Man at His Leisure

Morocco has, in the course of the past decade, become a buzzing mecca for visitors who want to experience the Arabian nights (and days) in a western-flavored and dazzlingly beautiful setting. Its biggest cities--Casablanca, Marrakesh and Tangier--all have distinctly different characteristics yet retain the singular mystique and aura of intrigue that has been associated with Arabic lands since time immemorial. The country's beaches, meanwhile, have won to Morocco's side a new generation of sun worshipers who have only recently discovered the nation's magnificent strands. The novice visitor to Morocco is instantly and rewardingly jolted by the culture collision he observes: Morocco's society and customs, from its veiled women to its extraordinary cuisine down to its tolerance of kif smoking, are experiences that stay with the traveler. LeRoy Neiman, Playboy's artist on the go, recently made the Moroccan scene and reports: "Morocco is a beautiful, beautiful land, in almost every respect. I've been to beaches all over the world, and at Agadir--particularly in the confines of the Club Méditerranée, the mostly French vacation club--the beaches are sensational. Moroccans themselves are fascinating; there's a keenness, a superalert intelligence always operating when you talk to them. And they are classically attractive: Arab women have the same look of exotic allure that caught the fancy of Van Dongen in his paintings at the beginning of the century; the men still possess those proud, fiercely untamed qualities that inspired Delacroix 150 years ago. Of the cities I visited, I liked Tangier best; it's hilly, scenic, on the Mediterranean and is also the epitome of everything goes. Casablanca--fascinating during the day--seemed ominous at night: One constantly hears tales of travelers being waylaid in this flat, sprawling city. Marrakesh is a delight, because its market place is probably the world's most exciting and unusual. But so many things I encountered in Morocco seemed new and unusual; I think it may be one of the last places in the world where one can experience true adventure."

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Neiman's impressions--and portraits--of Morocco accurately depict a nation steeped in a historic past yet quickly turning on to a modern future. But abundant evidence of the nation's primitive yesterdays is still proudly present: At Zagora, which sits just above the Sahara Desert at the southern center of Morocco, a hand-painted sign in French and Arabic notes that Timbuktu is 52 days away by camel. Occasionally, carloads of foreigners pull into this barren, hot and silent town--and can't resist bouncing onto the desert trail beyond in a cloud of dust; but they rarely follow it very far.

Most of the tourists who pass this way content themselves with a photograph of the Timbuktu sign and then hurry off to the Grand Hotel du Sud, a four-star hotel at the other end of town, for a cocktail in the quiet bar and a cooling splash in the pool. It is enough to have followed this beckoning highway to its end, to have seen for oneself the remote fortress towns huddling (continued on page 210)man at his leisure(continued from page 207) behind their ramparts and the desolate landscape that lies beyond them.

This is one facet of Morocco; but not too far north, over the snow-capped peaks of the High Atlas, are wondrous cities of minarets and tumultuous bazaars that belong to an even earlier age. And yet farther north are skyscraper cities resplendent with the newer treasures of a younger civilization. A land of improbable contrasts, it is less than seven hours by jet from New York, on the northwest shoulder of the African continent. Bounded on the west by the Atlantic, on the north by the Mediterranean, on the east by Algeria and on the south by the Sahara, it combines the flavors of Africa and Arabia with the seasoning of Europe in a territory far smaller than Texas.

It is a place where a traveler can live in the 20th or the Second Century, in a brand-new hotel or an ancient Arabian palace. He can spend his nights in a casino or a discothéque and his days on a beach or a golf course; hunt with falcons or track wild boar. He can taste the favorite dishes of desert war lords, eat with his fingers at a splendid feast or dine in a French restaurant. He can see legendary cities, have his fortune told, soak in a hot spring, ride a camel or an Arabian stallion, meet a girl from Paris or London or Rio or ski down a mountain.

Or he can go shopping. In the medinas (Arab quarters) of the larger towns are hole-in-the-wall shops, labyrinthine bazaars and bustling markets filled with sights and sounds and overflowing with carpets from Rabat, sheepskin rugs from the Rif, pottery from Fès and Safi and muzzleloaders inlaid with silver and gold; copper- and brassware, hand-beaten jewelry encrusted with precious stones, sturdily wrought leatherwork, antiques and bric-a-brac at bargain-basement prices.

Dope, mostly grass and hash, is traded with equanimity everywhere, though few people agree as to the exact definition of Moroccan law on this touchy subject. Some say you can smoke it but not sell it; others maintain that selling is all right but possession is not. Most people have no opinion; they just sit around getting stoned, as they have been doing for centuries. Kif, which is marijuana mixed with something that tastes like camel droppings, costs about 60 cents a bag, enough for a dozen pipefuls.

For some visitors, a shopping excursion to Morocco today holds the same sort of illicit excitement as a border crossing into Mexico; but it is a mistake to assume that this is all Morocco has to offer, for there are even greater treats in store. The most outstanding attractions can be seen quite comfortably within two to three weeks, which allows ample time for sight-seeing and shopping and for a few days of lazing in the sun at some select refuge. There is an excellent road network, fast air service between the more important cities and a railroad from Tangier in the north to Marrakesh in the south.

Americans need only their passport and vaccination certificate. The dirham, Morocco's unit of currency, is not officially available outside the country and may not legally be imported, but these strictures are met with a hollow laugh by anyone who has stopped first at Gibraltar or on the southern coast of Spain, where dirhams are sold at vastly reduced rates. The legal rate of exchange is about five to a dollar, but in Tangier's thriving currency black market, it's around seven. If you're caught bringing Moroccan money into the country or dealing on the black market, however, your vacation will be extended by a long stretch.

July and August are said to be impossible months to visit Morocco, because of the heat, but this is high season on the beaches and though it does get very warm in the interior, an air-conditioned hotel or a swimming pool is never too far away; and, in any event, the evening usually brings cooler air. Whenever they elect to go, the itinerary of most travelers in Morocco is dictated by where their plane lands, which in most cases will be either Rabat, the capital, or Casablanca, Morocco's biggest city. Separated by less than 60 miles, both places are situated approximately at the center of the Atlantic coast line. Geographically, it makes more sense to start at the northern tip in Tangier and gradually work southward; but since most incoming flights, especially connections from the U. S. via Europe, land at the capital, we'll begin there, not forgetting to pick up a rented car.

Rabat is the most attractive of Morocco's coastal cities. It is an old town with a modern wardrobe and a reverence for its turbulent past. Once a Roman settlement, it is now one of the homes of the present king of Morocco, who may be seen once a week, riding to his prayers on a white horse. As the center of diplomatic and government business, Rabat has numerous first-class hotels; but the best among them is the Tour Hassan, which has spacious air-conditioned apartments, outstanding cuisine and a charming garden patio for cocktails. There are soft fountains off the lobby, miles of carpets and acres of marble; the service is formal, friendly and efficient. Next best are the Hilton, which has a pool, and the Balima, which is small but pleasant.

Practically every town in Morocco has a street called Mohammed V, and in Rabat, this is the scene of luxury stores, tea and pastry rooms, ice-cream parlors and sidewalk cafés. At its northern end is Rabat's medina and its maze of markets, all divided into different sections for specific products such as leather goods, brass and copper, silver, gold, carpets, caftans, jewelry and shoes; and there's a hard-to-find bazaar that sells secondhand junk and antiques at absurdly low prices.

In the larger markets, shades of rushes are stretched across the narrow streets to keep out the heat of the day. Beneath them, the air is dark and cool, fragrant with the scent of leather, mint and freshly baked bread. In the gloomy openings of their tiny shops, the men who make the merchandise sit cross-legged and smoke kif. When they move, they move slowly; but if a likely prospect pauses to admire their handiwork, they are quickly on their feet and ready to bargain.

Haggling is, of course, an ancient tradition in Morocco and the form is simple. The seller states his price, the buyer offers half and they compromise with something less than two thirds, which takes several minutes of headshaking and eye rolling and fervent appeals to Allah. The secret is not to treat the affair as a means of getting something for nothing but to pay only what you can afford for something you want very much--which is or should be the basis of any deal.

Before leaving the medina, walk through the kasbah to the Moorish café that's perched on the cliffs overlooking the ocean and the mouth of the river Bou Regreg. Here you can enjoy a glass of mint tea and Moroccan pastries, while watching the sun disappear and listening to the faint sounds that drift over the rooftops and across the water from Rabat's sister town of Salé.

After a day of plodding through the Rabat medina, few visitors have much energy for carousing; but dedicated revelers will find live soul music from London at L'Entonnoir, floorshows and Moroccan music at night clubs in the poshest hotels. Above L'Entonnoir is an excellent, informal restaurant, whose chef knows all there is to know about hamburgers, steaks and similar imports. For more demanding tastes, there is Italian food at Capri and La Mamma, Chinese at Hong Kong and Le Mandarin, French at Le Grillon, Chez Pierre and at the leading hotels. As for Moroccan food, this gastronomic revelation is one that should be reserved for dinner, and a late dinner, too, when nothing very strenuous is planned afterward, for Moroccan food at its finest is a devastating experience that sends gourmets into raptures and turns newcomers into disciples. In the Moorish dining room of the Tour Hassan hotel, you'll find it at its very best.

If a full-scale ceremonial banquet is to be served, skip lunch that day or you'll never make it. The traditional Moroccan feast starts with harira, which is a soup of chicken, mutton, rice and mixed spices. Next comes a tajin (stew) made with chicken, pigeon, beef and mutton, although it may also include turkey, camel (similar to roast mutton and very tasty) or almost any other meat. Another introductory dish is lemon chicken, accompanied (continued on page 278)man at his leisure(continued from page 210) with juicy olives and bedded on a carpet of spice, fruits and vegetables.

Next comes a mutton course made from a sheep roasted on a spit or baked in a clay oven and cooked throughout the preceding day. After you have disposed of these openers, a plate containing something that looks like half a football will be placed in front of you. This is bstila, a giant confection of flaky pastry (more than 100 layers when cooked by experts) that dissolves at the touch of a fork. Inside are eggs, butter, sugar, flour, chopped almonds, pigeon meat, raisins, onions, ginger. coriander and a variety of spices. It takes days to prepare, but under the hands of a skilled diner, it vanishes in minutes.

If you're still conscious after the bstila, you will be ready for Morocco's staple dish, couscous, which is granulated flour steamed over a broth. It's served on a silver or copper platter and decorated with choice cuts of meat and vegetables and has the consistency of a light rice. In a Moroccan home, you would eat from a communal dish with the other diners, using neither knife nor fork. With the thumb and first two fingers of the right hand, you scoop up a portion, along with some meat and sauce from adjacent dishes, and then, by a form of expert one-handed juggling, shape the portion into a ball and Hick it with the thumb into your mouth. Couscous is followed by a mountain of fresh fruit--citrus, plums, grapes and bananas--which, in turn, is followed by that most delightful Moroccan custom, the drinking of mint tea. After a series of ritual tastings by the teamaker, the brew is served in small glasses and the company sits back to savor the result and nibble on light pastries of honey and almonds.

In the Mohammedan religion, alcohol is forbidden and wine is not normally taken with meals. There are a few Moroccan labels to sample, however, and while none is sensational, they deserve to be tried. Among the best are Valpierre, Sidi Larbi and a cabernet strain, all red. There is also a Moroccan rose that has a pleasant bouquet but is unique among all wines we know, in that it loses its flavor the moment it passes the tongue, like the aftertaste of a glass of water.

From Rabat, our route leads south, following the Atlantic coast line, and stops first at Mohammedia, a resort of mixed but diverting blessings. There is a large golf course, a casino with baccarat, chemin de fer and roulette, a few very smart hotels and a beach that, most regrettably, sits in the shadow of a colossal oil refinery. If you choose to stay overnight, check in at the newly built Simar, where the clientele is usually on the safe side of senility. The luxury Miramar hotel is a grand but somewhat melancholy establishment set in formal gardens and the guests mope around like passengers on a cruise who can't wait for the liner to reach the next port.

But there is a redeeming note in this somewhat dismal picture of Mohammedia: the Sphinx, an elegant and very respectably managed bordello-discotheque-- or sexothéque, as it is known by admirers. There is nothing enigmatic about this particular Sphinx. Customers drive through double gates, past a red neon sign, and find themselves in the courtyard of a private house. The gatekeeper admits them through the garden, and at the door, they are greeted by a handsome, middle-aged French madam, dressed in formal black, who looks like the keeper of a select private hotel on the Right Bank.

Inside is a well-fitted discotheque with a bar at one end and expensive tables and chairs arranged around the circular floor. On a typical night, there are a couple of girls at the bar, a massive-jawed butch polishing glasses behind the bar and a young American in Sta-Prest chinos, polo shirt and Guccis, who sits against the wall and looks about as nonchalant as an expectant father. The girls are young and pretty, usually French. When the customer makes his own arrangements with the lady or ladies of his choice, they go to one of the many private suites on an upper floor and do their thing. Fifteen dollars later, he is ushered downstairs and into the night, followed by a chorus of farewells from management and labor. Business is never very brisk. On an outside wall, some sly wag has inscribed the slogan Dungan Hines ate here.

Next stop, Casablanca--less than an hour's drive south of Mohammedia. Although it is the only city in Morocco with a population of more than 1,000,000, it need occupy little time--one or two nights at the very most, enough for a skin-deep exploration, a few meals and a leisurely expedition to the Arab market. The town looks and feels European, full of roaring traffic, tree-lined streets, sidewalk cafes and airline offices; and though it is more appealing than its detractors would admit, there are grander sights to be seen elsewhere in Morocco. The medina is sprawling and colorful, but the prices in the markets have been inflated by the town's popularity as an air and sea terminal (cruise liners disgorge their shopstarved passengers here); and since it is principally a business city that takes its business seriously, it goes to bed early, leaving visitors who have enjoyed a fabulous dinner and are seeking further pleasures little alternative but to make the rounds of a few seedy belly-dancing joints and a couple of dreary night clubs.

Ideally, one should arrive in Casa--to use the popular abbreviation--close to midday and check into a downtown hotel. The El Mansour and Marhaba hotels are luxury skyscrapers, partly air conditioned, with rooftop restaurants and the standard creature comforts of good hotel-manship; these are the two best in town: but the truth is that while the service at both is friendly and efficient. neither one holds a candle to Morocco's best efforts. Casa's most distinguished hotel is the Anfa, in a quiet residential district of big villas and manicured gardens. It is fairly removed from downtown, but it has a commendable restaurant and a very pleasant swimming pool.

If you don't feel like observing the local custom of an afternoon siesta, you can drive to one of the nearby beaches and catch a few rays before the town wakes up. Or, if even this is too strenuous, wander along to one of the many cafes that stay open in downtown Casa. La Chope, a sidewalk bistro, is one of the busier spots at this time of day. There is a steady hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses and the aroma of Moroccan cigarettes at tallies nearly always filled with young locals and visitors who may sit for hours over a mint tea or an Oulmés mineral water while they size up the passers-by.

This soothing pastime can easily take up a couple of hours, whether in La Chope or one of the ice-cream parlors that abound in Casa; and the passing traffic rarely fails to provide novelty for the onlookers. Newsboys shout the latest catastrophes: shoeshine men. lottery-ticket sellers and vendors of incongruous plastic trinkets pass among the tables, carefully keeping beyond the reach of beady-eyed waiters, while an exotically garbed water carrier, apparently oblivious of his location, stands by the outer tables, trying to sell water by the brass cupful to customers who can get it for free. Oddly enough, some of the people buy anyway and the water carrier moves on, jingling his two brass cups and shouting his mission as he goes.

There is a fairly steady stream of very attractive girls, some carrying long French loaves and laughing with their friends, and others who ride as miniskirted passengers on the backs of the scooters that are seen all over the country. Women in robes and veils glide along the street, and most men are so intrigued by the dark, luminous eyes peeping above the veils that they usually fail to notice that these beautiful apparitions from another age wear the latest styles in Parisian footwear.

The veil is worn in most parts of the country and covers every part of the face except the eyes. In the strict tradition of Islam, it used to conceal--and still does in some countries--the entire face, because it was thought that no part of the female anatomy should be seen by any man other than the husband. In Morocco, women of all ages wear veils either for tradition or because (as in the case of the younger girls) they know they look mysterious. It would be unwise to attempt to photograph a veiled female of any age, however, because in most cases she would be seriously offended.

After La Chope, lunch. If you're not dining at the hotel (both El Mansour and Marhaba have excellent kitchens) and you have a craving for something French, try Chez Pierre. It's for gourmets only. More of the same, but for less demanding palates, at the Tournebroche and the Bar de l'Industrie. Oysters are the pride of the house at La Chaouia, while at La Mer au Petit Rocher, which is south of Casa on the coast highway, the chef's painstaking endeavors can be savored in an idyllic seaside setting. Further variations on this international theme include Spanish at La Corrida and Las Delicias, smorgasbord at the Viking, three styles of Chinese at Nid d'Hirondelle, Vietnamese at the Hanoi and the Vietnam (the stomach knows no politics) and Italian at the Chianti.

Moroccan food is found at Al Mounia, a delightful garden restaurant, and at Rissani, which is our favorite, because of its engaging atmosphere and its superlative floorshow. Like any self-respecting Moroccan restaurant, Rissani serves all of the best domestic dishes, but consumption is a lengthy process that can't be rushed. When dinner is over, people lie back on their couches and catch the scented breeze that drifts in through the open French windows from the mimosa in the garden below. They admire the colors and patterns of the carpets and the delicate tracery of the pierced stonework. There are slender carved columns and graceful arches and flowering patterns of tile. All are objects to be contemplated in leisure after dining. When everyone is comfortable, the entertainment starts.

It is introduced with a dance by two voluptuously beautiful girls, Fatima and Jallila, whose sinuous duet usually evokes a chorus of appreciative howls and bizarre chirruping sounds from some of the Arab audience. Then a few musicians wander onto the stage and one of the girls will dance in front of a bongo player in a routine that is best described by comparing it to the jazz technique in which one soloist swaps fours (four bars of music) with another. Except that at Rissani, the exchange is an erotic one. The drummer sets a fairly slow pace to begin with, the girl replies with her hips but in faster time, the drummer increases the pace and the girl responds with her breasts, setting an even faster beat, and they continue to alternate until the girl's half-naked body is a glistening blur in the dim reflection of the candles.

After she leaves the stage, it is time for the guedra, a stirring and enigmatic dance that is usually performed by a woman of Goulimine, the small southern village where the dance was born. The guedra is also a small earthenware jar with a skin stretched across its mouth, and the dance to which this drum gave its name is supposed to symbolize what happens when a tribal caravan stops to rest in the desert. About a dozen men and women gather in a semicircle around the solo dancer, who kneels in the center. Her palms and soles are dyed a deep blue-black and she is almost completely covered by a robe.

The men and women chant and beat out a rhythm that steadily grows faster, until the upper body of the kneeling woman is a gyrating blur of ecstatic abandon and her two outstretched hands are snapping to and fro in fierce spasms. Her knees pound out the same rhythm as the drummers' and at certain breaks, one of the veiled women in the semicircle will deliver a spine-chilling ululation, a high-pitched scream made by rolling the tongue rapidly over the roof of the mouth. At a point where the tension becomes unbearable, the dance is suddenly finished and the diners, startled by the unexpected silence and the abrupt transformation of the dancer from a wild creature into a shy, smiling woman, break into spontaneous applause. It is a custom in some private performances of the guedra for the woman to slip off her veils, exposing one breast midway through the dance; but at Rissani it is, unfortunately, a custom that is not observed.

Outside of Casablanca, on the coast road leading south, are a string of very swinging popular beach clubs, mostly discos, the best of which is Abreuvoir, which is operated by a charming young thing from Baltimore, whose bar is equipped with swings attached to the ceiling, rather than with conventional floor stools. Nearby are the Calypso, an amiable tavern for young singles, and La Noite, an intimate disco-restaurant that serves Moroccan, Viennese and French food on the patio. Should you wish to stay on the beach rather than in town, try the Bellerive Hotel, which, in addition to having a fine kitchen of its own, is in the middle of the beach-club district and offers balconied suites overlooking the ocean.

The beaches above and below Casablanca are fine golden affairs lapped by long Atlantic breakers, but most of the sea resorts close to town are for family-style dlay outings, rather than extended stays; and visitors seeking a few days of pampered self-indulgence usually bear south to the Club Méditerranée at Agadir. About 40 of these clubs are in operation in different parts of the world, and the one at Agadir is one of the more spectacular successes. It can be reached either by air or by road. From Casablanca, it's about 325 miles, and the entire trip can easily be accomplished in daylight, although there are numerous hotels en route for anyone wishing to break the journey overnight.

Room and meals and a host of incidentals are included in the club's modest terms. Sailing, yoga instruction, judo, fishing and tennis are all free; and in the evenings, there are classical concerts, cabarets, movies and two discothèques. Guests pay extra only for drinks, using colored beads that they buy on arrival. Accommodations aren't too luxurious, but since the small and somewhat poorly equipped bungalows are used only for sleeping, people rarely complain. Some of the cottages overlook the sea, but most are scattered around the grounds among eucalyptus and other shade trees. There's a large marquee tent for bridge contests, a couple of ping-pong and chess tables set in a quiet dell next to a peacock house.

Meals include such Lucullan entrees as whole roasted suckling pigs, dressed salmon, fish roasted over a slow fire and a display of meats, cold buffets, cheeses, salads, three varieties of unlimited wine, juices and a mountain of fresh fruits. Chamber music is played throughout the meal, which may be taken alfresco around the swimming pool or in the dining room, and everybody can return to the tables as often as they wish. Moroccan food is served regularly and on ceremonial occasions, such as the king's birthday or Bastille Day, dinner is served on the beach in caravan tents and guests loll around on cushions and layers of carpets, wearing caftans and jellabas and watching snake charmers and Moroccan dancers. Best of all, from the male viewpoint, is the surplus of young single women and the complete absence of any kind of regimented activity.

Seventy kilometers east of Agadir is the medieval walled bastion of Taroudant, which is surrounded by crenelated ramparts 20 feet high. It's one of the most picturesque towns in southern Morocco and should be visited on Thursday or Saturday, when the weekly souk (market) is held and tribes from both sides of the Atlas Mountains fill the narrow streets.

East of Taroudant, the highway forks to the north, across the High Atlas and on to the imperial city of Marrakesh, third largest city in the country and one of the most romantic in the world. On the fringes of the old town and in the newer section, along the ubiquitous Avenue Mohammed V, are the artifacts of a newer civilization: airconditioned hotels, shiny cars and tourist buses; but in the medina's labyrinth of alleys and the clamorous market, the laws of time and space have been suspended in another remote age.

There are three five-star luxury hotels in town and more than a dozen of humbler station. The most famous is the Mamounia, which has an immense swimming pool, tennis courts, gardens and balconied suites that look out across the plains to the snow-capped peaks of the High Atlas. Other luxury digs are the Es Saadi (which has excellent food, much better than the Mamounia's pathetic offerings), the Menara and El Maghreb, both on the small side. Most Marrakesh hotels are full during the skiing season (December to April), when thousands of Europeans flock into the area for the snow at Oukaïmeden, about 60 miles south. The gambling casino in Marrakesh opens at about the same time (for roulette, baccarat and boule) and so do the half-dozen night clubs in town.

All of the larger hotels serve European food, but for the best Moroccan cooking, go to the medina quarter of Riad Zitoun, where you can dine regally in a former palace at the Dar-es-Salam, or at the Gharnatta and the excellent Maison Arabe. Check in advance to see which restaurants are staging a floorshow; the Dar-es-Salam's is usually the best. The Taverne and Le Poussin d'Or lead the field in European cuisine.

The biggest show in Marrakesh is one that can't be seen anywhere else. It's been running daily for centuries and takes place in a vast square called the Djemaa-el-Fna. It starts early in the morning, when merchants, medicine men, beggars, fortunetellers, water carriers and purveyors of every conceivable commodity, from kif pipes to caftans, open for business. One man will have an inventory consisting of a pair of battered sandals, probably taken from his own feet or from those of a sleeping relative; another will sit behind a mountain of single false teeth. A couple of old women pore over the palm of a nervous youth and cackle secretly at the misfortunes they read there; a teamaker dispenses mint tea to customers who squat around the gleaming apparatus and exchange opinions about the correct brewing procedure; and charcoal braziers glow in a dozen food stalls, where hunks of lamb and vegetables simmer slowly on spits.

In the late afternoon, most of the merchants pack up and go home, leaving the square to magicians, minstrels, snake charmers, fire-eaters, acrobats, storytellers, gamblers, side shows, contortionists and thousands of gaping spectators, who travel in from the mountains and beyond. Mauritian dancers and musicians perform black African routines that provide a rumbling echo of drums to the wailing songs of the mountain Berbers; a giant of seven feet teaches tricks to a baby crocodile and acrobats form tottery human pyramids while small boys wind themselves into knots and a bald-headed man rides backward on a bicycle, reciting some involved story about a handsome prince and his sweetheart. At dusk, portable acetylene lamps throw a smoky yellow glare over the brightly colored merchandise; there is a pungent reek of roasting meat, mint and kif smoke in the air and, as the night wears on, the drums grow louder, the shell-game operators shout for more customers, the fables of the storytellers become more bizarre and the eyes of the children who sit and watch grow ever wider.

Behind the square is a mass of streets and alleys that form the Marrakesh shopping center, with its jewelers, cloth merchants, tailors, leather craftsmen, potters, armorers, weavers, dyers and spice sellers. Donkeys loaded with untanned sheepskins are herded through the crowd and shopkeepers reach out to tempt people to stop for a glass of tea and perhaps to buy a carpet or a gold necklace before they leave. A guide is essential, if you're in a hurry. He can bargain for you, show you the best sights and lead you through the short cuts. Fees should be worked out in advance. It's about a dollar for a couple of hours, a little more if the guide speaks good English.

Farther north, along a highway skirting the shadow of the Atlas, is the medieval city of Fès, a mosaic of white roofs and slender minarets in the historic heart of Morocco. Fès is the most ancient of the four imperial cities (the others: Marrakesh, Rabat and Meknes) and today is regarded as the intellectual capital of the kingdom, just as Meknes, 40 miles to the west, is its architectural pride. Both towns are steeped in the country's roiling past, and anyone passing through for more than a cursory glance should carry an authoritative guidebook.

Hotel space is comparatively limited (Fès has only one five-star establishment, the Palais Jamai) and advance reservations in winter are advisable. In Meknes, stay at the Transatlantique or the Hotel de Nice. The Merinides and the Zalagh in Fès both have swimming pools; but the Thermal Hotel, nine miles out of town, in the oasis at Sidi-Harazem, is a breath-takingly modern construction with hot springs and a pool surrounded by palms and oleanders. Dine at least once at the Palais de Fès for tourist-oriented Moroccan specialties; and if you've a taste for something Continental, try the Grand Hotel's Normandy restaurant.

North of these fabled towns and running parallel with the Mediterranean littoral lies the Rif, which until not too many years ago was an inaccessible region of harsh, forbidding mountains populated by a proud and hardy people who even today can still boast that their land never fell to a conqueror's sword. Many tried and failed. Now the invaders arrive in peace on new highways that carry them through a wondrous landscape of cedar forests and snow-capped mountains to the silver beaches and crystal waters of secluded resorts such as Al Hoceima, and to the romantic fortress of Tetuán.

At the western tip of the Rif is Tangier, the last stop on our itinerary and departure point for homebound flights via the Continent and for the busy ferries that connect Africa to Europe. Between 1906 and 1956, Tangier was a port under international jurisdiction and spies, smugglers, gold traders and crooks of every quirk worked their schemes in bland serenity. But 13 years have passed since the town became Moroccan territory again and most of the heavies have fled for more fertile pastures, leaving a hardy core of small-time currency speculators, dope traders and millions of disappointed tourists, who came expecting to see Sydney Greenstreet and found Andy Griffith.

One of the few remaining links with the good old days are the cafés around the Petit Socco, a scruffy square that at almost any hour of the day or night is an open-air crash pad for strung-out junkies, bright-eyed closet queens and an indeterminate species of seedy transients who run errands. Money-changers, flesh hustlers and dope pushers ply their crafts outside the Café Central, dodging from table to table, looking for prospects, swooping every now and then to drain a departed customer's unfinished coffee. Police occasionally check identity papers and round up a few bedraggled victims, but nobody rocks the boat too hard or too often.

Beyond the square is a town largely devoted to catering to the needs of tourists who don't stay very long. Neither of the two best hotels, El Minzah and the Rif, quite deserves its five-star rating, but they both have swimming pools, night clubs and the usual amenities found in good hotels. El Minzah is preferable. The Grand Hotel Villa de France and the Velasquez Palace are fairly pleasant and renowned for their kitchens. There are dozens of restaurants (the Détroit, with its superb Moroccan food, is our favorite, but bstila fanciers will prefer the Mamora), a handful of discos and cabarets and a sorry collection of B-girls, who seem to live on a diet of colored water. There's also a municipal casino a short walk up the hill from the beach.

Tangier may not be the city of intrigue it once was, but there is still an air of mystery and menace in the winding streets of the medina and a hint of untold stories in the stern faces of the silent old men who gather in the shadows. Tangier does not readily divulge its secrets, and neither does the rest of Morocco. The tremendous growth of tourism and the advent of the space age have made few very deep impressions on the ancient kingdom of the Moors. It slumbers still, not in the apathetic sleep of some indolent lay-about but with the watchful, wakeful alertness of a wise old patriarch who has learned too much to remember. Its mood was best summed up by a traveler who went to Morocco in the closing years of the last century. "Abide motionless in time past," he wrote. "Long may your sleep continue, your ancient dream persist."