Chefchaouen

Awaking to the crisp morning air, Eddie and I look across the rooftops of Chefchaouen and admired the pale blue shades of the low buildings while we considered our plans for the day. The small tower of the Kasbah called for our attention over flat roofs covered in lines of washing. A short walk through the narrow, muddy streets led us past noisy children to the main square, three sides lined with small cafes and the fourth by the damp stone walls of the ancient Kasbah.

Entering the gate of the Kasbah revealed a small garden, lush, green and unkempt; Eddie and the gardener discussed (in French) the difficulties of tending gardens and heavy rain. An awkward staircase twisted up through the innards of the tower. The few narrow slits in the walls admitted sufficient dim sunlight to dazzle our dark-accustomed eyes, but not enough to illuminate the timeworn steps. Stumbling blindly out onto the roof, the resulting view showed the old town to cling to the increasingly-steep slope of Jebel al-Kalaa. This peak marks the start of the Rif mountains, where the majority of Moroccan marijuana is grown. Behind us, further down the foothills, lay the crumbling concrete of the modern town, stark and ugly.

Trivia #1: The Kasbah dates back to the foundation of Chefchaouen in 1471, when it was built as a fortress to defend against Portuguese invasions.

We returned to the main square, our hollow stomachs making their needs known. Unsure which of the many cafes we should try, upon spotting a lady who looked to be a fellow tourist we made our introductions and asked about breakfast. It transpired that Natalie, French-Swiss but fluent in English, had married a Moroccan man and lived in town. Incredibly friendly and helpful, she gave us the low-down on the cafes and invited us for tea at her house in the evening. Natalie also introduced us to Melinda, an Australian lady (from Eltham no less, only a short drive from my family home) who had also married a Moroccan man and ran a nearby store.

Eddie and I spent the afternoon exploring the narrow and unpredictable streets, most of which were really only passageways, until we were invited inside a Berber textile store. The Berbers are a non-Arabic people indigenous to North Africa, many of whom continue to speak a Berber language in addition to Arabic. An entire family of Berbers ran this textile store, and members of three generations proudly showed us their blankets, rugs, carpets and clothing, whilst pouring us glasses of mint tea and telling us of their people’s history and traditions. To my surprise, they even made blankets from the fibre of the cactus! Several hours were spent talking and smoking joints (Eddie accepted their offer, I declined) in a cosy room whose walls were lined with rugs.

Later that afternoon we found the river that descends down from the Rif mountains and courses through town, where the local women make use of the waters to wash their laundry. The heavy rains of the previous months had caused the river to flow mightily over its banks, down flights of stairs and pathways, and generally pouring out of every available opening. There was no evidence of any attempts to contain the river, and in the face of streets flowing with white-water the locals merely conducted themselves as per normal.

Trivia #2: The name “Chefchaouen” comes from the Berber word for horns (“Ichawen”) because the mountain peaks above town were thought to look like the horns of a goat.

A long search for Natalie’s house proved fruitless that night; the dark, unlit streets and the meandering nature of alleyways and buildings conspired to confound Eddie and I. A simple street address is in no way sufficient to find a place in Chefchaouen, and even Natalie’s detailed directions were unable to guide us. We did not see her again.

We did see Melinda, busy unclogging a drain that was overflowing into her store, and also met her husband Mohamed, who proved to be a very funny and intelligent man. A discussion with them confirmed our suspicions that we were paying an incredibly high rate for poor accommodation, and they recommended several nearby hotels. Eddie and I visited two of the hotels and were immediately offered, without any haggling on our part, rates that were a mere fraction of our current hotel. We both decided to move out the following morning.

The evening slowly came to close as we sat outside one of the nearby cafes, drinking the regulation mint tea and listening to four old Moroccan men playing delightful music on the remains of several instruments. One of the men played his violin (minus at least one string) as though it were a cello, and another wore big sunglasses and sported a wild mane of hair, recalling the disastrous fashions of the 1980s. The cafe owner had approached us on several occasions to sell us beer, but we declined out of respect for the Muslim tenets (and doubly so for being so very close to the town mosque). Obviously unhappy at this refusal, he over-charged us for the tea, exclaiming that the advertised price was only in combination with a meal. But, remaining charmingly polite the entire time, he also promised to give us free mint tea if we returned for dinner the following night.

Trivia #3: Jebel al-Kalaa, the peak that towers directly over the town, offers great views. However, the track is poorly marked and weaves past/through marijuana plantations. It is not unheard of for hikers to be pelted with stones, to keep them away from the cash crop.

The following day Eddie and I fashioned breakfast from goat cheese and loaves of Moroccan bread, then moved out of our frozen rooftop rooms and into the warm, comfortable environment of the Hotel Andalucia. Here we met Nathaniel, a large, friendly American with long dreadlocks, living in Spain and holidaying in Morocco. We spent most of the day indoors, talking with Nathaniel about all manner of things. He had befriended a local chef, whom he’d convinced to demonstrate exactly how the mint tea was made, while Nathaniel recorded his every move. He proudly showed us the short video, which concluded with Nathaniel pouring himself a glass of tea and taking a long sip; in his excitement he had poured the tea immediately and imbibed a scalding mouthful, which he immediately spat across the kitchen with a loud yelp.

The evening was also spent indoors, but at a nearby restaurant where we played several card games (Eddie taught me the game of patience) before plates arrived at our table, piled high with couscous and vegetables. After the delicious meal, the restaurant owner came over and proposed a variety of puzzles and brain teasers, taking delight in our inability to solve most of them. We returned to the cards, this time playing Uno, and some local girls joined in. Conversations slowed as the heady warmth of the fire made us all drowsy, and it was with a small thrill that I curled up in bed, tired and incredibly warm.

My final day in Chefchaouen was spent almost entirely at the main square, beginning with a glass of the by-now habitual mint tea. Here, we met several travellers, including three French students that Eddie had met in Spain. This trio was responsible for convincing Eddie to travel to Morocco, and he happily agreed with them that Morocco was indeed worth visiting. Time passed as we talked, drank more rounds of mint tea and assembled a meal from breads and cheeses and sweet pastries.

Trivia #4: The pale powder-blue walls of the buildings in the medina have their origin in the traditions of the former Jewish population, and are believed to deter mosquitoes.

That evening, Mohamed and I were talking at length about his business plans and thoughts about travelling the world, when the French students returned with the news that the local hamam (baths) was charging such a high admission price that they could not afford to pay! Mohamed was aghast and directed them to another hamam, which also decided to charge non-Moroccans a similarly inflated price. Angry at this discrimination, Mohamed returned to Melinda’s store, whereupon Melinda couldn’t believe her eyes at my attire.

By wearing my Essendon Bombers beanie (Australian Football, for those unfamiliar with the sport) I revealed something we had unknowingly shared in common. Melinda also came from a family of Essendon supporters, and since moving to Morocco she had rarely seen the rest of her family. At her request I took a photo of her standing next to Mohammed, pulling my beanie over his head; this photo would drive her nieces and nephews in Australia wild, she told me. Unfortunately, the email address that she and Mohammed gave me was incorrect, and to this day I have been unable to pass the photo on to her or her family.

I woke early the following morning, in time to catch the first bus to Fes. Eddie had talked of coming with me, but expressed a change of heart and a desire to stay longer in Chefchaouen. We had spent several days together, two people with very different backgrounds and experiences; by his own account, on several occasions he had not had enough money to eat for a day or two. He was incredibly friendly and down-to-earth, and had been a fascinating person to travel with. Having no fixed address, no mobile phone and no email address, I very much doubt that I’ll ever see him again. But you never really know. And thus ended my time with the man who had picked up a tablet of valium on the ferry from Spain, becoming heavily sedated and incoherent as we crossed the border into Morocco.