ALgeciras, Spain, to Chefchaouen, Morocco, Monday December 29th

It was still raining and puddles like lakes had formed on the roadsides. Dressed in our full rain gear, we walked down to the port, taking detours to walk across the road rather than swim. After a false start at the fast boat office, we bought tickets for the slow boat to Tangier. That, in theory, was crazy since we could have taken a fast boat to Ceuta, which was closer to Chefchaouen, but the reason we did it was to be sure that the boat would go in this weather and because it was a simpler procedure at the other end. With few people travelling, the passport check was rigorous and we were asked many questions about where we had arrived from Australia, where we had been over the year and where we would finally depart from. The policeman asked us when we had been in Russia and pointed to some stamps in our passports. We said that we hadn’t been in Russia and then we couldn’t remember exactly where we had been on those dates to account for the stamps. They were actually for the Charles de Gaulle Airport exit and return when we went to Tanzania. For a moment I thought that our Shengen worries were coming home to roost but that was not an issue. Once we said that we would not be coming back to Spain, he was less concerned and waved us through. We only saw seven other passengers on the massive ferry that took us across and many, many more unoccupied staff.
The trip was uninteresting, with rain on the windows, grey sea and sky and a few other vessels providing the only light relief.
As we left the building at the Port of Tangier, a taxi driver attached himself to us. Keith said that we would be taking the bus, to which the driver replied that there was no bus office near the port and that he would drive us to the bus station four kilometres away. He followed us, and when, after changing some money, Keith asked another taxi driver about the bus station situation, he was livid. He made sarcastic comments like ‘Of course a taxi costs a million dollars’, and asked me what language we spoke in Australia. When I said English, he asked why I was speaking French, seeming to accuse me of being devious linguistically. It was a strange ploy because who would then want to go with him in his taxi? We walked off and found a bus station at the gates to the port, as shown on our map. The straight through bus to Chefchaouen had just left so, with instructions to the other bus station, we set off walking. Even with our packs it took only about twenty minutes and it gave us a chance to see a little of Tangier. That part could have been in any large European city with heavy traffic, however the second bus station was quite reminiscent of those in Turkey. Scouts checked where we wanted to go and scooped us up and over to their bus offices. There was a system of private bus companies with many serving the same routes. We bought our tickets and a large block of chocolate for lunch and we were set.
In Morocco you pay to have your luggage put under the bus, something that everyone did for themselves in Europe for free (except in the Balkans). We knew to get on the bus early since there were no seat allocations that we could read. It meant that we could observe the pre-departure entertainments of vendors coming onto the bus looking for sales from a captive audience. One handed out a little booklet to everyone except us, gave a sermon and then collected money or the religious tract. The man beside us kept the tract and read it in whispers for a lot of the journey. Others simply handed it back. Next was a man who spoke at length about the virtues of a small packet of orange ‘lollies’ which he produced from a black leather bag. Some of the vocabulary and many of the gestures indicated that these were cure-alls and that this was a snake oil salesman. A lady beside him gratefully purchased a bag. Further down the bus he hit a snag because a woman challenged him and they had a long argument that amused the other passengers. Our interpretation of what happened was that she must have said that she tried some once and they did nothing. He argued that she was at fault in how she took them, or that her problem was too big and she needed a doctor. He was speaking Arabic but he used some Spanish words and we definitely heard ‘doctor’ several times. The bus took off and they were still arguing, and it was only as we swung out of bus station that he raced to the front, addressed us all again, and leapt off. It was something that bonded all the passengers except the serious man beside me, since we were included in all the smiles and nods that flowed around the bus as the argument grew more heated.
The countryside near Tangier was not so interesting, but we soon came to rural areas with animals and the foothills of the mountains where the scenery was spectacular. We drove through rugged mountains with steep ravines and rivers gushing down to spread out in valleys. People watched sheep or goats in isolated areas, and horses and donkeys grazed near houses. The villages we stopped at were small and we saw stalls for pottery and vegetables set up on the ground, and a gravel works right beside the road. The bus was transporting large sacks of something lumpy and angular which had been loaded on at the side of the road earlier. One such sack was off loaded at the gravel works to no-one in particular and we knew that we were back in lands where we do not know the customs or usual practice. That is always an exciting feeling for me. We changed buses, something we did not know that we would do, but our fellow passengers and the conductor looked after us and made sure that we and our luggage were all aboard for the connecting trip.
The road to Chefchaouen approaches in such a way that the city is hidden until you are very close, and then it is a surprise to see it clinging to the side of the hill. We stopped above a drop down into a field where a woman and her children were sitting watching goats graze on what looked to be a bit of a tip. They didn’t react to the scenes of arriving passengers above and so I felt as if I was looking at an interesting photo, gazing down at them.
We walked up the steep road to the town proper and then along some roads wide enough for cars. We couldn’t see street names and so Keith asked two men for help. They just brushed him off and kept going and each time he just stood there looking very surprised and affronted. He was asking in French and we were to discover that Spanish was the more usual second language here, but he felt that they were just rude. Luckily a third man came along and, seeing us puzzling over our map, offered to help us. He spoke French. Once we had entered the medina through an arch way, we were in a maze of streets and lanes lined with stalls and shops. The map was an approximation for what we were experiencing and so it was not long before a young man asked us if we needed help. In the guide book it warns against taking this kind of help since the person will receive commission from the hotel for bringing you there. It seems a reasonable thing to me, given that it is tricky to find places and the prices are all so cheap at the medina pensions anyway. The pension we had selected in the book was full but while we were there inquiring, we met a Dutch couple, Frank and Caroline, and we were scooped up by their guide. Ten steps on our guide scooped us back and ushered us along a different lane, and then we all met at the next hotel, led their by our guides. That hotel only had one room, which Caroline said was not what they were looking for so we took it. We were just glad to have found a spot, since it was cold and just about dark. It was a family home, bought by the Grandfather of the current owner for 45 dh which is Au$9. Of course that was a long time ago and money was worth more then but even so, two storeys and a rooftop terrace for $A9 is not bad. We paid 100 dh (Au$20) for the night. Within three minutes I had been asked if I wanted to buy some good stuff to smoke and when Keith had paid for our room, the same guy came over and asked him if he was interested. I had said I didn’t want any immediately but Keith had not understood the question and so seemed to be very interested, wanting the man to explain more. I told Keith what he had been asked and the guy received a ‘no’ and went off.
All the buildings here have part or all of them painted blue, and most often an azure blue with a bit of mauve in it. It is very pretty and especially from afar on a hilltop, it looks quite spectacular. We climbed the stairs in the lane beside our hotel, went under a room built over the lane joining the houses together, turned along a dog leg, went up more steps and we were on the main square.
The evening was foggy, and the main square looked like a film set with the Kasbah (castle) on one side beside the mosque and men in pointed hooded cloaks walking, pausing, meditating or chatting in groups as if they were being filmed for Lord of the Rings.
The restaurants with Coca Cola walls and Pepsi chairs rather spoilt the effect, as did the myriad of tourists, but all the residents looked fantastic. A very pleasant boy served as both waiter and customer collector, and had the perfect personality for both. The food was cheap and we enjoyed a vegetable tajin, vegetables with couscous, Moroccan salad, fruit salad, mint tea and Moroccan biscuits all for Au$20. We caught up with Caroline and Frank again, and also met Yango and Nicole, from South Africa and Chile, who work on cruise ships from Antibes and were spending their earnings on travel. It was very pleasant chatting and watching the passing crowd, and so different to everywhere else we had been. There seemed to be a general strolling hour when women and children were also out and about from about seven to eight o’clock. We were looking forward to exploring more of the medina, which is the old village, and souk or stalls area, and to seeing the Moroccan crafts that we had read so much about.