CHEFCHAOUEN (23-24.11.23)

We made it to Chefchaouen on a pitch dark evening and didn’t struggle much to find a parking space right into the Medina. Too good to be true, right? Well, an obviously fake parking attendant with a super dodgy face and rotten teeth approached us to collect a nonexistent parking fee and sell hashish. Too tired to actually discuss we paid those 3 euro, turned down the other offer and got chased by two of his mates, same dodgy faces and rotten teeth, who claimed to want to show us where our accommodation was (which was actually 2 minutes walk away). Another offer turned down, another waste of my voice. As we made it there they demanded to be paid and tried to sell us hashish. At that point I lost it and even though I meant every word I said, the amount of rage I expressed things with kinda took me by surprise. To sum it up I told them no wonder nobody trusted people in this country if everyone was always trying to scam others and had no respect whatsoever for personal boundaries and the words “no, thank you”. Seeing how fast they left, I assumed my point hit the target straight.

I was extremely determined not to let this little accident spoil my first impression of the city which I had been looking forward to visit for the previous two weeks (if not longer).

The whole idea of flying back from Tangier was actually just an excuse for me to make it up north and take the chance to wander the streets of the famous blue city, a photographer’s paradise.

Our accommodation, the pretty yet quite soulless “Casa blue star” had a location and a rooftop to die for.  That’s about it to be fair. The staff, consisting once again of men only, wasn’t particularly welcoming but still agreed to cook for us dinner: chicken tagine, kefta tagine with a soup as a starter, which was made from scratch and took about 90 minutes to get ready (turned out to be worth the wait). We killed time in the veranda of the rooftop by drinking a ridiculous amount of mint tea to keep ourselves warm. The drop in temperature was considerable which made sense in light of the city’s location in the middle of a mountain range. Nothing that a steaming hot shower and smothering yourself under 4 thick blankets couldn’t fix.

The following day we woke up to the absurd news that the guy that was meant to pick up our rental car in Tangier, showed up at 8 AM instead of 8 PM, as previously agreed. For a second I was thrown back to India, where these kind of misunderstandings were everyday’s ABC.

The panic didn’t last long since they agreed in waiting but it made me feel quite shitty. A feeling that the umpteenth average breakfast couldn’t shake off, but the sun popping out from the clouds and a chat with a lovely Belgian couple did.

We didn’t indulge long and got ready to start exploring Chefchaouen as its little local shops and bazars opened for the day and locals slowly started their chores. Funny enough, without putting thoughts into it, we both picked extremely fitting, blue and white outfits. It was love at first sight, every small alley was worth a snap and, no matter how much I tried to contain my excitement, I got carried away and ended up taking dozens of pics aware that they would have probably end up looking not so different from one another.

The city has Spanish influences and it’s more common to hear local speaking to you in Spanish rather than in French, which I absolutely didn’t mind.

Why blue?  Well some say to repel mosquitos (is it a thing?), some others to cool down the houses in the hot season, some other pin it down to the large amounts of Jewish fleeing Europe during World War two. Blue is the colour of the sky, which reminded people of heaven and God.

We hiked up a scenic route to the Spanish mosque, which offered an awesome frontal panoramic view on the whole city. On both the way up and down, we had to dodge plenty of locals insistently trying to sell hashish. I started to get annoyed at this point and understood what the Lonely Planet meant when they defined Chefchaouen as a hippie Mecca. When we made it back to town, it suddenly became clear how much of a tourist trap the place was. Which didn’t stop my shooting frenzy, nor spoiled the little shopping break at a local wood craftsman studio nor how much I enjoyed the camel burger that followed at the artsy Chefchaouen branch of the Clock Cafe (can’t deny it felt great to eat something that was neither tagine nor couscous!). I felt nauseous the whole day, partially because of the car situation and partially because of the fear of having to go back to work soon. 

Despite the hordes of tourists and the maybe not so authentic vibe around, Chefchaouen still has to make it amongst this trip’s highlights. It kinda feels like a Morocco for beginners, a place to acclimatise and where you can learn to bargain and say “enough” when someone’s stepping over your boundaries. Too bad we got there at the end of our trip!

TANGIER (24-26.11.23)

The car ride to Tangier could be easily divided in two fragments: one hour through sunny hills with the occasional local kid selling strawberries on the side of the road, one hour through the city crazy traffic in the rush hour (or maybe it’s always rush hour there, who knows?). I’ve literally never driven through anything like this, not even in Sicily: cars and lorries cutting your way every couple of seconds from left and right, a five lanes chaotic roundabout where everyone did whatever they wanted and hesitation equalled not moving forward at all. It took a lot of my energy and tested my nerves, but eventually, after a lot of cold sweat being poured and a countless amount of swearing, we parked next to our accommodation, “Kasba Blanca“, which, unexpectedly, was located in the posh part of the Medina. It was without any doubt the most expensive room we got throughout this holiday (about 60 euro when we would normally pay between 20 and 30 a night) but being greeted and spoiled like princes after such a crazy driving experience made it immediately very worth it.

We finally met the car pickup guy and I apologised profusely for making him wait throughout the day. He was unexpectedly very chilled and relaxed about the situation and left with a big smile on his face.

As we finally allowed ourselves to relax with a welcome mint tea on the fancy rooftop with a remarkable night view on the harbour, we thought it was about time to try out a hammam and proceeded in having one booked from the hotel.

The thirty minutes walk around Tangiers’ Medina and its modern part gave us a quite good impression of what Tangier was about: more European, less traditional, still extremely chaotic and loud. 

And now let’s talk about the hammam experience, which was, to be utterly honest, weird as fuck. First of all: the staff consisted of women only (isn’t it weird in a hammam for men in a muslim country?), who we couldn’t understand nor communicate with without causing them to laugh to our faces and being obnoxiously loud. Very confused, we stripped down in our speedos and were led to two different steam rooms. The hammam itself consisted of fifteen minutes where I  got tossed and turned like pieces of meat, splashed with hot water, scrubbed vigorously until my skin got first red and then started to fall off as if I was shedding it, rubbed with two different soaps (the famous black soap, beldi, sold at every street market) and splashed again with hot and ice cold water. All of this without knowing what was actually going on. A remarkable moment happened when the lady in charge of me, as she spun me like a record, seemed to have forgotten that I was covered in soap, made me slip and saved me in extremis before I fell to the floor.

Still disoriented from what had just happened I got dragged in another room for a massage. This time around I was in the “good” hands of the owner of the place (which was by the way, the backdoor of a hair salon): a lady covered in cheap perfume, with lush locks and tons of makeup. She did just fine, nothing special, but at least no weird unexpected turns. I failed at rinsing the thick layer of massage oil off of my skin and, as completely defeated started to get dressed, the girls appeared at my door, completely careless about the fact that I was full on naked, and demanded an immediate 5 stars review… Probably that’s how they got all those good ratings on Google. On the other hand, Christoph, who had been lucky enough to be assigned to another masseuse, seemed quite content.

It was 50 euro each, which is quite a lot of money here. I felt a bit stupid for thinking that an hammam would also provide time to chill in silence in a steam bath. And frankly I’m still not so sure we had the “traditional hammam experience”. It felt more like the kind of hammam where a different kind of ending is at your discretion.  A doubt that was later on candidly confirmed by the cheeky smile on the face of the hotel clerk, who obviously hadn’t realised he was dealing with two gay men.

The following day started on a very tight schedule: Christoph had to catch his flight back home around midday and we still hadn’t come around to do any ceramic shopping. Because Duh, you’re in Morocco. No matter if you fancy ceramics or not, trust me, by the end of a holiday in this country, there’s no way in the world you won’t feel like YOU MUST get yourself something.

We had (finally!) a yummy breakfast on the rooftop as seagulls squawked on the bay in the light of dawn (can’t deny this “breakfast on the rooftop” culture is the cure to every day started with the wrong foot), and swiftly left for the before mentioned ceramic hunt. It was like 8.30 AM at that point and, quite predictably, only a few shops had opened.  Somehow, after buying incense, saffron and argan oil, we came across the bazaar of an old man called Omar, who invited us in. He was incredibly calm, polite, the opposite of pushy, and spoke an incredible English. So how could we say no? He led us to an upstairs floor which was normally closed to clients and invited us to take our time as he prepared some mint tea for us. It was quite dark, a bit dusty and incredibly quiet and it showcased hundreds if not thousands of items of every sort: leather bags, stuffed animals, brass lamps of various shapes and sizes and shelves upon shelves of incredible ceramics. Both me and Christoph fell in a sort of state of trance and spent one hour pondering what to buy and what to leave behind. The thought of our already almost full backpacks helped us keeping it real. We still managed to get ourselves 10 pieces each.

We completely lost track of time and realised we were quite late on our schedule. We rushed back to Kasba Blanca to pack, Christoph somehow managed to close his baggage  and to leave in time for the airport.

I was left to my own devices.

I checked out from the hotel, walked six minutes away and checked in in the freshly opened Riad El Qurtubi, where I got myself a bed in dorm for about 15 euro. This place was insane, like stunning decoration and traditional furniture on three floors and none else but me. Which felt a bit freaky but that also meant that I could walk around naked as much as I wanted ahah. The fact that my dorm had 18 beds made it crystal clear that whoever was responsible of the planning had never backpacked in their entire life.

I went exploring and found myself on another dream of a rooftop where I laid in the sun for one hour and bored myself to death. I came to terms with the fact that I’m simply incapable of relaxing. But who said chilling equals not doing anything at all? My kind of chilling as I travel is taking my camera and started purposely getting lost, in order to soak in the true spirit of a place. I had only 24 hours left in Morocco and finally I felt like my shoulders were lighter: I definitely accomplished a lot in the previous two weeks and felt absolutely no need to overdo.

I wasn’t expecting Tangier to be much of a beauty. I built an image in my head of a decadent labyrinthine tangle of grey alleys in a frenetic harbour city where everyone comes and goes but no one stays. I guess I have to blame “Only lovers left alive” and the aimless roaming of the character played by Tilda Swinton for that.  After all I’m glad reality could prove me wrong because what I came across was a vibrant city filled with light and life. I enjoyed a nice coffee takeout and almond/honey/pistachio Moroccan sweets while chilling on the city walls overlooking Gibraltar. No surprise the European influences were so strong!

After witnessing the sun setting and realising I was sick and tired of strangers asking me where I was from as a pick up line for selling me something, I made my way to the best reviewed restaurant in town. Which sadly looked like a mortuary. As I was checking the menu of another restaurant I realised there was a man behind me. At first I thought that he also wanted to check the menu but few seconds later he admitted that he had been actually following me for some time because “he liked my style and he wanted to be friends”. Mmmh as much as I have a reputation for being quite naive I immediately had two case scenarios in my head: the first, extremely dramatic, he wanted to kidnap me, the second, supported by how attractive and well kept the guy looked, he was gay and was trying to hit on me. Well, thirty minutes and a long series of ambiguous pictures of him with his “friends” later, it was clear that it was the latter. Is this the only way gay men are allowed to flirt in Morocco? Pretending to be friends when they’re actually crushing hard? Talking about other topics as an excuse to engage in a conversation and be close? As much as I could tell he didn’t have bad intentions, the whole situation felt extremely uncomfortable, especially as he got more pushy. At that point I thanked him for the chat and told him I really wanted to be on my own.

I rushed to Chez Hassan Bab Kasbah, a restaurant that caught my eye on the previous night, trying not to make so obvious how often I was looking over my shoulder.

For the first time in Morocco I had to ask for a table instead of just taking a seat somewhere (had to be a good sign). Since the whole place was full, I joined a local couple having a romantic date. Thank god it wasn’t just me killing their lovebirds vibes since I was soon joined by a blonde girl, Marlena, who became my unexpected and super fun dinner date and helped me getting rid of the bittersweet taste I had in my mouth. The food was indeed amazing: shrimp pil pil tagine with salad and olives for only 100 mad/less than 10 euro.

Before heading back to my ghostly Riad, I fulfilled my wish to experience a haircut and beard shave at a Moroccan barber. I literally spent the whole afternoon trying to find the most local of all. The barbershop was owned by a man in his early forties with a very friendly expression and boosted a long queue of clients of every age, all taking part in the same conversation.

When my turn came I relied on body language to give him a rough idea of what I wanted. As far as the beard shave I gave him the green light. Forty minutes later I left with a super cool haircut and an even better beard trim in a style I’ve never worn before (later I found out it was named Van Dyke). And the price? Less than 6 euro. I gave him 10 and left with a big smile and happy to have met an exception to the long list of piss-takers I collected during this trip.

My last morning in Morocco saw me heading for breakfast in a locals’ favourite, completely out of the tourist radar: Hafa Cafe, made of several terraces on different layers all overlooking the coast. There, for five euros, I ordered a full on moroccan breakfast buffet (this term doesn’t exist, I just made it up) with everything that was on the menu: harcha, reghifa, baghrira, emlu, cheese, eggs with spices and olive oil, olives and bread, mint tea.

I headed back to the Medina where I got lost in a whole new part I always had missed on the previous day. I couldn’t make up my mind about whether I wanted to get myself some berber pillow cases and I made a few sellers mad when I said I had to think about it. Which showed me again how most people were nice to you only if they could potentially get some of your money. As soon as they saw this chance gone their attitude turned into the shittiest. There were a few exceptions, but unfortunately really not many.

I made it back to the riad, grabbed a taxi (20 euro but at that stage I couldn’t be bothered looking up for public transports) and made it to the airport under a midday sun.

EPILOGUE

During this trip I saw amazing places, drove along epic sceneries, breathed in a ridiculous amount of new fragrances, savoured rich new flavours and connected with locals and fellow backpackers.

Did I fall in love with it? No, I wouldn’t say so. I found Morocco’s traditions and soul absolutely charming and enigmatic, but on a human level something wasn’t quite in line with my view on things. Isn’t this the beauty of traveling though? having an open mind and letting the world inspire you, change some sides of you and ask yourself questions, but also knowing yourself enough to stay true to your core values and beliefs?

Canon EOS 300, Kodak Gold 200 (35)

Miranda Sensomat RE, Lomochrome Turquoise 100-400 (35)