Rocking the Casbah

Definitely take a walking tour of the Casbah. You can hire a guide at any hotel. (Or if you're up for adventure, choose one of the teeming hopefuls who await you at the ferry.)

Quick Tips:

Brush up on your French before going. The people have their own language, but French is the language of the street signs and business. It will help you get ripped off less.

Best Way To Get Around:

Taxis are safest; or hire a guide to take you through the Casbah. go alone only on highly trafficked streets; even then, don't bring more than a few dollars.

A luxurious garden oasis within the city.

The lobby is impressive, with three story high ceilings, and intricately carved woodwork. An extremely polite bellhop took us to our room, which was decorated in lush tapestries and every amenity we could ask for.

It was early afternoon when we arrived, and we took advantage of the weather by lounging by the poolside under the intense African sun. A pool boy brought us towels, a server came and asked us what we wanted to drink. He left a dish of nuts, and a dish of gorgeous ripe olives for us to snack on. The pool was in a garden of lush greenery and beautiful flowers. We could barely hear the city’s noise outside the high concrete walls that surrounded the hotel.

There are three restaurants on site. One is an American bar and grill. One is a lounge with a piano bar. The other is a large, beautiful dining room. We had drinks in the lounge, and moved onto the dining room for dinner. Breakfast is included in the stay. It is served on the terrace, buffet style; or you can opt to order from the menu.

The concierge is accommodating. They called us a taxi the first night to take us on a tour of the city, and the following morning, they organized a guide to take us through the Casbah.

After a romantic dinner at the hotel, I convinced my very reluctant boyfriend that we should leave the grounds and check out a Moroccan night club. With a cab taking us from door to door each way, I reasoned, what could possibly go wrong? We asked our waiter what club he liked to go to. He told us, and we arranged with front desk for a taxi to take us each way. We had an hour before the club opened, so we had the taxi take us around town and give us a guided tour of Tanger. He spoke in French, and I translated for Keith. He showed us the mansions of the diplomats and contrasted it with the run down accommodations of the average worker. It was appalling, although he said the gap was decreasing steadily with increased tourism.

When we got to the night club, we laughed out loud. The Moroccan music was enchanting (a live band was on the stage). Drinks were expensive ($10 each, for our white selves). The atmosphere was hilarious. White upon white...plastic white couches with tacky white walls...it looked like a wannabe eighties experience. It was empty when we arrived at one a.m., and slowly starting to fill up when we met our cab at the door at three. I asked the doorman if this was a typical Moroccan night club. He laughed. He told me it was an after hours bar; people come here when the night clubs close. We realized we had perhaps asked the wrong person for a recommendation: if our waiter works nights, of course he would go to an after hours club after work. It’s the same way here.

We hired a guide to show us around the Casbah. We liked him at first, but we quickly went off him. He was rude to us, and unkind to a small boy who was trying to sell us flowers. (He cuffed the small child on the head, when we were trying to engage in conversation with him.) The boy went away, sad and confused because he hadn’t been doing anything wrong.

If nothing else, our guide WAS quite informative. He took us through the marketplace, showed us the vista that had most inspired Matisse when he lived in Tanger, and took us for tea in a carpet shop that sold beautiful tapestries and rugs. Although the hustle to purchase never ended (shopkeepers, kiosk owners, random people on the street), we avoided dropping large sums of money for anything. At one point, a man rushed out of his shop and offered Keith ten camels for me. We laughed, and our irritating guide got quite angry with us for laughing at their "cultural ways." Who were we to know that camels are a valuable currency for white women?

Before leaving Spain, where we were staying for a week or so, I had asked my troublemaking boyfriend what kind of clothes were appropriate for an African country. I had heard that Morocco was a culture that frowned upon the women showing skin, but trusted Keith, who had been there five or six times, when he told me that the dress code had relaxed, and my tiny summer dresses would do just fine.

Ha! We had barely left the hotel when I knew this to be untrue. Men stared with ogling eyes and mouths agape; women stared in open hatred. We stayed on busy streets, and were not unsafe. And it was true that the dress code had "relaxed" to the point where the teenagers did not wear veils, and could show a bit of arm or leg, but no one was as bare as I was, with my sleeveless mini-sundress. If I return to Morocco, I will dress differently, if only to demonstrate respect for a culture in which I am a visitor.