Morocco - Northern Cities

Have you ever heard the Adhan (the Muslim call to prayer)? The first time I heard its powerful reverberation was in Fes. I was at a magnificent riad in the medina, that ancient labyrinthine place from another millennium, marble floors under my feet as I stood on the edge of the pre-dawn inner courtyard with the latch of the massive, carved cedar salon door still in my hand.

At first, you are not certain of what you are hearing. But, as the multitude of voices rises in volume from every mosque in the city at once, and the drawn out assurance of "Allahu Akbar" ("God is great") rises above the rooftops and then descends into your belly to summon you from sleep, it slowly dawns on the first-timer what it is. The voices are like the collective hum of bees, and once you have experienced it, there is no mistaking it. 

I decided to sit down on the cool step there outside my bedroom and just listen alone. I let the words enter my heart and move my soul as the first day's light began to pour in from the open roof. I wanted to let it be just for me, just mine, and to this day, I cannot hear the call without stopping to take notice, to pay attention, and to let it resonate within me. This is a way I am unlike other Moroccans who've heard it from birth, have grown accustomed to its sound, and whose days are organized around its presence five times from morning until night so that it is as much a part of their surroundings, as the singing of the birds or the honking of a taxi's horn.

Perhaps Fes will always hold a special place for me though I've spent much more time in Marrakech. Fes is quintessentially Moroccan, its structures displaying the Andalusian zellig tiles and the intricately carved white limestone arches. Millions have traversed its streets and entered the large blue bab (doorway) of the old medina. You can meander among the alleyways and negotiate the cost of merchandise in its souks (shops), touching the finely formed metal lanterns and the silky fabrics of kaftans, or you can smell the leather being created at the tanneries and peruse the rows upon rows of babouche (slippers), bags, and poufs (footstools). A tasting tour will enliven your senses with the aromas and flavors of olives, dates, almonds, and mountains of spices.

Once I stood on a terrace there, the rain pattering its green tiles, and smelled the wet soil in the terra cotta pots. We always pray for rain in Morocco. To walk down a wet avenue in Fes is to rejoice in answered prayers for the farmers, the trees, the people.

From Fes, one can take a back road north to the Blue City of Chefchaouen, as I did on a guided tour of the northern cities. As you approach, you notice this city built into the low mountain slope, dotted with blue painted buildings as if they are floating in a stream. You can only go as far as a village square by car before you must get out and walk the stone streets to your tiny hotel nestled among the souks and cafes, all awash with blue stucco along the walls, steps, and archways. You might see a white cat perched on a blue step next to a blue-and-white tiled inn or a blue metal door luring you inside a gallery of small paintings by local artists that you can take home to remember your time in this dreamland. Sleep with the window open to catch a cool breeze and the sounds of the people on the street below, and start your day right with glassfuls of sweet Moroccan mint tea and fresh, hot msemin bread with honey served on a blue terrace overlooking the city. In the evening, sit and watch the passersby, men in djellabas on their way to the mosque for their evening prayers. 

Further north, all the way to the sea, complete your tour with a visit to Tangier, the gateway to Africa and the place where the Atlantic meets the Mediterranean. Tangier is a mix of Moroccan and Spanish culture, the two nations being only 17 nautical miles apart (by ferry), so you will find that Spanish and Arabic are spoken there, as opposed to the prevalence of French you hear in other Moroccan cities. Luxury hotels line Mohammed VI Boulevard directly across from Tangier Beach. After an afternoon coffee in a posh café, I walked across the boulevard and onto the hard-packed winter sand to the water's edge to feel the sea swirling around my bare feet. In the distance, I could just make out the lights of Tarifa, Spain, after the sun had set. There is a feeling of having accomplished something when you are living and working in Morocco and make your way as far as you can go in that corner of Africa.

Driving west from the city to the rocky promontory of Cape Spartel, we went to the Caves of Hercules, so named because the legendary Greek figure is purported to have slept there before his 11th labor (getting the golden apples from Hesperides Garden). Regardless of the myth, I love a cave visit even if it is brief. The entrance was a short walk from the car park, and I did not have to venture very far inside to feel the temperature drop and hear the echo of visitors' footsteps on the cave floor. The focal point is the breathtaking view of the Mediterranean through an expansive opening. As I watched the waves splash against the rock and reveled in the image where sky met sea, I wondered how the first visitor to this geological gem must have felt.

Towering above the cave is the 19th century lighthouse that stands sentry at the entrance to the Strait of Gibraltar. At one thousand feet above the sea, I stood at the most northwestern point in Africa, listening to the throngs of people milling about a group of traditional musicians, clapping and dancing along with them. Staring out at the water, I could not help but reflect on the good fortune that brought me to this spot. A little further down the road, I stared in wonder at the sign marking where the Atlantic Ocean meets the Mediterranean Sea and felt as if I were in a waking dream. These places that had been merely points on a map had become real, and I could only feel gratitude.