Chefchaouen to Fes

 Wednesday, March 11

I have found the sweet spot on the bus: it’s the raised area above the rear wheels, where I’m high enough to see out the front windshield, but not so high that my view out the side is shortened, like in the back row. Seems we’ve all settled into our favoured places now, five of us spread out in a van that can hold sixteen. Pretty nice!

Luxury Van

We wound back down the mountain to the fertile plains below. We saw sheep with their shepherds, cows with their watchers. We saw onions, barley, wheat, sugar beets growing. We saw loaded donkey carts bringing grass home to the cows. We saw a local town market, we saw school kids running to or from their bus, and we saw garbage everywhere.

We stopped for a walking tour (so. many. walking. tours.) through Volubilis, a Roman ruined city in the middle of the plain. I thought it was a strange place for the Romans to choose, but it was the exceptional fertility of the land that enticed them, it seems, in addition to its strategic position and abundant supply of water. In it’s heyday, it was a major producer of olive oil and grains for the empire, housing more than 20,000 people. Much of the structure was destroyed in the great Lisbon earthquake of 1755, and some of it has been reconstructed. There is not a whole lot to see, but it was good to stretch the legs, and I do love imagining places like this as living cities. 

An extension of the Appian Way

One of few standing structures

Twisted column (rare), twisted sisters (just as rare)

There was a single souvenir shop outside the site, and I bought a hat to replace the one that decided to stay behind in the riad in Marrakech. Gotta have a hat in Morocco. 

The new hat. It's crushable, and fits my colour scheme! And I had fun bargaining for it.

From Volubilis, we drove an hour or so to Meknes, one of a series of Imperial cities in Morocco, along with Rabat, Fes, and Marrakech. We had a (nother!) walking tour, this one of the medina and of a mausoleum. I think it was a mausoleum; I’m starting to lose track. Our lunch stop, deep in the medina, was a hole-in-the-wall place that serves only camel burgers. Some of us were more successful at enjoying them than others. The meat in mine was very rare, but I assured it was safe to eat. It was really nicely spiced. Probably won’t ever eat another one.

Pretending to enjoy camel burgers

 

Shadows in the medina of Meknes

Our guide was a very sweet young woman with good stories to spark up the history she was required to tell us. And which I can no longer remember. I’m really looking forward to the mountain and desert part of this trip, away from so much…education!

After Meknes, we drove yet some more, into Fes. I was in Fes all those years ago, and again don’t remember much, and certainly not the magnificence of this city, surrounded by I-don’t-know-how-many-kilometres of walls. Because we were in the van, I couldn’t get any decent shots of the place, the caramel walls riding the hillside, the fortress on the hill. You’ll just have to go there. 

We checked into our riad, a place about three cuts above anything I’ve ever stayed in before. Rose petals on the bed. Rose petals on the bathmat. Essential oils in a diffuser. Doors direct into the courtyard. A bowl of fruit on the table. Turn-down service. (Turn-down service!!) Everything screamed luxury. These places make me feel small. The men in their black suits all obsequious, I don’t feel “good enough” to be here, tramping in the schlub that I am. I know I know, that’s a dumb way to think, but it’s not about thinking, it’s about how I feel. I like places more homey, with a few flaws, with proprietors who seem like regular human beings. Some people, obviously, love luxury. I am not one of them. Even when I’ve paid for it.

The Maison Bleue in Fez. Our room is the one at the end.

Note rose petals on the bed

Note rose petals on the bath mat

We went for dinner at another private home, but there was no comparison between this home and the one that welcomed us in Casablanca. While that was a middle-class family apartment, this was a mansion — that Mariam said was also middle class. The owner of this huge house — again, built like a riad with a plain wall on the street and open to a garden courtyard in the centre — is a woman about my age who is of, I think, the fifth generation to own it. Chadia is a trained chef, and has groups of people in to her courtyard every evening. We were one of several groups. She serves, after the usual fantastic array of appetizers, a chicken pastilla, an individual filo pie filled with spiced shredded chicken and topped with a dusting of sugar (which we all scraped off). Desert was whole fruit and a few small pastries. Fruit figures into every meal in this country. “Seasonal” right now seems to be apples, oranges, and bananas. 

Dinner at Chadia's

Chadia pouring tea

In the middle of dinner, some musicians came in, beating drums and blowing horns. We got up and danced, along with Chadia, who was beaming and laughing the whole time.

Getting home was a mix of walking and driving. And in the end, despite my proclaimed discomfort with luxury, I slept better than I have in weeks, from 10 pm to 6 am. Maybe I just don’t know myself.

 

 

 

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

 

Of course after dinner we went to Jemaa el Fna. 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.