The drive from to Chefchaouen takes over three hours through the Rif Mountains so there is ample time to take in the view. And what a view!
Rolling hills of golden wheat , hay bale stacks, hobbled cattle grazing, ancient olive groves dotting the hillsides, robed men herding goats and sheep, heavily laden donkeys carrying multi-coloured plastic water bottles of water from roadside wells, pink oleander-lined streams, avenues of thick trunked eucalypts, yellow flowering cactus fences, robed scarecrows…
Abdel is our driver, guide and new friend and the hours passed quickly as he told us of his family, Moroccan life, the King, his dreams, to live life before life leaves you, how to haggle for goods – “Leave the shopkeeper angry” – of the madness of radical Muslims -“They are animals! Cous cous in the head!”
Then we arrived at Chefchaouen, the blue town of Morocco which nestles on an edge of the Rif Mountains. The following images trace our stroll through the medina.
For 5 dirham we could sit in this courtyard and have a number one professional photo taken by Abdel. The gatekeeper took my 10 dirham and quickly clamped his fist around it. After all, Abdel had taken two shots.Chefchaouen family returning from school.Like youngsters everywhere, they were on the phone.In the squares of the medina and on walls, were water taps for people to drink from cups on string or fill containers.
Being Friday, the Holy Day, many shops were shut.
We followed the baker delivering loaves to shops.Another number one professional shot by Abdel.We climbed the stairs of the Cafe Aladin and had lunch on the terrace.The main square of Chefchaouen.
In the late afternoon on the drive back to Fes, we saw the King of Morocco driving in the other direction. Abdel was disappointed that he hadn’t flashed his lights to ask him to stop so he could speak to him. The King grants wishes here. Can we wish for a better time than we are having?
Donkey and push carts transport all manner of goods along the narrow streets of Fes and if we are not careful we’ll be bowled over by one. This is not to say the drivers are reckless but the streets are steep and the carts build momentum and donkeys have a mind of their own.
Sharon bowing to the greater power of the donkey.When a meal is ordered, bread is immediately brought to the table.Fes bakeryThe Blue Gate is one of the entrances where goods enter the medina from the outside world.
We continue to wander the streets and are recognised by traders outside their shops. My haggling is improving and I was even told by one leather trader I bartered like a Berber. I was not sure if it was compliment or not.
Young school children seem to finish their lessons around midday.Cats and kittens are everywhere and are treated well by the locals.
Food stalls display their wares directly onto the street.The traders are multi-lingual. Many speak Arabic, French and English. I even heard one with a smattering of Japanese.Out of the narrow streets of the medina, it is glary and hot.
At the end of the day the riad is a welcome respite.
The central room of the riad was once open to the elements. Our room is behind the windows upper centre.
We live deep in the medina of the old city of Fes.
The door to Riad Fes Kettani in Derb Touil.
Vehicles bring people and goods to carparks around the city edges and donkeys, trolleys, motorbikes and men carry the necessities of life into the labyrinth of ten thousand narrow lanes.
“Balak! balak!” cries the donkey handler as he warns us to step aside or risk a nuzzle nudge from a wet snout.
A man collects rubbish and deposits it onto the rubbish donkey.
We are encouraged and drawn by our curiosity into workshops making leather cushions and co-operatives weaving cloth made from agave silk and are instructed on all manner of the workings of the medina.
Fresh food stalls compete with space with butchers of all kind. Their cuts lie on marble benches or hang from hooks and if the buyer is unsure of what meat is sold there, a camel head on a hook leaves no doubt that somewhere in that shop is the prized hump.
Live chickens in cages and tethered by cords await their fate and free range ducks peck innocently at scraps below their refrigerated relatives.
It is a fascinating place.
We are beginning to find our way in the derbs, these narrow high walled lanes, that are surprisingly cool in the 38 degree heat. At the old man selling olives, we turn right then continue past the world’s oldest university.
We say, “Bonjour,” to the man stretching and winding agave silk onto bobbins and stop into the stationers to buy postcards.
We wave to Dakdaki Mohamed, the herboriste who assured us his 40 spice speciality we bought would not only flavour our dishes but cure all ills.
My visit to the herboriste cost a visit to the happy jeweller across the derb.
I ask the man who sits deep in his shoe shop if I can photograph his shop and he nods without expression.
We continue up the steep hill past the young men sitting on door steps. They ask us where we are from and point down narrow side derbs telling us,
“This is the way. Don’t go ahead. There is nothing there.”
Earlier, we naively followed their advice, losing our way in the maze only to be rescued by the same youth who had followed at a discreet distance to kindly offer to lead us to safety, once we visited his brother who runs the leather shop, his uncle who owns the tannery and to slip him a Moroccan note that has a big number but fortunately, little foreign exchange value.
Now, we daily pass them in the medina at their regular haunt on the step and they smile and greet us.
“Do you remember me?” says the youth who has Google maps of Fes in his head. He remembers us. “You are Australian,” he smiles as we pass.
We drink sweet mint tea and order beef tagine in favour of the meat tagine alternative which immediately fires the imagination. Coffee is ordered and the waiter races around the corner to fetch it from another shop. We sip while we watch the crowds and the donkeys carrying loads of gas bottles. The coffee is good.
Outside the Blue Gate in Place Boujloud stands what looks like the Fes version of an Australian thunderbox.
In the evening, we visit the botanical gardens to listen to music from the Fes Festival of Scared Music.
Jardin Jnan Sbil locked in the daytime during the festival.
After listening to American blues legend, Eric Bibb, I grabbed his autograph on the ticket and when I told him we saw him at Byron Bay Bluesfest in 2001, he said he hoped to be back soon.
