Morocco's large north-western cities: Tangiers, Rabat, and Casablanca

Even though it's been just a week since I returned from North Africa, it already seems like months ago. Time plays funny tricks on us. Those final days in Morocco are not exactly a blur, but the memories don't seem as vibrant and deep as those from the earlier days of the tour. Once again, my theory that a trip of not much longer than two weeks will yield the most vivid impressions appears correct—or maybe Tangiers and Casablanca are just not comparable to places such as Chefchaouen or Essaouria.

The glorious sunshine that I had enjoyed in the Blue City gave way to cloudy, at times foggy, conditions, and so the drive to Tangiers, home to Morocco's second-largest port after Casablanca, was in no way spectacular or memorable. Aziz (my trusted Atlas Desert Tours driver) detoured a little on the way to my hotel to stop by Cape Spartel, where a marker lets geographically challenged tourists know which way to look to glimpse the Atlantic and which way the Mediterranean. As a matter of fact, the whole thing is a tad stupid since the Mediterranean ends at the Strait of Gibraltar, and its most narrow part lies around 20 miles to the east of Cape Spartel. Lame. I didn't see any signage to mark the fact that this promontory presents the northwestern-most point of Africa. Doubly lame.

My hotel, a modern, character-less six-story affair, was located right on Tangiers' sea promenade, about a 15-minute walk from the medina; within its confines, there are no riads or hotels that would have been suitable, and so Atlas had chosen these accommodations. That afternoon I walked through the small souq and the narrow streets of the medina, rubbing shoulders with many Spanish tourists and a steady stream of local day-trippers. I visited the very interesting Musée Dar Niaba, which illustrates well the role of Morocco during the colonial 19th century and beyond. Incidentally, Morocco had been the very first country to recognize the USA's independence, and it also became the first country in the world to harbor an official permanent consulate (namely that of the US). The Dar Niaba features other, more art-oriented exhibits as well, so for a buck I was able to tank quite a bit of culture. 

For that evening, Aziz had invited me to join him "for beer and fish." I wasn't quite sure what to make of that description, but promptly at 7:30 p.m. I arrived at the address he had given me, just a block or two from the hotel. Like in most Muslim countries, alcohol is frowned upon in Morocco, if not worse. But it exists, and it is not forbidden. As a foreigner, one can import a one-liter bottle of booze (wine, liquor, it doesn't matter, a liter is a liter), and drinks are readily available in the bars of licensed hotels, the type that generally caters to foreigners. Additionally, one can buy beer, wine, and spirits in a special section of most full-size Carrefour supermarkets; a bottle of Moroccan wine starts at about $5 (the area around Meknes is Morocco's Napa Valley) while imports command at least four times as much. Local beers (Casablanca is the best-known) start at about $2 for a 25 cl bottle, and international spirits—the same as what you'd find at your local Bubba's Liquor—will set you back some serious dirham.

Aziz had arrived earlier and been able to find a small table with two stools in the crowded local bar or pub or whatever one may want to call the establishment. Cheerfully welcoming me, Aziz immediately ordered a Casablanca for me, to add to the two empty ones on the table. And he offered me fried sardines from a plate that crowded the table. Every seat in the place (I never found out its name or whether it actually had one except an address) was occupied by an entirely local crowd, 95% of whom were mostly older, heavy-set Moroccans, many of them sporting gold chains and what looked like expensive watches. The remaining 5% were much more heavy-set ladies who had squeezed themselves into body-hugging outfits several sizes too small to make clinging to the males so ever-more intimate. 

Thankfully, the nearby front door, which was guarded by a bouncer, was wide open, providing at least a bit of ventilation for the cigarette smoke, frying fish odors, and other olfactory sensations. Beer after beer appeared, more fish and shrimp came on small plates from the open kitchen, and several local ensembles played Moroccan tunes, inviting some dancing and much whoopin' and a-hollerin'. An hour or two into this, two of Aziz's tour-guide buddies showed up, with one of them continually telling me, with a broad grin, "I am verrry glad to meet you." And boy, was I glad to have met Aziz and having earned his trust and respect to take me to one of his hangouts, a place that he said he had never shared with any of his clients.

Aziz to the left of his buddies

It was well after midnight when we decided to postpone the next day's departure until 10:00 a.m. Using the modern motorway we headed more or less south, paralleling the coast but rarely catching a glimpse of it. The landscape was flat and the land looked fertile, without many distinguishing features for most of the way to Casablanca. At about the midway point we stopped for a short while in Rabat, the capital. It is here that the current king, Mohammed VI, spends most of his time in one of the dozen or so royal palaces scattered around his kingdom. I have mentioned on occasion the insane amount of trash one finds in Morocco, but the wide boulevards around the sprawling palace complex were teeming with green-vested garbage-men with their little carts and besoms. You could have eaten off the ground.

The 820-foot tall Mohammed VI Tower just outside Rabat,
tallest building in Morocco and third-tallest in Africa 

The kasbah of Rabat is strategically (back then, now scenically) situated on the southern banks of the Bou Regreg river's estuary, and I walked around for a while and observed beach life: two dozen or so surfers waiting in the line-up, five teenage girls playing volleyball, a young woman with boxing gloves sparring with a male coach, scores of veiled women sitting on the beach watching the kids play soccer while others are doing their calisthenics. Nice. I saw similar scenes later in Casablanca.

Another 40 miles or so and we'd arrive in Casablanca. The closer we got, the denser the traffic became. Aziz was bitching and moaning about all those "bad drivers," occasionally venting his frustration with some choice words in Arabic or Berber, as the situation might be, and an unmistakable hand gesture or two. I just sat there and chuckled.... Just like on that day when we had to traverse Marrakech on the way from Essaouria to Ouarzazate, it became clear that Aziz really dislikes driving in traffic. I believe it's less of a question of being in chaos (because he knows how to be part of the chaos) than concern for the SUV (there's a definite carmance going on between Aziz and the Land Rover Prado) and his clients. As I told him many times on this trip, I always felt safe and well-cared for.

The Le Casablanca Hotel, a very posh hotel with rooms that command $275+, was located in a quiet, upscale neighborhood; thanks to a nearby Carrefour I was able to provide for my evening needs instead of paying $15 for a glass of vino at the fancy bar. 

The very civilized breakfast at Le Casablanca Hotel, including Le Monde

But first things first: Upon arrival I put on my walking shoes and headed out in search of the Atlantic coast. The skies had cleared up and it was a beautiful afternoon that slowly gave way to evening. After about half an hour of walking I finally intersected the city's coastal artery and followed along the beach promenade to Casablanca's prettiest lighthouse, the Phare d'el Hank; several nearby restaurants attract the one-percenters, at least according to the valet-parked wheels. There is a wide, sandy beach in this area where the last holdouts were still basking in that magical last hour before sunset, simply playing soccer, or casting lines in hopes of landing, well, at least something. It was Sunday afternoon, and more so than in other Moroccan cities I had visited there was a positively weekend atmosphere, with people strolling, sitting in the rocks close to the lighthouse to watch the sunset, and buying food from street vendors.

Aziz had told me that Casablanca is hardly worth the visit as it is a busy, large city without much of an old city center—however, it is home to the huge Hassan II mosque and that makes the city a must-see. Once close enough to the lighthouse I could see the mosque on the other side of the bay, and for my entire walk along the corniche I had the most magical view of this, the largest mosque in all of Africa and the third-largest in the world (behind Mecca and Medina—take the latter info with a grain of salt as I have found some sources that claim it to be the 7th and even 14th largest en mundo). The gentle sound of the water, all those families and even couples being out for a stroll, the kids driving battery-operated cars with neon lights while their parents proudly looked on, the hawkers of everything from combs to watches to terracotta tajines, and the rising moon over the mosque—it all made me very, very happy. I was glad I had come to Casablanca. I was glad I had come to Morocco.

On the way home I had dinner in a comfortable restaurant with outside seating: a wonderful seafood tajine. I was surrounded by locals who were out, either for dinner or just simply to watch Real Madrid playing FC Barcelona on the big TV inside, occasionally breaking into applause and cheers, but rarely the opposite. I assume that the crowd was evenly split between Real fans and Cules.

Monday morning, Aziz picked me up to drive me to the big mosque. Even though Moroccan mosques may not be entered by non-believers, the prospect of squeezing a lot of entry fees out of tourists is a highly effective motivator in making exceptions. (BTW, I heard various differing reasons for the entry ban: Some guides told me that it was one of the underpinnings of Islam [not so, as Turkish mosques are open to anyone, even non-believers], and others told me that it had been the French who forbade their citizens to enter mosques as that was necessary for a conversion to Islam which some Frenchmen sought to avoid taxes and certain regulations. Well, go figure.) 

During non-prayer times, one can join ($15 or so) a guided tour of the interior of this amazing building. Whatever its true ranking in regard to size may be, it's immense. Get this: There's enough room inside for 20,000 male and 5,000 female persons to pray, with enough space for another 80,000 on the grounds outside. The roof (weighing a claimed 1,100 tons) can be opened and closed for ventilation, similar to some modern stadiums. It's pretty interesting to visit the immense washrooms that are needed for the mandatory cleansing before each prayer. The mosque was completed in 1993, under the guidance of the current king's father, Hassan II. When I did a little more fact checking I found sources that call it "Africa's second largest functioning mosque," not its largest as claimed by all the tour guides and the official pamphlet that accompanies the entry fee. Well, at least there seems to be consensus on the height of the minaret, 689 feet (or 210 meters). That's two thirds the height of the Eiffel Tower.

Cleansing stations for thousands below the mosque

The moonroof from the inside and the outside (below)

Regardless, this is one impressive building. Wherever one looks, the craftsmanship is mind-blowing—sources claim that 35,000 craftsmen spent 50 million hours creating this stunning building. All materials were sourced from Morocco, including the cedar wood for the women's prayer section that you can see in one of the photos. And since everything is so new (barely 32 years!) the building simply shines. What a legacy Hassan II left to his faith and to his people.

It was time to wrap up the Atlas Desert Tour portion of my trip to Morocco. Aziz and I covered the final 150 miles back to Marrakech in about three hours. We both had become good friends during our two weeks together, and I am fairly certain that I will stay in occasional touch with him on WhatsApp. We both enjoy the same music (he was surprised that I knew of Ali Farka Touré), and we both like to joke, at times in a boyish-risqué manner. There was a lot of mutual respect between us, and I will miss his polite morning greetings that invariably started with his inquiry into my well-being. 

The countryside changed rather quickly after leaving Casablanca, with the land becoming more and more arid, regular houses being replaced by adobe buildings, more and more donkey and horse carts on dirt tracks or worse. The plains gave way to rugged and rocky brownish hills, and with about 30 miles to go we could make out the High Atlas mountains rising south of the still far-away Marrakech. The haze was limited to the lower elevations of the intervening plane, and the snowy peaks were spectacular. A short while later, Marrakech had me back.

Aziz dropped me off at my (free) hotel, the Méridien N'fis (Marriott hotel points can come in very handy!). We would see each other one more time, about 42 hours later when he'd take me to the airport. I am not really quite sure whether that was part of the pre-arranged tour or simply a very nice gesture, but it was nice to not have to worry even about this last detail. Take this as a full and unconditional endorsement of Atlas Desert Tours and Aziz. If you've always wanted to go to Morocco (and you should!), Google them and you won't regret it.

I spent my last day-and-a-half leisurely strolling around the relatively nearby medina, sipping a lot of mint tea, visiting the spectacular Bahia Palace, and watching the world go by from the vantage points of small cafés, rooftop terraces, and main square-level restaurants where jugglers and musicians performed just 20 feet from your table. For dinner I had—twice!—rabbit tajine, and both times it was completely different.

The day of my departure came, Aziz and I gave each other one last, long hug, and then I once again got swallowed by the world of the frequent flier that I am. Lounges in Marrakech and Casablanca, a comfortable Business class hop across the pond on a Royal Air Maroc 787, an overnight stay in the subpar or worse Clarion Inn & Suites Miami Airport, and two final domestic flights back to Lubbock. Before I knew it, I walked out of the LBB terminal and there was my friend Bob, who had dropped me off three weeks earlier. I don't think he noticed that I wore the same pants and shirt, albeit washed once or twice....

Jürgen