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I brush a drop of sweat from my forehead and take a good look at Casablanca. The modern, industrial city is a sea of white. My eyes are greeted with the sight of uniform buildings in various stages of fading from bright white to a dismal gray, likely from the relentless, scorching sun. They are all covered with numerous satellite dishes that look out of place in this African city. Western brand names like Hitachi, Sanyo, McDonalds and Nescafe are mixed in with the Arabic and French signs positioned all over the city. I come to the end of a palm lined street and see a stop sign. It’s written in Arabic, but the tell tale red and white octagon allows me to interpret the backwards writing. Morocco is a country of startling scenery, friendly people, delicious cuisine and intriguing history. A Muslim country in North Africa, Morocco has a diverse range of landscapes, imperial cities and cultural traditions. A visit to this country can take you back in time hundreds of years, tempt your taste buds and bring you to the edge of the Sahara. All you need is a sense of adventure, and the desire to see something new and inspiring.  I hop into one of Casablanca’s many taxis and hold my breath as we make our way down the busy, overcrowded four-lane road. A flash of yellow draws my attention to the left hand side, where I see United Nations Square. We pass a beach and I notice the brown sand littered with garbage and the dirty, almost brown ocean water. Regardless, Moroccans occupy the entire area and frolic in the rough ocean. I observe the absence of any females or tourists and do not stop. I did not come to Morocco for a beach holiday. The mosque of Hassan II sits farther down the coastline on a rocky promontory extending over the ocean. The enormous mosque, which took almost 1,500 workers thirteen years to complete, was built for the 60th birthday of Hassan II, a former King of Morocco. The size and elaborateness of the building is overwhelming.  A single 200 meter minaret reaches toward the sky, and although it is primarily white marble, a band of blue and green tiles are wrapped around the pinnacle. It takes me ten minutes just to walk around the perimeter of the mosque, stopping only once to inspect a water fountain backed by more exquisite blue and green tiles. Even the floor surrounding the enormous holy building is made of marble.  At the entrance, tourists stoop to take off their shoes and scramble to cover their shoulders and knees before they can enter.

Opened in1993 and built by a nonmuslim Frenchman, the mosque of Hassan II has room for over 100,000 worshippers; its minaret reaches 172 meters into the air and dominates the skyline of Casablanca. It is the largest mosque outside of Mecca.

The royal palace in Fes.

Every section of the interior is decorated; any remaining white marble has been carved into intricate designs, waves curl into arches, powerful columns accentuate the height of the roof and glass chandeliers hang from the ceiling. Colorful tiles and mosaics color the inside of the mosque and the sliding roof is open, letting in the natural light and enhancing their brilliance. One particularly intense segment of the ceiling is covered in a three-dimensional pattern of yellow overlapping green, black and white indentations. It is spectacular. From Casablanca, a long, hot bus ride takes me to Fes, the former capital and a more typically Moroccan city in the northern part of the country. The Royal Palace here is embellished with even more colorful tiles; circles of green and red are surrounded by yellow stars on a black background, with various blue and white shapes completing the pattern. These tiles border a massive gold door that keeps the public out.  A visit to the Jewish quarter further illustrates the diversity present within the city. Discarded fruit and vegetables rotting in the street greet give off a pungent smell that prompts me to cover my nose. The streets are extremely narrow and filled with people hurrying about their daily business. A donkey attached to an empty cart waits outside some wooden doors. He stands as if defeated, with his head down. Across the street six men sit in front of a café, all wearing long pants, shirt and jackets, oblivious to the heat. I sweat a little more just looking at them. I stop for lunch at a shady restaurant and start with a cold drink. I order tajine, a Moroccan specialty that is quickly becoming one of my favorite foods. I choose chicken that is baked in a tasty sauce with potatoes and vegetables in a clay dish with a cone lid. Removing the top allows the mouth watering smells to escape and as I bite into the spicy chicken and sip my cool drink, I am energized for the afternoon’s activities.

The tiny street my guide leads me down winds and curves in no discernable order and I am almost nervous as I walk with him. We have entered the medina in an area selling edibles. I walk past a table covered with big, round blocks of cheese wrapped in brown woven leaves and sitting on piles of long thin, green leaves.  A sliver of light streams through a gap in the thatched roof and I am reminded of the intensity of the sun. Barrels of vibrant green beans sit along the side of the next street we walk down, and yellow bananas hang from the ceiling.

A true labyrinth, the streets wind and split off into various directions, and we find even more food for sale. Dead animals hang from wooden beams, fish sit stinking in the heat and I pass a table selling small, gray round items. I think I know what they are, but I have to know for sure. “What’s this?” I ask my guide.

“Brains,” he replies, and I don’t ask him to elaborate.

We wander for half an hour looking at various goods for sale – everything from carpets, to bronze plates and electronics. Somewhere in the maze we pass a mosque, a university, and a weaving factory. As we push our way through the crowds, we hear “Balek!” (Watch out!) and my guide pulls me out of the way so a donkey laden with goods can make its way past us in the narrow alley.

. Outside a wooden doorway my guide stops and hands me a huge sprig of a green plant. I can tell it is mint from the strong smell. “You will need this for here,” he says, and my heart gives a little lurch. We walk down a tiny set of stone stairs which lead to the outside, and I immediately require my sprig of mint. Dead animal skins are drying in the blazing sun and even though we are outside, the smell practically knocks me off my feet. I cover my mouth and nose with the mint and it helps, but doesn’t completely mask the smell. I break off a few leaves and tuck them inside my nostrils. I can barely breathe. The tannery has been in the medina since medieval times and has changed little. We are on the second level, and endless, huge stone vats of red, yellow and brown dyes occupy the bottom floor. Piles of skins waiting to be colored sit in heaps among the vats, and men tiptoe along the edges stirring the dye and skins with long sticks. They are barefoot and none of them have mint.  After the tannery, our visit to the medina is over and I am relieved to be back in the fresh air and unrestricted space of Fes.  En route to Marrakech, the final city on my itinerary, I make a side trip to the western most edge of the Sahara Desert. A speeding jeep takes the tour I have joined from the main highway near Erfoud to the beginning of this famous expanse of sand. As I bump along the back roads I start to see orange sand dunes in the distance and I think to myself, this is Africa! The jeep drops us where the road meets desert and I immediately bend down and grab a handful of the fine brownish-orange sand and let it fall through my hands.  The guide calls us over and points out the camels that will be taking us farther into the desert. I climb easily onto the sitting camel, and hang on tight as he stands up, his long legs unfolding one by one. The camel walks along slowly, led by a Berber of the desert covered from head to toe in a long, blue robe of big, billowing folds. The sun is setting to my left and I see the shadows of our camels and their riders on the rippled sand to my right. Behind me, the camels’ hooves and the Berbers’ bare feet leave imprints in the sand.

The 12th century Koutoubia Mosque was built by Spanish prisoners. The mosque reaches to almost 77 meters.

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We ride for thirty minutes before stopping to enjoy the scenery. I am now completely surrounded by the endless red sand and when the wind blows, the fine particles drift into my eyes, mouth and ears. As the sun sets, it turns the sand almost red and the blue of the sky intensifies where it meets the dunes. I feel small and inconsequential here on the earth’s largest desert. 

A sand dune in the distance appears to have a razor sharp edge running along the top and I decide to explore. I climb upwards, but for each step I take in the sand, I slide halfway back down. When I finally reach the summit, I find that the razor sharp edge is actually more of path and I can walk along the top quite easily. I sit on the edge and slide downwards until the sand piles up and stops my descent. I run down the rest of the way like a carefree child.

It is dark by the time we are ready to go, and on the way back in the same speedy jeeps, we encounter a thunderstorm. As I look behind me, straining for one last glance of the Sahara, I witness one particularly bright flash of lightning that illuminates the entire area. It is a sight I will never forget.

Located in the fertile, irrigated Haouz Plain, the city of Marrakech is known as the "red city" because of the red clay that was used to build it. The Atlas Mountains overlook the city.

The city of red.  On arrival in Marrakech the next evening, I immediately understand why Marrakech is known for this color. The buildings are almost all a soft shade of maroon, and as the sun sets behind the hills, the glow of its descent enhances this tone. Watching the color darken and finally disappear from the balcony of my hotel, I am completely enthralled, and already charmed by this city.  The major attraction here is Djemma-el-Fna, the main square of Marrakech.  A visit here is tantamount to entering a fantasy world. The square looks much like a gigantic parking lot that has been taken over by restaurants and markets. In a wide open space, a snake charmer sits under an umbrella for shade and plays his flute. The small, black cobra dances to the music, putting spectators in a trance. When the flute stops, the snake stops. The people don’t linger. The markets here are captivating, even if you do not care to buy anything. Like most things in Morocco, shopping is cheap. A stack of beautiful ceramic bowls, hand painted by Berbers of the desert, are home to a sleeping white kitten. Woven carpets with intricate patterns and exquisite colors cover the crumbling concrete floor. A traditional blouse captures the precise color of the city. A man chases me with a large silver necklace and places the heavy piece of interconnecting suns around my neck. I own no jewelry like this, and after some hard bargaining I pay only $10 for my newest treasure. Henna is everywhere. Groups of ladies, covered from head to toe, are scattered around the entire square calling out to let them work their magic on you. They are masters of this ancient art, and their floral designs on skin are precise, unique and beautiful. I bare my ankle for one of the artists and feel a slight sting as the Henna comes into contact with my skin. She works quickly and my temporary tattoo is complete within minutes. She instructs me to let it dry for an hour and I walk around stiffly, trying not to smudge it.

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A return to the same square at night leaves me wondering if we have come to a completely different place. The amount of people has doubled, with both tourists and locals packing the previously empty square. Fire eaters awe the crowd with their bravery while their hustlers beg for payment. Hundreds of carts selling food have been erected in the middle of square and a quick walk around them tells me that the food is designed more for the locals than the tourists. One merchant scoops a bunch of snails, shells intact, into a bowl and sells them to a Moroccan male wearing a long white robe over his pants and shirt. Turtles are sold as aphrodisiacs. I pass.

Standing there in the middle of this square at midnight, I have a hard time believing that I am still in the same country that I was in yesterday, and the days before. Marrakech is a city capable of astounding even experienced travelers and this extraordinary city of dreams, escapades and fairy tales has left me breathless. 

Morocco is much more than just sights to absorb; Marrakech, Casablanca, Fes and the Sahara all painted pictures in my mind that will last a lifetime. The industrial coastal city of Casablanca and the ancient city of Fes provide enough of a contrast to appreciate the interesting assortment of settings that Morocco has to offer. Going from the Sahara Desert to the cultural center of Marrakech only further impresses upon one the diversity of this spectacular country.

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