I have always associated the magic of these words with Charles Boyer in the vintage classic film “Algiers” about Pépé le Moko, the notorious thief who sought refuge in Algiers’s vast Kasbah district. I recall some steamy scenes and a lot of tortuous alleyways and corridors within which complicated murderous plots were hatched and beautiful women were willingly seduced.

Actually, none of this has much to do with our recent trip to Morocco, except for the Arabian flavors and the visual treats that permeate the Kingdom. First of all, we were visiting Morocco, not Algeria. Second, we were not escaping or hiding from a life of crime, nor were we running from the police. In fact, there was nothing sordid or threatening about our encounter. Quite the contrary, we were treated like royalty and pampered beyond our wildest dreams. Indeed, our first encounter with a Kasbah was a luxurious hospitality in a bucolic oasis-like setting called Dar Ahlam, located near a small community called Skoura. Our Kasbah had been recently renovated by Relais & Chateaux, where the level of comfort and luxury defied description!

Dar Ahlam is built right in the middle of a huge palm grove full of date, fig, orange and other fruit trees. The grove is, in turn, surrounded by an endless spread of olive trees. This large patch of dense and lush greenery is, called a “Palmieraie”, and defines the oasis from the surrounding sands of the Great Sahara Desert. With the High Atlas Mountains timidly showing their snowy peaks in the background, this setting for Dar Ahlam indeed does credit to its designation as a “House of Dreams” (Maison des Rêves). Water runs everywhere and is the dominant theme for the setting. Reflecting pools and fountains are found all over the manicured grounds, to a point where we could hardly distinguish the huge heated swimming pool that eventually lured us to the center of the grounds and gave us welcome relief from the long dusty drive that had brought us there.

The Kasbah building itself was originally built during the XIXth Century, but the ancestry of this kind of structure is much older, often dating back to the beginning of the second millennium. As a hospitality, its charm and excellence belies the fact that Kasbahs were originally armed forts designed to protect the immediate surroundings from outside aggression. In the process, they also served to shelter the local population in times of peril. In other words, Kasbahs were essentially the equivalent of the Medieval “Chateaux Forts”, as the Feudal Castles of Europe were called.

Indeed, as we lay poolside, drinks in hand, we were consciously aware of the Kasbah’s forbidding, fortress-like tower that was benignly looming some five stories over the gardens, a short distance from one of the corners of the large pool. Given this military ancestry, steeped in the days of yore when “Knights were bold and clad in shining armor”, we were amazed at the place. On one hand, it was clear that the 36” thick walls, the narrow windows, the crenellated towers and the warren-like network of smallish rooms, curvy stairs and tortuous hallways were not a mere matter of decorative whimsy. They were serious indices of the Kasbah’s real function which, a long time ago, was to repel violent and brutal attacks and sieges. Yet there we were, standing in a supremely posh and luxurious hotel environment.

These dichotomies disappeared as soon as the check-in formalities were over. I had a delightful conversation (in French, of course) with Jean-Luc Lalanne, our host and the manager of Dar Ahlam. We couldn’t wait to see our room. And so we plunged into a mission of discovery, moving from the brightly lit, modern décor of the reception area, into the dark recesses of the Kasbah. We followed the adobe tunnels, we went by chambers, nooks and crannies, and we climbed up and down winding stairs and passed niches all the way into the bowels of the big tower. The raw adobe walls of the passageways and the chambers were adorned with sconces, magnificent rugs, pillows and colorful mosaics. It was like visiting a museum, and it provided us with a marvelous introduction to the best of the Berber and Saharan culture. It also got me hopelessly lost. But Joyce’s voice, fading as she moved further and further ahead of me in one of the candle-lit tunnels, was still loud enough to serve as my GPS.

And so, through muffled echoes, I eventually found Joyce and our sleeping quarters. The furniture was antique, and all sorts of artifacts and jewelry lay nonchalantly all over the place. Although electricity is ample, a myriad of candles in artistically perforated hanging and standing holders give the dominant ambient lighting a quality of mystery wrapped in unabashed opulence. The guest suites were ingeniously configured in an intimate environment, one designed with every comfort imaginable. Everything worked excellently, everything was convenient, and yet we knew that we are sleeping in a medieval adobe fort!
The public areas were a little like a museum, filled with Berber rugs, tile and decorative mosaic works. There were bars and dining areas literally buried in the middle of the Kasbah amidst colorful rugs, candles and copperware. In fact, Dar Ahlam did not have dining areas as such. Help was always around ready to setup a table wherever and whenever it suited us. The menu was equally flexible, with the kitchen obsessed with efforts to make the dining experience interesting and varied - to a point where a special file for each guest was kept by the chef, to make sure the same dish would never be served twice when (not if) we returned. I was tempted to ask for a “doggie bag”, but Joyce stopped me in time! We had breakfast and lunch in one of the manicured gardens and dinner in one of the many profusely candle-lit private nooks in the Kasbah. The food was delicious, but hard to define. It was clearly Moroccan-inspired, laced with Couscous and strange indigenous vegetables, fused with the French Cuisine touches characteristic of the Relais & Chateaux style of hospitality.

There was, of course, a spa which consisted of the requisite “Hammam”, a steam-heated, mosaic-tiled enclosure where one gets undressed in order to be splashed profusely with hot water from a bucket by a beautiful maiden, and then scrubbed vigorously with a mildly abrasive cloth in the hopes of scraping off the dead epidermis from one’s body. This elaborate treatment in the wet area of the Hammam is all in preparation for the massage, which is administered with an impressive variety of fragrant oils, creams, herbs and lotions that, with a little incense, will send you into the world of Scheherazade. There is, of course, a Jacuzzi large enough to qualify as a swimming pool, adjoining the massage area. The Hammam at Dar Ahlam is indeed a splendid example of Arabian design, both in its architecture and its decorative finishes. Ancient heavy wooden doors open into a large pentagonal space topped by a spectacular dome. The dome is, in turn, topped by a ring of lights, which project a symphony of visual effects on the underside of the dome. The lighting finds its way onto the Jacuzzi’s watery surface, where it dances and reflects on the profusely decorated dome. This endows the entire spa with a sense of reverence that has nothing to do with faith, but a lot to do with the body beautiful. At the end of all the treatments, with only exotic fragrances and ethereal sounds to keep you company, there is a “perfume room” which magically acts as a mysterious meditation chamber.

Sorry, but I seem to have gotten trapped in the Kasbah at the expense of the rest of the trip.… but then, it’s so easy to get lost in a Kasbah like Dar Alham even without Charles Boyer or Pépé le Moko! Our trip was, of course, not entirely based on the quality and character of the various forms of hospitality we encountered, but this aspect of our travel always occupies a special place (no pun intended) in our recollections. So, on to the rest of the story …

I have always wanted to visit Morocco. I learned about the country when I was growing up in France. As a student in the French public schools, I had to become as well versed in the history and geography of that country, which was still a French colony at that time, as that of France. Names like Fés and Marrakech were magic; for me, Casablanca has always evoked the classic movie by that name, with scorching passionate scenes of Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman; Tangiers has always reflected the reputation of being a hotbed of espionage.
The history of Morocco is complex, and hopelessly entwined in its roots. They can be traced as far back as the Phoenicians, who plied the coastal waters off Morocco around 1,400 BC, while they were busy inventing the alphabet. Much later, after the fall of Carthage and after the turn of the first Millennium, the Byzantine Empire was moving West and the Moorish Islamics supplanted the Romans, the Berber Tribes and the Germanic Vandals. The Moors had territorial ambitions in Europe, conquering and occupying Andalusia as well as much of the southernmost region of Spain. In the process they recaptured the territory the Goths and Vandals had acquired during the Germanic invasions.

The Moorish influence in the region was profound and left behind such magnificent edifices as the Alhambra in Granada, the forest of pillars in the Mezquita of Cordoba, the Giralda in Seville and so many other examples of Moorish architecture. Without question, the region is a showcase of a highly influential and wide ranging culture. The stories of these conquests abound, and include epics like “Song of Roland” during the age of Charlemagne, plays like Shakespeare’s Othello and legendary tales about larger-than-life heroes like the Spanish “Cid”. Having visited Morocco, it would seem that we now have to take a trip through Andalusia to complete our education.

While the Moors imprinted an Islamic cachet on Morocco, it did not appear to us that the religion and its rites were practiced with the same draconian passion we had seen in other Islamic countries. There are, of course, many branches within the Islamic world, and we were not too familiar with those related to the Moors, the Berbers and Saharan Tribes like the Touaregs. On prior trips, we had encountered other Islamic cultures, including those with Turkish and Ottoman roots. What we noticed in Morocco is that religious fervor seemed more relaxed. For example, women don’t hide their faces; traditional dress is optional and they even dress with style and quite colorfully. The prayers that emanate from the mosque towers and minarets seem shorter and not as loud. There appeared to be no dietary restrictions or control over alcoholic beverages.

Our first night in Morocco was to be in Fés, having landed in Casablanca that morning after an easy flight on Royal Air Maroc from JFK. We were met at Mohamed V International Airport by Kamal, our guide and faithful companion for the next thirteen days. He introduced us to “Said”, who was to be our driver for the journey. As it turned out, our driver in this enterprise would be just as important as our guide, given the crazy traffic surrounding the “Medinas” (the old center city that occupies the area beyond the ancient walls and arches), the frequency of armed checkpoints on the highways outside the central cities, our reluctance to compete with donkey carts if we were to amble very far on foot and the complete lack of parking. With a personal guide and driver and a Mercedes mini-van all to ourselves, we were ready!

And so we headed out from Casablanca, which lies on the Atlantic Ocean in Northern Morocco. Our first stop was a baptism of fire in Moroccan architecture. We saw the Hassan II Mosque, with its awe-inspiring, colorful Zeillij tile-work and its huge impressive marble plaza that spreads over several acres at the base of the more than 600 foot tower. Indeed, the Mosque and its tower are among the largest in the world, second only to Mekka in Saudi Arabia.

This was also my first encounter with “Blue” - the color that, in my eyes, defines the beauty of Morocco better than any other color. There is a sort of Royal gray-blue known as “Fes Blue”; in the depth of the Sahara Desert Berber tribes are swaddled in magnificent Touareg-Blue cloaks that are the envy of most visitors; then there is the tile work and the mosaics which employ a kind of Cobalt Blue.

While still processing the glory of this architectural masterpiece, Kamal ran us by the other “must-see” sites on the road to Fés. The “Pieces de Resistance” in Rabat included the Royal Palace and the Mausoleum of King Mohamed V, as well as the Hassan Tower, built around the 12th century when the founder of Rabat, Yaqoub al Mansour, planned a great mosque intended to be the largest in the Muslim world. The project was left unfinished when al Mansour died in 1199, and tremors from the 1755 Lisbon earthquake forever sealed the fate of the hapless project. Nevertheless, the large site containing the footprint of the gigantic planned mosque can still be seen today, resembling a sea of column stubs covering several acres of land. Our visit actually started outside huge heavily ornamented gates that were flanked by colorful guards on horseback in full dress uniforms. It certainly was impressive. The horses were of course gorgeous pure-bred Arabians that could not help but show their class by fidgeting endlessly as if ready to break into a frenzied gallop.

Rabat is the capital city of Morocco and naturally there was a Royal Palace. The driver had no problem finding it; the grounds are easily the largest park space in Rabat. The Palace is immense and open to the public, except for those areas preempted by the Royal family. But not today, as students from the nearby University were protesting, and Kamal wisely told Said to keep driving, ensuring that we would not become entwined in anything that could become unpleasant. Later in our trip, we would have an opportunity to visit another of the Royal Palaces, this one in Marrakech. The inside of the Palace was everything one would expect to see in Morocco. The courts, galleries, fountains and pillared “Riads” (atria) are magnificent, with the intricate and colorful designs of the mosaics. However, it’s really the ceilings that I found amazing and fascinating. Imagine two hundred foot-long, arched halls with every inch covered with paintings and decorative designs. My neck is still sore from looking up and admiring this achievement.

After visiting a few more sites, it was time to check into our first hotel, the Ryad Myra. The van stopped in front of the archway demarking the start of the Medina and, without much ceremony, we were asked to dismount and follow Kamal on foot down a narrow and dark cobblestone alleyway. He stopped at what seemed like a secret doorway, reminiscent of the kind required to gain access to speakeasies during the days of Prohibition. This did not augur well … but the door soon opened and our trepidations turned into delight and surprise when we stepped into the atrium of the Ryad. It was our first exposure to this form of habitation and it was an experience in contrast, a little like walking into a Faberge Egg. A Ryad is a residential rather than military building. It is imbedded in the urban fabric of the Medina and, as such, the typical Ryad is a “blind house” with no recognizable façade or windows on a public square or alleyway. It is designed to assure total privacy, protect its inhabitants and disguise their wealth. The Ryad is, therefore, a quintessentially introverted structure. The living quarters line the perimeter of an interior courtyard, and rise several levels. These define a central area on the ground level which, in most cases, is a perfect square around which all the common areas are located. Access to rooms is usually by winding stairs located at each of the four corners of the central square. At the geometric center of the central space there is usually a fountain which acts as the centerpiece for the architectural composition. The central space is open to the sky, often covered with glass, but always the principal source of natural light into the building.

The Ryad style of dwelling was used in a wide variety of buildings. For example, in Marrakech, Kamal took us to the Ben Youssef Mederssa, the oldest University, where his father had gone to school. The Ryad building plan is also prevalent in palaces and large private residences. The design is almost ritualistic, and provides a varied canvas for local artisans to ply their trade. Typically, the floor of the central square in the atrium is paved with a design, often combining several high quality polished marbles, including Carrere. The archways and loggias surrounding the central space contrast with the pristine brilliant white marble by displaying the exquisite colors and artistry of the mosaics that cover the vertical surfaces. The glossy baked ceramic stones that make up these mosaics are handmade, hand cut and hand laid into a plaster matrix. Above the mosaic, the plaster matrix is extended to the next floor, and offers the opportunity for a pattern of floral carving into the plaster. The top layers of the space, including those parts of the ceiling that are not covered or glassed in, are then painted, often on wood with either a purely decorative theme or one which relates to the artisans. A most notable example is the abundance of Stars of David, indicating that the artisan was from one of the many Jewish Berber Tribes. John Portman owes his fame to the application of this “Atrium Hotel” concept to the Regency Hyatt properties in the 1980s. The first of these was developed in Atlanta by A.N. Pritzker, an entrepreneurial businessman who owned the Hyatt chain of mostly airport motels. The completion of the Regency Hyatt hotel in downtown Atlanta spawned a renaissance of the “Grand Hotel” age which had all but disappeared since the twenties. Its success and the thirst for innovation at that time helped define not only a new approach for large scale hotels but also the legitimacy of reintroducing extraordinary glamour in the field of hospitality.

However, all these thoughts quickly receded, and the fact that we hadn’t even reached our first hotel room stood out in our minds as weariness and the exigencies of real time took over. The baggage had already been picked up and delivered to our suite; the check-in took place in the atrium of the Ryad, in a setting fit for a Sultan; a glass of mint tea was served in the magnificent Arabic environment amidst cushy sofas, low tables and fabulous rugs … all to the sounds of a tinkling fountain and relaxing Arabian music. During our stay, we ate breakfast and dinner in the atrium and we enjoyed its use as an extension of our living quarters. While Ryad Myra did not have a Jacuzzi or an elaborate spa, it did have a lovely Hammam that was very competently staffed and serviced. From the very first moment to the point of our departure, I will never forget the beauty of this Ryad and the artistry of the mosaics, the carvings and the wood-paintings. This is really where the exotic magic of Morocco and the exuberance of the rich Arabian décor show up to maximum advantage.

The second Ryad-style hotel we visited was at the end of our trip, and not such a happy experience, but interesting just the same. It had seemed like a long day to reach Essaouira and we were in withdrawal, pining for the outrageous pampering we had experienced in Marrakech’s Amanjena resort, which I will describe shortly. As the van pulled up to the curb at a cluttered public square on the port side of the Essaouira Medina near its gateway, Kamal invited us to follow him - on foot – to the hotel, while Said took care of the luggage. We’re not quite sure what happened, but as we stepped out of the van, we were ushered away by Kamal to protect us from a huge argument that had arisen among the pushcart porters, who evidently are always grouped there in expectations of snagging hapless new arrivals to “help” them deliver baggage to the destinations buried in the Medina where no cars are allowed. As it turned out, the distance between our van and our destination, the Riad Watier, was much greater than I would have expected, and the need for a porter and pushcart was no idle luxury. It was an absolute necessity! Eventually, the arguments were sorted out and the last lap of the schlep to the Riad Watier was in progress. We turned from the busy Medina market street into an alley where the buildings were dirtier and older. There, we came to a very scary, dark, unlit tunnel that made us feel nervous and very insecure… even with Kamal at our side.

A short distance beyond the tunnel, we reached the Riad Watier. The owner/manager, a French mariner from Marseille, immediately got into an argument with Kamal, who only wanted to make me comfortable during the check-in routine. The manager was obsessive about asserting his role as the host and felt that, once past the threshold of his establishment, taking care of guests was none of Kamal’s business. The owner escorted us to our “suite” four flights up and advised us that the kitchen was closed and that the following day was the chef’s day off. He explained two features of our suite which we enjoyed enormously. One was a fireplace in the living room which he had prepared with tinder and logs for immediate action. The other was a roof terrace where breakfast would be served, and from where we could see the Atlantic Ocean, furiously breaking against the walls of the imposing fort the Portuguese had built centuries ago. Riad Watier was nothing like Ryad Myra. The atrium was narrow and rectangular. I do not recall marbles or mosaics. The place, except for the terrace and the fire place, lacked amenities, beauty or charm. The décor looked like someone had raided an attic. The location of the Riad was nightmarish and the hospitality below that of a Motel 6. Worst of all, the relatively tall atrium echoed and resonated the amplified sounds of screaming children and domestic disputes. That, the rusted satellite dishes and the drying clothes hanging on a network of wash-lines enhancing the roofscape, made us feel like we were thoroughly steeped in the charms of the local culture.

Essaouira, while an important Moroccan fishing port, was once a Portuguese city, well defended against attack and invasion from the Ocean by an impressive array of heavy naval cannons that line the waterside parapet of the city. A destination on the road to Essauira we did not want to miss was the spectacle of the tree-climbing goats at work. They are a most unusual site as they nibble and recycle the beans from the Argan tree, with the residue then used to extract the precious Argan oil. While the goats in the low-hanging trees were comical, to watch the local women in colorful arrays extract the oil using primitive tools was fascinating and gives credence to the value that has been placed on the oil.

After the first three nights at Ryad Myra in Fés, we did a bit of road travel, heading across the Middle Atlas Mountains toward the Great Sahara Desert. We spent the next two nights in a crowded Hotel straight out of Disney, complete with a musical welcome ceremony of horns and drums. This hospitality was called Hotel Kasbah Xaluca Maadid. From what we saw, it was likely part of a chain of hotels specializing in bus tours, but the best available along this stretch of road. The room responded to the intended theme but, compared to Dar Ahlam, there was so much to express the theme that what was left was no longer a design theme, but a campy Hollywood movie set. The many clichés that adorned the place were not memorable, except for an enormous wicker lighting fixture over the bed, which I felt looked like Dolly Parton’s brassiere…with bright Halogen bulbs where the nipples might have been!
This stop, however, held a special surprise. We had been booked for an ATV that would drive us into the Sahara by “…the dawn’s early light…” as the song goes, to see the very first rays of the sun rise over the dunes; a truly remarkable experience if one wants to get up at 3:30 AM to reach the desert in time. Joyce had the added advantage of enjoying the astral spectacle from the back of a camel, something I had previously sworn never to do again, so I stayed with the ATV and watched the sunrise from there!

It is on this note that I would like to tell about the third type of hospitality we encountered in Morocco. We have described the Kasbah as essentially a stand-alone fort. We have then moved to the Ryad as an introverted habitat imbedded in the older parts of the central cities. There is, however, a third kind of habitat that needs to be mentioned. The problem is that it defies description.

When we were deciding on resort destinations, we naturally drifted, as properly indoctrinated Amanjunkies must do, to Amanjena, the Aman Resort property in Marrakech. We had heard a lot about the resort and, having visited (and fallen in ove with) 4 other Aman Resorts in Asia, it had grown in our expectations to become almost the primary reason for our Morocco adventure. Dar Ahlam helped introduce us to the luxury of Amanjena, providing some gradualism in contrasting the quality of the hospitalities we had encountered up to that point, but Amanjena was really over the top! We needed the warmth and intimacy of a Dar Ahlam to cushion us against the shock of the sprawling splendor of Amanjena. I asked the manager to define the resort. It was no surprise that he could not provide a clear answer. After pondering the question and stumbling for some sort of answer, we agreed that the resort was essentially a very large private oasis, of the kind usually reserved for Royalty. Clearly, it ranks with the lavish palaces of the Kings, Viziers, Pashas or Sultans of the world. The resort could easily be intimidating, were it not for the fact that there were only 36 villas and its design offered an environment intimate enough to reach all the destinations on the grounds without dependence on golf carts. Yet its layout is very formal, and nothing has been spared in reinforcing the palatial quality of the place.

Like Dar Ahlam, the property is crisscrossed with reflecting pools, some of which are filled with carp. Magnificent gardens and spectacular public areas adorned with opulent mosaics, artistically treated brass light fixtures and a proliferation of ornamental features are found everywhere. Unlike Dar Ahlam, however, the dominant accommodations are not rooms or suites, but individual villas! Each villa is fully enclosed by a high wall and has its own reflecting pool and gazebo, rendering concepts like balconies or terraces irrelevant and plebian. And Room Service becomes an entirely different experience! The villas are, of course, equipped with separate his and hers closets, vanities and dressing areas. Only the toilet, bath tub and shower must be shared, but each is in a separate enclosure. The generous living and sleeping area is covered by a dome-like structure which is lit along its perimeter, casting dramatic lighting that emphasizes the splendor of the space.

The resort has two restaurants, including one that specializes in Thai cuisine. The other is euphemistically labeled as international. It is, of course, always possible to have a Moroccan meal. We had had a surfeit of Moroccan food and I was lusting for a good bottle of red wine and something other than Couscous, Kebabs and olives for snacks. So we decided on the “International” restaurant. It did not take me long to befriend the Food & Beverage Manager, a fellow by the name of “Tim”. The wine list, however, was somehow limited and, as I expressed mild disappointment, Tim discreetly advised me to consider the wine Gerard Depardieu usually orders when he visits Amanjena. The name of the wine was “Lumiere”, a special blend of Shiraz and Grenache from Morocco’s Meknes wine region …. How could I resist. As I nonchalantly placed the order without checking the price, I almost felt Joyce wince! The bottle was brought out and decanted with great ceremony. When this was done, I was told how lucky I was, since this bottle happened to be the last one. The following day we dined in the Thai restaurant and, as we needed more wine, my friend Tim surprised us and, like a genie, popped up with another bottle of Lumiere which he had miraculously found. The wine was indeed excellent, and the label on the bottle was particularly interesting. It showed a caricature of Gerard Depardieu that left no doubt about the fact that the famous actor had indeed blessed the wine. At checked out time some two days later, Joyce was confronted with the wine’s sticker shock, and it was clear that I would never hear the end of this extravagance. There was a little bit of wine left in the second bottle we had ordered, and so we took it with us to polish off later on our way to Essaouira, our next stop. Once there, we fully intended to soak the label off the bottle to serve as a memento of the occasion. We must now flash back to the Riad Watier in Essaouira. The manager was very anxious to please, and faithfully promised to get the label off the bottle. We would have it in the morning when we checked out. Alas, on the morning of our departure, we found the usually cocky manager completely crestfallen. Indeed, the housekeeper had succeeded in removing the label from the bottle, but somehow missed the concept of the mission and had thrown the label away and kept the bottle! I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.

Beyond Amanjena, the Ryads and the Kasbah hotels, we found Morocco to be an interesting and delightful place to visit, and I am sure we’ll be back for more of all the things we didn’t get enough of. For example, there are the Souks, or the marketplaces. These are always found behind the walls and gateways of the Central City Medinas. They are very colorful, they look very messy and they are not cheap. It’s not as bad as Paris, of course, but with the sinking value of our dollar, the only way we could get a bargain was to vigorously haggle down the asking prices - an activity Joyce enjoyed tremendously, and one in which she was able to achieve remarkable success. Usually, after some initial skirmishes in this mortal combat, the back and forth acquires momentum and, as if ordained by some mystical force, the protagonists shake hands and the deal is struck. The net result of this process is savings that usually amount to 80% or more from the asking price! The negotiation process is interesting. The seller begins with one item and one price. The instant a deal is consummated the seller begins the negotiations for the next item, immediately and with equal vigor. In other words, it is a process without end!

Walking along the narrow streets of the Souks is a bit challenging. Cars are not allowed, but everything else is. That includes donkeys and horses loaded to a point where they preempt the full width of the alleys, motorcycles that have no respect for anything, local merchants busily rearranging their goods in the walking path, to say nothing of the crowd of shoppers who feel compelled to make every purchase a matter of extended family participation and entertainment. The Souks have everything; they not only sell all kinds of hard goods and food product, they are also centers for all sorts of artisans. We saw a good sized tannery which processed and dyed leather pelts and furs, we saw several potteries, ceramic tile makers, adobe block makers, silk embroiderers and cabinet makers. But I had my mission. I have always had a passion for Moroccan rugs. They are wool tribal rugs made by the Berber tribes in the deep Sahara desert. Their colors, textures and designs are what I consider addictive and they are much harder to find than the typical Oriental rugs from Turkey and Asia. It was in the first Souk that we visited, therefore, that Kamal pulled us out of the stream of shoppers and donkeys and guided us up some narrow stairs where we met our protagonist, the rug merchant. We were comfortably installed, served some delicious mint tea and then treated to a one hour non-stop show of a very small portion of the merchant’s collection of rugs. I had to restrain myself from drooling at the designs and colors. We slipped smoothly into part two of the ritual when Joyce, always the banker, mentioned PRICE. No one was surprised when my favorite rug turned out to be five or six time the amount which seemed appropriate to Joyce. I, of course stayed out of the fray. The good news is that we made the deal; the rug was miraculously folded so that it could fit in our duffle bag and I was a happy camper. Later in the trip, we repeated the scene all over again when I bought two smaller rugs to keep the bigger one company. This acquisition entitled Joyce to equal shopping time. So, she got launched on a quest for something she didn’t need. After a lot of sniffing around, she wisely eschewed the impulse to buy a gorgeous caftan and settled for 2 more western styled jackets in the same beautiful silk, and bought me a cute little table with in-laid or over-laid woods and semiprecious stones to go with the rugs. Her other purchases were even wiser, namely little gifties for all her girlfriends!

We also had the opportunity to visit a different kind of market – one where Joyce and I were able to resist temptation and not buy anything. The market was set up in a large square space covering three or four acres, where mostly goats and other similar livestock were being sold. It was about 10:00AM and the farmers were already set up, having gotten there on their donkeys with their goods in the very early morning hours. The goats were all tied up in such a way that they could not escape, but loosely enough for prospective buyers to inspect the merchandise. It wasn’t long before the entire square broke into what Tom Wolfe referred to as “bouquets of people” in “Bonfire of the Vanities”. This was where heated negotiations were taking place and deals were being made. We could read the degree of success in the transactions by the facial expressions and the body language of the buyers and sellers. It was some comfort for me to believe that these were milk and breading goats, not goats being led to slaughter…but I’m not entirely sure about that!

It was in that same market that we saw all kinds of spices being sold, colorfully heaped on trestles and pushcarts next to all kinds of other goods. The bright reds of the Paprika and the yellow of the Saffron and Turmeric animated the spice market with the ambition to cook up a storm for no other reason than the sheer experience of relishing the colors. In the course of our journey through Morocco, the spice scene was repeated frequently. Of course, I brought some home so that this new acquisition could keep company with what I had already brought back over the years from Thailand, Sri Lanka, and India. Joyce was not impressed with my new acquisition.

As I’ve mentioned, we had started in Casablanca; we then headed north to Rabat, then a little further northeast to Fes. The next leg of the journey brought us south through the Middle Atlas Mountains and then to the Great Sahara Desert. As we continued south and east on the road that would eventually lead us to Marrakesh, we passed through Ouarzazate where we were roused from the somnolence that usually overcame us during the long drives, and we were asked to dismount. The reason was obvious: we were parked in a sandy area flanked by gigantic statues of Egyptian Gods or pharaohs. The scale of the monstrously large statues was clearly reminiscent of what we had seen some years ago in Abu Simbel in Aswan Egypt. We had arrived at the Atlas Corporation Film Studios. The impressive statues in the reception court were simply the welcome mat. As we made our way inside the gate, we got a fascinating education into the art of set design and cinematography. Atlas Studios ranks with the best in Hollywood and in the world. They occupy an area of over 350 acres, strewn with remnants of sets from such films as “Cleopatra”, “the Gladiator”, “Jesus of Nazareth”, “Kundun”, “Lawrence of Arabia” and many other block-buster movies that required a desert setting and lots of space. It was only after we walked around what was left of these sets that we realized the fact that nothing was real, and that it was all made from Styrofoam. Some years ago, we had seen “Universal Studios” in Orlando and we had visited a few other theme parks. There is no question that these manifestations of Hollywood’s make believe world were lots of fun and that the exhibits were remarkably entertaining. In fact they were more like rides than exhibits. What we saw at the Atlas Studios, however, made us feel as if we were truly visiting old ruins filled with an incredible collection of antiquities. In the distance, as we were leaving, we saw the City of Jerusalem as it must have appeared to the Crusaders and the Knights Templar in the twelfth Century.

Oh well, that’s show biz!

The contrast between reality and make-believe was never as stark as when, only a few minutes later, Kamal stopped the van and we followed him into the UNESCO Word Heritage Center of Ait Ben Haddou. This Center is reached by stumbling down a hill from the road. Once at the bottom one had to ford two small running streams or negotiate a dance on top of slippery stones that bridge the water. With my impossible sense of balance, I did not elegantly, like Joyce and Kamal, skip over the stones; I simply wallowed to the other side of the divide, hoping that by the end of the day, there would be time for the sun to dry me up.
When we finished climbing up on the other side, we came to what seemed like a village. But it was much more than that, we had reached Ait Ben Haddou. This is a “fortified city”, or ksar, along the former caravan route between the Sahara and Marrakech in present day Morocco. The city is situated along the Ouarzazate River and contains some beautiful examples of Kasbahs which, unfortunately, get more damaged by each rainstorm. Most of the town’s inhabitants now live in a more modern village at the other side of the site; ten families, however, still live within the ksar. Ait Ben Haddou really looked like a fortified city from a distance. As we got closer we realized that if restoration was in the cards because of its UNESCO standing, this was clearly a work in progress. Most of the Kasbahs in the ksar were crumbling and, while one could discern alleyways, crenellated walls and a network of streets and squares, a lot of imagination would be required to visualize what the place must have been like. The fact of the matter is that the ksar, together with the nearby Atlas Studios have been the site of several films in addition to those previously identified including: “The Man Who Would Be King”, “The Jewel of the Nile”, “The Living Daylights”, “The Last Temptation of Christ” “Alexander”, “The Sheltering Sky” and “The Mummy”. Unlike Atlas Studios, however the stage settings in the ksar were not Styrofoam but real adobe and quarried materials.
As they say in Hollywood: …cut, fade…it’s time for Marrakech!

The mere mention of the name evokes medieval Islamic architecture, rugged mountainous landscapes with High Atlas in the background and, for globe-trotting hippies, the “Marrakech Express”- a song that Joyce immediately hastened to sync with her i-Pod. All this meant, of course, more shopping. In so doing, it occurred to us that Morocco is actually pretty expensive. This is in part the result of the weakening dollar. It is also a perception that, as an erstwhile French colony, the infamous Euro may have somehow infected the Moroccan Dirham’s relationship to our currency. The overall effect is that the illusion that we would find real bargains here because of the “third world” flavor of the place was totally shattered.

Expensive or not, everything in Morocco seems to relate to Marrakech. It’s not just that the city happens to be Kamal’s home town. It’s much, much more. It has the best shops, the best prices, and the highest quality of goods. For many, the city represents the soul of Morocco. Naturally we covered the Souks of Marrakech and we spent a lot of time crossing the Djemaa el-Fna, the most famous square in Africa and one of the largest, where motorcycles, horse drawn carriages, snake charmers and overloaded donkeys all make their way with frantic serenity. We had no doubt that if anyone had anything to sell, they would be found in either the square or the Souk. It was also in one of these Souks that we stopped by an Herbalist who must have spent an hour showing us his inventory of herbs, potions, salves and medicinal preparations. There was a treatment for absolutely everything…and of course it was all for sale. The cabinets that held this magic stuff was stacked from wall to wall and from floor to ceiling. It was amazing. Naturally, we had to buy some of the stuff. So we bought some ginseng tea, I bought some olive soap, Joyce bought Argan Oil and now we feel ohhhh sooooooo much better!

Food and wine do not represent a compelling reason for visiting Morocco. Joyce enjoyed this aspect of our trip more than I did. We ate lunch frequently on the road and, for me at least, the meals quickly acquired a kind of sameness that made me lust for a good hamburger or club sandwich. It is impossible to have meal in Morocco without an endless supply of olives. These, together with dates, figs and Seville oranges are the main staple of the appetizers usually served in restaurants. What follows is more to my liking. It is usually a very colorful and delicious salad of cooked “crudités” (if I can be permitted a contradiction), including beets, carrots, potatoes and hard-boiled egg, which could qualify as a full meal in itself. This is then followed by the main course, which is almost always served in a “Tajine”. This is a baked, sometimes glazed, clay pot consisting of a flat dish where the food is arranged, and a cone-shaped cover to contain the heat. Most of the dishes consist of chicken, beef or lamb, and sometimes fish. The food is either stewed or boiled. It is not heavily spiced. I thought it was bland. Couscous is, of course, the main starch sharing the cooking juices in the Tajine.
In general, white wines were surprisingly good, with distinctly clean Sauvignon Blancs, particularly those with the “Medaillon” label. At Dar Ahlam, we enjoyed a stupendous “Rose de Syrah” from the Domaine Ouled Thaleb in Morocco which, I felt, beat any Rose D’Anjou I have ever tasted anywhere. The climate in Morocco seems conducive to making wine, but more important is the fact that the industry has its roots (sorry for the pun) with grapevines the local vintners have brought in from France. I was not impressed with the reds, which were all perfectly acceptable but not particularly exiting…except, of course, for Gerard Depardieu’s “Lumiere” label.

In conclusion, we definitely want to go back to Morocco one day and do justice to the treasures found in the myriad of shops that populate the Souks and the Medinas. We also want to go back to Dar Ahlam. But next time, we intend to opt for a two-part sojourn that will include a few nights in the resort’s tented camp in the desert. From the reports we have heard, the experience is fabulous and an unforgettable treat for the senses.