Chefchaouen, the Blue City

Tuesday, March 10


It was arranged that a local guide, Abdul, would take us on a two-hour walk through the old city, or medina. Terminology: a medina is an old walled city, a souk is a market, a casbah is a fortress. 

As we started out, the rain began. We had raincoats, and some of us had umbrellas. They helped, but not entirely. This was torrential. But that’s okay. We followed Abdul up the small but roaring river to the gate at the top of the town, then meandered the winding lanes down to the main square. Two dogs met us at the gate, and stayed with us the entire time. These were two of many strays in town. Tags on their ears identified them as neutered and vaccinated. These guys became our guards, fiercely barking to ward off rambunctious youths who came our way. 

Here and in Rabat, we learned about the traditions of neighbourhoods in the old cities. Each small neighbourhood must have within walking distance five elements: a mosque, a hammam for bathing, a communal oven (where people bring their dough to be baked), a fountain for water, and a square to meet with people. You start to look for these as you wander through.

Chefchaouen used to be a white-washed city. A limestone wash was applied regularly to the mud walls to keep the ants from making their homes there. The story goes that Jewish refugees, fleeing Nazi persecution in the 1930s, introduced the practice of painting the walls blue to represent heaven and God. Another story says that the blue colour repels mosquitoes. Whichever story is closer to the truth, the pervasive blue colour has no doubt contributed incredibly to the local economy as tourists flock there to take pictures. And I am one of those. I’ll let the photos tell the story.

I haven't done any processing on these photos; the colours are the colours. Being wet might have helped, but the town really is very blue.

A bit of the town over the walls of our hotel, Dar Echaouen

 

Spring-fed river that never dries up

Abdul demonstrates at the clothes-washing station by the river. It's still used.

The two hang-dogs that hung with us through our entire walk

Every lane looked like this

 

 

 

I think this is the lane you see in many Chefchaouen photos; I had wondered if this would be the only blue part of town.

The kasbah in the main square

Main square. Note fresh snow on the mountain. 

Everyone’s main desire after the tour was to dry off and warm up. The rain did let up, though, and some sun poked through, so Bettyanne and I took another walk into the town to explore. This was a more authentic experience than the walking tour, as we were, oh, I don’t know, shall we say accosted by shop owners. I expected this, and had fun with them. I did buy something after a pretty decent barter session. When we moved on from that shop to another the same shopkeeper showed up, laughing. And then he showed up at the next one. These appear to be competing businesses, but no.

We also met a Leonard Cohen lookalike who showed us to a co-op where they sold mostly beautiful carpets. This man was a nomad from the south who spoke five languages, including perfect English. Another prejudice bites the dust. He did not ask for money, but was pretty thrilled when I told him he looked like Cohen, even though he’d never heard of him. I expect he went home and looked him up — I hope so. Meanwhile, in the co-op, our morning guide, Abdul, showed up. Everyone is connected, I suppose.

We had dinner in the hotel. I have to say my best meals so far have been in Marrakech, when we were free to choose our restaurant and our meal. It could be coincidence, but Mariam did say she was maybe a little embarrassed by the food in the places she’s obligated to take us to. Another downside of a tour, perhaps.

Slept our second night in Chefchaouen, hoping our clothes would dry by morning, when we have to pack up to drive another six hours to Fes.

 

 

Marrakech to Casablanca to Chefchaouen

Sunday, March 8

I was in Marrakech before, in 1972, when I was a baby of 19. I remember Jemaa el Fna, the huge square, hot and deserted in the day and coming to life by night with Senegalese dancers, snake charmers, magicians, and drummers from the Sahara. I remember food stalls opening up, the scent of grilled meat and garlic, the shouts of the cooks to come eat their food. 

I remember the souks, one entrance in particular, where slats overhead made striped patterns on everything below. Back then, we used that entrance every time we left Jemaa El Fna. The image is baked into my memory, the striped shadows, the cloth, the men in their fez caps snoozing against their bags of grains. 

I did not find the stripe-shadowed entrance to the medina. I think the slats have been replaced by carved wood. Jemaa el Fna has sprouted permanent fruit stands that I don’t remember being there, but the grilled-meat stands still spring up after dark, and of course, the performers. I’m realizing how fuzzy my memories are. And how it’s not possible, really, to go back

Anyhow, today was the day we had to travel to Casablanca to meet with our booked tour. Travel was easy: we took an Uber to the station, bought our train tickets, and rode the three or so hours in a very comfortable compartment. The landscape was nothing spectacular, just green rolling prairie interrupted by the occasional town. The only excitement was when a young stowaway ducked into the compartment and insinuated himself under the seat. The Moroccan business man who was the only other person in the compartment didn’t seem surprised, and none of us were about to make a fuss. The kid was silent and still, and still there when we got off at our stop. Our driver from the tour, Amal, met us at the station and took us to the modern, bland, 4-star hotel that was to be our home for the night. 

Casablanca, but it could be Nanaimo. Meh.

We met up with our group in the lobby in the evening. We are just five! We’d expected twelve when we saw that the trip was fully booked, so this was a pleasant surprise. After going through all the orientation business, Meryem took us to the home of a local for a home-cooked dinner of a variety of delicious appetizers followed by a dish of stewed chicken and artichoke. 

The streets were really busy on our way back to the hotel, as everyone emerges from their day of fasting to celebrate, or shop, or do whatever it is they do. We retreated to our hotel beds.



Monday, March 9 — Casablanca to Chefchaouen

Breakfast was a buffet in the hotel, which included, if we chose, a whole bunch of breads, pastries, and sweets, some cheeses and mystery meats, fresh orange juice, and boiled eggs. 

We all met with our luggage and piled into our luxury van to drive several blocks to the Hassan II Mosque. When built, this was the second largest mosque in the world, after Mecca, when it was built (1986-1993), but has been since surpassed by at least seven larger mosques. It can accommodate 25,000 worshippers inside. Our guide, the same man who hosted us for dinner last night, described in great detail the construction and the materials used (all Moroccan.) He explained that visitors can enter the mosque only between prayer times, but that it’s otherwise closed except to worshippers. We learned that the square minaret is unique to Morocco because Morocco is the one Muslim country not invaded and therefore influenced by the Turks and their round-minaret design. 

Hassan II Mosque

The length of the interior

 

 

One of many doors that look out to the sea

It was evident that our guide was passionate about his religion and its practices. He explained in detail that in Morocco, all people are regarded as equal regardless of their faith, saying that Muslims, Jews, and Christians were neighbours of equal value, and that each faith respects the other. This was a theme to be repeated by several other guides in the days to come. How much of this is idealism and how much is true in the day-to-day, I can't know.

 

Leaving the complex, following our guide.

After our tour of the mosque, we drove to Rabat for a walk through the main street of the medina there and a quick visit to the mausoleum of Mohammed V (about which we learned nothing, having no guide with us and no lit to read).

 

Pulses and grains

And other essentials

 

Meryem buys us the biggest, sweetest strawberries we've ever had

 

Balconies on the outside of a building indicate a Jewish quarter. Muslim houses face inwards towards a courtyard, with no windows on the outside.

 

On guard outside the mausoleum. Our crew: self, Milica (pronounced Melissa), Bettyanne, Sue, Vicki

After having lunch on the patio of a modern restaurant by the river, we drove and drove and drove, only stopping for a pee break at a roadside restaurant which will be burned into our memories as the place where the proprietor and a worker were having a fight over whether the chairs were clean or not. Oh, and it was an introduction, for some of us, to squatters. There were some toilets, as well, which was a good thing, because there were some among us who were not about to squat. We paid a few coins to the bathroom ladies (they’re everywhere, I’ve discovered) in return for 3 squares of toilet paper and a tissue for drying our hands. 

The last hour of driving into Chefchaouen took us up into the Rif mountains on narrow winding roads. We arrived at a blocked road and walked the last 10 minutes to our accommodations. There has been record rainfall in the last few weeks here, washing out many roads. The previous Wild Women tour to ours could not get to Chefchaouen at all.

Our deluxe ride

 

Walking to our accommodations

The reason for walking

We checked into the beautiful Dar Echchaouen hotel, then walked down into town for dinner. The dinner was mediocre compared to what we’ve been having. I’d been trying to figure out how a tour includes meals in the price, when menu prices are so varied. Today, our lunch was pretty much chosen for us — some big salads and two pizzas — and tonight, we were allowed to choose from one particular page of the menu. I’m guessing this is how they control costs, but I’ll know for sure as the tour goes on.

Entrance

Our sitting room, through to the bedroom. This was before we hung our laundry everywhere.

To sleep, really excited to explore the beautiful blue city tomorrow.

Marrakech

 Saturday, March 7

We slept really well, and woke up feeling great, not necessarily an expected thing when changing eight time zones. 

On offer for breakfast was traditional Moroccan fare: freshly squeezed orange juice, a small pancake, bread, jams, olives, and honey cake. We were joined at our table by small brown birds who wistfully eyed the cake. I might have slipped them some crumbs.

We stepped out into the medina, a warren of very busy, very touristic shops. Brass lamps, ceramics, rugs, caftans, and then more brass lamps, ceramics, rugs, and caftans. We didn’t come here to shop, but it would be easy to buy something of everything. The craftsmanship is beautiful, the quality much higher than I’d expected. We wandered slowly down the lanes, skirting (or skirted by) motorcycles, bicycles, hand carts, donkey carts. It was not unlike a slightly quieter version of Indian old-city streets.

 

Things were hopping about an hour after this

Potpourri: aromatic herbs and spices for cosmetics rather than food

 

A crew was doing some road repair in the middle of all this, a crew being two men with brooms sweeping some sort of filler between newly placed cobbles, and one man trying to keep traffic off the new mortar. This mostly worked, but Bettyanne managed to immortalize herself into Marrakesh history by stepping into some wet concrete. Look for her footprint when you go there.

Fixing the road. Bettyanne's footprint is under that little arch

We returned home rather quickly then, to clean off the concrete before it dried into the sole of her new shoe. By this time, temperatures were warmer, so we shed some layers and headed to the second of Mustafa’s recommendations for lunch, the Café Bazaar, which had also been on my list of eateries. This was a rooftop restaurant with a view of other rooftops and the occasional minaret. We had a beautiful lunch, and, Carol, you’ll be happy to know that your harira (lentil & chickpea soup) is virtually indistinguishable from the one I was served here. Well done! 

View of rooftops, from rooftop

We were there on the rooftop when the afternoon call to prayer began, first a very loud call from a close-by mosque, echoed by calls from numerous other mosques around the city. This was a magical moment, but a bit confusing because the first call started at 12:40, the next  two minutes later, joined still later by others. I was later told that the noon-hour prayer was at 12:45,  so the timing made sense. When I looked it up, prayer times change by a minute or so every day, based on sunrise I guess. I will surely learn more as I spend more time here. We have also since learned that the call in Morocco is always live, never recorded, hence the time difference between mosques.

After lunch, we decided to walk to the Jardin Majorelle, otherwise known as Yves St Laurent garden. From the images I’ve seen, it’s spectacular. Google claimed it was a 30-minute walk, which we were quite happy to undertake. On the way, before leaving the medina, we passed by the Jardin Secret, whose line to get in had dwindled to nothing since the morning, when the long snake of tourists deterred us. Now was the time to go. 

Stepping into the Jardin from the bustle of the medina, we found a hushed, birdsong-filled space, a serene retreat. That’s a good thing — we didn’t know it at the time, but we would need to carry some of that serenity when we ventured the further walk.

Pavilion with fountain, Jardin Secret

The map carried us out of the medina and into confused traffic on broken streets, a Saturday food market, trucks and construction everywhere. Crosswalks were invisible and the walk/stop signs worked only occasionally. We used the India street-crossing rule: go when the locals go. Sidewalk repairs meant walking on the street between trucks and traffic. We survived, and let’s just say it was an adventure. Pretty sure it took us more than the 30 minutes we’d expected.

We arrived at Jardin Majorelle to find timed-entry lines for which we were unprepared and were told they were fully booked until Thursday. If I had encountered that information in my research, I don’t remember, but if I did, I must have thought that there wouldn’t be a problem getting in at this time of year. Lesson learned. 

Bettyanne is amazing. I consider myself pretty go-with-the-flow, but she’s got me beat. I was disappointed in a groan kind of way (does that make sense?), and while I couldn’t say I was upset, I was just not really ready to tackle the chaos again — but Bettyanne just said, “Oh well, it’s been a great adventure!” This is what makes a good travel partner!

Heading home, we took a less congested route, and found our way partly due to the help of a friendly gentleman in a jellaba who said he was paid by the tourism board and would not ask for money. Along the way, he told us it would be a special night in Jemaa el Fna because the people from the Sahara were in town to sell their argon oil. He set us in the right direction and said his polite goodbyes.

Jemaa el Fna in daylight: not much happening...

...other than a gathering of water-sellers with their goatskins full of water...

... and some fruit stands, which would be quite decimated by the end of the evening.

After a short break at the riad, we walked a few minutes to a restaurant called Le Jardin Ben Youssef (it’s a day of many gardens). We had trouble locating it despite Ms Google’s best efforts, but a young shopkeeper saw our confusion and helped us, saying it was new, and that it was inside an institution where he had gone to school. We walked through a white archway and though several leafy courtyards to a park-like setting with a fountain, trees, and a cat that was a bit too friendly. Enticed, no doubt, by my couscous, she kept jumping up beside me until I made to bat her away, at which point, the claws came out. No, I didn’t get scratched (I don’t touch these animals), but it became clear that the friendliness was an act. A true narcissist, this kitty: lovely until she doesn’t get her way.

Waiting for dinner

Kitty Narcissist

Couscous

 

As promised, it was a special night. There were several circles of musicians, each seemingly led by a man who circulated, asked tourists for money, encouraged the musicians. There was call-and-response singing, melody playing, by violin or banjo, which is I guess what is available now. The banjo player managed to make it sound like an oud. And of course there were lots of hand-drum players.

As soon as I gave a few dirhams to the hustler man, I was invited to sit in the inner circle, and eventually joined in dancing. Sort of dancing, anyhow. I was immersed, exactly where I wanted to be.

As we made our way home through the souk at 11 pm, many shops were open. We saw ranks of women in front of what I think was a cloth store as the vendor pulled out sample after sample. It reminded me of the sari shops in Jaipur, where the floor would become a sea of silk as the women made their choices.

 

Shops shut down for the night

The beggars with their babies were still out (we’ve heard they’re part of a scammers’ network), and the street cleaners were trying to get their job done.

What a day! It took a long time to get to sleep.

The Dreaded Travel Day, or Zen and the Art of Waiting

 March 5 to 6, 2026


I alway tell myself and others that I like flying and I like airports. These are mainly lies that I must perpetuate or I’d never go anywhere. From people’s descriptions of their own discomforts, I may suffer less than most, which is partly due to the advantage of having a small body stuffed into the space we’re allowed for a 9+ hour flight. However, in truth, it’s miserable. But it’s the price to pay.

I met Bettyanne at the Port Wash dock to meet our 8 am float plane to YVR. The plane was late, and we were cold, but comforted ourselves with thoughts that this would be the last of being cold for a while. We’d be proven wrong, but it’s the delusions of the present that get you through, not the realities that strike you later. 

First flight of the day, just us & the pilot

Anyhow, flying across the Strait of Georgia is elating, and it was a beautiful morning, despite the bluster outside. The shuttle to take us from the float plane terminal to the main terminal comes every 40 minutes, and we’d just missed one, being that our plane had been late. We hung out in Seair’s little office, the first wait of a long day of waiting.

YVR was easy. We were checked in and had our boarding passes on our phones before we even got there. We printed copies of those at a kiosk just for back-up, and whizzed through security, where there were no line-ups. Something new this time: no need to separate liquids or electronics. Like last year in Frankfurt, we just threw everything in the bins and walked through. There are these new scanners that look like a cross between an MRI machine and a rocket module, and everything goes through there. I didn’t see anyone monitoring, but maybe I just missed that. Bettyanne’s stuff got flagged; turned out she had missed unloading a small metal weight she carries around in her backpack as part of her strength-building regime. I guess that regime is now following her in her travels. 

Then, a 4 hour wait in YVR, hum de hum hum, then 9+ hours on the plane, dum de dum dum, then a 5 hour wait in CDG (Paris) for the last leg to Marrakech, then a quick 3h 20 m flight (when I finally slept) to get here. Leaving Pender around 8 am and arriving in Marrakech at 3:20 pm meant 22 hours and 20 minutes of travel time in total, almost half of it spent just waiting. As Bettyanne pointed out, we islanders get good at this, because we’re always waiting for ferries. It becomes a part of the rhythm of life. Oh, yes, we do get fed up. It’s not all zen.

 

Marrakech!

We were greeted by our driver, who waited with a sign in a line of dozens of other drivers waiting with signs. It took us two rounds and then asking someone before we finally found him. This was my first full realization that our adventure is far from unique. You'd think I'd have known that.

The city walls from the window of our car

 

Traffic was crazy, but our driver was deft, and he brought us to a ragtag intersection where he handed us off to a man with a hand cart. Into the cart went the bags and we followed behind, all the way to Riad Naya, our accommodations in the heart of the medina. All this transportation was arranged and provided by the riad for a small fee. We were greeted by Mustafa, with whom I’d been communicating for months via Booking.com. He gave us sweet Moroccan tea and a map of the medina, and got us settled into our room. 

Riads are everywhere in the Marrakech medina. They are the one-time homes of wealthy merchants, now converted into guest houses. Rooms are arranged around a central courtyard, usually with a small pool in the center. Our riad has six or eight rooms only. It’s very simple as tourist riads go, but has all the characteristic woodwork and carved doorways of any very old building here. From the outside, it’s almost forbidding, on a small lane, through a low archway-cum-hole-in-the-wall, but inside, it’s an oasis. Walking along the side lanes of the medina, I was able to peek into a couple of private homes, and they were just like this: a carved doorway into a beautiful, serene space.

The way through to our riad is meant to discourage, I dunno, everyone? But then...

...things start to improve...

 

 

... and we find ourselves in a beautiful space. That door up behind us is our room

And this is the view looking down from our doorway.

We went for dinner at one of the two restaurants recommended by our host. This one was an open-air right on Jemaa el Fna, the mega-square here. We each had a lamb tagine that was more than acceptable though not spectacular, for less than $12 for the two of us. We sat next to two English women who ate panini and chips. Looking down the row from us, every table was being served panini and chips. I wonder if these people knew where they were. But that’s just me. Note that it was still daylight, and it being Ramadan, most of the population is fasting until dusk.

Cold us, hot tagine, Jemaa el Fna behind us.

We were starting to feel a chill in the air when we sat down for dinner. By the time our bill came, an eternity later, we were freezing, despite wearing our puffy coats. So much for the hoped-for warmth of spring in Morocco! 

We ended the day with a stroll about Jemaa el Fna as it was coming to life at the end of a Ramadan day. Then to bed for a very long sleep.  

Good night, Marrakech