Chefchauon to Fez, Morocco, Wednesday January 31st

The Kasbah is a lovely old castle with a central courtyard (now gardens), with turreted walls and buildings all around it. It is rendered in soft apricot and is thus a lovely mellow contrast to the blues and whites of the city buildings. We wandered around after paying our entry fee, visiting the gallery where all the paintings were of this area and were for sale, and climbing up the tower. From up high we had a good view onto the neighbouring buildings, of the city and of the countryside and mountains around. Not all the rooves of the buildings in the town are flat, forming terraces as is usual in Morocco, and the tiled ones are supposed to be due to the Spanish influence. The prison had manacles and leg irons which were pretty gruesome, and we read that Abdl el Krim, el Khattabi, the leader of the revolt against Spanish occupation, the man who declared a Republic of the Rif, was imprisoned. He had led the tribes in social reforms to stop blood feuds and to act in unity against the Spanish, swapped mineral mining rights for arms with Germany and South Africa, and started a Riffian State bank. It was the first nationalist movement in colonial north Africa. The French, seeing a threat to their own authority in their colonies, assisted the Spanish to overcome the Riffians and to capture Abdl el Krim at Tarquist. The Spanish took over but did not continue the reforms started during the Riff Republic, nor build infrastructure that could be a benefit of colonisation. They controlled the populace by dealing with the most difficult rebels; sending some off as migrant labour to Algeria and recruiting the warriors into the Spanish army. Franco used the Riffian troops to invade Andalusia in 1936, starting the Spanish Civil War.
The museum was unattended so we could wander around looking at the exhibits and it was here that we saw interesting photos of brides and grooms in traditional costumes from surrounding areas. Really the bride was more like a decorated package with many layers of drapery, so even during the wedding feasts she would have remained a mystery to the groom. Some of the clothes were also displayed. Other photos showed people in the square long ago and it was fascinating to see that the Kasbah was in a worse state eighty years ago and that the cloaks in those days were ended just above the knees. Carved wooden shelves, corner cupboards and wall decorations with the same effect as the icicles usually carved in stone, were on display. They are still produced today and it is one of the crafts that we have not seen much of as yet. I don’t think even I could rationalise bringing home an icicle cupboard in my backpack. A stroll around the gardens looking down into a hole, which showed that there was a lot more to the castle underground, finished a pleasant visit.
We had skipped breakfast in the interests of fitting in the Kasbah and a quick trip to the Internet café and post office, so now we had brunch back at the hotel and packed up. The sky’s blue beginning had changed to a dirty grey and there was a hint of misty rain about. I dressed in my full rain gear just in case, and we set off with all our luggage on the walk to the bus station. We met some Australians who had been at our hotel, and after a chat with them, went to sit outside to wait for our bus, which was late. Caroline and Frank arrived, really to sort out their bus tickets for the next day, but it was a lovely coincidence that we were still there, and that we could say ‘Goodbye’ to them. Sometimes travelling feels like being in a play, with the same characters turning up unexpectedly in different scenes.
When our bus did arrive, we were bustled on so that it did not lose any more time. The luggage charge was double our last trip but the man said that it was a long way to Fez. It certainly was and our bus seemed to have chosen a route that perhaps was direct but involved unmade mountain roads that were greasy with mud from lots of recent and current heavy rain. Our driver drove carefully enough, but black plastic sick bags were called for by some passengers near us. I couldn’t smell if they were used or not which was a blessing. The back of the bus was definitely the place to be, with a non-stop talker haranguing two fascinated boys and the man beside Keith smoking something through a wooden straw, until he changed to smoke something else in cigarette form and finally passed out. We often stopped in the middle of nowhere for passengers to alight or join us. In a stretch of gullied hills and rivers, the bus stopped apparently for no-one. Making his way down the road was a very elderly man in a jade green pointy hooded cloak and very thick misted up and streaming glasses, assisted by his stick and a younger companion. Each step was placed carefully at near right angles in the mud. Watching him was excruciating since it was raining and he seemed likely to fall. At last he made it to the bus and was helped on by his companion and the conductor.
The final passengers to join us were two women carrying a bucket of something that couldn’t be entrusted to the luggage area below, unlike their trussed up live turkey that was tossed in on top of everyone’s bags. Many of the areas we passed through had been cultivated mechanically, with peas, olives and broad beans being crops we recognised. Other paddocks of what looked like planted grass may have been wheat. Now and then we would see clumps of jonquils flowering. Everything was so incredibly wet, including the windows we looked through and eventually me, as it began to drip and splash inside the bus. We moved seats to a dry spot. We made another sudden arrival, with Fez, which seemed never to appear, suddenly materialising after very few warning buildings. The bus pulled into the bus station and we hopped out into a puddle. It started to drive off with our luggage still in it so Keith banged in the side and it stopped. Holding everything up out of the water, we staggered to the side of the road where a man told us that there were no rooms left in the whole of Fez except the one that he could arrange for us in his home.
We groaned and I told him that we were going to ring some of the hotels in the guide book. Inside the bus station, he repeated his dire warnings and offered us his room for 400 dm ($A80). Keith rang two places, with the first indeed being full but the second having a room for us. Our ‘friend’ came over and asked us if we had found anywhere, and when we said yes, asked where it was. We told him and he said that it was a very dirty place and asked the price. We didn’t know although it was in the cheapest category. He walked off saying that he wouldn’t try to help us again, as if that was a threat that would make us take up his offer now.
The rain had eased a little and so it was not too bad walking the short distance to the city gates from the bus station. It was dark, so that made it difficult to read the guide book to work out where to go. An English woman pointed us in the right direction and very soon a man approached us and asked us if we were the Australians who had rung his hotel from the bus station. We thought it was very kind of this man to come out to meet us, given the bad night and the difficulties in orienting yourself in a new city in the dark. He led us off a square into a lane where the hotel was and we booked in. A little tour up to the roof top terrace enabled him to point out some major features and a clean restaurant that he recommended. He was charming and very helpful, and offered to arrange for a good English speaking guide who would be able to tell us about history and culture for a trip into the enormous medina tomorrow morning. We agreed, leaving for dinner with the arrangement that we would leave with the guide at 8 am.
When we returned we asked for hot water; the arrangement, along with payment of $2 each, that had to be made to have a hot shower. I went in first, and when I turned on the hot water, the noise in the pipes sounded as if the whole building would fall down. It didn’t but the rose fell off the shower once there was more than a trickle going through and the water alternated between being boiling hot and cold. The man came up and advised me through the door, and eventually I let him in to see if he could put the rose back on and adjust the water. I hovered behind the door, naked, dripping and cold, while he made the adjustments and then I tried again. It was no better and the rose fell off in no time. No wonder he had sung the praises of the hammam (bath house) as a ‘must have’ experience while staying in Fez. Keith had an even less satisfying experience of a shower than I did, but with no visitors.
It was raining inside since the skylight to the terrace had not been closed; not something that Keith had expected as he walked across to the shared toilets in his socks. I was warned so I kept to the sides. The toilet was smelly, which can happen, but looked as though it would be impossible to clean, being super grotty and prone to blocking. Keith noticed that the wires up wall had been joined, and were bare at that point. The final black mark for us for this accommodation was the lack of a power point in the room, which would mean that once the computer battery and camera batteries were flat, we would have to take them to reception to be re-charged. Not so convenient for Keith, who often wakes at 6 a.m. to sort photos, if I have used up the battery typing until 11 p.m. the night before. We settled into bed and resolved to look for somewhere else tomorrow.
It was New Year’s Eve but we had not heard any noise of partying and even many of our fellow guests were home taking turns to battle the hot water pipes and keeping us awake. We didn’t see the New Year in for the first time in our adult years.
The view of Chefchaouen is remarkable not only for the blue colours but also for the contrasting preponderance of satellite dishes for TV reception.

Keith and Christine would love to hear from you with questions, comments, personal news and any news at all from Australia or wherever you are. We will reply to all emails! Please write to either windlechristine@gmail.com or windle.keith@gmail.com