Morocco: from 12 to 1

The again vastly delayed blogposts are mostly connected to a slight writers block on the previous post, enhanced by the busy, engulfing travelling life I’ve been living in this new country, which is also continuin back in Spain.

As can be seen on the map on top of this blog, I made a round trip of Morocco during 50 days. I went in the direction of a clock, that's why I decided to give them the titles on how I imagine I moved along the fictional dial. The first post will be about the three cities of Tanger, Tetouan and Chefchaoun to only the northenmost part of this kingdom.

Arriving with the bicycle through
 the narrow streets of the Medina

Morocco had always been the ultimate objective of my journey, although I wasn’t sure at the start if I would have been able to reach it. As told in the previous blogpost, suddenly arriving literally in front of this African country, I was confronted with many fears and insecurities. I wasn’t so sure if I really wanted to cross the sea, if this visible, but so very different world would be a fit for me, or rather, if I would well fit into it.. Also complicated by technical obstacles like exchanging currency and need for acquiring a local sim card, I was quite nervous when arriving in Morocco on the 12th of March. The custom officers only seemed to care about travellers carrying drones, so I swiftly cycled into Tanger. I was immediately comforted by the many men on the streets, who smiled or greeted me, while I was cycling by. With a sim card from Maroc Telecom and a wallet full of strange banknotes I went to the hostel I had booked, called Bayt Alice. The low price of the hostel, 12€ per night and my idea that this time I truly wanted to get to know the city (unlike Sevilla), I had booked several nights. That stay was one of the nicest I had in my life, without doubt. There was something about the owner, Nadi, that was so comforting and reassuring, who spoke perfect French and we laughed a bit about the cancelled ferries due to the bad weather. For the rest, the hostel was a beautiful Riad, a traditional Moroccan house with a central courtyard (in this case closed off). It was located in the medina, the old city of Tanger, made out of small, curvy, labyrinth-like alleys. A splendid terrace with a view on the bay and Spain in the distance was fabulous in beautiful weather, but for the most time of my stay, many rainclouds chased by and I was sometimes obliged to take shelter in the small kitchen on the rooftop.  For me the hostel experience was also something new, in a way, after months of mostly warmshowering or bivouacking. Suddenly I found myself surrounded by young people, easy to talk to and eager to venture out together. By that time however my possible unease about my first “African” city had already been relieved. My brother Marius, who had travelled the north of Morocco a month before, had put me into contact with a friend he had made.

Enjoying the first Moroccan tea with Angelo, with an enchanting view on the Tanger bay

After installing myself in the hostel, I ventured out to meet him. He turned out to be a middle aged man called Angelo, an Italian. Delighted we conversed in Dante’s language and he graciously showed me around the city. The way he talked about his life here, about diverse affairs going in Morocco generated a sense of home, of recognition, of familiarity with this new city and I felt more at home and more confident. It was with this newly gained confidence that I got acquainted with the first set of other travellers in the Bayt Alice hostel and I told them about my plans to go break fast in a specific restaurant where Angelo was going as well. I got on especially well with Salomé, coming from the Netherlands. I also wrote “break fast”, because this year the Ramadan, one of the most important religious periods for Islam, happened to last for the whole month of March. Especially compared to the period after it was over, the country had a special vibe over it. The people seemed to be living on the same strict rhythm. During prayer time on different moments of the day everyone rushed (the men mostly) to the mosque. You could see how everyone at the end of the day was tired, hungry and thirsty because of the fasting. When it was time for breakfast (around 18:30), called Iftar, everyone disappeared for it, and suddenly for about an half hour streets, shops, markets, were completely deserted. During the Ramadan I few times joined for the breakfast, and the traditional harira soup, dates and bread were delicious to me. 

But when on my first day I took some newly made friends to the place Angelo was going to, not everyone was wild about these simple dishes. Salomé, who already had travelled to Morocco a few times, being an enthusiast about the country, was quite into the Ramadan. She convinced me to participate in the fasting and we woke up at 4 o’clock in the morning for the Shur (meal before the start of fasting). To my surprise, it wasn’t that good of an idea. Probably more mental than really physical, I felt weak and did not do much, besides sitting behind my computer; and thus it was not the best day. But it inspired huge respect for all Muslims who still go about their days on an empty stomach. I still tried to honour the Iftar moment and not go to any restaurant before that, but I did take breakfasts and lunches. During my stay I took some walks around the Medina, but also enjoyed my time in the hostel, with the quirky old furniture and the beautiful terrace, even though the weather was not clement  at all.

By that time Elorri and Valentine, who had been travelling from Sevilla through the same bad weather, but left one day later, arrived in Tanger and we met up again. I did not expect that everything was as cordial as always, even though Valentine and I had agreed that what happened in Sevilla was really ok. But after talking about our respective travels over a late night Moroccan tea in one of the iconic Tanger bars, Valentine and I took a walk around the romantic medina where we continued the newly found amorous contact. We expressed more clearly the liking we had taken to each other and we stood kissing for many hours below the old city walls, indulging in many tender thoughts. We didn’t talk much about what it all meant, about the future, about our unavoidable separate travels. I brought her back to the hotel and after a much too short of a night I spend the last day in Tanger relaxing and visiting the old American embassy. I learned that after the American Revolution in 1776, the Moroccan Sultan was one of the first to recognise the country, which created historically excellent relations between the countries. That evening Salomé, the two French cycling colleagues and I found each other again in one of the most renowned hash bars of Tanger, café Baba. A pictures of the Rolling Stones sitting inside the very same room hung up on its dingy walls and through thick smoke of different substances the place did feel quite raw and alive. We had tried before to find a place to dance, but the few that were not expensive and exclusive clubs were closed because of the Ramadan. In the peculiar atmosphere of Baba, we again had a great time though and when it was time to go home, I had a similar night with Valentine, passionate, but again with few talking about what this actually should be. I was concerned about how Elorri would feel about this, maybe left out or like a third wheel. Valentine told me that she was fine with it, but I still felt like coming in between these two’s travel, which was one of the reasons that hindered me from really allowing myself to feel more. We knew we all were going to Chefchaouen, so when, very late and still heated from feeling her so close I brought her back to her hotel we knew its wasn’t time for goodbyes. At the same time I knew that this whole thing didn’t do enough, no yearning, no tormented thoughts. Being sure of future meetings, I took an attitude of wait-and-see.

Obligatory shortcut over questionable roads

The next day I cycled the rather short distance to Tétouan, my first encounter with the Moroccan countryside. After leaving the busy, dirty and modern city of Tanger behind, I suddenly found myself in a rather barren nature, green “fields”, with curious bushes and plants, dotted with rather impoverished villages. Houses were sometimes half-built, with bare concrete bricks, iron rods for future cement pillars sticking out of rooftops. Glimpses inside (sometimes no windows) showed rooms with very few, simple rudimentary furniture. The sides of the streets were often littered with all sorts of waste, to me a depressing sight. At the same time I was surprised by the many people outside and especially the amount of children. Since I left that morning, I had been greeting everyone I made eye contact with. Many people were staring so the best thing I found to do was greeting them. Every time it meant that big smiles were exchanged and aware of this difference with travel in Europe (where most of the people either don’t look at you or look away after eye contact) I was in excellent spirits. I stumbled after a turn of the winding road in the hills onto a group of men, bleeding and skinning animals in a small forest and they laughed at my probably shocked face. I don’t think a first day of venturing into Morocco could have been a more stereotypical “culture shock”. Of course many things were similar by the way, as it is not my goal to only write about how different it all was. The roads were good asphalt roads, villages calm villages and the leaves green. The big roads were full of trucks and taxis and on the sides people went about their days. Industrial zones were closed off with fences. Many things were the same as always. 

That way I swiftly arrived in Tetouan, not counting the obligatory decision of mine to cut off a piece of the route, which found me pushing my bike up a steep hill over a small path and then descending over a muddy road, which left my bike completely covered with sludge. I had found a cheap hostel where I would stay two nights, that was not at all like the comfy riad in Tanger, but more like an attempt of the owner to host as many people in a barren apartment floor as cheaply as possible. But the guy at the reception was quite friendly and even invited me for the Iftar. My bike, just like in Tanger, could be stored inside in a room that was under construction. By that time, mostly under the influence of Salomé, I really got the idea of trying to respect the fasting of Ramadan. Although I had eaten before leavening around 11:00, I had refrained from another meal until then. During those days, a kind of stress had gotten unto me, of wanting to fast and respect the people around me, but not being able to do so (as hunger and travelling were too impactful). After the long meal, where I talked with the young man from the reception and his cousin about their studies and lives, I kind of crashed. Probably the lack of sleep from the last days, and the feeling of being alone again played an important role. I went to bed early that evening and stayed there until the next days afternoon, mostly spending time on my laptop and finding it impossible to get up. This pattern, where I was kind of crashing if reaching a new destination with wifi and a place to stay, would show up again and again in the coming weeks. By now, I’ve kind of accepted that it is my way of dealing with both the energy-consuming aspect of travelling and any mentally lower periods. That afternoon I kicked myself out of the bed and went to discover the old Medina. It was very vivid, full of people and stuffs. Impressive was the huge jewish and muslim cemetery extending on the northern hillside, the many artisan (like carpenters), the butchers with half cut down animals (like cow heads) hanging on hooks, the old tanneries with the many oval-shaped baths for the leather treatment and the wooden roofs put on the narrow Medina streets to provide shade. There I found an amazing small bookstore, shabby and filled from head to toe with books. Especially the collection of Quran’s was impressive. They send me to a spice and oil shop (where I got a short shoulder massage with argan oil), who then send me to a special Riff artisan shop and so forth, although it was always a bit tricky to make clear that I wasn’t going to buy any of the products. Finally I returned to the hostel for Iftar once I had bought enough food for the next morning and a good dose of special, fried biscuits oozing with honey that are only prepared during Ramadan. I was still tired, both from the busy afternoon, and from the lack of eating. In hindsight this was really me adapting to a new culture, a new country with its set of rules; Tanger still was quite European. 

Leaving Tetouan, it's still sunny out...

The next day I left, heading for Chefchaouen. I made a dose of oatmeal porridge, and one of my roommates, who had been smoking a lot hash the evening before and had some kind of cannabis-induced hangover, asked if he could join in and I gladly made him a portion too. After that I left, picked up some spare parts in the only bike shop in town. I had stayed in contact with Elorri and Valentine who were already in Chefchaouen and they had some bicycle problems, that had not been been resolved in Tanger. I offered to give it a try and replace what was needed. The parts were half the European price, which made me very happy and I bought an extra chain for myself. I left on the main road to the blue city, under a sunny sky, with the impressive Rif mountains on my left. Soon dark clouds gathered in the valley and I endured a few showers. All in all it was a beautiful ride (especially knowing I was going to sleep in another hostel there), and I stopped halfway in a little town to buy some lunch, the delicious moroccan pancake called Msemmen, that I ate bashfully hidden from the road leaving the village. After a last steep climb towards Chefchaouen, it suddenly appeared in all its beauty on the valley flank. Without a doubt it is the most pittoresque/touristy place of the whole Rif region, but for a good reason. It used to be a holy city closed for non-muslims for a long time. The medina is made of all shades and kinds of blue, built up against the steep Rif Mountains. The hostel this time was very nice again, with a beautiful terrace view on the mountains.

Best view on Chefchaouen that I was able to capture

The Rif is, for those who don’t know, one of the biggest producing area’s of cannabis in the world, with hash as it’s main produce. Chefchaouen, being so close to this region, is considered as the hash capital of Morocco, where the best quality hash can be found for the best prices. The hostel and some of the guests were quite obviously focused on this speciality of the city, some had been living there for months.

I immediately started conversations with some of them and other people and after Iftar and a meal in a restaurant, I found Salomé, Valentine and Elorri again and we had a few tea’s in some cosy cafe. They were sleeping in different Riads, the French girls even in a house on the hills opposite of Chefchaouen and with an imposed curfew it meant that they had to return rather early. In the evening The next day I went to see them and did some maintenance on their bikes, also exploring the beautiful city on my way. It was clear from their plans that they weren’t going to cycle that much anymore, so I swapped out the cassette only on one bike. I also took time to clean my chain. They were leaving the next day to Rabat to cycle all the way to Essaouira along the coastline. I had a strong feeling that I wasn’t going to see them anymore, at least during this travel. While I was there, I quickly kissed Valentine, but it was a kiss without any passion, as if it was just something mandatory. The idea that we were not going meet again, made us both a bit distant. It was a slightly painful moment, to address this, but we were both very understanding and we brought whatever romantic liaison that existed between us to an end. I was not sad, rather relieved that nobody’s feelings got hurt in any way. I also felt truly grateful for the time we had. 

We wished each other all the best and I returned to the city and had a great time exploring the Medina, looking for a certain famous leather craftsman, that I ended up finding by accidentally sheltering for rain in his brother-in-laws souvenir shop (but he was too busy to make anything for me). That evening, I went to the Hammam with two guys from the hostel. We looked for one that the locals went to and had a great experience, getting massaged with the rough washcloth and brown soap that is mandatory there. With these friends (going together to Hammam instantly cements relationships like that), I spent my last hours talking on the hostel terrace and then the next day I packed everything and left.

The steep Rif mountains as seen from the hostel terrace