Colossal like its mosques, fragile like its history. Cats are guardians of their urban and desert landscapes. their multitudes. Morocco is the first and last grain of sand in the west. The Maghreb, the sub-region of Africa in which it is located, actually means “place where the sun sets”. In the history of Morocco, over its ancient cities, the sun has opposed itself on several occasions. But today, Rabat is a historical and tourist formal enclave at the mouth of the Bu Regreg River. The capital of a kingdom of about 38 million people. Evoking a Muslim world capable of connecting with the West. Tradition and modernity. The trauma of colonialism and the acceptance of globalization.

Around the tower of Hasan, the sultan who wanted to build the largest mosque in the world in 1199, the landscape is untouched. On several occasions, the rulers of Morocco proposed greatness. Next to the ruins of the ancient minarets – columns transformed into elegant poses for photos in the Instagram era – stands the mausoleum of Mohammed V, the last sultan of the oppressed nation and the first king of a liberated, rebellious and strife-torn Morocco. Father of independence. Ten years of work and more than 400 Moroccan artists to recreate a festive style with Arab-Andalusian roots and a restored dignity that shines. From 1912 until its independence in 1956, Morocco was a forced French protectorate, and in certain areas a Spanish protectorate. In 1950, Mohammed V called for the abolition of that status. He was expelled and forced into exile. They installed a puppet monarch in his place. With his return and proclamation as king, the independence project became unstoppable.

The same waters that tremble at the Bu Regreg pier have bathed the ashes of empires and dominating nations in Europe, Asia and the Middle East for centuries. The walls of Rabat’s medina, the marketplace of chaos, eccentricity and props, are reflected in these waters. Also Qasba Udayasa, an old military fort built on a hill to follow the harbor, today a traditional neighborhood conceived as living history. A palimpsest of styles and traces of genius and violence, declared a world heritage by UNESCO. Through the gates of this ancient fort, I descend into the sea and take off my shoes. The sun is burning in this African West. I feel again the warm sand, the relief of the water and the smell of the sea.

Time does not allow me to make concessions. I run with my suitcase, through the Medina, a prisoner of strange luck, as if I found my old adventurous illusion again in that fun walk. I arrive at the station and get on the train that takes me to the orange Sahara desert in three hours. Marrakech is a journey into the past. Cats of all ages welcome me in the narrow streets of their old Medina. Rest and start the day with a new mosque: the Koutoubia, which consists of a 66-meter minaret, one of the largest buildings in the world at the time it was built (from 1184 to 1199), which served as the inspiration for the Giralda in Seville. Marrakesh was the glory of the empire, then the age of abandonment and oblivion.

As in any place where there were dreams, there are corpses in Morocco. I visit the Saadian tombs, as old as Cervantes’ Quixote, rediscovered only in 1917, at the dawn of the brutal French protectorate. Several members of the Saadian dynasty are buried here, whose false immorality has turned into a valuable tourist attraction because it is just a glimpse of a lost resilient time. Like the colossal El Badi Palace, a wonder of the Muslim world. Evidence of its vast structure still exists, although only the imagination can recreate its lavish gardens and the fine materials of the more than 360 rooms it may have had back in 1578. The Bahia Palace, on the contrary, gives me the most preserved idea of ​​what the Riad was for the Moroccan nobility, with large harem areas and bathrooms.

The cult of water in the desert is not strange. In Islam, it is the most sacred good in the universe. That’s why care in sophisticated gardens with irrigation systems. You can visit one of them in Marrakech, called the Secret Garden: a haven of silence in the heart of the Medina. Morocco is like its gastronomy, a sea of ​​flavors and mysterious sensations. Veal, cooked with spices and delicious sauces, accompanied by couscous, makes the experience of meat a delicious and sweet dessert or cocktail. As a coincidence, Morocco appeared in my life, with two of the four imperial capitals. I survived the violent intensity of its sellers, knowing that despite everything a tourist can be free and safe. The sunset in the west reminds me that summer exists. With curiosity, I explored the battle-hardened history of its independence, the biggest remnant of which is the language of Victor Hugo and Flaubert. The fight, in short, to rebuild the tallest tower in the world. Because everyone is that tower. (OR)