MANY people believe the Garden of Eden was somewhere in Africa. And indeed, one of the strong contenders for the site of the earthly paradise must surely be the courtyard of the Hotel El Minzah in Tangier at breakfast time on a warm autumn morning. Within its pillared arcade with its beautifully carved stone capitals, the eagle-eyed and courteous waiters glide round, wearing red fezzes, tunics and baggy trousers, serving coffee and eggs and rashers as you top up with fruit and croissant from the buffet. In the centre, the fountain spills water gently from a stone basin filled with rose petals and there is a soft murmur of conversation.
And when you have eaten your fill, the chaotic bustle of Muslim North Africa is waiting for you at the front door into the rue de la Liberte. Go left and you are in the ville nouvelle, the French quarter full of banks and travel agents along the Avenue Pasteur where you can buy the day's copy of Le Mon de or Liberation.
Turn right and 100 metres away down the slope is the medina the mediaeval walled city on a hill overlooking the Atlantic Ocean where people have been living since Roman times and probably before. Penetrate that and you go back centuries. The place is a warren of nooks and blind alleys where behind thick walls and stout doors the Tangerines, many of the women veiled, many of the men in striped jallaba tunics with a hood, live their secret lives. These lives, by the look of it can scarcely have changed since Caesar's men gave way to the Byzantines. After them came the Arabs, the Portuguese, the Spaniards and even, briefly the British when Charles II received the city as part of the dowry of his bride, Catherine of Braganza.
For much of this century, the ancient city lived under an international regime which transformed it into a place of supreme intrigue and espionage, a sort of Cold War Berlin - but in the sun, and with nicer people. Tangier became a little enclave administered by a cluster of consuls who vied to control the police or running the city hall. Under their jurisdiction and even before the city became a centre for those who, because of their taste for the bohemian or their sexual orientation, found Europe too unforgiving and straitlaced. These included Oscar Wilde and Tennessee Williams, the painter Henri Matisse and the composer Camille Saint-Saens. In the 1950s, this Agatha Christie regime was swallowed up in the kingdom of Morocco. The present king, Hassan II, who detests the place, keeps well clear and the Tangerines do what they want - as they have always done.
If you tire of the Medina and the ville nouvelle, stroll out along the beach and gaze at the hills of Spain to the north across the Straits of Gibraltar or visit some of the beautiful gardens that generations of expatriates have created in the Moroccan sun.
And though no one will tell you this because they want you to stay put where you are, Tangier is a great centre for touring. For instance, from Tagier-Ville station you can take the 7.15 a.m. train for Rabat and Casablanca or the 8.10 a.m. for Marrakesh. If you want to make the acquaintance of the Spaniards in Andalusia, hop on the ferry across the Straits of Tarifa: Tarifa is the southernmost town in Spain and its narrow streets with iron grills and white walls make it look like something out of a sherry ad. And while you are back in Europe for the day, why not go on to Gibraltar to look over the Rock and stock up at Marks and Spencer's in Main Street? The combination of the sights and smells of Morocco, Spain and a British colony in one day is an intoxicating one.
I will confess not to be a great lover of Moroccan food, though I am reviled at home for not being enthusiastic about the couscous and mint and spices and aubergines which make it stronger and more Mediterranean than even Italian food. Apart from El Minzah, the Restaurant Mamounia Palace has a good reputation for good food served in set menus. It is tucked in a small square in the medina and has good atmosphere. The invaluable North African Handbook published by Trade and Travel Publications of Bath reports that the Morocco Palace in the Avenue Prince Moulay Abdellah has belly dancing until 1 a.m., when it becomes a disco.
Much is made in the guide books of the nuisance tourists suffer from the touts and guides who are supposed to pester the visitor to distraction. My recent experience was that they were soon brushed off, indeed, the only time I asked for directions (I was lost in the cul-de-sacs of the medina) a young Moroccan walked well out of his way to guide me and then politely refused the tip I offered.
I stayed at the very modest and slightly crumbling Continental in the medina with a lovely view over the port and over to Spain and I was made very welcome in a way hotel chains seldom manage. They're nice people, the Tangerines.