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LISBON-
MARRAKECH-
BARCELONA
2004
PORTUGAL:
Tides and Tiles
MOROCCO:
Into Interzone
Medina Medina O Let Me Sleep
Like Prozac in the Desert
The Chicken Thieves
1001 Guides through Fès
Chilling in Chaouen
SPAIN:
Ruining of the Bulls
MOROCCO
(video)
color, 4'22"
June/July 04
View/Download:
Quicktime-
240x180, 8.8 MB
[ PHOTO ARCHIVE ]
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Chefchaouen / Morocco
07 - 10 July 2004
Place el-Majzen. Chefchaouen.
After four days in Fès I feel I am about ready to move on to somewhere more relaxing. From stories and descriptions, Chefchaouen sounds like just the place about now, and I'm soon packed and walking through the gate of Fès' medina, out down the dusty streets in the sun, past the old cemetery on the hill. There is already a fair amount of motion and life at the bus station when I arrive.
Ah, the morning is still young, there is time before the bus will depart and travel north four hours through the Rif mountains and the countryside to sleepy Chefchaouen. I sit for a coffee and pastry at a small café. The coffee is strong, rich, good. Curiously, perhaps the best yet I've had in Morocco. Smoke drifts from between my fingers, arches and curls under the fluorescents.
Smoking before bus rides seems to calm my nerves a little and distance my mind from lingering thoughts of accidents in worlds like this. I listen to the sounds of the station. A man sweeps around my table, smiles cheerfully, then continues with his work. Soon it is time to board the bus.
The ride is picturesque, colorful, warm but not uncomfortable. Like any ride, I watch the landscape roll past, pay attention to the villages, the structures, the signs, people and animals in the fields, the vegetation. The approach to Chaouen itself is magnificent. The bus comes around a bend and the town comes into view, cascading lightly on the slope of this gorgeous valley amidst a broad panoramic view of the Rif.
From the bus station it's a rather steep hike up the hill to the heart of the town and the entrance of the Medina. When I see the ice-cream carts and the taxi stands I know I must be getting somewhere.
Blue & White. Chefchaouen.
I have a little bit of difficulty at first in finding a decent hotel. The first two places - central, obviously social and popular - only have over-priced doubles to offer. The third place looks pleasant, albeit a bit empty, but after calling out through the halls and the lobby I couldn't find anyone working there. Just some sun-tanning Swedes on the roof, who also have no idea where the staff is. I end up striking up a conversation with a young Portuguese couple that are finishing up afternoon omelets at a medina café. They tell me where they are staying, and on realizing the path is not so straight-forward, the guy jumps up despite my protesting, and leads me through the medina to the hotel.
After checking into my room my stomach is growling madly as I've worked up quite an appetite after the bus ride and my mini-breakfast hours ago. Out the door and down the street a bit there is a restaurant that looks reasonable. I'm the only one there. I'm standing in the lobby, looking for signs of life or business. I hear the clicking of a lighter from the next room. Again.
Finally, after some Spanish yodeling on my part, a young Moroccan man peers his head around the corner, from where I heard the flicking of the lighter. Smiles. Approaches me. I tell him I'm very hungry and would like to eat. He shows me to a seat at a table amongst dozens of cushions and pillows, tucked in the corner of the restaurant. The walls are painted vibrant hues, the sun comes in muted through bright curtain fabric. I order a Spanish tortilla and a soda. After my food arrives, the waiter disappears back into the side room again with his friends. I can hear them talking to one another, laughing and having a good time.
When I go to leave I peer into the other room and see the four of them sitting around a small table. They are lounging on their own collection of pillows and passing a long-stemmed Kif pipe around. A light fog of smoke drifts around the ceiling, with a thin trail leading down to the pipe which rests in one particularly bleary-eyed fellows hand. They all smile at me. I wave, smile, say goodbye, and make my exit.
Buying and Selling, Selling and Buying. Chefchaouen.
Kif-Kat. Chefchaouen.
The medina here is much more relaxed and simple than in Fès. That is certain. The attitude and pace of everything here seems more calm, more chilled out. The shop keepers still make a concerted effort to entice you to stop and look, or better yet, come in, come in! but I notice they give up a lot easier than in the faster paced cities. I'm attracted to some of the colorful blankets I see for sale everywhere, but in the end not attracted enough to actually buy one and have to bring it back to Berlin with me.
At the main square, Uta el-Hammam, there is string of about six restaurants, one after the other flanking one side of the square. Further down just off the square tucked in a corner is a shady and peaceful café where I end up spending many hours of each day. Under the terrace roof I can recline on the many pillows after a slow breakfast, coffee, and mint tea. I do a lot of reading. And when I get bored of reading or eating or drinking tea I go for a walk. The music coming over the stereo was a blend of Arabic pop. At first I thought it was the radio, as there were commercials, or so it sounded, but after a few days of hearing the same songs in the same order I started to think they had one cassette tape which the played constantly all day, every day.
Chefchaouen translation: "Look at the Peaks"
The Way Home. Chefchaouen.
4-Floor Sky Scraper. Chefchaouen.
The buildings are mostly all bright white and baby blue. Beautiful in color and texture. The medina streets go up and down the hill, at times quite steeply, around little bends, often splitting off into many forks, including many dead ends. What I find really remarkable is how the ground of all the dead end alleys are painted white. It means when trying to go from one place to another you really only need to know the general direction and walk weaving through one small street to the next, passing up the white-floored dead ends.
In the afternoons I usually make it my high-priority mission to find a new bakery and try new Moroccan sweets. They are really hit or miss. Most I find to be rather peculiar dry, sand-textured cookies. Others are a bit chewier, particularly the chocolate ones. I have to say the bakeries and the sweets look much better than they taste, unfortunately. I keep trying, but never really find a pastry that I am that crazy about. The flan puddings, on the other hand, are delicious, and I usually finish each meal with one of them. I'm still drinking two or three fresh orange juices a day and about as many mint teas, too.
My best meal of Morocco happens my second night in Chefchaouen. I get a secret tip from the Australians, who tell me about how their previous night's meal was a winner. They point to the fifth floor rooftop terrace restaurant overlooking the Uta el-Hammam and the Kasbah. I remember now only that the name had 'Alladin' in it, but that there were two other 'Alladin' named places on the square. Anyway, I mention the recommendation to young woman from DC with whom I'd been talking to at the breakfast café for the last hour or so. We make a plan to meet there for dinner. Word spreads fast and soon it's actually a sort of a surprise dinner party including several other backpackers with whom we've crossed paths, as well as the German couple I met in Fès who've just arrived in town.
The meal is indeed excellent. I have a vegetable couscous which puts to shame almost all other vegetable couscous dishes I've had until then. Sweet caramelized onions, raisins and other fruits and tender delicious carrots, squash and potato. And the view over the town is beautiful at night. The restaurant itself is a sight: open air, rich blue painted walls, lovely ornamentation and decoration, fancy faucets to wash with, and dim but very pleasantly atmospheric lighting throughout.
After dinner and dessert, it is time for a walk back through the small streets and I end up on a quiet, serene rooftop. It's gotten late. The night is beautiful, the air cool and refreshing. In short sleeves I actually feel a bit cold, but it's a good cold. The moon is far off, small, and just above the horizon. I lie on my back on the wooden boards of a wide bench and stare up into the heavens. The night sky is illuminated by millions of brilliant points of light. It's so magically clear. I can make out dozens of constellations. I am aware then, as I am now, that this star-gazing hour will permanently stay with me, perfectly preserved in my mind.
The following day, I get word from Sebastiano that he's going to be in Tangier and taking the ferry back to Algeciras on the 10th of July. From there an overnight bus to Madrid. I start planning my departure, via Tetouan by bus. And on the fourth morning I check out of the hotel, have a slow breakfast at one of the restaurants on the main square, and then walk downhill to the bus station.
Cats Like Chicken. Chefchaouen.
The bus to Tangier is fairly simple. Heading north, we drive through the mountains some more, stopping in a dusty and depressing looking Tetouan, where the bus parks and waits for 30 minutes in a dark, crowdy, busy bus depot reeking of diesel exhaust. And then we are off for Tangier.
By mid-afternoon I am back in the Interzone. Tangier is a rather insane and hectic and insecure place, but I have to say I kind of like it. It feels rough, intense. And this is confirmed within fifteen minutes of my re-arrival, as I am walking to the downtown and the port. I hear shouting and yelling, and hear a loud cracking noise. And then several men running away, all holding pieces of orange ceramic brick. Emerging from the center of the crowd of agitated onlookers is a young man, who for all appearances has just been hit in the back of the head with a brick.
He doesn't look very happy, in fact, I'm surprised to see him conscious and walking. He's wiping off dripping blood from the back of his neck. His white shirt is covered with dust, dirt, and blood. And then the commotion is over as quickly as I came upon it. I keep walking on to the Tangier port.
I have time for a mint tea and some lunch before the ferry. I prop myself up at a street-front café across from the port. The shoe-shine boys and sunglass hawkers stream down the sidewalk. The sun is beating down on this hellish town. I feel good, mostly because it's just a sublime experience, all of it, wild and intense, an adventure closing another chapter. And also because I'm in a sense happy to be heading back to Europe.
Departure.
Far later than I expected, I manage to find Sebastiano, who has just arrived from the train station after several chilled-out days in Essaouira and then Asilah. We manage through the chaotic passport and security controls, sent from one counter or line to the next, often having to return to the same window again after this or that stamp or receipt. The check-in process is absurdly complicated, though the security measures are embarrassingly lacking.
Just before stepping onto the plank to board the boat, a porter in disheveled uniform who has never touched my small bag - let alone carried anything for either of us- puts his hand out and says 'Money?' Somehow it seems like a fitting word of farewell.
On the boat, crossing the Strait of Gibraltar, the sun is a burning orange sphere sinking into the horizon. It's a gorgeous sunset seen from the windy, salt-sprayed deck of the ferry while the engines roar and the sea slips past. Morocco becomes just a silhouetted blurry coastline off in the distance.
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