Morocco

Of the 55 internationally recognized countries on the continent of Africa, we chose to visit Morocco.  Why did we do this?  First, because it was only a one-hour ferry ride from Tarifa, in Spain, to Tangier, in Morocco:  17.37 nautical miles. Second, because we had heard of a magical town from Aladín, the barber in the Albayzin who cuts J.’s hair, and who is from Morocco. He recommended we avoid his hometown of Casablanca and instead visit Chefchaouen, located in the Rif Mountains.  And third, because throughout our stay in Granada we had been eating at La Mancha Chica Chaoen on Camino Nuevo de San Nicolás and the Moroccan owner had posters of Chefchaouen on the blue-painted walls of his cafe.  He said his mother still lived there, and he recommended we try Restaurant Granada during our visit.  All these reasons compelled us to go.

A driver met us at the port in Tangier.  We rode for two hours along narrow well-paved roads, past fields and farms, animals and rebar to the edge of the medina in the center of Chefchaouen {“Look to the Horns” in English, due to two hornish-shaped mountains that nestle against the outskirts of town}.  We wandered through squiggly alleys until we found our habitation, Riad Rifandalus, where pictures of the Alhambra adorned the walls.  

As we learned before our journey, and as confirmed by the owner of Riad Rifandalus, Chefchaouen had long been home to both Muslims and Jews, expelled from Granada centuries before.  The town is famous for its blue-washed walls.  One theory submits that the painted walls date back to the arrival of yehudim in the 1490s, who used the color blue to remind them of יחוח, who presumably resides – even to this day – in the blue empyrean above.

D. had located a trekking company in Chefchaouen, so the next day we rode an hour through the Rif mountains with a driver and our guide, Lotfi, to hike a couple of trails in Talassemtane National Park.  We first trekked upstream to a secluded watering hole.  Lotfi was a knowledgable guide who spoke Arabic, Berber, French, Spanish, English and German.  He possessed a discrete sense of timing, absenting himself when it was time for us to change our clothes or eat a meal.  He kept J. from floating down the river.   

After descending from the waterfall walk, we were eager to continue hiking to Pont de Dieu, a favored rock formation along a semi-treacherous route.  Although Lotfi had never taken on kids as young as ours, J. & A. had proved their mettle.  We persisted!    As we made our way up river, we began to pass seasonal cafes:  wood fires, charcoal-blackened tea kettles, and tables for four.  If you place your tagine order on the way up, your meal will be ready by the time you come back down.  We opted for glasses of steaming, hot mint tea, sweetened with enough sugar to induce hyperglycemia after a single sip.

Aladín and the owner of La Mancha Chica Chouen in the Albayzin deserve credit for directing us to the town of Chefchaouen.  The people were friendly and polyglot; the food was delicious — tasty tagines, warm breads, fresh cheeses and olives and jam.  Along a pathway in the medina, Abdoul spent over forty minutes earnestly trying to sell us a rug.  We heard the calls to prayer throughout the day, starting very early in the morning with the Fajr, then the Zuhr at midday, the Asr in the afternoon, the Maghrib at sunset and the Isha at night.  We climbed the hill to the Spanish mosque that looked surprisingly like a Spanish church from afar, we wandered the lanes of the medina, and then we left.  Muy túristico y muy divertido, or, for our Arabic speaking friends جدا توريستي وممتعة جدا.


After Chefchaouen, our plan was to hire another car to take us to Asilah, a seaside town about 45 kilometers south of Tangier.  We were hoping to get a different driver from the one who drove us to Chefchaouen, a nice enough man, but one with a predilection for heavy metal and shouting nonstop into his mobile.  

 Three hours later, as we entered Asilah, the driver turned off the pelting sounds from the radio, ended his cell phone call and deposited us at our small, fancy hotel, a couple of blocks from the beach.  We were visiting during the off season.  Wide streets leading to the medina were almost empty, but the seaside promenade featured cotton candy, men selling bags of roasted peanuts, and tables set up where you could buy cones of shrimp or snails (to eat).

 We wandered around from the new part of the city to the ramparts.  M. got annoyed at a group of older boys who were kicking a soccer ball in the vicinity of our personal space.   We passed the souk, shops, mosques, and restaurants.  We were trying to find a way up to the ramparts; the sun was beginning to set and lots of people were out and about.  We ran into the boys again and through hand gestures and broken Spanish we all apologized.  

Like almost all tourists who travel to Asilah, we learned of Paradise Beach, accessible by foot, taxi or horse and cart.  The next day we chose taxi, which let us off a good kilometer from the beach due to the almost non-existent road it traveled upon which eventually petered out to nothing.  Goats, emptiness, a few men sitting around willing to grill up shrimp or kalamari — that was it for the day, hence the name of the beach:  Paradise.

Months later, back in Granada, we learned of an ancient Jewish cemetery near Paradise Beach.  Surrounded by three walls, facing the sea, studded with grave stones, it was a place we passed without knowing.  In it are reminders of the once-extensive Jewish community of Morocco.  If you visit Asilah, please head south of town, somewhere around 35°46’46″N and 6°03’09″W and let us know what you discover.

We missed this.

 

Our travels ended with a sit-down meal at an outdoor table, 297 kilometers from Casablanca, or 30.48 centimeters, depending on your definition.

The next day, we took a ferry from Tangier back to Tarifa.  It felt like coming home.

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