Chefchaouen: Still questioning an azure, cerulean, cornflower, powder blue mystery.

Posted on by hiddenspacesblog

Roughly 3-4 hours north of Fès, further into the mountains, lies a magical town painted in multiple shades of blue. It is famous among tourists to Morocco. Everyone wants to visit the blue city. I have to admit that I am a failed visitor in the fact that I never asked why the buildings of this municipality tucked in the northern Atlas mountain range had been painted my favourite colour.

I do know that travelling to Chefchaouen was an adventurous, long-ish journey where you have to spend roughly four hours getting there in a mini-tour bus. Don’t get me wrong. The bus was comfortable and the driver very professional, with the patience of a saint. But the trek is long and you are very happy when you arrive. The driver is even kind enough to make a stop on the bluff overlooking the town before you move into its centre. At that stop, travellers from all parts of the world carefully cross the busy blacktop to stand in front of the nearby hill town. Interestingly, it looks a lot less blue from the bird’s eye perspective, so you wouldn’t really know it’s the destination you seek without the nearby road signs or the driver telling you that you are close to the end of your journey.

Arriving to Chefchaouen was a relief; well at least until we realised the quickest route to finding our riad (accommodation) was a journey through the people-packed, narrow streets of the old medina in the city centre. So along with Ree, who had to take a deep breath and tolerate a hangry Brenda, we plodded our way up the gradual slope. Fortunately, the blue tones on all walls along the way are calming. You just look in awe and think: who had this idea? Who does the paint touch ups? Are there restrictions on what shades of blue can be used? It immediately occurred to me that the monument protection institute in Prague would have a field day setting out rules on paint usage in this city.

Half-way up the hill, you finally make it out of the medina and you reach an open square. Much to my profound happiness. There, you have a view of the local kasbah (a former fortress and prison) with its colourful gardens and pretty views of the local terra cotta tile rooftops and the jagged hills (mountains) surrounding Chefchaouen. This was a moment of respite from the crowded medina paths but it meant the arrival of the salesmen. Stop for lunch? Would you like something to eat? Check out our shops. It was a lot to handle for someone like me who has come to love the standoffish-ness of most Czech storekeepers and sales clerks. I am a firm subscriber to the If I need something I will ask. take on shopping. Soon enough though – with the generosity of Google maps – we would find our way to our riad and the busy juice-maker (vendor) and his neighbour-carpet sellers who flanked the stairsteps nearby.

And the riad … what can I say? And where to begin? Wonderful staff and a room from a fairytale. Ree was kind enough to let me hide myself in the bed on the upper level, complete with a window nook where I could work, read and inspect the hullabaloo that seemed to be a constant on the stairs and sidewalk below.

There didn’t seem to be a strict tourist agenda for persons visiting Chefchaouen. You were in the blue city, so you enjoyed the blueness. The cute little paths and the many locals who were there to sell, sell, sell. You can watch the vagabond cats scurry from house to house or run the cobblestone sidewalks looking for food and treats. To make my hangriness subside, we agreed to find an internet-recommended restaurant where we could grab a proper lunch and catch our breath after days of being on the move. I’m not sure now what I even ate. I want to stay I started with something puff-pastry adjacent that reminded me of Greek spanakopita. And for the main – a tagine or some sort? Who knows. I mainly remember being enthralled by the mountain views around us. These rocky crags that had to be fairly tall – I was so curious about them I turned on my Mapy.cz app to get confirmation that some were indeed over 2000 metres tall. And then I realised that one should do their homework before travelling: had I know of the nearby mountains and their well-marked hiking paths, I would have booked a longer stay. The reality is that if you hike to the tops of the mountains, a view of the Mediterranean awaits you on the other side. In fact, you are perhaps only 50 km from the seashore. Oh well, there’s always next time.

I don’t know what else to say about Chefchaouen. It was a special, almost surreal place with wonderful people full of kindness and hospitality. You just kind of want to think carefully about the mini-interviews that local vendors conduct. Beyond that, I would love to go back and hike the mountains to the sea. I feel like that needs to happen. Until then.

Craziness and confusion in Casablanca

Posted on by hiddenspacesblog

Over the year-end holidays I made my first trip to Morocco. I honestly had no idea what to expect; I just knew that I had wanted to visit the country for a long time. So we got on the plane from Lisbon and began what would be a fun, unpredictable and tiring adventure. Tiring in a good way though.

Moroccans are very hospitable. You might not initially expect that based on the line at the passport checks in the Casablanca airport. Which took forever, and forever, and forever. As my friend Ree and I waited there to be somehow  let in the country, my hangriness levels started to peak. I don’t really remember now what Ree fed me to keep me from going off the deep end, but it worked. For that matter, I also don’t know what happened to the Asian lady in front of me at the passport check. After she was questioned for 10 minutes, they took her somewhere. I didn’t see her come back.

But we eventually got through and into baggage claim, grabbed our bags, and set off to look for the train station. We quickly found it but had no idea when the train would leave. Turned out it was RIGHT THEN and THERE. So I went into party planner mode and saw Moroccan hospitality and guest care burst into action. I ordered two tickets using my rusty French, told Ree how much we needed to pay … then we ran. We ran because the train was leaving that minute but the ticket vendor called the platform and told them to hold departure for us and they did. Within two minutes we were riding through desert plains to Casa Oasis or Casa Port. Just someplace.

With a little time to relax in the train, we joked about what we had just gone through. And we were really impressed and grateful for the support from our help at the Moroccan ONCF/SNCF. Then came the arrival at the train station and our first stab at finding a Moroccan cab driver, of which there are plenty. I tried to weed through the many “helpful” people who wanted to take us “someplace” and looked for drivers at an official cab stand. That turned out not to work so well but we found a nice enough elderly driver, paid roughly 20 dirham too much to get to the hotel, and then embarked on an interesting ride. My favourite part of that journey was when I turned on Google maps to get the precise hotel location and the driver said “Wow, that GPS tracking is very useful.” I just nodded in tired agreement.

Our hotel location was decent. Lots of boutiques and shops along the busy boulevards, which led me to my first impressions of Casablanca. It is a BIG city for Morocco and feels much more USA metropolitan than Berber, north African desert chic. We bookended our stay in Morocco with a few nights in Casablanca. After our return trip to the city (and a train ride with an interesting Dutch family from whom we got ex post travel advice and discovered what all we had missed out on), we were glad to get back to our favourite hotel and relax. Once again we overpaid for the ride from the train station Casa Oasis to our hotel, but given that other costs for food, public transport, etc. were generally reasonably priced (even cheap by European standards), we just tolerated the random cab fares when necessary.

We spent the next day trying to discover Casablanca’s city centre as much as possible. As said, the town is very urban with lots of high-rises and skyscrapers with some bits of traditional architecture woven in here and there. The promenade along the coastline by the main mosque is enjoyable. Waves bustling in from the Atlantic and the misty, foggy beauty of that that semi-shrouded place of worship in morning hours gave it a special air of mystery. Walking along the coastline you could watch local young men on their sports bikes doing tricks, while their elders sat along the beachfront and promenade railing casting their fishing lines in hopes of being rewarded with some sort of nice catch for the day. We rounded out our walks with some visits to cafés and restaurants here and there; enjoying the comfort of the delicious Moroccan mint tea and the gracious kindness of our servers in various types of restaurants – Italian, Moroccan and some sort of fusion. We ate well.

Casablanca remains a sort of mystery to me. It’s a bit too modern and doesn’t have that local feel of the country’s interior,  nor is there that visible switch to a different history and culture I was hoping for. I would be happy to visit again though just to learn more about the city (after doing some online research). Plus, we were told a venture up the coast to Rabat is worthwhile. So, hang on, Casablanca. I’m not quite done with you yet.