DAY TWENTY:
We took the 8:00 CTM bus four hours north of Fes, passing actual lakes and crossing rivers with water in them; winding through valleys and over hills with trees, and great fields of hay, until we reached the town of Chefchaouen.
Upon arrival I walked into the bus station and bought my tickets out to Tangier, for Tuesday. This turned out to be a good decision, because the ticket office is closed most of the time.
In this area, the hay is stacked in quonset hut shapes, and towns are surrounded by an “outer circle” of these stacks. One town had a central well, everyone had their mule-drawn water tank pulled up, and they were talking as they tanked up. Lots of road construction in this area; in one draw five men are building a concrete bridge, laboriously hammering and placing the braces and concrete by hand, batch at a time. No big billboards of the “Fearless Leader” here, but every business has a gold formed photo prominently displayed. The women’s hats have a high center, with colorful puffy balls or black wooly decorations on the brims. None of them are wearing burkas or fully covered by robes, more scarves and long skirts. More of the men seem to be wearing jeans and work clothes, though some still have on various robes and head coverings.
We caught a petite taxi up to our guesthouse, perched high above the city, almost to the treeline. The road is so steep, the taxi so petite, that in several places it burns rubber trying to get traction to pull us up the steep road and around the next curve.
He lets us out with a smile and shrug, and we have to walk the last hundred yards up, up then a dirt path to the Casa Scotlandee, which is also known as RIF for Anyone. The taxis know it as Scotlandee, however.
This is a really quirky sort of a place. We have been staying in these really nice, kind of traditional Riads, Dars and Guesthouses, most tastefully decorated and pretty traditional. Here we are in more of a backpacker hostel. It is not a bad place, but it is very functional as opposed to tasteful, utilitarian as opposed to traditional. It is kind of a worn, comfortable feeling. Very comfortable, and lived in, relaxing.
And, being where it is, in Chefchaouen which is the marijuana capital of Morocco, it has a very very mellow vibe going on. Very mellow. As in the owners are just really really laid back people.
Always smiling.
Shrug. Smile.
It’s pretty peaceful, actually.
The cost is really low, even by Moroccan standards. At $30 USD a night, we have a big, comfortable bed, large room and bathroom with strong shower and good toilet. There is a sitting room to be shared among four rooms (the bunk room is up a floor and has its own facilities) but we are the only guests at the moment, so it is like private den. There is a great set of view terraces looking out over the city, and we were greeted with real English tea (the owners are Scots) as opposed to mint tea. They have a great pet dog named Angus, and a pet desert fox that the son picked up in Merzouga last year. The fox is really small, has learned to bark like a dog, and is so painfully shy. If you ignore it long enough, it will come out and sniff your ankle.
I want one.
There are a couple small pet turtles; they had some larger ones but they escaped last year by crawling to the edge of the roof top terrace and leaping off. “When they are big, they can actually jump, and can roll down mountainsides tucked in their shell without being hurt.”
Shrug. Smile.
As I said, it is really mellow right now as they have obviously been smoking; everyone is kind of reluctant to get moving too much, and when I mention laundry they shrug, smile and say “great, set it there…”
So I gather it up early, figuring I better give them some lead time to get it done.
I mentioned about how we have been having some trouble with all the damn huge meals that we are given, and asked them if we could just have some buttered toast, coffee and orange juice for breakfast, and it is “sure, no problem” and we will work out a price break as well. Shrug. Smile.
They even suggest a place for a meal in town where we can get some “non-Moroccan” food, which sounds great to both of us.
“It is by the famous hat man. You’ll know it when you see it.”
Shrug. Smile.
So, it looks like we are settling in for a few days. Too bad we don’t “partake” or this could be a real high point of the trip, I suppose.
Shrug.
Smile.
However, the problems we encounter today (Sunday, day 20) will turn out to be a result of the smoke haze obscuring some basic things. Such as directions into town.
So why did we come to the mountain town of Chefchaouen? It is kind of out of the way really.
Well, it is famous for being a “blue” town, in fact, if you look at the travel poster below, I think it is probably based on this city. It is also a more temperate area of Morocco, and is in the mountains as opposed to the coast or desert, so a little less “typical” or perhaps stereotypically Morocco. And it is a smaller town, which is our kind of place.
Sure enough, when our bus finally chug-chugs up the grade and around the corner, and we get our first glimpse of Chefchaouen, there is a blueish - white cast to the town nestled against the mountain. It looks cool and refreshing somehow, especially in contrast to all the sun-baked orange, red and brown we have seen.
So, we arrived on the bus, and caught a petite taxi up, up, up to our guesthouse. We are high up out of town, a “fifteen minute” walk into the medina and the main part of the blue town. We look down from the rooftop terrace, and see it all below, along with the residential areas surrounding it. OK. How hard can this be? And I ask the hosts if there is anything special about getting to town, and they say, “No, just go down…” Shrug. Smile.
So we set out, following the winding road down. Soon we are in some buildings and the road forks. How far over are we? We guess, and take the right fork.
Shrug. Smile.
Next fork… looks a little older over that way…
Shrug. Smile.
An hour later and we are thirsty, have walked how many kilometers, and we are on the edge of town looking out over the valley below. Huh. We start to trace a way back the other direction, finally hitting a sort of main road lined with light standards, the typical entrance into a Moroccan town. So we finally start to actually enter the town itself, about an hour and a half after we set out on our fifteen minute walk.
Shrug. Smile.
All is not lost, however. It is interesting to wander through the local residential neighborhoods, with the shy kids saying “Hola” as we pass; one of the less shy teenagers greets us with “Hola, Bonjour, Hello, Fuck you, Bitch!” at which we both burst out laughing.
Shrug. Smile.
We are into Spanish controlled Morocco now, not French. We ask a man for directions to the Medina, “Bonjour, Où est la medina?” only to be asked, “You speak English? Spanish or English here, no French! English good!” before he smiled and pointed us the opposite way we were heading.
Shrug. Smile.
We finally figured out, after looking in the low part of the town for the medina (it is always in the low part of town) that here, in Chefchaouen, the medina climbs the hill, with the old Kasbah close to the top of the hill and the maze of souks spread out from it. The main square is more like a lopsided rectangle halfway up the walled city. There is a rampart that gives a definite top edge to the town, but the bottom part is kind of ill-defined, with no real border; you just pick a street, any old street and start to climb. Soon enough the alley turns to stairs.
I am thinking a simple map would have been handy, but hey. We figured it out.
Shrug. Smile.
So we start to wander through the maze of blue - washed streets. The stairs are blue, the walls are blue; cobalt blue and sky blue and white-blue and turquoise and every shade in between. A green mosque or blue and white checked stoop makes quite a contrast. The shadows; even the air seems to be tinted blue.
I am not too concerned about getting lost in the maze, as it seems to be a pretty manageable size. We wander here and there, and soon enough run into the Famous Hat Man.
How do we know?
As they said, we will know it when we see it.
The restaurant we are looking for must be close. Lalla Mesouda.
Except...
it’s not.
Shrug. Smile.
Then, we run across the Famous Hat Man number two.
OK now we must be close, except…
Shrug. Smile.
After famous Hat Man number four we start to ask if anyone has heard of Lalla Mesouda. Seriously, we get some shrugs, until someone knows a friend who knows of such a place, who asks someone… and suddenly, over by Famous Hat Man number five (And yes, this time we knew it when we saw it, and honestly, had we been high we would have NEVER even considered those other hat men to be famous at all. Never.) we find the restaurant.
Shrug. Smile.
It is closed. Rather, it is open, but the lights are all off and the door is open.
It is Ramadan, and no one is eating for a couple hours yet.
But, everyone wants to make money, and places are eager to serve tourists. The guy at the TV store across the alley sees us go in. He sends a boy to run and fetch up the owner, who does not speak English, Spanish or French. She arrives, and sends her daughter to fetch up the carpet salesman down the street who speaks English. Meanwhile we get a menu that is in Arabic, broken French, partial Spanish and worse English. We look at each other and smile. Shrug.
Soon the carpet guy shows up, explains the situation, and asks what we want. I am very happy at this point because the menu has things like chicken with mushroom sauce, lasagna, spaghetti and so on… stuff other than tagine (which is also on the menu).
“Chicken with mushroom, please.”
Gail wants the Caesar Salad.
He translates, then says, “No Chicken. No Salad. It is Ramadan."
OK then.
“Lasgana, please."
He translates, then says, “No Lasagna. It is Ramadan.”
Shrug. Smile.
“Spaghetti? Cheese Omelet?”
“Yes, we have that.”
Oh thank allah!
Smiles all around.
Soon I am digging into spaghetti with meat sauce, definitely not Italian, but not Moroccan either, and Gail is happy with her omelet and warm bread. We have a bottle of sparkling water and all is good, especially because the total price of the meal is about $8 US.
Shrug. Smile.
We spend more time walking and run across the carpet salesman who translated for us, so as a courtesy we walk into his store. Of course we are soon trapped, about thirty rugs thrown down, but we have no real interest in rugs or even buying anything. So we refuse it all, but thank him profusely, and walk on. I feel guilty in a way for wasting his time, but on the other hand EVERYONE is begging us to come in their shops even when we tell them we are not buying stuff. It is almost like a game, or a challenge; they are convinced they can make us see the absolute need to buy stuff when they really know nothing about us, our lifestyle, our travels or finances, and we know nothing about them. We feel rude rejecting everyone, we feel rude walking into stores and leaving when they start to pester us, we feel rude being polite…
I think being rude is just an art form here. An expected way of doing things.
Shrug. Smile.
We just go with it.
Soon it is getting darker, and we are ready to get out, We head downhill, and are soon trapped in a dead end. Ten we go back up and are back where we started. Then around again and.. have we been here before?
Shrug. Smile.
Thank god we have nothing else to do and nowhere to be, but we are getting a little tired now, after all this walking. And this is my first day of feeling somewhat normal again. I have had one bowl of spaghetti in the past three days to power me along.
Could have used a simple map…
Shrug. Smile.
We finally find our way out, and by paying attention, discover going up the path we should have taken coming down. Sure enough, it is not that hard.
There is a fancy hotel, way up the hill at our level, called the Atlas, and according to Lonely Planet it has the best bar in town.
There are exactly two bars in town.
But this is the best. And it is just across, following a dirt path then the road. So we drop our waters off, pick up our books and walk across, at sunset, to the bar. On the way, the air raid siren goes off, a huge sound echoing up the valley, followed by the End-Of-Fast Call to Prayer, a loud gathering moan which sounds almost exactly like the siren.
Then…
Eerie silence.
Bright orange sunset flares.
The bar has a huge, expansive view right down on the medina. If someone had been thinking, they would have told us that this is the easy way into town, as there is a path direct to the gate in the rampart. I look intently, study the route for tomorrow.
Well, now we know.
Shrug. Smile.
The “best bar” is a total dud. No wine, only beer, and Casablanca beer is worse than Moroccan wine. But it is cold, so we enjoy an hour having a cold one and reading, before heading back to the guesthouse.
Gail slept in while I went up on the terrace and drank a cup of coffee, watching the clouds roll over the mountain ridges. They lie heavy on the mountaintops. The valley itself was steeped in light, a soft glow on the town below. I spent a couple hours reading and writing, just sitting.
Another of my favorite African musicians is playing on the stereo, Vieux Farka Touré, and the music makes the morning complete.
We are treated, yes treated, to a small breakfast of warm "toast" (local homemade bread) with cold homemade butter, great coffee and fresh orange juice, and that's it! Sitting outside on the terrace, in the sun, it can't get much better than this.
This was our plan for today:
Wake up.
Have coffee.
Walk to and through Chefchaouen.
Take photos.
Eat something when hungry.
See if the other bar at the Hotel Parador has wine.
So, with that plan firmly in mind, we set out taking the high route into the city, dropping down on top of the city walls and going in through the high gate. There is a trashy graveyard there, outside the ramparts, with the grave sites clearly limned by a head and foot stone, and connecting side rails. Some of the graves are washed blue, other white, all are so old that any inscription is long gone. Some kids have a fire going in the middle of the graveyard, they seem to be burning plastic bags and runner soles of old tennis shoes. The black oily smoke rolls up, toxic fumes around us as we drop in, holding our breath, but the kids seem to be having fun laughing around the fire. Are they on trash burning duty, or just having a campfire? It is hard to tell.
It seems a common practice in Morocco, people gather up trash and burn it, sometimes at night you see the lonely shepherd sitting by a small fire, during the day there will be multiple firs going all over town. In Fes there were five or six fires in the brush at the graveyard, a couple going in the roadway medians, and various empty, weedy lots were burning. At times the smoke hangs heavy over the streets.
Morocco is a country of such diverse smells. Walking through a souk you catch the whiffs of the toxic fire fumes, then suddenly your mouth is watering at what might be roast chicken or some baking bread. Then the pungent smell of urine or human waste, rotting garbage, then suddenly you are next to a perfume dealer, a rose water seller, or the spice store with such a mix of scents you involuntarily lick your lips. The mule passing by, the honey smell in the sweet stalls, the acrid smoke by the metal workers’ square and then the fresh smell of just-cut wood.
We dropped into Chefchaouen through the top gate, and are soon wandering the maze of streets, slowly looking at this door and that stoop, these pots and those flowers. The blankets and rugs hung out on display, and the women passing through in their robes just add that perfect color contrast. I take photos, but I don’t take just as many, because I do not want to be disrespectful and get in people’s faces.
For example, there is this perfect, multi-hued blue staircase, winding up and up, through an arch, till it twists and disappears. On a bench on the left side, a single man sits in a saffron yellow robe, pointed straw hat on his head. He is leaning forward, one hand on his knees, other hand holding his walking stick up straight, his wrinkled face with twinkling eyes turned, looking down at me ten feet away.
I did not take his photo, did not even pick up the camera, but I have the scene burned into my mind.
At times the light is just so, the air just right, and the blue walls melt into the sky. Other times a white mosque, an orange sun shade, or a simple, darker blue pot provide point and counter point. Even a yellow mailbox on the wall becomes a work of art. People walking, the canvas is ever changing. This is a beautiful city.
His name is Hamou.
When we travel, we try to purchase a small piece of art from each trip, and we are interested in the pictures he makes using stylized Arabic script. There is this pear looking one that really intrigues Gail; the script is from the Koran and has to do with the good seed taking root and producing good fruit. The implication can be either good people producing good kids, or good works and results in life, depending how you want to apply it.
So we buy it from him, and he does his own bartering as I just stare at him: It is $400 dirham… but wait, no, (finger put to lips) my brother, if you don’t tell man upstairs who owns store, for you, I can give it for three hundred fifty.
Stare.
OK. Three hundred. See, it is all hand done, colored with natural colors from the desert and inked, by hand from me, on skin parchment…
OK then. Three hundred it is, and we have it rolled into a tight tube and wrapped in newspaper to bring home.
So that would be great, about $35 US for an original, hand done print, except that is just the start of the story.
For once we bought his art, we suddenly became part of his “family.” Hamou started by telling us more about the Berber culture and his people, and their basic belief that all men and all religion are just branches and leaves on the same tree, all rooted in the one unifying “concept” or “god.” The body has four axis, Peace, Love, Energy and Light, just as the universe has north, south, east and west; and there are seven holy “chakra” points along the body… anyway, somewhere in all this he really started to get in vibe with Gail and me, especially Gail, and soon we were “Brother” and “Sister.”
It was interesting to listen to, he hugged us both, wanted to kiss Gail, felt a real harmony and spirituality from us, especially Gail who seemed to throw off a “Holy Sister” vibe. We were both hugged, he blew four breaths at us, clasped his hands for power in the seven sacred points (knees, elbows, ankles, head and whatever) and then Hamou invited us to return about 19:00 to share in soup and sweets for the “breaking the fast” breakfast.
Well, maybe. I wasn’t quite so sure, I mean, we don’t even know him. Gail wanted to go, she was enjoying the talk and a chance to get to know someone from another world.
Well, later I checked out the offer with our hosts, who assured us that it was a real privilege, actually more for him than for us, to be invited to break the fast, and we should take him up on the offer.
We walked out with our art; our newly focused energy and holiness radiating outwards, bestowing blessings on all who looked at us, and slowly made our way down to the main square by the Kasbah.
Probably you are feeling much more peaceful and holy just by reading this, right now.
You are welcome, my brother, my sister.
Be centered.
Now part of the problem with Ramadan and Morocco in general is finding a drink when you want one, and the other part is getting food. And you for sure cannot get them together.
So we decided to go for the drink first. Yesterday’s “best bar” at the Atlas was a dud, so we decided to try the only other option, at the Hotel Parador. Well, no wine, but they did have beer.
Heineken Beer.
Sweating bottle, ice cold Heineken to be exact.
So we cast our holy eyes upon the bartender, ordered up two cold beers and sat for a while, basking in our own peace and centeredness. Then we read for a while in the cool quiet of the room, the only two people toasting Ramadan that afternoon.
After, we went into the square to the side with the tourist cafes, and took a table in the back of the most crowded one. A chicken sandwich and chicken pizza, with 1.5 litre bottle of gas water set us back a whole $60 dirham ($5.50) and we were ready to start walking again.
So the day passed, and eventually we wound up back the the Scotlandee, where we dropped off our print and books and prepared to go into town to meet Hamou to break the fast. Our hosts advised us to take along a gift of Coke or Fanta, or perhaps juice.
- As a side note, once there, Hamou thanked us profusely for our gift, but then told us it was more appropriate to bring to a dinner (in the early morning hours - remember, with Ramadan it is breakfast at night and dinner in the morning before sunrise). Milk or juice is the thing to bring to break fast. Especially milk.
We found Hamou by his shop, and he led us to his friend’s place where we would break fast. But, his friend was not in. So then he led us around and up behind what looked like a simple counter where you could buy water. The stairs led to a hidden loft filled with tables overlooking the square, and it slowly filled with locals. Kind of a hidden restaurant - eating area, for locals only. We took over a table, he told us to wait, and disappeared.
Just about the time you would think we had been scammed and he was not coming back, well, that’s right when he reappeared with a steaming hot pot of chicken soup, covered by a plate with honey sweets and dates.
He had gone up to his room to make the soup.
Hamou set it down, fetched up an empty bowl from the kitchen, ordered a basket of hot bread and olives soaking in olive oil. He had a coffee and ran to get two Marboros, and we got a bottle of water.
We stared at him, blue robe and turban, white white scarf draped around his neck, and he stared back at us.
Silent.
The last light touched the top of the peaks.
The bowl of soup steamed in front of us.
Suddenly the siren-like wail rose from the minarets and we all sat back, smiled and passed the food.
He emptied half the soup into the bowl, and Gail and I shared, just drinking it two handed right out of the bowl as he did out of the pot. We ate dates. He urged us to eat the warm bread, dipped in the olive oil. He shared a bottle of banana apple milk shake drink he made, and pushed more dates at us.
And as we ate, we talked.
Random things, not in order, but what I recall from the conversation:
Lots more about the four points of the body and soul, Berber belief in the tree and branch concept and seven chakras and our holy, mystic, "good vibe" connection.
He has three sisters, and a mom. Two sisters are married, the last will be in August, then he is free to find his own wife and family. He has been responsible for the family since his father died when he was seven. He is fifty now.
At seven he went on a caravan, returned at age 14. During that time he was in Senegal, Mali, Niger and other places, and learned French, Spanish, Italian, German, English and Arabic on top of his own Berber language.He has never been to school. He has a surprisingly wide knowledge of things like GMO foods, history, medicinal plants, various religions and politics.
He likes to smoke Marlboro and “the herbs” (cannabis) and was surprised we don’t smoke the herb. He thought we looked like we were in our forties, and was shocked that we are older than him.
He taught us some words in Arabic and showed us how to write our names. I found out that you read Arabic right to left, which suddenly explained a lot of my confusion.
He is returning home to the desert next week and misses his mom and sisters very much. We are invited to return to Morocco and come stay with them, not the tourist Morocco, but the Berber, live in a tent and wear robes Morocco. He returns home via bus, bus, walking and then they come pick him up via camel. He has a camel named Hamou, who he loves like we love our dog, but Hamou (the camel) is getting old and Hamou (the man) must buy a new one soon.
There are four tribes in Morocco: Berber, Bedouin, Jews and Tuareg. Berbers are most closely tied to the Jews. His father was Tuareg, from Mali, and was a powerful teacher man who was well respected, so when he died others took care of helping him learn until he could fully care for the family.
He needs glasses and tried mine on, which he said helped some. Glasses here cost $8000 dirham, which is about $1000 US dollars. He can provide for his entire family for one year for the same price, so he does without the glasses.
One year, whole family, one thousand dollars.
He was interested in how my camera worked and we took some photos just for fun. He has email, no computer, but we can drop him a line and he gave us his address. He pays 20 dirhams a night for the room he has, which sounds like a little room above a shop with a shared bath. Many of the traders who travel live there. When he returns to his tribe in two weeks, and all the others return as well there are eight men who go out, taking products from the tribe to various places) they pool all the money and split it up.
It is hard to get a passport and visa to leave Morocco via the airlines or ferry, But take a camel into the desert… Shrug. Easy.
The conversation lasted till almost midnight.
We finally said our goodbyes, hugged, Insha’Allah (if Allah wills we will meet again).
He headed over to his room carrying his little metal pot, plate and leftover dates and bread.
Gail and I watched him go, then we climbed through the dark blue streets, and followed the nearly full moon across the graveyard, up the path and along the dirt roads home.