That is Chefchaouen

For me Fes was a complete write off because I was amazingly sick for 48 hours. Never have my insides felt so knotted and distressed. So instead I shall pick up the tale on the second of September, the day we left for Chefchaouen. This is a medium sized town about three or so hours north of Fes in the Rif Mountains. Chosen mode of transport? Taxi. A large late ninety’s Mercedes saloon, seats four passengers under normal circumstances but when your local guide insists that you can sit two in the front passenger seat, you don’t argue. So here we were, cruising along the Moroccan highway, five sweaty passengers and one sweaty, silent driver at a cool 130km (road surface permitting) towards what is apparently known as the hashish capital of Morocco. None of us even smoke let alone do drugs. What is the point then you may ask?

Chefchaouen sprawls in a small basin at the foot of some moderately impressive mountains. Back in the day the Spaniard held sway here and for some reason started the tradition of painting their houses in a blue wash. This tradition has been carried at gun point. If you don’t comply you will get fined, if you attempt to get inventive and try a shade of yellow you will get heavily fined. Try it again and you may find yourself behind bars. Needless to say nearly everyone complies.

Our guide, Wajih had everything planned out for our two or so days in Chef. The night we got there we were treated to a Hammam, kind of like a Turkish bath where you lie on a tiled floor, get rinsed, rubbed down, brutalised with a loofer and finally massaged and rinsed once more. This was quite an experience and a good one to have after the aforementioned taxi ride. This kicked off at about 11pm after the ladies had finished and we finally got to bed at about 1:30.

Note: our bed in this particular hostel consisted of the thinnest mattress crafted by man, wrapped in a heavy blanket with an extra blanket for comfort in the cool mountain air. On the roof. It’s selling point is that it costs a mere six Aussie dollars.

Day two saw us lounging around a pool at the base of a small set of rapids in the Moroccan wilderness being served tagine and melon by our guide and his friends. It was a little awkward because of Ramadan. They cooked all this lovely food but couldn’t eat it, instead they hovered to make sure everything was just right. We finished up late in the afternoon and enjoyed a spectacular taxi ride back to town with the sun low in the sky, illuminating the pink and red cliffs, Celine Dion – The Power of Love blaring on the cheap speakers.

The final day we climbed a mountain and got offered copious volumes of hashish and marijuana by wild drug dealers. This is a phenomenon that I believe may be exclusive to Morocco. A gathering of men called a ‘Troupe’ (in homage to their relative, the Chimpanzee and a nod to French, a large portion of the local dialect ) linger in the trees off the side of the path then trickle down to passing travellers and peddle their wares. One inquisitive little fellow insisted on gathering us fallen branches so we could cook our lunch and then followed up the mountain. Jane Goodall, where are you when we need you? Once we got to the top, company in tow, we commanded a magnificent view of the town, valley and surrounding mountains. It also gave a good perspective on just how blue and white all the houses were. We trekked back into town, begging off both wild and domesticated dealers for our final night in this interesting little town.

The only other thing I need to mention that doesn’t fall into this chronology is ‘The Rocker’, latest member to the Menagerie of Travelling Strange. Every night we were privileged enough to endure a French version of Iggy Pop play some decent guitar and ruin it utterly by wailing his poorly written lyrics. One song contained the word ‘yeah’ 14 times. In a row. But other than that and his penchant for lycra bike shorts he was generally inoffensive.

That is Chefchaouen.