Chefchaouen - Fez: Great Hospitality Along Terrible Roads

Because Fez is just too much of a sight to skip it, I am checked in to a hostel again after only three days of riding and I can write a post for my followers and my future self again. I have been in Morocco for a week now, and on some rare occasions I feel like I'm getting used to Moroccon life a tiny bit.

26th of October (Feast of the Sacrifice)

 The people of Chefchaouen did not get good weather for the most important holiday of the year. It was raining all day, sometimes drizzling, sometimes torrential, but never dry. I'd hoped to be able to walk in the mountains, but the weather made me change my mind. I walked around town a bit in the morning. The slaughtering is going on everywhere. Blood flows through the cobbled streets. Women and children are washing guts and stomachs in the river, letting the water carry away the contents. To a westerner who is used to slaughtering being hidden in factory buildings without daylight which smell of desinfectant, it is a disgusting but interesting sight.

Bloodied rainwater in Chefchaouen

 Also, last week I said that I seriously hoped that there were more beautiful places than Chefchaouen in Morocco, but let's not deny that it is a really beautiful place:

 But still it seems to be too small to be a destination in its own right. That must mean that its tourist fame is at least partially due to cannabis. It is some nice scenery for smoking and it is conveniently located on the border of the unruly kif-growing lands in the Rif. I even feel a bit sad that I didn't get to see any of it. Some hiking in the mountains could have given me a view of the cannabis fields, but I don't know if they are still recognizable as such at this time of the year.
 The afternoon I spent in my tent, reading in Anne Frank's diary on my mobile phone (thanks Klaas!). I strangely recognized the feeling of being trapped in your hiding place, even if the dangers are incommensurable. My tent was under siege from the rain and the mud, and as long as the rain continues, you know that nothing gets drier and every little slip of your care and attention may make things wetter. I decided that, on the next morning, I would either leave for Ouezzane and take a hotel there, or move to a trekking bungalow on the campsite if the rain is too bad to ride.
I also spoke some more to the Brazilians with their bikes from Amsterdam. They have a Facebook page and have some amazing films and photographs. They have been staying in Chefchaouen for 11 or 12 days, and they built up trust with the people so they're able to film them as they go about their day.

 27th of October

 In the morning it was dry but the sky looked threatening. I was doubting if I'd leave, and walked into the neighbourhood next to the campsite. The rain had turned the unpaved streets into pools of sludge. Together with the scattered garbage it made it a very miserable sight. I decided that to retain my mental sanity, I had to get moving again. Also, going out of the Rif mountains might mean moving to a drier climate.

I packed up my wet tent and my wet clothes that hadn't dried since they were washed on the 25th. It was 11:30 before I left the campsite. I had to pass through the lower town centre of Chefchaouen and then climb again to get out of the city. The incline was not very subtle and as I was crawling along, unable to use the click-in side of the pedals with my muddy shoes, going as slow as possible trying not to sweat in my raincoat, I wondered if it wasn't better to abandon this ride and return to the campsite.

But when I reached the floor of the valley next to Chefchaouen, it was sunny! I rode to Ouezzane without problems through some showers between sunny intervals. The mountains changed to rolling hills, more suitable for agriculture. The typical products of the region are honey and olive oil here, which makes for a quieter atmosphere. 

In Ouezzane I checked into a hotel signposted from the main road. It even had a warm shower. In town, it was busy with people, cafés were full and food shops were open, but restaurant kitchens were still closed because of the Feast. I had dinner with chocolate spread on bread.

28th of October

I planned to ride from Ouezzane to Fez not via the main road, but via a more direct but smaller road via Mjâra and Karia Ba Mohamed. The sign at the start of the road did not mention any of these places though, and the reason is that probably the signposters realize that the road is not very suitable for through traffic. The road is supposed to be paved, but the situation on the ground is not always in agreement:

The landscape in this area is much like Spain, with olive orchards and dehesa.

At places the road was very muddy, requiring me to remove a wheel and clean the fender again. Maybe I should try to get MTB mudguards instead of these city-type fenders? Also, my chain got stuck in the front derailleur. That, and my misguided attempts to remedy the situation, screwed up the adjustment of the derailleur and I'll have to look at that with the googled-up manual here in Fez.

 From Mjâra on the road slowly got better. 15 km before Karia Ba Mohamed it was time to look for a place to sleep. I asked a shepherd for a place for my tent. He did not understand French, but stopped someone he knew to translate. Another translator later warned me that no-one in the hamlet (douar) speaks French or English and it would be hard to communicate.

I was shown a nice place by an olive-tree and a typical loam-covered stack of straw bales. So far so good, and I started pitching my tent. A young man who did speak French offered me a place to sleep in the house of his family. I declined, but when he also offered me dinner, I eventually thought "alright then". In the end, first we sat with three people drinking coffee on a straw bale pulled out of the stack in the evening light. Then after dark, I was brought two trays with bread, vegetables and mutton. The bread was even freshly baked at home!

The next morning, they brought me a breakfast of typical sweet bread with marmelade. So I sat there watching the rising sun dry my tent while enjoying all these superbly fresh delicacies. The young man turned out to be called Abdennour and he had studied in Fez, but now worked as a sports instructor because there are so few jobs for educated people here. He had returned to his family for the Feast. We talked a lot in the evening and I learned a lot about Moroccan history. If you're reading this, Abdennour, thank you again!

Through all this, all I could offer in return was a bag with a kilo of mandarines. Attempts to pay for the luxurious treatment were consistently refused. I feel uneasy about it: I have so much more than these people, and I'd much rather be giving to them than to see them give to me.

Sun rising behind the Rif as seen from that camping place:

29th of October

After enjoying the sunrise and the breakfast documented above, I started riding towards Fez. I stopped in Karia Ba Mohamed to buy toothpaste and food. Coincidentally I encountered Abdennour again!

The landscape is one of hills rolling quite heavily with lots of grain fields. Some farms must be big, because I see people driving tractors that are just as big and four-wheel-driven as they are in The Netherlands, even though they lack a closed, air-conditioned room for the driver. The tractors frequently have like three or four hitch-hikers on board, who frivolously greet me. Sadly no pictures because of the local sensitivities.

On the other hand, there are many farmers who have mules instead of tractors. Sometimes you see multiple family members chasing two of them across the field pulling a plough. Such examples of poverty are a sad sight. It's also interesting that hand-washing clothes is still the norm here, while in The Netherlands the question "what if the washing machine breaks?" is often used to convey the needs of the Dutch poor. It never even occurred to me that you could answer "well, a washboard and a brush aren't that expensive".

And then, looking at lists of African and European countries by nominal GDP per capita, Morocco is far from really African-style poor. In Europe, Ukraine and Moldova are poorer, together with some Caucasus states that we don't generally think of as European.

I do have to add to that that I have seen little desperate poverty here. In Sevilla there was a little slum with improvised dwellings of cloth and corrugated sheets (Dutch: golfplaten). I have seen nothing that miserable on this side of the strait.

Before Fez, there is a little pass in the hills at 792 m above see level if I remember it correctly. It has started drizzling again, and the film of water combined with the lavishly leaked fuel and lubricants makes the road more slippery than the ice rink in Utrecht used to be last year. The bike skids a lot on the uneven pavement in the hairpins. It's scary, but much of it can be solved by lowering the tyre pressure.

In the climb, I pause for lunch. A young man waiting for a taxi walks up to me. I offer him some of my bread-and-cheese lunch, and just give it to him if he says "no" - I learned that much about Moroccan culture. He returns the favor a hundredfold however, because he runs off to his parents' house and, despite my saying "no", brings me a plate with hot meat stew and fresh bread just like last night. And again I only have some thankful words in return.

Descending the pass, I get a great view of the city of Fez in the valley:

In Fez, I head for the youth hostel, with is in the part of town that was built in the French colonial time and thus has a regular street layout. I find it with the city plan in the travel guide without outside help - it almost feels a bit lame. What I have seen of Fez up till now feels more European than anything I have seen since the beach resorts near Martil. I even found a vegetarian dinner in a cheap restaurant. Even though, the medina is allegedly confusing even for people used to medinas, and now I'm off to explore that!

But wait, reading Anne Frank's diary also inspires me to do a bit of personal reflection on an earlier post, like she frequently does. I think that in my previous post, you can see that I am somewhat afraid of going to a less wealthy, islamic country. This fear is based on prejudices about Moroccans, or muslims or non-western people in general. I don't consciously believe in these prejudices, but still there's the voice in the back of my head that goes "what if it's true after all?".
Pretty much all of these prejudices have been strongly disproved by now. The only person reaching for my wallet here was trying to keep me from giving money to him!
Let this be a lesson.

After Fez, I think I'm going to ride relatively straight to Marrakech without going over the High Atlas mountains just yet. The Middle Atlas will have to do for now. My map of Morocco has climate statistics for some places. Ifrane, which I will pass through, has absolute temperature extremes of -22 and +37 - that could have been any place in the interior of The Netherlands! And at least in winter, rainfall is comparable too. That means riding through the Middle Atlas will be like riding in The Netherlands at this time of the year. Brrr. I better put away my tent in a waterproof bag and use hotels there.

The route

Find more Bike Ride in Chefchaouen, Morocco

Find more Bike Ride in Ouezzane, Morocco

Find more Bike Ride in Karia Be Mohammed, Morocco

(Yeah, that last one is pretty pointless, not containing the start or end. First the problem was an empty battery, later it was the rain.)