When I think of Morocco, I think of busy cranes--big cranes --busy building homes, apartment houses, and other living quarters.  Wherever I went in that extraordinary country, I was rarely out of sight of some kind of construction.  Thus, if Morocco is indeed a third world nation, as it is supposed to be, it is a very strange one.  I have visited a number of third world countries, but none other has been so constantly busy building.  Moreover, this appears to be private, not public enterprise.  This odd mixture of peoples (Berber and Arab, mainly, but also including strains from various former conquerors--from Phoenicians and Romans to Vandals and French --is simply absorbed in throwing up housing for its population.  If things continue at this rate, in another two or three decades, most Moroccans will be better housed than most Americans.

But unless things change dramatically, Americans will never know it.  While Morocco is a very popular tourist destination for Europe, it is almost unknown in America.  To me this situation is a mystery.  Here is an exotic country offering most of the attractions on which my fellow citizens spend millions of dollars every year, yet most Americans would be hard pressed to locate it on a map.  Moreover, whatever they know about Morocco is wrong.  They know, vaguely, that the Sahara lies somewhere in the vicinity, so the first thing that comes to mind is camels.  Africa, the Sahara, camels. . . . That combination probably means Bedouins, oppressive heat, oil, horrific misrule, and of course, turbaned fanatics bent on jihad.  One is best advised to avoid such places.  Time was when my mother, who knew virtually nothing about Morocco or indeed, of Africa, was charmed by Rudolf Valentino as the Sheik of Araby, but that was half a century ago, and my more contemporary countrymen have reason to look elsewhere than to an Islamic nation when they think about a vacation.

Morocco deserves a better press.  In my not very humble opinion, she would be well advised to invest a few millions in a first-rate advertising campaign to inform would-be American tourists of the basic facts about the country – not only its charms, safety, climate, lovely cities and fascinating history – but also the ordinary truths which most Moroccans take for granted.  These facts are news to Americans, and I believe it is mostly sheer ignorance that keeps Americans from enjoying the beaches, the medinas, the skiing (skiing in Morocco! – who would believe it?), the Roman, Carthaginian and medieval ruins, and the incomparable cuisine of the country.

Maybe part of the explanation lies in the proximity of Mexico and the Caribbean.  These areas are only a few, inexpensive hours away and – though they have their disagreements with the US – somehow their residents don’t seem so lethal as Near Easterners (how Moroccans, occupying Africa’s extreme northwest corner, get labeled “Near Eastern” is beyond my understanding). Not to detract from the appeal of Mexico, a country I love and visit as often as I can afford the trip, but Morocco enjoys one great advantage:  it does not have most of the afflictions that dog gringos traveling south of the border.  One often hears:  “You can’t trust the water.”  There is real substance to this complaint, but one can drink tap water in Morocco.  “Better avoid food you buy in the markets or on the street.”  Many an incautious American traveler has learned the meaning of “Montezuma’s revenge” to his chagrin, but there is no gastric counterpart in Fez, Casablanca, Tangiers or indeed, even in small towns.  “Mexico City’s air is so polluted you can cut it with a knife!” and “Crime is rampant, especially in Mexico City.”  Sadly, these objections often become part of the experience of Americans who do not take proper precautions.  To be sure, Morocco has traffic problems and crime, but these problems pale in comparison to Mexico’s.

If I had to enumerate the problems of Morocco for an American tourist, I would begin with the languages.  Few Americans know French, even fewer Arabic, and Berber means a sweater or a rug.  Therefore, something like a cadre of English-speaking guides is a necessity.  And these guides should be well versed in Moroccan history, government, economy, investment opportunities, and of course hotels, cafes, the sights, and the mechanics of changing money.  If not experts themselves, they should co-opt local aides who know the geography of the local medina, the location of honest merchants, good and moderately-priced restaurants, and the location of reasonably clean pissoirs (and their counterparts of ladies).  Finally, and possibly most importantly, they should be able to dismiss beggars, peddlers, and other hangers-on (and they are legion in every Moroccan city).  I have had considerable contact with such citizenry in many countries, but I have never encountered the equal either in persistence or aggression of the Moroccan variety.  They are even inventive in their entrepreneurship.  I recall one very pretty girl with a modest command of English in the market in Marrakech who fashioned a friendship ring for me.  Then, it appeared she wanted money, and responded to my demurral with a flood of obscenities, which would have done credit to a stevedore.  I fled, pursued by her charming, if shrill “fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou!”  But for the most part, I had the good fortune to have an excellent guide on my two visits to Morocco.  When the beggars and peddlers had reached the point of driving me to distraction, he would say a few words and the offenders would smile and disappear.  I am sure he was saying something to the effect of “Beat it, these are my suckers!” but whatever he said, it worked like strong magic.  This ability to shoo away unwanted attention is, I repeat, a very necessary quality in a proper guide in all Moroccan cities of any size.

Such minor inconveniences aside, a trip to Morocco is, in my experience, an introduction to a delightfully different and very interesting ancient culture and civilization.  It is a fascinating, marvelously convenient, perfectly safe, clean, and above all, exotic experience.  The country is so progressive that it seems improper to call it “third world.”

In many ways it seems more like the first world than some of the members of the European Union.  A pity that more of my countrymen and women are so fearful of Muslims.  The average American’s concept of Morocco (if he has any) has less reality than Disney World.  A good advertising campaign might even capitalize on some American misconceptions.  Camels are interesting beasts, and after the Western Sahara becomes part of Morocco, there will be over twice as much pristine beach sand to cover with dollar-spending tourists.  Finally, even the traditional, mythical Sahara can be made to look romantic – just as it did to my bemused mother half a century ago.