Day 2 – Chefchaouen

Managed about 8 hours sleep which felt good — felt good to be able to lie completely horizontal. Woke briefly by the call to prayer, then dozed on and off to the sound of all the roosters in the neighbourhood doing their thing. Vowed to eat more chicken as a result of one particularly vocal local dude. Threw open the windows at first light, letting in the wsonderful view and some beautifully brisk fresh air (though L may have found this to be a bit beyond brisk). The view over the town was worth climbing the hills and the steep steps for, all of the brightly coloured box houses nestled in the shadows of some magnificent hills.

Breakfast was doughnuts, bread, crepes, served with beautiful butter (possibly sheep’s milk) and apricot jam. I was a bit surprised when I asked for tea and got a cup of hot water with a lipton bag hanging out — my second lesson in Moroccan tea drinking is that tea means tea and mint tea means mint tea. It’s a good thing I’m here to make all these incorrect assumptions so y’all at home reading this don’t have to. if you want mint tea, that wonderful fresh, sweet, reviving beverage, then ask for mint tea. With sugar.

Breakfast also came with some lovely freshly squeezed orange juice, something I could get used to. The oranges here at the moment seem quite sweet and juicy, not very tart but quite refreshing.

We walked of breakfast with a stroll through the medina (for those playing along at home, I’m pretty sure medina isn’t a literal translation for maze, but probably only because they didn’t think of it at the time they were translating). The medina is an amazing, twisting plethora of narrow pathways, occasionally opening up into wider, with the added third dimension of the steep hills it has been built into. Think of Escher, only have him on the drugs Dali was doing to take out the geometric precision.

Speaking of drugs, if I was John Birmingham, I’d be able to wax lyrical about Chefchaouen’s place in the famed Rif mountains, Morocco’s golden triangle. I’d have something very witty to say about all of the blatantly shady characters offering to sell me marijuana on every other corner. And I mean that, just about every other corner, makes wearing black and strolling down Smith St in Melbourne look like a the wholesome goodness of Disneyland. Not being JB, I’ll settle for renaming the town Choofchaouen, and locate it among the Reefer mountains (if I was feeling etymological I’d investigate if reefer was somehow derived from Rif, but I’ll let someone playing along at home do that work for me instead). Having read varrious travel websites warning of the hazards (while there may well be some locals happy to pass the duchie on the left hand side, others tell of elaborate cons involving shopping buyers off to local undercover policeso they may be cut some slack, or foisting off 700 dirham bags of grass clippings off onto the unwary stoner, and other uncool behaviours) I was more than happy to offer a polite “non merci” to the offers. Much as I’m generally happy to sample all kinds of local produce, there’s nothing tempting about being caught up in some sort of international one-upmanship between Morocco and Bali, so I’ll stick to the mint tea and tagines.

Where was I? Lost in the Medina. As the crow flies, the medina isn’t very large. We haven’t seen any crows as yet, but they be lucky bastards when it comes to navigating. One of the joys of the medina is being able to go from one side to the other without ever going the same way twice. Even whopping big structures like kasbahs and mosques don’t serve as particularly good landmarks. We’d been told of a pretty waterfall where locals gather, and on the map it looked like a hike so we thought we’d give it a miss. The  medina had thoughts of its own, so we found it, and spent a relaxing break from walking listening to the gentle tones of running water while watching cats play.

Finding ourselves back at the main square and kasbah, we spent the rest of the morning sipping on mint tea, that magical beverage that banishes headaches for as long as you’re drinking it, watching folks wander by, playing spot thee tourist. Liz had a great theory that the locals weren’t wearing sunglasses, and while this held true for the most, was spectacularly contradicted by the 150 year old RayBan wearing three-stringed violin player who decided to serenade us during lunch. I pondered asking if he played Smells Like Teen Spirit but passed on the chance. He left us to serenade a table of four local ladies and had a rolicking good time getting them to sing along.

Lunch was a kefta tagine, yummy meatballs avec ouef in a napalm bubbly broth. I’m always a fan of having a cast iron pot of fiercely spitting liquiid placed in front of me, and this was no exception.Tres bien yummy goodness, and it wasn’t just me who thought so. L got a great photo of the grey kitten who very generously offered to help me eat it if I couldn’t eat it all myself. Sure, it’s a rookie animal mistake but even the dog at home forgets sometimes. No help was needed in cleaning the bowl.

We had a very relaxing afternoon snooze before heading back out to Casa Hassan for dinner. Opted for the Moroccan soup, which in this case was a yummmy lamb and vegetable broth with lots of cumin, sumak and chick peas. Followed this with a chicken and lemon tagine, again served in steaming napalm and with a generous serve of giblets on top. All very tasty, lovely chickken and I was again reminded of how mindblowing preserved lemon can be.  Again, any animals hoping for scraps went hungry. Dessert was creme caramel, and one of the best I’ve ever had. Light  with a beautiful toffee sauce, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was made with sheep’s milk.