Chefchaouen
Morocco
Morocco
Dear o,
I was just falling asleep when a bright
light shone in my face. I called for Al
to turn it away but heard only mumbling, and the light still flashed back and
forth. I opened my eyes: it was coming
from outside. Al was still beside me, feigning asleep. There were voices, two
flashlights peering inside and around Archer. A knock on my window. Two men there, then three, and then four,
trying to get a look. I rubbed my eyes
and stretched and acted bothered by the interruption of my sleep.
“Oui?” I asked. I rolled down the window a little. It was midnight.
“C’est problème ici," one said. "C’est problème pour vous garer ici.” All four were trying to jam their heads inside, and in the dark I
couldn’t see their faces: hostile, friendly, shocked, bored?
“C’est problème?” I asked. “Pardon, nous dormons ici pour vingt ou
trente minutes. Nous sommes fatiguès.” I
lied. We planned to stay the night,
albeit in the arched-back front seats, there on a little clearing between a
cactus farm wall and a dirt road. The
four men, more like boys, were likely heading home from work.
“Non, vous devons depart. C’est problème ici.”
“D’accord, d’accord, nous allons
maintenant.” I closed my window but two
of them didn’t move, while the others continued inspecting Archer. They weren’t finished with us.
We crossed the Strait of Gibraltar yesterday
afternoon through some hazy / polluted skies, leaving Al’s mom in Algeciras,
waving and shouting goodbye from the side of the road as if cheering us on in a
road race. We bought a carton of Camel
cigarettes in the shop – for bribes at borders, if our charm or derision
doesn’t turn out as well as we hope – and as we passed it tried to perceive, in
vain, how the Rock of Gibraltar is a slice out of England under the sun.
Our passports were stamped at the reception
desk onboard the ship – no queues, just put your elbows down – and then we
drove to queue up for the vehicle import and inspection area. We realised this wasn’t really a queue
either, but just a little place to park while trying to flag down an official –
but not until we had waited politely and, to everyone else, stupidly, for a
good while.
We eventually found a jolly man in a blue
uniform, who laughed and joked and scribbled on our green form, and then sent
us for a ten-minute walk to the police office outside the tall white fence
because this was the first time Al’s passport had been used. At the front entrance of the administration building
– the Gare Maritime, which more closely resembled a shopping mall – were big
and flashy metal detectors, unsued – maybe never used. And up the stairs to the police office: an
even more sophisticated code-entry pad, handprint-scanner and electronic gate. We looked for signs, other doors, found and
pressed an intercom button which gave no answer. A man came by with a wide, knowing smile, and
indicated we just slide through the space between the machine and the
wall. We did, found a polished,
non-uniformed policeman who made fun of our French and talked sports (football
and Muay Thai) while typing Al’s passport into the system. We were clear, and on the way out joined two
others who casually slid with us between the freshly painted wall and the fancy
security machine.
The jolly customs official asked us to open
the back and we dreaded having to untie and open all of our stuff, as was
happening to another car two spaces down.
He asked to see the inside of Al’s scuba gear bag, asked what it was, spoke/joked
about diving, made fun of Al’s bare feet, and sent us on our way.
Are you catching my attempt at the letter’s
theme? It has something to do with when
to give a shit.
Driving into Tanger for a quick bite and
some long-dreamt-of thé à la menthe was a quick learning curve.
Roundabouts? Do whatever you
want, just don’t pause. Lanes? Make your own, just don’t pause. Road signs?
No, we don’t do road signs. For
bearings we used the sun (which was luckily setting), a canal we hoped would
lead to the ocean (it did), and a compass (which pointed more towards the
engine than north). Honestly, how do
they do it?
When we got on the road back out of Tanger
we elected to come here, to Chefchaouen because its on the way to Fez and a
guidebook says it is “the prettiest town in Morocco”. We pulled onto the dirt road when we figured
we were close to the mountain ranges, which we would tackle during the
day. The spot wasn’t perfect, but it
seemed safe and silent.
Another knock on the window. I opened it a little.
“Pas probleme, pas probleme, vous dormez ici, et aprés, allez-vous, ok?”
“Ok, merci,” I said. “Bonsoirée, monsieur.”
“Da rien,” the leader said, and then they
all shouted almost in unison: “Salut!
Bon nuit!” Suddenly they were
cheerful, happy to help, and didn’t give a damn.
So we slept there until the copper dawn and
came here. I don’t know if this is the
prettiest town in Morocco, but it’s certainly beautiful: built on a
mountain-side with a wall around the old town and with a terrific vantage over
the green valley. The sun just rose
above the cliffs ahead and the thé à la menthe is served.
If you took away from Morocco the scenery,
the colourful, nestling towns, and the laid-back, inherently social attitude,
I’d still visit for the thé à la menthe. In fact, I’ll probably write a letter to you
one day solely on the merits and texture and taste of good Moroccan mint
tea. But think of what I’d miss: least
of all, the chance to learn when to care, when not to care, and how a little
chat in between can make the whole difference.
For a time-obsessed, end-oriented stresshead like me, that’d be a boon. On the other hand, maybe that too is in the
tea?
Yours,
QM
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| Mosque and mountains, Chefchaouen |
