My thoughts of the hammam being a good place for bacteria growth must have been right on. I awoke with a head cold and have been stuffy with sinus pressure and yellow buggers for three days now. Uck!
I made my way via a local bus to Chefchaouen a magnificent little town nestled in the Rif mountains. Getting out of the major cities has been such a blessing, the people are wonderful and locals hassling you are minimal. My arrival which I thought was going to be at a bus station, ended up leaving me on the side of the road leading into the town. I had taken an odd very local bus due to having left from a not so optimal origination point. Now what, I see a bunch of houses spread around the mountain side, but really have no idea where I’m at in reference to the small area map I have. Within minutes a local pulls over jabbering in Spanish to my surprise, even more surprising I knew enough to communicate with him. In the back of the pickup I go, and he not only drives me to the closest place to reach my hotel he parks grabs my bag and carries it through a maze of steep steps right into the lobby. What a great introduction to a town full of Spanish speakers, even the menus are Spanish here.
Chefchaouen is a mountain side village with all the homes painted in a bright baby blue enhancing it’s charm. It’s an arts and crafts village. Wandering through cobblestone streets soaking in the beauty of such simplicity I quickly discover this beauty is known for Hash-hish (marijuana) by numerous shops and locals asking me if I want to smoke or would like something to open my mind. The surrounding Rif mountains legally produce 45% of the worlds production. Aside from this minor annoyance I find locals crafts people working in their shops producing wares for sale in the local shops. This place is tranquil with a romantic appeal. I find myself chatting it up with local shop owners to sitting at a corner cafe with three guys hi as a kite puffing one joint after another. Everyone I encounter in this mellow place is genuine and incredibly friendly. Maybe it’s all the hash.
What a contrast from the Atlas mountains in the south where it is errand and rocky. Here the mountains are forested and green.
Day two I set out to summit Jebel El-kelaa, a 5313 ft high peak towering over town. What I had been lead to believe would be a pretty easy hike by my guide book turned into a strenuous 8 hour day up a very steep windy 4×4 path weaving around boulders and mountain goats. I summit in the burning sun and cool breeze exhausted having sweated out the last drop of the two liters of water I’d brought to take in a wonderful vista for a few moments. Lesson, always bring more water than you think you’ll need. In desperation for a drop to wet my parched dry mouth I make it back down in record time, passing several other hikers that had started their decent before me.
Exhausted from the day I set out to find a beer to soak my sorry muscles, and I ponder this was undoubtedly a much needed warmup for Nepal. I decide I need to find a better pair of boots. While the hiking shoes I’m wearing will do, something more rigid is going to be in order for days on end of such rough terrain. I have a mission, find good new boots before getting to Nepal and have time to break them in.
Finding a beer turns into a mission. Morocco certainly follows it’s Muslim roots. Bars are not very common and when you do find one, it’s males only. They are seedy dark dirty smoke filled rooms hidden from the main pathways. Very few restaurants serve any alcohol, and if you’re lucky one may sneak one too you with a polite inquiry. The occasional hotel has a bar and I find one through inquiry as it’s an environment more to my liking. I’ve found one Moroccan beer thus far, Casablanca, and the beer lover I am, it’s not much better than Budweiser.
Today I made my way back into the hustle of a big city stopping in Fes, a city with the largest pedestrian only district in the world. My skills well honed for the taxi hustle I find no taxi’s immediately outside the bus station with a mafioso type boss offering rides with one of his underlings for an exorbitant rate. I refuse and cross the street. Empty taxi after taxi drives by refusing to pick up any passengers, locals or not. They have fear in their eyes as they pass by, pretending like they didn’t notice anyone. A local elderly women gets in a screaming match with one of the bouncer type dudes and I can only imagine she is scolding him out for ripping people off. I decide I’m better off elsewhere and huff it a couple blocks away where I find lines of taxi’s happy to take me no questions using the meter.
Fes is a labyrinth of narrow mazed alley ways filled with shopping. It’s an adventure setting myself free to get lost in dead ends and wonderful discoveries. At first it can overwhelm the senses absorbing all the action at once. Without my compass I surely would have had to hire a local guide. Now I know what it must feel like to be a hamster in a maze looking for the way out. This place makes Venice look like a postage stamp in comparison. I stumble upon a tannery. Here is the heart of Moroccan leather. An industry hundreds of years old the smell is overpowering from the stench of dead animal skin and all the weird chemicals used to make leather goods. Pigeon shit and cow urine being two of the main ingredients used in processing a skin. A feeling of extreme fortune overcomes me standing on a balcony overlooking the area where the hides are dyed. It’s mostly kids standing waist deep in vats of dye and chemicals pushing and stirring the skins the old fashioned way. Most of them where born into families working here and have inherited a life of hard back breaking work. The rank alone would make one sick, I can only imagine what spending all day standing in the stuff would do to oneself. The show Dirty Jobs should come here if they want something truly dirty and over the top. How truly blessed I am to be born in a different situation.
I’m sitting hear at a cafe enjoying mint tea, a wonderful Moroccan specialty. I’ve never been a big fan of tea. Maybe it’s the place or maybe it’s all the mint, I’m digging it while watching a myriad of people stroll by, wondering what each of their unique stories are.
Tomorrow, I head off to spend the afternoon in Ifrane with my new friend Sara.
I have updated photos also, so go back through the Morocco pics and at the end are new ones.
