpriced, avoid it.
Back at the Dar Vedra by mid afternoon, I needed an antidote to the morning fiasco. I found it unexpectedly at the Ali ben Youssef Medersa. Unexpectedly because I stumbled onto the Koranic school after I missed several key intersections. Many of the shops close on Fridays and the lesser amount of visual distractions made it a tad easier to navigate the streets.I ignored the admonition (“It’s closed!”) of a man whom I imagine would have gladly taken me to the tanneries. The medersa (“madrassa” in classic Arabic; Moroccans speak a dialect) was already two centuries old when it became an important Islamic college under Saadian rule in the 16th century. Spartan student cells line a central courtyard decorated with intricate cedar, tile and plaster details. The intricacies and splendor of the architecture command attention. Keyhole doors link corridors around the common areas in the former school.
Again, I tagged along groups and listened in to learn more than what the few solitary signs divulged. In centuries past, these schools fostered a spirit of intellectual inquiry. Often now they foment a radicalism that espouses an intransigent Islam orthodoxy.
I wandered the souks trying to devise a system of orientation. Several times I was forced to recognize my failure when the expected goal proved beyond immediate reach. I picked up another corne de gazelle (the first was at the medersa’s café) from a pastry vendor who offered it to me free because I only wanted one whereas he sells the pastries by the half-dozen.In the quieter alleyways, merchant were dousing the dusty pavement with water to keep gusts of winds from picking up too much dirt. A mini sandstorm enveloped Djemma el Fna when I reached it, stinging my eyes. I picked up a pair of Ray Ban sunglasses bargained down for sport from 50 to 40 MADs, and at the next merchant purchased baggies of powdered saffron and ginger. This represents my concession to shopping. Like a British woman at the riad, I found the practice far too stressful. Not the haggling, but the incessant banter that descends at the first sign of interest.
Back at night for a final visit. The snake charmers bewitch the evening throngs. I snatch another orange juice.“Tu veux du shite?” whispers a lanky dude, inconspicuously. We walk side by side, rubbing elbows. He follows his query into my drug cravings with one on my sexual preference. “Tu aimes les garçons?”
He does not believe my negative replies, but he forsakes me.
Without the proper permission from the stationmaster, I dutiful refrained from taking pictures. Never ask when you can’t deal with the answer.
I picked up a petit taxi at Bab Doukkala and settled on a 20-dirham fare to the train station. I sit up front and ignore the seatbelt. From behind a cracked windshield I study my last images of Guéliz. Since we near the station, the driver waves off a woman who was hailing him.
As soon as the train pulled out, I struck up a conversation with a young couple in my compartment when I noticed a harp and an accordion in their care. Rowshan and Tamia come from San Diego – small world – and had just returned from a few days in the desert near Zagoura. I envied them immediately. They were headed for Safi on the Atlantic coast and transferred to another train at Benguérir. I continued on to Casa, my head spinning with their stories – past and future. The pair left California last August and travelled extensively through South America before landing in Madrid and making their way south before a side trip to France. They did not anticipate to be home until summer of 2009.
They named the blog that follows their travels The Little Black Fish Off to See the World after a Persian story that recounts the adventure of a little creature that itches to see more than what’s in the pond.
“No, Mother, I'm tired of this swimming, I want to set out and see what's happening elsewhere. Maybe you think someone taught me these ideas but believe me, I've had these thoughts for a long time. Of course, I've learned many things here and there. For instance, I know that when most fish get old, they complain about everything. I want to know if life is simply for circling around in a small place until you become old and nothing else, or is there another way to live in the world?”
I did not know it when I met them, but I’ve read on their blog that they made it to the pages of the local Avignon paper, a city where I was to meet my friend Philippe the next day. Rowshan and Tamia have an eventful road ahead of them as they plan to trek through central Asia and Iran. The narrative and pictures of their Sahara adventure reminds me I have missed something. I hope I can run into them again.
My short layover left me with time for a leisure lunch in a somnolent Casa. Does Islam observe something along the lines of the Jews’ Shabbat? I would have liked to visit the Hassan II Mosque, the only one in the country that non-Muslims can enter, but its ocean promontory is too far.
The last train station before the airport is Bouskoura, without a platform and sheep grazing on the tracks. 
I marvel at the exotic destinations on the board - Conakry, Cairo, Dakar, Bamako – before swooping down the duty free shop for a €12-bottle of Pernod, which management doesn’t bother to change back into dirhams. As an edge toward an eventual devaluation, prices for hotels and pricey items are expressed in euros then translated in dirhams – but not this time. I didn't get the one with absinthe, though.
Flight attendants spray insecticide in the cabin as the plane taxies to the runway. It is not dangerous, they say, but I cover my face instinctively. In the International Herald Tribune, I read that one euro buys U.S. $ 1.5645 and fewer than 100 yen for the first time. A barrel of oil costs $111 and gold has passed $1000 an ounce.
A lot has happened in four days. New York governor Eliot Spitzer has resigned his office after acknowledging he used the services of a prostitute. Writers to the IHT’s letters to the editor section deride what I surmise is the paper’s editorial for a resignation a few days earlier. They are from Switzerland, France and the U.K. and I share their indignation. I am convinced that our moral sense is rejoicing, though.
Spaniards have handed socialists five more seats in Parliament. José Luis Zapatero remains prime minister. Before I left, I read an article in the New York Times that hinted that most were dissatisfied with the government that brought Spain liberalized abortion and gay marriage. In France, socialists are poised to pick up additional municipal posts and cantonal seats in tomorrow’s second round of voting. Paris mayor Bertrand Delanöe, socialist and gay, is all but re-elected, his victory smoothing the path to national aspirations.
Toto, we are not in America anymore. Inch'allah.
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