Morocco by Stephen Emms

‘Better to have one mosquito around you,’ says the faux guide, running to keep up with my purposeful strut across Tangier’s medina, ‘than a thousand.’ Here, in the hot, noisy streets, having just stepped off the ferry from Algeciras, my backpack marking me as new meat, this poetic insight stops me in my tracks. ‘You’re happy?’ he asks, with a grin, as I step into a petit taxi. I nod, obviously unsure. ‘Good,’ he replies. ‘That’s what we like from you.’ Disappearing into the souk, he shouts: ‘See you later, Alligator!’

Ports are transitory, paradoxical places, and Tangier is no different. Its status as an international zone (from the 1920s to 50s) and sybaritic paradise – where homosexuality was even legal – attracted writers like William Burroughs, Paul Bowles and Tennessee Williams, but, as gateway to Morocco, and occupied in turn by the Romans, Spanish, Portuguese, French and English, its morals had been deemed ‘loose’ for centuries: 17th-century diarist Samuel Pepys even labelled it ‘Sodom’.

Since reunion with Morocco in 1956, its boozy haze has cleared to reveal a more straightforward tourist resort largely for Moroccans – where, like the rest of Morocco, homosexuality is illegal – but Tangier still retains a certain je ne sais quoi. And, once free of the backpack – and consequently the faux guides – traversing the hilly streets, I realize it’s a town for the flaneur, a place to drift, dream, reflect. There’s even an ‘Idler’s Terrace’, near Place De France, where men sit and chat, or stare out to the hypnotic blue beyond.

And it’s the quiet sights that shape a visit to Tangier: the small medina’s souks and central square, Petit Soco; the Phoenician Tombs, a stunning sea-facing beauty spot in the Marshen quarter, and nearby Café Hafa; and the Kasbah, the citadel area high above bay and old town, burnt to the ground when the English left in 1684, and fashionable address for the mid-20th century literary set. Gay-owned guesthouse Dar Nour nestles within its maze-like streets, its roof terrace offering one of the best views in Tangier. I ask Jean-Olivier and his partner Phillippe, former journalists from Lyon, what it’s like living in a country where homosexuality is illegal. ‘Absolutely fine,’ says Philippe. ‘But you have to be discreet. No-one treats you differently, though.’ I fear it might be different, as the Youtube case earlier this year showed, if you’re a gay Moroccan.

Still, it’s my last evening in Tangier and time to drift across the bars of this once infamously gay town, so I leave the herb-scented Dar Nour terrace, the red dollop of sun dripping onto the bay, as the muezzin’s call to prayer echoes above the whir of kids’ voices in the streets below. I try the elegant Gran Café De Paris, former literary heart – and Bowles’ favourite – whose strongest brew is now mint tea; The Windmill, a café on the beach, once frequented by Joe Orton; nearby Sun Beach, which is, happily, licensed; The Tanger Inn, an old beat bar only open after 1030pm; and Number One, ‘popular with gays’ (says my 10 year old guidebook) but, tonight, empty. However, I chat to owner Karim, who shows me a 1950s magazine article which seems to sum up my feelings about Tangier: ‘There’s a sense of peace, space, freedom, friendliness,’ wrote the journalist, ‘and in addition to that, eternity.’

A five hour train ride whisks you to Fes. It’s worth splashing out on first class, as it’s cheap (less than £10), but be prepared to talk to Moroccans on the train. Humility is a key word in Moroccan culture, and rudeness will be met with miscomprehension or even anger. US author John Hopkins summed it up in his Tangier Diaries: ‘There will come a time when The West, exhausted from its insatiable thirst for material wealth, will turn to [Morocco] to re-learn lessons of the spirit.’

And a sense of what makes Moroccans tick may help you understand Fes Es Bali, the ancient medina (and UNESCO World Heritage Site), whose 9500 twisting medieval streets are so narrow that, for fresh arrivals, it’s barely navigable without a guide. On the advice of our friendly Riad owner, Ahmed, we enlist the services of the suave Najib (around £10 for a morning).

‘In Morocco we have time,’ he says, sauntering ahead down a pencil-thin alley in which groaning donkeys with open sores and tyres nailed to their feet (to stop slippage down hilly streets) jostle past hollow-cheeked men in djellabas selling sardines, camel’s heads, clucking chickens and tortoises (‘they chase the devil eye’, says Najib).

As we pass a succession of ornate Medersas (colleges) and Mosques, Najib explains that Fes was founded in 800AD, and is the spiritual and intellectual centre of Morocco. Soon we reach the clattering carpentry district: ‘In Morocco we retire here,’ says Najib, pointing at the coffin. We think he’s joking until we witness the Tanneries, in which hundreds of semi-clad men, old and young, leap across red, orange, black and white pits carrying pails of dye, the rotting smell of pigeon shit, cow urine and animal fats heavy in the air. ‘You see?’ he says, giving us a sprig of mint to protect our delicate Western noses. ‘They work down there for 30 years at a time.’

Humbled, we meander through the quieter Jewish quarter (Fes El Jedid) and climb the hill to the Merinid Tombs, a scattered 14th-century ruin that provides the best views over this sprawling low-rise city, its teeth-like houses spluttering under permanent smoke clouds (‘from burning olive stones in the potteries’).

Back down at the Riad Dan Anebar, Ahmed, who spent 18 months converting his family’s former home into a palatial maison d’hote with lavish bedrooms, vast palm-filled courtyard and spectacular terrace, offers us excellent harira soup (chick peas, tomatoes, spices) and tender tajines. But the real discovery is Moroccan wine: both Cuvee de President and the delicious Guerrouane reds are as light as a good Burgundy.

Fes, despite its bustle, retains a quiet old-world dignity, but Marrakech is a different place altogether. Having visited regularly at the turn of the millennium, I was cautious about returning – post-Easyjet, post-hype – but, despite an initial nostalgia at seeing the slickness of the revamped main square Djemma El Fna (it used to reek ‘authenticity’ with dirty food stalls and bumpy surface), the city, its Koutoubia minaret gleaming, is now a more confident, less hassly version of its former self – although monkeys and snakes are still mistreated for visitors’ dubious pleasure.

It makes me realize, as I watch mopeds tear along the dusty roads, still lined by humble kiosks selling piles of vegetables or electrical goods, that, without meaning to, we subconsciously prefer cities we visit to be ‘authentic’ – meaning poor. But is the beauty of Morocco dependant on its poverty? Of course not, we insist, but during our 7 hour train journey from Fes, it was still hard not to gawp at women washing clothes in a stream, a shepherd squatting under a rock, or boys pushing donkeys along parched rivers.

Anyway, I decide I love the new Marrakech. We stay at the Riad Les Yeux Bleus, birds flitting amongst the bougainvillea, lemon trees, and bamboo plants of its pool-filled courtyard. Marrakech no longer offers a brochette/tajines staple diet, and we eat well and glamorously, particularly at The Maison Arabe (on Derb Assehbe), and Ibizan-style Kosybar (Place Des Ferblantiers). These are both licensed and in the medina, but for even more European-style debauchery you can head to Gueliz, the French-built ville nouvelle which now boasts Pacha nightclub. Whilst the medina is a ‘wetter’ city than it was, be warned that many cafes overlooking the square still don’t serve alcohol.

Marrakech is a much easier city to navigate than Fes, with more options, so you can spend a day, if you must, haggling over carpets or trinkets in the souk, or stroll to the 16th century El Badi Palace, along whose walls perch the dozens of storks – transformed humans according to Berber Legend – that preside over the red city, beaks tapping eerily. A must, too, is Jardin Majorelle, an atmospheric tropical garden with cobalt blue house and pots, designed in 1947 by Jacques Majorelle and now owned by Yves St Laurent and partner.

The day before leaving Morocco, we drive up to the High Atlas Mountains to stay at celebrated oasis La Rosarie, which I’d previously driven past many times en route to the Sahara. It was founded in 1970 by Abdel Fenjiro, an ex-employee of Marrakech’s famous hotel La Mamounia, favoured by Churchill (and more recently, erm, the Beckhams), who developed an inhospitable corner of the Atlas mountains (1000 metres up) into a lush tropical paradise, with just 40 Moroccan-style huts strewn across 60 acres of now fertile land.

That afternoon, as the sun is setting over the highest peak in North Africa, Mount Toubkal (4160 m), we meet Rashid, our 25 year old Berber guide, for a hike. We leave behind La Rosarie’s fragrant herb garden and fruit trees – plums, figs and almonds (green and crunchy like an apple) – and climb the hill as olives give way to junipers, prickly pears lining the path. Red rocks glow in the dipping sun. There’s a hum that we think is the sound of crickets. ‘Baby partridges,’ says Rashid, who has lived here all his life, and chatters to everyone he encounters, greeting each with a great smile.

As the sun finally drops behind the mountain, we progress along the salt-stained red riverbed, the landscape lunar, huge boulders everywhere, like skulls. I ask Rashid if he would ever live anywhere else. He shakes his head. ‘The Berbers were the first people in Morocco,’ he says definitively.

It’s cold now, but we walk slowly back to our room before dinner. There’s time to sit on the patio and watch the outline of the mountains, distant music oozing like hot oil through the silence. I remember Najib, idling through the streets of Fes, embracing everyone with warmth and humour: ‘He who is in a hurry,’ he had reprimanded us, ‘is already dead.’