Tangier, Tetouan, Chefchaouen I

Saturday, February 26, 2011

The taxi from Tangier took us to Tetouan. It seemed more direct than going first to Tangier – we hadn’t actually arrived in Tangier by ferry, but we didn’t quite understand where we were, and still aren't sure. Some taxi driver told us the port was closed. We found that hard to believe. A taxi driver took us up into the mountains into a lush landscape, and he dropped us off in a busy marketplace. The ride up was pleasant, and was hard to believe I was in Africa. By lush I mean bright gree, as with freshly sprouted grass from light rains.

We walked through Tetouan and tried to find a place to eat. This is hard to do since Dave doesn’t like to use his French as he assumes he won’t understand the answers if he asks questions. The only place we walked into that served food was filled with men and maybe only served coffee and batidos (fruit smoothies). They didn’t speak Spanish so we left. We bought bananas, oranges, and bread, and sat on a curb to eat our picnic. Then we walked through the market in the walled city.

There were no tourists besides us, and we had backpacks and my suitcase. Awkward – but no one tried to sell us anything. Old women with fresh herbs, men selling a few fish, vegetable vendors, and people selling used goods lined the streets. The stores were tiny: double doors opened into the single rooms with one or maybe two barber chairs.

We found the wood-workers’ souq and saw the tiny shops where they do their work.

The stairs inside this workshop probably lead to living quarters upstairs.

Apparently there’s not more to see in this town so we decided to head on the Chefchauoen. We were not quite sure how to get to the bus station and at one point thought we’d reached a dead end. Some young boys pointed down a staircase, but we weren’t sure if they were putting us on. While we debated, a woman I’d seen at the market as if I spoke Spanish. (I recognized her because she was one of very few women not wearing a head scarf.) Sure enough, the path pointed out by the boys was correct. The woman was accompanying an older woman who did in fact speak Spanish. They live near the bus station and walked us to within sight of it – just because they wanted to (expressed by hand to the heart by the younger woman, who only spoke a little Spanish). It was really great to be able to converse – and be treated with such kindness.

We boarded a bus to Chaouen and enjoyed the climb up into the hills.

We were dropped off at the base of a hill, apparently in Chefchaouen but we didn’t have a clue how much walking we had ahead of us to reach our hotel.

After much climbing, avoiding some people who wanted to help us find their hotels, and receiving some genuine assistance, we made it to the hotel we were looking for. Dave rejected all solicitations whereas I responded to the inquiries because most were in Spanish. In this town they’re not big pushers and about every other offer we received was for actual assistance. It helped that we had a specific destination in mind.

We ended up finally at our hotel, a lovely place full of character. It’s run by an expat Spanish woman who took great pride in creating the place, and clearly enjoyes running the hotel and speaking with her guests.