Just another evening in the medina square
It was oddly weird (or weirdly odd?) to be sitting alone in the city square of a magical foreign destination waiting to be propositioned by a drug peddler. After all I was up in the Rif Mountains, the main hashish producing region of Morocco, a country that is said to supply a half to a third of all the hashish sold in the world. Tourists I had befriended here had spoken of the run-ins they had had with peddlers, their badgering and persistence. In a way I was glad my wait met with no success and that the Kif (hashish) in the Rif did not happen. For I was here for much more.
My trip to Morocco was one to test the limits of my solo travels. Everything I had read so far (this was a few years ago) had talked about Morocco being one of the most unsafe countries for solo women. I needed to experience what that meant. And yet I didn’t want to be caught out in the tourist traps of the country. Not for me the Jemma El Fna, with its orange juice stalls, snake charmers, monkey men and cone-wielding henna women who doled out the stereotypical mystical ‘Eastern’ experience many tourists looked for. I would do Marrakech but lose myself in its many arches that led into little lanes and bylanes, I would do Fes but lose myself in its countryside than the souks. But I had to do more. That was when my online research led me to Chefchaouen, the most visually stunning mono-hued city I had ever seen. I knew this was where I had to be…a place far from tourist traps, a place that would bring my trip to Morocco to an end. One where I could reflect on all the experience of the previous two weeks but that would also create entirely new ones. I’d even chosen very carefully the colours I would wear on this leg of the trip – palettes of oranges to browns that would be in striking contrast to the colours of the city.
I was a wide-eyed, eager child in a candy store as our bus made its way up the Rif Mountains to Chefchaouen. Seated next to me was a young American student, still in college, whose funding was running dry and who was taking time off to for a philosophical reflection on her life ahead. Like me, she was travelling solo. Like me, she had had a wonderful experience so far. She had spent time in the desert in the company of local men and families who had been kind and hospitable. And now we were both on our way to the blue pearl.
The ubiquitous Moroccan cats
There are, as with any old city, several versions of how Chefchaouen came to be blue. There are some who attribute it to the Jewish refugees who fled the Spanish Inquisition in the 15th century, settled in Chefchaouen and painted the city blue to mirror the sky and remind them of God – some say they wove blue threads into their prayer shawls to remind them of God’s power and the colour flowed into their homes. There are others who say it was painted blue to keep the city cool and yet others who say it is painted blue to ward off mosquitoes. The fleeting glimpse of sun-washed blues as we wound our way up to Chefchaouen was a teaser of what would unfold as I walked through the city gates into the medina or old city.
The blue doors detailed to stunning effect
Carry over of blue into almost everything that is around
Electric blues jostled with turquoise blues which jostled with sky blues and milder powder blues across buildings with Spanish-Moorish influences. Being just across the waters from Spain, the locals speak English, French, Arabic and Spanish out here. My walk up to Dar Gabriel where I was staying was blue enough but I would see much, much more. If it wasn’t a wall, it was the stairs or a blue drape, or a blue hanging pot or a painting or even blue bags of powder in the stores. I was mesmerised by the doors and their stunning blue designs.
One of those serendipitous photo opportunities
For the next few days, I let my camera take control, capturing the stunning city in its many avatars of blue. This was a laid back city and I was in no rush. My evenings were spent at the city square, with almost voyeuristic intent, watching as tourists and locals crisscrossed the palettes of blue. Women with babies in strollers catching up on their day’s stories…men back from their ablution and prayers discussing the local goings on…tourists having a drink at the little cafes that lined the square…tourists with a purpose, possibly looking for those peddlers. Late evening on the last day, I made my way up to a restaurant in the main square known for its panoramic terrace view and watched across the city as the sun dimmed its lights on my visions of blue.
Last visions of the blues
PS: Contrary to what I had read Morocco was as safe as any other country I had travelled solo to. Contrary to what I was told, not once was I approached by a peddler in Chefchaouen.