Morocco
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By Terry Ward
There is magic in leaving Spain by boat and arriving less than three hours later in Africa.
To be sure, the ferries that depart Algeciras in the south of Spain for the Moroccan port city of Tangier have their practical sides, too.
They make regular crossings, cost roughly $40 for a one-way trip, and slice across the Straits of Gibraltar in just a few hours before bellying up in a mosque-studded harbor that feels as distant from Europe as instant couscous does from the real Moroccan thing.
My recent trip to Morocco was my fourth in as many years, and arriving in Tangier was as exotic as ever.
The sun was setting as the ferry was mooring, and the call to prayer was rising from the white washed maze of the medina in a halo of aural faith that is at once haunting and hypnotic.
"Allahou Akbar," called the city's countless muezzins, "God is most great."
Inside the walled Kasbah, women dressed in djellabas floated past, arms casually locked, the fabric of their long, hooded robes swooshing at their feet.
Vendors along the serpentine streets hawked everything from goatskin lamps stenciled with henna to ornate desert nomad jewelry and carved wooden spoons used for eating harira, the national soup (a hearty broth of beans, noodles and meat).
At night, young boys gathered on the beach, the coast of Spain shimmering on the horizon, to play soccer in the sand.
They took the goal posts with them when they left.
From Tangier, I took the bus a few hours south to Chefchaouen, a laid-back hill station surrounded by the rolling greens hills of the Rif range.
'Green' has double meaning in this part of Morocco, a region notorious for producing hashish.
In Chefchaouen's pleasant central square, dreadlocked hippies from around the world take a break from the travel trail to sip mint tea and strum guitars.
On market days, farmers clad in traditional striped skirts and hats decorated with colorful pompoms descend from the nearby countryside to sell a regional specialty - a soft goat cheese that is delicious with rounds of Arabic bread called ghoobz.
Several hours south of the Rif Mountains, the imperial city of Fes rises from the dry landscape like a wrinkle in a carpet of dust and sand.
The medina (old city) here is a UNESCO world heritage site , and walking through it feels surreal to western sensibilities.
Motorized vehicles cannot navigate the steep, winding streets, so donkeys and horses transport goods – everything from crates of Coca-Cola to television sets – to the thousands of people living inside the walled city. When you hear the call "Balek!", step quickly aside.
The Fes medina is home to one of biggest mosques in North Africa, the Karaouine. And while non-Muslims are not permitted to enter, you can peek in as you walk past to marvel at how the enormous central courtyard opens to the sky, allowing an open space for reflection in the heart of the medina's madness.
Fes' tanneries, tucked away deep within the medina, are also well worth visiting. And you'll find no shortage of guides willing to lead you here (for a fee, of course).
From terraces perched right over the action, you can watch the age-old practice of turning animal skins into soft dyed leather for bags, shoes and more.
Men stomp their way through the circular vats, employing natural products – everything from saffron and poppy flowers to bird poop – to soften and color the hides. Shop owners are quick with a sprig of mint to soften the scent of the process for tender tourist noses.
The best spot to enjoy the Fes medina from afar is the sweeping terrace at the luxurious Hotel Sofitel Palais Jamai, perched over the medina.
Smoke rising in plumes across the cityscape comes from the medina's countless public baths, communal bakeries and ceramic kilns (Fes pottery is famous around the world and makes a fantastic souvenir).
From Fes, I hopped the overnight train to Marrakech, another Moroccan imperial city with a name that has always inspired dreamers.
Upon arrival, it's surprising to see just how many fellow tourists find their ways to the red-walled city (European low budget carriers arrive daily from France, Spain and London).
People watching doesn't get any better than in Marrakech's main square, the Djemma al Fna. The wide-open plaza has long attracted traders from across Africa, and today you will find a swirling mix of all nationalities and walks of life.
There are turbaned snake charmers wooing their cobras, throngs of well-heeled French tourists, and veiled Berber women with only their darting eyes visible from the sheaths of cloth covering their faces (the latter are quick to grab your hand to paint a henna tattoo on it – a tip, naturally, is expected).
When dusk descends, scores of food stands fill the Djemma al Fna, selling everything from sticks of meat called brochettes to steamed snails, sheep's head and sticky Moroccan sweets.
The rhythmic beats of Gnaouwa music fill the air and Moroccan tourists gather in tight circles around storytellers and astrologists while tourists look on, wishing they understood the local language.
When it comes to winding down from the frenetic Marrakech experience, there are a few options.
My favorite escape is to take the bus three hours west to the beautiful seaside town of Essaouira, a former Portuguese enclave that is hassle-free and always quite a bit cooler than Marrakech thanks to stiff ocean breezes (the town is an international hotspot for windsurfing and kitesurfing).
For a few bucks, you can dine on a platter of flopping-fresh grilled sardines under blue and white striped awnings at the port with the roar of crashing waves as a soundtrack.
In the lead up to dusk, the unofficial tradition for locals and tourists alike is gathering along the Sqala (the port batiments) to watch the sun disappear into the breakers.
If you have the time, consider heading east from Marrakech and making the long drive (take at least two days to enjoy the sights along the way) to the edge of the Sahara desert.
In the tiny, dusty town of Merzouga, the road ends at Erg Chebbi – an enormous, ever-changing sand dune that is the color of cumin, and signifies the start of the Sahara in Morocco.
Local guesthouses run overnight camel treks into the desert, and until you have slept with the stars as a ceiling and the sand as a bed you cannot know the true meaning of quietness.
Likely, a local Berber boy will be your guide.
He may even tell you, as my guide, Mubarak, told me, that the Sahara belongs to you as much as it does to him.
And in the vast silence that ensues, you may even be tempted to believe.