Morocco Chapter 5: Chefchaouen

Hello,

Quick Ghana update: I am miraculously better and have (sadly...I guess) gained about 5 of the 10-or-so pounds I lost last week back. While I still have a small appetite, I can get through most meals without getting sick, which is a kind of big accomplishment. Also, I had the mole checked, and will most likely get it removed in the next 2 weeks. I have a consultation with a plastic surgeon on Friday, and I assume we will then make a removal appointment. The mole will then be tested to make sure it isn't malignant. If it is...then I don't really know where we will go from there...so let's all just hope it won't be. Okay?

So back to Maroc. (That's the French spelling/pronunciation, fyi) We left Fes and from there headed to the north of Morocco to visit the small and very tourist-friendly town of Chefchaouen. On the bus, which was incredibly similar to the STC buses we've been riding in Ghana recently, Elena and I sat behind a woman with two sons who were both under the age of 5, one of which was definitely wearing a dirty diaper for the entire 5 hour bus ride (even though we stopped twice, giving his mother ample time and opportunity to change it) and which also made me so nauseous I could barely see straight. I am not one to get car sick, but the winding road and high altitude, coupled with the smell of this kid's soiled undergarments was just too much for me.

Needless to say, I was overjoyed when we finally came to a stop outside the gorgeous white and blue city of Chef. (Chefchaouen is a pain in the ass to spell repeatedly) The entire city is blue and white...you have to see a picture to really understand it, but the effect if breathtaking. I was overjoyed that is, until I realized it was around 30 degrees outside and raining. (still wearing same jeans and hoodie...no new development there...) Luckily we had strapped on our new ultra-sexy wool long-johns so we were slightly more insulated than we would have been without, but damn...it was cold.

Eventually, through ridiculousness that involved a guy from Spain who talked like Speedy Gonzalez, we got to a hotel where we also had dinner and walked around in the gorgeous city square for about 17 minutes until we were completely frozen and also getting our only warm clothes (we still had 40 pound backpacks full of useless warm-weather clothes) wet (no umbrellas) making for a somewhat unpleasant premonition for the following day.

The next day in Chef rained. Elena and I tried to go out and explore, beginning with a wonderful breakfast with fresh squeezed orange juice, real coffee and all the toast and apricot jam we could eat. Can I just take a minute to say I LOVE apricot jam? I love apricot jam! Okay. So, this breakfast was wonderful and not just because of the jam. It also gave us the chance (under cover of a rain tarp) to start to understand what exactly Chef was all about. The more we sat and ate, the more the various men who worked at the restaurant smoked pot. In public. The more everyone swayed around singing the same Reggae song over and over and over again. The more we took notice of our fellow travelers. Everyone was young-ish, and at least 50% had dread-locks. Another large majority wore peasant blouses and long flowing skirts under the army jackets they wore to protect themselves from the intense cold . We had stumbled upon Europe's own hippie getaway in the mountains of Morocco.

This realization was some-what disturbing. It seemed, the more time we spent in Chef, that this was a place for the well-off to disappear to for a long weekend, relax in the beautiful scenery of the blue and white architecture, eat great food, and buy hand made hippie crafts. And, smoke pot. I think this last piece is taken the most seriously (except by Elena and I, fyi, Mom.) judging by the fact that besides just walking around exploring at random, there isn't actually anything to do in Chef. Except...eat. You get me?

I should take a brief moment and say that marijuana is legal in Morocco. It is also a very big export. And the best Kif (as it is called there) is grown in the areas around Chef. So, young Spanish travelers (and travelers from all over the world, and less-young hippies who can somehow afford to do this type of traveling while rejecting capitalism) often make it down to Chef for a fun, if uneventful, weekend.

Many of these people Elena and I christened "Establishment Bohemians" These were the (mostly) young people with dread locks (often dyed unnatural colors, like purple), peasant skirts, backpacks containing everything they owned, hands full of random musical instruments (like drums or lutes) and chain smoking like they were all racing to see who could get lung cancer first. This is what made them "Establishment Bohemians" and different (and less likable, if you like that kind of thing, which I do) from your typical "Damn the man and live the dream" type of Bohemians. These people might really be living the dream (although I have become skeptical in my old age about who-like parents or trust funds-is behind the scenes making this dream-living possible. Just a small rant: ALL of these "E.B." were white. Okay.) but they are negating all their damn-the-manness by smoking. Cigarettes are one of the biggest, and most evil corporations in the world. (Although I might argue that soda is the most evil of all) So, unless these bohemians were rolling their own tobacco into their own rolling paper, they were a sham in my opinion. Chefchaouen was really kind of shammy in a lot of ways. Oh the sociological discussions Elena and I had!

Moving on. Eventually, the sun did come out, and Chef was not only beautiful in the sun, but also surprisingly warm. So, Elena and I did what we do and explored both the Medina and Ville Nouvelle, and of course got lost, but did find our way back, after running into this beautiful river that sits under this huge hill with a big, ancient looking mosque on top. During this adventure, I also was able to reach into the depths of my soul and haggle for about 15 minutes in Spanish with a 9 year old boy for a wool blanket. (I got him from 120 (cien y viente) Dh to 85 Dh (ochenta cinco), by the way)

Speaking Spanish in Chef was nice. So, so, so nice. While I am in no way fluent in Spanish, I at least: A.) understand the pronunciation. Unlike French. B.) Have a decent stock of vocabulary that can be used when needed. Unlike French. C.) Understand the grammatical structure, making it possible to read and at least have basic comprehension. Unlike French. So, in conclusion, I love Spanish, I hate French, and while Chef wasn't my favorite place, and was potentially full of fake hippies and Establishment Bohemians, the fact that I felt like an idiot only about 60% of the time (as opposed to the 97% in the rest of Morocco) makes it hold a special place in my heart.

I love you.