19 Nights in Morocco – II. Chefchaouen & Fes

My first night in a Moroccan Medina had been filled with sounds – loud voices in the streets, a call to prayer or two, dogs barking, possibly a rooster … Meanwhile Dhruva, the Texan backpacker I met the previous night, had snored up a storm bigger than his state’s recent hit from Hurricane Beryl. And yet somehow I woke up feeling refreshed, ready to make my way out of Tangier and onto what could easily be considered Morocco’s most picturesque city – Chefchaouen, or “the blue city”.

I was advised to take a taxi to the bus station in Tangier. This was not because it was unsafe, but because like so many cities around the world it is inconveniently far from the tourist center. Still, I stubbornly chose to walk (as I often do). This took just over an hour, but I appreciated the opportunity to see the newer, more residential parts of this Moroccan port city. Halfway there I realized I’d left a necklace at the hostel, an airplane charm I had bought in Mexico City in 2020. For a bit I thought “well, there goes that one”. But then a smart voice in my head reminded me to send the hostel a WhatsApp message – I asked if they could pass it on with someone else heading to Chefchaouen.

It wasn’t until after my trip had concluded that I read Chefchaouen was named the world’s 8th most beautiful city by Architectural Digest. Beauty is subjective of course, and while I neither agree nor disagree with this ranking I do think one thing is for sure – Chefchaouen, in the right spots, and with the right lighting – is like living in the aesthetic of Picasso’s Blue Period. The whole place is a vibe.

My hostel of choice, Dar Dadicilef, was apparently one of the oldest Andalusian homes (otherwise known as “Moorish”) in Chefchaouen. It was a perfect embodiment of the color scheme this city is so well known for. Inside was a serene garden courtyard, with plenty of natural shade and comfy spots to sit out and lounge with a good book (I was halfway through Bill Bryson’s A Walk In The Woods).

Right away in my dorm room I got onto talking with Charlie, a decent looking Californian man with an enviably low hairline who was probably in his early 50’s. He gave off this calm, chill vibe that I’ve come to expect of guys from Southern California. He could talk and talk, but in a mellow sort of way. Charlie was a remote worker, and he had recently hiked a portion of the Camino de Santiago (he talked so positively about it that I began to consider it for myself). At the moment Charlie was killing time in Morocco before returning to Spain, where he hoped to settle down.

That evening we got dinner, but it wasn’t without a bit of a hassle. The Medinas in Morocco hold an awful variation in pricing for arguably the same product (much of which involves a traditional dish called Tajine – served out of a distinct terracotta clay pot shaped like an upside-down cone). We eventually found a well-priced restaurant overlooking the valley below. The colors of Chefchaouen aren’t the only thing making this an Instagramer’s haven, the city also sits within a scenic hill valley.

Conversation over plates of Tajine were had about our covid-time circumstances, as well as current issues such as the high costs and out of control tourism in neighboring Europe. Morocco is not on everyone’s vision-board for where to spend a summer holiday, and so over-tourism is rarely an issue here. After dinner we hiked up to the Spanish Mosque for sunset, joined by dozens of mostly local tourists.

By my third day in Morocco I realized that is trip was turning out to be extremely social. Was it the place, or the season? The most probable explanation was that I was meeting majority solo travelers – most of whom were in their 30’s and above. And regarding summertime, I’ve always associated it with a certain openness, and a willing desire to connect. I’ve known people to be completely different during the summertime.

That morning I hung out in the dorm with Charlie, starring out at the gentle blue light pouring down into the dining room. He went on again about “the Camino”, mentioning how hikers would set aside their concerns of status, wealth, and career in favor of the common goal of helping one-another reach Santiago. “No-one would talk about what they did for work”, he said. I noticed that Charlie had never once asked about my career, even though I had naturally asked about his during dinner the night before. Perhaps that was him trying to keep that “Camino” spirt alive. Whatever the case, shortly after noon he was off on a bus to the city of Tetouan.

On my last evening in Chefchaouen I walked over to another hostel to see Dhruva, the guy I had met in Tangier – he had so kindly brought my airplane necklace for me. This was the second time in my travels I’ve been reconnected with a lost item thanks to a fellow traveler. This wasn’t the last time I’d run into Dhruva.

I absolutely loved my hostel in Chefchaouen. I kept thinking – this is what I’d want my home to look like. It almost felt like I was staying in a multi-level blue cave (but with ornate architecture). The next morning I was off on a 10:15 bus to my third Moroccan city, and the one with the oldest and largest Medina – Fes.

One of the most exciting things about coming to Morocco is the opportunity to visit the Sahara. With it being summertime however, the prospect of a journey into the blazing desert was at this point just a question mark for me. On the bus trip to Fes the land began to twist and curve in a way I’d associate with sand dunes, yet it was still agricultural land.

Like with the bus station in Tangier, it was a three mile walk from the Fes bus station to my hostel in the Medina. I’m still getting over the trauma of a bad taxi experience in Nicaragua from earlier this year, and I figured I needed the exercise after the five hour bus ride – so I took yet another long walk through the dry afternoon heat.

My hostel in Fes, called Riad Verus, was a recommendation by Dhruva. I think I owe him for that, because this stay set off many of my favorite social interactions for the remainder of my time in Morocco. Riad Verus was a huge and elaborately decorated space, with another central atrium typical of Andalusian architecture.

For my first evening in Fes I walked back out of the Medina to find some cheap, filling Moroccan food. For just $4.00 I got a simple chicken Tajine, a bowl of lentil soup, orange soda, bread, and a small salad. On the way back I stopped at a modern shopping mall, the type of place that probably doesn’t see many foreign tourists. I try to visit malls like this wherever I travel – they’re always alive and well compared to American malls.

I spent the next morning catching up on all the hostel drama that had woken me up overnight. This was a place where many of the guests had been for nights already, and everyone seemed to know each other. As I dug into the very sizable free breakfast I eavesdropped to gather details about the night’s events …

There was a trio of girls from Belgium who had somehow gotten ahold of an entire case of wine (a tough endeavor in a mostly dry country). They had been drinking on the terrace through the entire night. Sometime after 2:00 AM one of them came to the hostel owner, a man of 40 something, and complained about how the hostel kept pet turtles that roamed the covered rooftop terrace.

What ensued was a heated cultural disagreement that I now refer to as “Turtle-Gate” – the girl went off about how in Belgium it would be illegal do keep turtles like this, and that the hostel was cruel for keeping them instead of bringing them out to an oasis. From what I gathered, she conveyed this drunken “holier than thou” mentality – and some considerable yelling and bickering was had.

After I had been filled in on all of the night’s events I wandered out into the Medina to do some shopping. One could spend days here perusing jewelry, hand bags, and other trinkets. I joked that I could buy all of the Fes Medina. In a quiet back-alley I stopped at a random jewelry shop, and unlike at many others the owner let me browse without prying too much or asking constant questions. There I bought myself a “white metal” bracelet with a traditional Berber design etched in.

I was then on my way to a small restaurant I had found on Google Maps when I became prey to a typical scam of the Fes Medina. A young guy approached me (much like the man in Tangier with the decaying teeth) and told me the direction I was walking in was closed ahead, and that of course he could lead me in the right direction (sometimes they’ll also say that “only Muslims” are allowed down some alleyways, which is total B.S.) In the end they’ll demand a considerable fee for their guidance, as high as $20 USD!

Anyway, there I was, following the man. Within the quieter alleys of the Medina it’s hard to really avoid these situations (unless however, you plan an escape). So I continued on, waiting until he was six or seven feet in front of me – we passed a street that veered off to the right like the bottom of a “T” – when he wasn’t paying attention I darted off down that street, jogging onward through zig-zagging paths until I’d surely lost him. I found my way to the restaurant no problem and enjoyed a nice lunch, but I kept replaying how I’d just ran from a man for probably the first time in my life.

That night, knowing I had apparently missed out on so much the night before, I stayed up on the terrace and socialized. There was a good mix of people – a Kiwi couple, a heavily tatted girl from Quebec, a few Europeans, and a surprising number of other Americans (including Dhruva, who had just arrived for a second visit). We all had a really nice time, and I’ll point out that none of the hostels I stayed at in Morocco served alcohol – I really liked that I could socialize with young people in a sober space.

At around 11:00 PM my prayers for some fresh drama were answered. The troublesome trio from Belgium returned complaining to the owner that one of their bottles of wine had disappeared from the common fridge during the day (mind you they had a flight to catch at 2 AM). While a sensible person might just get over it, they demanded that the hostel owner immediately purchase them the exact brand of wine (which was probably difficult to locate in this mostly-dry country). They were obviously from a certain level of rotten privilege, and it was all a bit extra to witness. I just know that if I had an imminent flight, I’d surely forget the wine! … #wine-gate

My last full day in Fes consisted of a guided walking tour of the Medina along with a bunch of my new friends from the hostel. Most walking tours I’ve done have lasted 1.5 – 2 hours, and yet this one in Fes dragged on for well over five. One of my new friends, a feisty but affectionate Iranian-born American named Arousha, was the primary culprit. I had already wandered the Medina with her the previous night, and I stood in awe of her ability to haggle extremely low prices with the salesmen, mixing in a little bit of flirtation in the process. Regarding her abilities with the shopkeepers she would later say – “all you need to do is touch them, (in a shoulder grasp sort of way) and they melt – they’re not used to that sort of attention”. This advice was surely not gonna work for me.

Arousha treated the walking tour almost as her own personal shopping excursion. Our guide, a jolly grandpa-type man, lovingly referred to her as “princess”. And so it was throughout the day – “where’s the princess??” over and over again, as we continually lost her to the shops throughout the Medina.

It’s to be expected on any tour in the Arabic world that you’ll end up at a family carpet shop. And so there we were, shortly after noon sipping tea while being shown a parade of colorful carpets one after the other. I had been apprehensive to buy a carpet or rug, (not yet having my own dedicated space to put one in). To my surprise nearly every person in my group began picking out rugs, one guy even bought three! While the rest of us browsed, Arousha and Dhruva took power naps.

In the end I did end up buying a rug – it was packed up so quickly that I instantly forgot what it looked like. (It was blue, I knew that for sure). I managed to haggle down the price slightly, and the salesman noted that 20 Durham ($2) of my purchase was paying for his lunch that day. Wait, wait, excuse me? (I said in my head). Could you imagine if you bought a similar item in an American department store and the clerk casually said “yeah, $10 of your purchase is going to my lunch today” … This was an entertaining moment of cultural distinction.

The rest of the afternoon included a visit to the Fes tannery, where abundant leather products are made and dyed by hand. Upon entry employees hand you a branch of mint, to help block out the pungent odors. Arousha hadn’t bought a rug, but she did take her time at the tannery shopping for sandals. By the time we left everyone was operating on an empty stomach, and we were all exhausted. There were no shenanigans that evening on the terrace, everyone was beat.

I came to refer to this walking tour group as my “Fes crew”, while they referred to themselves as the “Chefchaouen crew” (the bulk of them had met in the blue city days earlier). Arousha tried to convince me to go on with them to the city of Meknes, where they were gonna visit the Roman ruins of Volubilis. “You know, sometimes those Roman ruins are just too old for me”, I said. Arousha burst out laughing, though I didn’t quite grasp the hilarity of what I had just come out of my mouth.

With a flight booked out of Morocco leaving in six days and my mind still not made up on whether I was gonna do a Sahara tour I needed to get a move on. I didn’t have the patience to make this into a group trip. So, the next day I splurged on a first class train outa there, and onto hell on earth Marrakech.

Next post: Marrakech & the Sahara