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Chefchaouen is a smaller Moroccan town situated in the hills of Northern Morocco which were once part of the Spanish protectorate. Suddenly we began to notice a Spanish influence in the architecture and the children shouting 'hola!' as we walked through the steep streets.
Our hotel was called 'Hotel Madrid' and had more decoration than any hotel we have stayed at so far. The foyer was filled with coloured mosaics, there were painted wooden ceiling panels, and in our pink bedroom was a four poster bed hung with lace and covered with a Hawaiian-esque floral bedspread. Although the hotel had high speed wifi, its plumbing was not quite as reliable. Our toilet didn't flush but we were one of the lucky few whose shower emitted warm water in more than a trickle.
The town has its own natural spring which feeds it with water all year round. We were taken on a walk through the neatly cobbled streets and blue and white painted buildings to the source of the water further up the hillside. As we neared it, we paused to watch a group of local woman chatting together as they washed laundry by hand, and I heard my name called from up ahead. There in front of me were friends from my hometown in New Zealand! It really is a small world! They were also walking to the water source with their guide, a small Fez wearing Moroccan man with a voice like yoda! ("Another Kiwi you are")
Our tour party continued past the water source, above the old city walls, to the hillside where traditionally dressed goat herders sat on rocky outcrops watching their flocks. Puffing, we took in the panoramic view of the town and surrounding countryside. It is certainly isolated. Our guide tells us that there is a flourishing drug trade in Chefchaouen - cannabis is grown here and exported to Europe. Although it is illegal, perhaps the town's inaccessibility has in part prevented any serious measures by authorities to halt this enterprise.
Sure enough the following day Dale was approached by a friendly local who wanted to sell him hash. Not wishing to see the inside of a Moroccan jail cell, Dale declined and hurriedly rejoined me at the shop where I was obliviously admiring straw hats.
We had a candlelit dinner under the stars at a restaurant in the town square, which was buzzing with activity after dark. Old men wearing Berber hooded robes sat talking and drinking tea at a nearby cafe, musicians provided an Arabic flavour to the mix, stray cats were on the prowl for fallen scraps, and shoppers continued looking for bargains at the hole in the wall stores which remained open until after 9pm. I had my first Moroccan couscous experience - a fluffy, yellow mound, topped with slow cooked vegetables and caramelised onion. Dale went for Moroccan soup - a tomato based soup with vegetables, barley, and sometimes chicken - and couscous. We also shared a Salad of finely chopped tomato, cucumber, capsicum, red onion and fresh goats cheese (which tasted like ricotta).
We opted out of the 2 hour hike offered the next morning, and went in search of coffee for me, and a haircut for Dale. First stop was a bakery where for $5NZ we purchased two short blacks, two large fresh-squeezed orange juices, and a custard pastry too big for us to finish. As we sat and enjoyed this second breakfast a mother came in with her small son to buy sweet treats for the family. The little boy wore a white ankle length tunic with an embroidered jacket over it. One hand was held by his mother, while the other roamed along the glass cabinet containing all the goodies, pointing out his favourites! His mother ordered three boxfuls of an assortment of the bite sized biscuits and pastries while the little boy turned his attention to us, studying us seriously with big dark eyes. Our smiles did nothing to change his expression.
Next stop was a barbershop we came upon in one of the winding streets. A dimly lit room with three ancient-looking barbers' chairs, two impassive Moroccan barbers and a tv tuned to a station blaring out verses of the koran. Feeling conspicuously female, I found a seat in the corner and watched in horror as the bald barber began to shear off my husband's hair. My alarm turned to relief when I realised that the electric razor was not set to a "number 1" cut as I had feared but was simply trimming Dale's overgrown hair.
Ten minutes later Dale's haircut was taking shape when I got my next fright. The barber pulled out a switch blade, which he sterilised by pouring a solution on it which he lit and waited to burn off before he tore open a paper packet with a razor blade inside which he fitted to the switchblade. He then used this device to tidy up the edges of Dale's hairline around his ears and neck. I held my breath as I watched the blade scraping away at my husband's neck, relaxing only when the barber put the razor down and began dusting off Dale's neck.
However, with a professional respect for the barber's skill with a blade, Dale accepted the offer of a shave! I then endured another agonising few minutes as I watched Dale's face and neck get lathered up, a new blade fitted to the switchblade, and the sharp edge scraped along his throat. Finally the ordeal was over and Dale stepped out of the shop a little more clean cut than when he entered. The cost? Less than $8NZ for Dale and a few more grey hairs for me!
- comments
T-Monster Gold! Great entry Vic.
Liv Hilarious Vic!! I hope you can keep this up for your whole trip! :)