Marrakech, the High Atlas, the Sahara desert. Those three destinations maybe will evoke a glimpse of recognition in those who have at least fleetingly dreamt about traveling, even though they never got around to applying for a passport. But what about Fes and the impossibly spelled Chefchaouen? You may have never heard of them.
We left our nice Riad Madu on the fringe of the Sahara on Monday, January 6, heading north, back toward the Atlas mountains. I have to say, it was with a bit of a heavy heart for me to leave the desert dunes. They have such an allure for me, such a magical pull. If I were 20 years younger I would not hesitate to outfit a bike for an overland trip from Morocco down to Cape Town. As mentioned in the last blogpost, I was surprised by the (relatively) large number of cyclo-tourists, engaged in what are obviously adventures of a lifetime, and every time I saw and see one there was and is a bit of a nostalgic pang....
The weather forecast was not good, and Aziz continued to make phone calls to friends and associates on our proposed route for the day, all with the same result: There is too much snow in the Atlas mountains, and we will have to detour. Meanwhile, Birgit was coughing up a storm in the back seat and feeling miserable, encouraged only by the thought that in 24 hours she would be on a Ryanair flight back to Cologne to get medical attention in her hometown. (As a
post scriptum: Her eventual lab work showed an RSV infection.)
So, let's shortcut what could have been a spectacular drive. The 30+ mile-per-hour winds, occasional driving rain, and miles of deserted highway reminded me of West Texas at its worst. Once in a while the clouds broke open, and we all enjoyed the view of a perfect rainbow in what could have been the Nepalese highlands. We passed through the small town of Ifrane, one of many imperial towns and cities that are home to a royal palace that invariably is, at all times, closed to the public. The monarchy sure knows how to keep the people at bay. Ifrane and its surroundings are often called Little Switzerland, thanks to the many houses that are definitely un-Moroccan. You know, it is like being in Midway in Utah's Heber Valley and seeing gabled roofs and overhanging eaves, accompanied by white crosses on a red background. And still, it ain't La Suisse.
Thanks to our long detour to the east, avoiding the higher passes, we arrived fairly late in Fes. Aziz dropped us off at the Palais Feraj, a luxury hotel that TripAdvisor ranks in its top-10 hotels worldwide. Okay, so I had (privately, as an excuse for a birthday present for Birgit) splurged a little bit and upgraded our "affordable luxury" package with Atlas Desert Tours for our three nights in Fes. Sometimes you
want, and sometimes you
also
can; we don't often get to do stuff like that without going broke. The Palais Feraj was worth every penny spent—how often do you get to stay in a place that was once inhabited by royalty and still has all its trimmings and
accoutrements, without having collected an inordinate amount of patina, dust, and rusted pipes? Damn, that place, I mean
palace, was fine.
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| The Palais Feraj's prime location |
What a pity that Birgit had to get up at 3:45 a.m. the next morning to catch the pre-arranged car to the airport. Dang. What a shame. And so, from then on going forward, it was just Aziz and I.
The schedule called for three nights (or two full days) in Fes, and I intended to make the most out of that time. The Palais Faraj is located just steps outside of the medina, actually clinging onto the wall surrounding the old city and just 50 meters from the next
bab, or gate, leading into this ancient city. After the best breakfast of the trip so far and with an incomparable view of much of the city, I got ready to be met by my private guide, Jamal, who was going to spend the morning showing me around the medina, where he had grown up and still lived, despite an advanced master's degree in communications.
Just for clarification, all the local guides had been pre-arranged by Atlas Desert Tours, and it was simply up to me to give them an appreciative tip. All of them spoke excellent to acceptable English, and all of them seemed to enjoy what they were doing: Sharing their hometowns with foreigners. This was not just some show: From the way they explained things with pride and answered questions with much thought and detail it was clear to me that all these men were enjoying their jobs to a point that they had decided not to follow other opportunities. Almost each one said, "I like meeting people like you and showing you my hometown."
Jamal took me to a tiny upstairs hole-in-the-wall where an old fella who had obviously spent his entire life inside his little fiefdom prepared the best tea I have ever had. Proudly he showed me all the fresh ingredients—green tea, mint, spearmint, verbena, rose petals, thyme, lemongrass, and another one or two I don't recall—that he infused with an ancient Veracruz-style water heater, before adding loads of sugar to it. Goodness, that stuff was soooo good. I told Jamal that this man could make a million bucks in a month in the US, selling his tea for $4 a cup instead of 50 cents. He translated, and the old guy just grinned.
Our tour taught me other things as well, just as I had been picking up trivia from each guide so far. For example, a butcher will generally display the head or the hooves of the animal that he specializes in—so that's what those two camel heads mean (see farther below in this post)! I learned about
khlea, beef that is first marinated in garlic and olive oil before being hung up to airdry; once cured, it is put into a container with olive oil or sealed into animal fat, and it can be stored at room temperature for up to two years. I had
khlea (also spelled
khili) omelets out of the
tajine every morning in the Palais Feraj. If you have ever had northern Mexico's
machaca, you have an idea of
khlea's consistency and taste.
Have you ever been to a tannery? That's a place where the hides of the animals that hang in half-corpse format in front of the butcher stall are being transformed into useable leather products. Fes has numerous tanneries, and they all stink. Think of an animal hide, still with some meaty bits clinging to it, being carted in large bundles on a cart, or a porter's back. The hairs need to be removed, the fleshy cling-ons need to be scraped, and then the hide needs to be put into various vats containing natural chemicals (for ammonia, pigeon shit is used) and be washed before being hung up to dry. If the final product is supposed to have anything but a natural beige color (red, yellow, green, blue jackets anyone?), there's more treatment in large vats that have been spiked with natural dyes. I always thought being a roofer or, worse, someone laying road asphalt in the summer (or winter) would suck, but thinking about being a
lifelong tanner in these conditions makes you rethink you ambitions in life.
With Jamal I saw the largest such operation in Fes; on my second day, just ambling and floating, I somehow chanced (maybe it was the smell) upon a much smaller yet even more
horrible operation, with guys standing in these vats and turning the hides. All you people who bitch about your jobs: Get a life!
Another part of the tour program was visiting a ceramics factory where I was introduced to the ancient art of
zellige. I let the interpretive text explain this production method, of which I had never heard.
 |
Mind you, the artisan puts the entire mosaic together from the back from
the pieces that were created in the previous step (below) |
One of those nice wall fountains, maybe about four feet tall, will cost you around $4,000. Once you see the workmanship involved, you realize that that's a bargain, especially since shipping of this 200-pound piece is included. This factory employs around 90 craftsmen (and, for once, -women), and I was introduced to some folks who can't be older than 35 and have done this job for 20 years. No word whether there's a UNESCO medal for that....
During my two days of walking I watched various craftsmen at work, and with some I struck up a conversation, such as the older man who was working on leather belts and the young weavers, in another workshop. Everything is for sale, and often entire sections of the bazar will sell similar wares: tin and copper articles, bulk cloth, wooden spoons and other utensils, ceramics, kaftans and
jalabas. And right in between will be butchers selling camel meat, mutton, or beef, as their "show windows" will advertise.
Fes' medina and
souq are attractive, at least to the foreign eye. Foot traffic is not interrupted by motorbikes and scooters like in Marrakech, and there are fewer "tourist trinket" shops as well. People live here and go about their life. Everything one might need in one's daily living is available within a 200-meter radius from one's home. Life in the medina has not changed much over the centuries, except that running water and cell service are available everywhere. Mosques (and their adjacent washrooms as well as general
hammams, still needed as not everyone has access to a tub or shower for the occasional bath despite access to running water) are incorporated into the neighborhood, and the almost simultaneous call to prayer by multiple
muezzins is an experience that still gives me the goosebumps. Even the colorfully dressed water sellers are still roaming the streets. The year is 2025, but it might as well be 1875.
On my second day in Fes I visited the old Jewish quarter, an area where I noticed almost no foreign visitors. The Jews left during
cadima between 1949 and 1956 for the newly established Israel, yet to this day goldsmith and jewelry stores are centered in this part of Fes. Adjacent to the royal palace (which, like the other dozen residences of the king, is never open to the public), the Jewish quarter is somewhat removed from the medina but still easily accessible on foot.
 |
| One of about a dozen royal palaces—never open to the public |
I spent two enjoyable days in Fes, roaming the city, enjoying the comfort of the Palais Feraj, and eating seemingly exotic dishes such as a camel burger. After three nights, Aziz picked me up in the Land Rover Prado and we headed out of the mildly hilly terrain around Fes and first west for a quick stop in Meknes, then north through the Riff mountains toward Chefchaouen. On the way we stopped for an hour or so at the old Roman town of Volubilis, once the furthest metropolitan outpost of the great empire toward the south. A local guide who knew history just as well as mythology gave me a private tour, and I realized that I should really brush up on all those historical facts that I once knew but that have receded from my memory.
 |
| Not enough time in Meknes |
It is not often that a guide can weave multiple cultures and economic powers as seamlessly as Hassan did, a bespectacled, middle-aged man whose English was impeccable and who could have taught history at any university. And, as always, I learned new facts, such as the meaning of our word
basilica, which in Roman times was used for the local palace and not a church. Hassan didn't have anything on me when it came to
vomitoria, but he taught me about the layout and adornments of Roman villas in Volubilis. It was an hour well spent on that beautiful day.
On our trip, when Birgit was still with us, Aziz had usually stopped for lunch at a restaurant that catered to the numerous tour groups that came through town; the clients would order their lunch while the drivers and guides would get a comped meal. But on this day we stopped by a different place, attached to a gas station. We chose meat from what looked like a butcher shop and took our purchase to a small shack just steps away where a charcoal fire was going. After a short while, our beef liver skewers, marinated chicken bits, and three tiny, sausage-like things were brought to our plastic table and, using fingers and bread, we had our Moroccan barbecue. Now, that's what I had had in mind all along!
After crossing some barren hills we continued through increasingly green countryside, ever deeper into the Riff mountains, and by mid-afternoon we turned the last corner and Chefchaouen lay below us. The town climbs up a hillside, and the medina and even much of the remainder of the newer city are both whitewashed and painted blue. Add a little bit of sunshine and the effect is overpowering. I was reminded of images of small towns on Greek islands.
My
riad was right in the middle of the medina, and Aziz and I had to walk for about 200 meters after parking the car outside of the city wall. Of all the accommodations, the Riad Cherifa may have had the most character as a building that had organically grown over the centuries. I continued to get lost amid its maze of levels, staircases, sitting areas, pool/breakfast area, and terraces, even though there were only a dozen guest rooms. This
five-minute video gives you an idea of how beautiful these
riads can be; unfortunately I got a little lost and missed the grotto-like pool area!
 |
| Sunset from the terrace of my riad |
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| Welcome tea in the Riad Chifra |
On the evening of my arrival I walked through the tiny alleyways of Chefchaouen, bathed in the beautiful light that only the blue walls can produce. Cats roamed, vendors were still hawking everything from copper wares to carpets, and locals were sitting on small stools, watching the world slowly pass by. There's no hurry in the medina of Chefchaouen, no mopeds trying to squeeze through. In a way, this is truly a magical place, and I couldn't get enough of it. After a satisfying sardines
tajine dinner I finally sat down for a last mint tea for the day, in what used to be called the fish market, before returning to my
riad. I swear, without Locus I would have been lost many times over on this trip!
Punctually at 9:30 the next morning, Abdulsalam used the door knocker of the
riad: He had been hired by Atlas as my local guide to walk with me through the Blue City. Walk we did, but not as much as you might think. Abdulsalam was a cantankerous 83-year-old local who was not afraid to express his opinion about the state of the world, at least as far as Chefchaouen was concerned. The trash, the graffiti, the lack of respect—the
children are to blame! Throw in the high prices, the traffic, all the people (who allow him to work as a guide), and it took only a short question or two to get him to talk about the water supply situation, the changing weather, and the fires in Los Angeles. But, so he told me in his rather interesting English, in the hills, there are
three reservations with many waters and there are springs in town, too. Reservations ...
All of his explanations would begin after his coming to a stop, accompanied by a short tap on my arm, maybe because of the many stairs, or maybe to just really make the point he was trying to make. He told me that the city had always been whitewashed, "no blue until the Jews in 1945." OK, I tried to get the historical and chronological context straightened out but failed. At one stop, he showed me, in the far distance, the oldest minaret in all of North Africa (could very well be), and he was not remiss in mentioning on many occasions that he kept the keys for one of the many
sufi mosques in town; he also mentioned, after a tap on my arm and a stern look, that later in the day there would be music played in the mosque, but when pressed for a time when that might happen he turned evasive. Maybe the
children were to blame.... He told me about his family of many, and how he liked to go to the beach with them ("only 70 kilometers away, verrry nice") and rent a house for the occasion. When I mentioned that this actually defined him, in a way, as a tourist himself—someone who traveled for pleasure to a different locale—he became somewhat agitated and muttered a lot.
Our tour ended rather abruptly when he just walked off but then returned five minutes later to collect a tip. Oh man, I really liked that geezer! Thank you for an entertaining tour of Chefchaouen, Abdulsalam!
I spent the remainder of the day hiking up to a small mosque from where one has not only a beautiful view of the city below but also, at the right time, gets treated to the call to prayer that resonates in surround sound. On the way down I walked through one of several cemeteries that I have visited on this trip. Later, when I questioned Aziz, he acknowledged that—in general—graves are oriented with the deceased's feet pointing toward Mecca but that space considerations might mean that those with fewer monetary resources may end up with their feet pointing toward Antarctica, or some other not-so-desirable direction.
It was Friday, and if the day after Monday is Taco Tuesday in Texas, well, then Friday is Couscous Day in Morocco! Aziz had told me that traditional families will prepare a large couscous dish on the Muslim Sunday, and so I had decided to find a restaurant where I could finally try this dish. (Numerous establishments list
couscous on their daily menus, but I didn't want to break with tradition.) I found a doubly appealing place, both for its general warmth and ambiance but also the local duo who played soft north African music. As for the couscous, I chose the
couscous royale that incorporated caramelized onions and raisins in addition to veggies and a small piece of beef, yet it was somewhat disappointing in flavor and texture. I think I'm more of a
tajine man!
And thus ended five days that I spent in two must-see cities of Morocco. Both Fes and Chefchaouen have completely different characters, yet both are so essentially Moroccan. As they are within a reasonable driving distance from each other they usually are part of any itinerary that takes you away from Marrakech on a tour of the country. The fact that the weather played along made both of these cities even more special. If you get a chance to ever visit, go!
Jürgen
Just for clarification, all the local guides had been pre-arranged by Atlas Desert Tours, and it was simply up to me to give them an appreciative tip. All of them spoke excellent to acceptable English, and all of them seemed to enjoy what they were doing: Sharing their hometowns with foreigners. This was not just some show: From the way they explained things with pride and answered questions with much thought and detail it was clear to me that all these men were enjoying their jobs to a point that they had decided not to follow other opportunities. Almost each one said, "I like meeting people like you and showing you my hometown."
Our tour taught me other things as well, just as I had been picking up trivia from each guide so far. For example, a butcher will generally display the head or the hooves of the animal that he specializes in—so that's what those two camel heads mean (see farther below in this post)! I learned about khlea, beef that is first marinated in garlic and olive oil before being hung up to airdry; once cured, it is put into a container with olive oil or sealed into animal fat, and it can be stored at room temperature for up to two years. I had khlea (also spelled khili) omelets out of the tajine every morning in the Palais Feraj. If you have ever had northern Mexico's machaca, you have an idea of khlea's consistency and taste.
With Jamal I saw the largest such operation in Fes; on my second day, just ambling and floating, I somehow chanced (maybe it was the smell) upon a much smaller yet even more horrible operation, with guys standing in these vats and turning the hides. All you people who bitch about your jobs: Get a life!
My riad was right in the middle of the medina, and Aziz and I had to walk for about 200 meters after parking the car outside of the city wall. Of all the accommodations, the Riad Cherifa may have had the most character as a building that had organically grown over the centuries. I continued to get lost amid its maze of levels, staircases, sitting areas, pool/breakfast area, and terraces, even though there were only a dozen guest rooms. This five-minute video gives you an idea of how beautiful these riads can be; unfortunately I got a little lost and missed the grotto-like pool area!
Punctually at 9:30 the next morning, Abdulsalam used the door knocker of the riad: He had been hired by Atlas as my local guide to walk with me through the Blue City. Walk we did, but not as much as you might think. Abdulsalam was a cantankerous 83-year-old local who was not afraid to express his opinion about the state of the world, at least as far as Chefchaouen was concerned. The trash, the graffiti, the lack of respect—the children are to blame! Throw in the high prices, the traffic, all the people (who allow him to work as a guide), and it took only a short question or two to get him to talk about the water supply situation, the changing weather, and the fires in Los Angeles. But, so he told me in his rather interesting English, in the hills, there are three reservations with many waters and there are springs in town, too. Reservations ...
All of his explanations would begin after his coming to a stop, accompanied by a short tap on my arm, maybe because of the many stairs, or maybe to just really make the point he was trying to make. He told me that the city had always been whitewashed, "no blue until the Jews in 1945." OK, I tried to get the historical and chronological context straightened out but failed. At one stop, he showed me, in the far distance, the oldest minaret in all of North Africa (could very well be), and he was not remiss in mentioning on many occasions that he kept the keys for one of the many sufi mosques in town; he also mentioned, after a tap on my arm and a stern look, that later in the day there would be music played in the mosque, but when pressed for a time when that might happen he turned evasive. Maybe the children were to blame.... He told me about his family of many, and how he liked to go to the beach with them ("only 70 kilometers away, verrry nice") and rent a house for the occasion. When I mentioned that this actually defined him, in a way, as a tourist himself—someone who traveled for pleasure to a different locale—he became somewhat agitated and muttered a lot.
Our tour ended rather abruptly when he just walked off but then returned five minutes later to collect a tip. Oh man, I really liked that geezer! Thank you for an entertaining tour of Chefchaouen, Abdulsalam!
