Chefchaouen

Early the next morning we hopped onto our tour buses bound for Chefchaouen. It was about a 2 hour drive to get there, but the scenery was beautiful. We drove through a valley between two mountain chains-- to our left the Rif mountains with steep rocky cliffs and to our right more sloping cliffs with gnarly, skinny trees clinging to the hillside. The trees grew in a diagonal angle like they couldn't quite make themselves stand up straight and they were surrounded by miles of green and yellow farmland that made the mountain slopes look like a patchwork quilt.

We saw some skinny spotted cows grazing in the short yellow grass, a lake (fontana) reflecting the clear blue sky, and plain houses with flat roofs and blue framed doors that looked more like garages than homes. A young boy with dark hair and medium skin led his goats across a shallow creek and up a slanting mountain trail into the trees, which made me think of the shepherd in the book I am reading, The Alchemist. Men sat outside their huts in outdated lawn chairs with rows of earthy-colored ceramic for sale. Muslim women wrapped in hijabs waited at a bus station by the road and children played on a tall pile of red bricks. Skinny chickens pranced through all the yards. We passed a few towns, where the mosque was always the tallest building, its elegant tower stretching above the town. In other parts of the countryside houses sat in the middle of nothing and more hijab-draped women hung laundry on the line. We passed some cyclists-- always men. A few-- very few-- women weren't dressed in hijabs at all-- a girl in bright pink sweatpants walked with what looked like her father but who might be her husband, her long, dark hair flowing out behind her.

The signs were all in Arabic, and no matter how long I stared at them it only looked like scribble. Meanwhile our guide told us about the five pillars of Islam-- stuff I had already learned in my Spain and Islam class-- and about the difference between women's veils. Most women wear hijabs, which are found in a variety of colors and patterns and only cover the hair and neck, not the face. However, the Arab women, whom he called "las mujeres de las montañas," wear a burka, a dress that covers their entire body, even their face.

If I could sum Chefchaoen up in one word it would be: blue. As you walk through the calles all the buildings are painted in shades of blue. Most of them are a lavender-blue, but there's also sky blue and a more Carolina-blue (we were partial to this city.) It's by no means consistent-- you can see the brush strokes and in many places it's peeling, and most of the buildings are only painted on the bottom half, only the part you walk through. But it was pretty nonetheless. The most pretty part was the bright blue doors.

When we arrived it was still early morning. We divided into two groups of about 50 and followed a guide-- a native from Chefchaoen. It was a pretty pointless tour because the streets were so narrow that only the first ten people could hear him at all, and by the time the rear of the group caught up he moved on again. But it was still neat to walk through the town.

Another noticeable part of the town were the markets. Once the it became late morning merchants began setting out rows of scarves, jewelry, clothes, food, and trinkets like lamps, bowls, for sale. They spilled out onto the street, making it even more colorful.

A man puts out clothes for his store in the morning

After we had walked through the streets for a bit we passed through the wall of the city and walked up a dirt road parallel to the small river (or more like a creek) that runs next to the town. Women hand-washed clothes and rugs in the river and in two little huts to either side, while children waded in the water.

Women washing clothes and scrubbing rugs by the river, while children wade in the water.

Then we went back through the gate of the city and walked to the streets again. By this time it was late morning/ early afternoon and there were many more people in the streets. They stared at us like we were from a different planet, and some boys who clearly were not beggars at all asked us for money in English.

Our tour guide left us in a main plaza in town, free to roam the city and barter to buy things. In Morocco the market system is very different from Spain or the U.S. The merchants name a price, and if you're good at bartering you can get the item for less than half of the original. Bartering really is an art, and it's also kind of addicting. I managed to get a lamp that holds a candle that was originally 8 euros for only 4.50, which I was proud of until my friend (who has much better Spanish skills than I) got a very similar but much prettier lamp for only 3!

Most merchants spoke Spanish, but some spoke a little English too. You could always get better deals in Spanish than English. We could also use any currency-- euros, dollars, pounds or the Moroccan money, the dirham (1 euro= 10 or 11 dirhams, depending on the merchant.) Since apparently it is illegal to bring the dirham out of Morocco, there was never a need for us to exchange our currency.

I think this is henna, which they use as paint, or some kind of herbs.

After we explored the streets on our own, got a little lost and bought a few things it was time to leave. We met up in the center plaza and boarded the buses again, this time to Tetuán.

See entry to come!