17. Still Fumbling in Morocco.
In fact, overall I was noting that my constitution had been quite normal for the first time in years. Nothing like getting some good new bacterium for the gut!
I met Riyadh, my mountain guide, at 9am and we set off, initially climbing up through the old part of Chefchaouen, which was set into the Rif mountains, northwest of Morocco.
How ironic that I alone was the only one on this tour, just like I was at the small palace in Palermo.
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| Chefchaouen by Day |
Soon we were walking up a steep path to the Spanish Mosque that looked down over the very blue city. It was stunning!
Riyadh explained to me that his name means the central courtyard inside a house, as well as the being the capital city of Saudi Arabia.
It is very common to have courtyards in the centre of our homes, he told me
He said he was studying for his Doctorate in archeology, majoring in Islamic history which began around 600AD.
A couple of female farmers walked past and Riyadh said the people here are very against any photos taken of them. It’s very offensive. I asked if I could take some photos of the donkeys, sheep and goats that passed us by and he said, yes, but only once the farmers have walked past us.
It’s a shame because they looked amazing, as if time here hadn’t changed. Many locals were obviously very poor but rich in culture. I would like to assume they were living a simple happy life, something I was aspiring towards.
The path got steeper and rockier as we neared the pass, which was at 1000m, a climb of about 500m from where we left.
A breeze kicked up and I suddenly recognised the very strong odour of cannabis just before I saw the mass of bright green plants planted row upon row, hectare upon hectare across the mountain.
It’s licensed commercially for medicinal use only, Riyadh told me, but I don’t agree with it.
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| Narrow Streets |
He continued… We have a native cannabis here that we’ve grown and used for centuries and it doesn’t need so much water. This variety of cannabis comes from Columbia and it needs a lot of water and attention. It’s an exotic plant that’s not suited to our dryer conditions.
We don’t have a lot of water here and these crops are taking both the water and the productive ground that once was used by the local villagers, he explained.
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| Medicinal Grade |
I watched as the women worked the soil between the plants, and they watched me to make sure I didn’t take any photos.
I saw some beehives and Riyadh said the bees collected nectar from the thyme plant. I wondered if they were in fact collecting honey from these cannabis plants, maybe even assisting in their pollination!
I had tasted cannabis and opium honey once many years ago in Shrinagar, India. Apparently it doesn’t have any intoxicating affects - at least I didn’t feel funny after eating it!
We went off track to get a closer look at the hives and I saw the bees were very dark in colour.
I think these must be the African bee, as the Italian honey bee is a much lighter colour, I suggested.
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| African Bee |
The African bees are known to be quite aggressive, I said, thinking of the old Killer Bees movie that scared half of America and those of us down under.
The smell of cannabis was now so strong, I could almost taste it. Riyadh said goats that get to the plants and eat the leaves apparently stand motionless for hours afterwards. We both laughed.
We eventually reached the top a couple of hours later and it didn’t feel like a difficult climb, especially compared with the Milford Track and others I have done back home.
We walked towards the village below, past men and their donkeys, women and children working the fields, and the occasional wandering dog or chicken.
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| Riyadh and Me! |
Riyadh told me that the houses were made out of rocks and anything else they could find, including rubbish and animal dung, then they put a lime mortar over it to seal it.
He said the average city-dwelling Moroccan would earn about €350 a month… these farmers a great deal less - but prices here are low. Many of them sell their produce at weekly markets and pay no rent, electricity, or tax.
We eventually arrived at a courtyard and pretty garden. The owner greeted us and let us through the gate and led us to a single table.
Sit, sit, sit… he said to me as he pulled out a chair. You are the Queen today, he smiled warmly.
Yes, it’s just me today. How lucky am I? I laughed.
He poured some fresh mint and lemon tea which was delicious! He came back with some goats cheese and bread, explaining it was all from his farm.
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| Come, You Try, They Said |
They are my goats, my cheese, my olives, he said in broken English.
It tastes beautiful, I told him.
Later he brought out a dish presented in a traditional tagine, a clay chimney-lidded casserole dish.
He sat it down lidded with its chimney top firmly sitting on top. It was like I was at an expensive French restaurant where the waiter creates the element of delightful surprise when removing the lid to expose the dish underneath. Taa dah!
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| Tagine Dish |
He removed the lid and revealed his pièce de rèsistance, a delicious casserole containing vegetables and chicken… his vegetables and his chicken, no doubt!
He stood back and smiled widely at me. I wasn’t about to not eat his food, being a pescatarian. With all my recent gut issues, I was prepared to introduce anything new and beneficial with the attitude of “when in Rome…”
It was herbaceous, lemony with a beautiful saffron flavour, it was hearty and absolutely delicious!
The saffron is from my farm, he said proudly.
Oh, that’s the flavour I was questioning. Amazing!
Riyadh said I could buy some if I wanted to. It’s organic, pure and the very best flavour. He reached over and picked up a basket containing a few small jars of this precious saffron.
The glass jars were unlabelled and straight from the farm… I’d never get that into NZ, I knew! However, I was going to be staying with my brother and his family in the UK so I’d get a little jar for them. My brother could make little English pork pies with Moroccan saffron. Perfect!
I was surprised how much I ate. The home-cooked food was so good, I just couldn’t stop eating. It had been the first decent meal in a while and I missed home-cooked meals!
Once finished, I left a tip of $4 or 20 DAM…(the meal was part of my excursion, already paid for) and we walked back to the gate, thanking the man for his hospitality and really good food.
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| Eee Aww Dat Weed Gawd |
There was an old Range Rover jeep at the gate that looked like it came from the TV series, Mash! We jumped in and navigated the skinny rocky path back to a wider road that took us back to Chefchaouen, and back to my hotel.
I thanked Riyadh for such a wonderful day and realised afterwards I had forgotten to tip him. Was I meant to? He definitely deserved a tip.
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| Chefchaouen |
Not that I had much money. At the start of the tour we had to hand over 300 DAM each as tip money for group outings. Prior to that I had to pay 300 DAM for the taxi from the airport and 900 DAM for the unexpected extra hotel night.
Maybe it didn’t add up to much but back home, my tenants had all but moved out and I was hardly covering costs. Talk about tightening the belt!
Fortunately the big lunch kept me full for the rest of the day. We also have breakfast provided and the odd lunch each day. I’ll be fine, I told myself.
What wasn’t fine was the following morning when we had checked out and we were all in the minivan travelling to our next destination when I suddenly thought… where was my passport?
I quickly checked my little day bag. Nope.
Think, Kris.
I didn’t take it on the walk over the mountain.
In fact, I hadn’t seen it since the first night we arrived and had to take some information from it for the guide.
Oh crap. I felt my anxiety heighten as I tried to recall the evening. I was feeling sick and exhausted at the time. I couldn’t remember a thing.
When the van stopped for a quick restroom visit I asked Nour our tour guide to check my big pack. It must be in the pockets, I thought.
No. It wasn’t there.
Nour rang the hotel where we had just stayed and they later rang him back saying they had found my lightning cable but no passport.
Dang! I got back on the van and we travelled for another two hours, while I racked my brains thinking where it could be.
At the next stop in Volubilis, I stayed back while the rest of the group went to see the Roman ruins. I told Nour that it just had to be in my backpack somewhere!
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| Found my Passport! |
Together we pulled my pack apart on the road behind the van and looked in every pocket and in every dry bag, emptying the contents onto the road. My bra. My shorts… oh, the pockets. No, not in the pockets. Argh! The stress!
Finally Nour pulled out the last dry bag that contained suctioned-bags of clothes. Definitely not in there, I knew.
I looked inside my now completely empty pack. It was dark inside but I thought I could see something. I reached in and pulled out the black slim security bag containing my passport.
What the heck! It’s here! The very last thing! A miracle, I shouted.
I gave Nour a huge hug! We were both so relieved! That was so intense!
I have no recollection as to how it found its way to the bottom of my pack, but I felt so relieved.
Nour repacked my pack and chucked it back into the van. We had a glass of fresh orange juice at a nearby cafe under some shade and after we settled down, he started to tell me about his Moroccan life.
He would be in his late 20’s or early 30’s at a guess. His dark curly hair tied in a bow, he’s of slight build and average height. He was casually dressed and reminded me of another version of Johnny Depp.
Anyway, he told me he speaks five or more languages, all learned on the job as tour guide to many foreigners.
I told him I had been learning italiano and was in Sicily at a school. I really sucked at it, I said.
He quickly asked me something in italiano. Oh, you speak that too? I laughed. Have you travelled? I enquired further.
No. No-where. Moroccan people can’t easily travel on our passports. We generally can’t get visas from first world countries, he explained. People from rich countries like yours can go anywhere.
Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, I told him.
It is what it is, he said.
This world isn’t a fair one, I reflected to myself, as a skinny mother cat and her skinnier kitten walked past us.
We met up with the rest of the group and everyone was relieved to hear I had found my passport. A couple said they didn’t know how I remained so calm… they would have torn into their pack hours ago.
My panic would have definitely escalated if I didn’t find it… but I really didn’t need those anxious hours after such a scary start to Morocco. This tour was meant to give me a break from the pressures of solo travel.
I set a time on my watch to alert me every morning as a reminder to think about my passport.
Where should I leave my passport, I asked myself out loud. Safely pocketed in an internal part of my backpack or have the waist-belted (pain-in-the-butt) bag on my person during the day? What if I forgot to put it on in the morning?
Nour said I should keep it in my backpack while we are in Morocco and I agreed. For me, that was the safer bet!
We climbed into the van and drove to a place just outside of Fez for a provided late lunch before arriving at our hotel in the city.
The rural roads between Casablanca and Fez were very precarious; certainly no room for cyclists! It was a very bumpy ride. However, upon entering the big city of Fez, the lanes doubled and became smooth, painted, and were lined with pretty trees.
Fez is known for the world’s largest Medina with over 9000 streets and the very real possibility of becoming lost and never being seen again.
Apparently it is crazy and chaotic in there, and I couldn’t wait to experience it the following day.
Nour said I’d find freshly made nougat in there too. Ever since France, I couldn’t get enough of it.
After a little prayer asking that I suffer no more of these recent stressful incidents…
AMEN TO THAT…
I was once again ready for my next adventure!
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