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No Further

Brekkie in the Medina

In most journeys, there comes a point from which one will travel no further. We had come to that point. It was time to turn towards home. 

It has been many years since I was on a journey that had no end point. There have been some, to be sure. When I was a teenager, roaming about the United States, I had no idea where I would end up. Life was the journey, and not in a metaphoric sense. Now I have a home to go back to, a life to lead, books to write. Truth be told, I was ready to go home. In the last two months I had slept only eight nights in my own bed. Nicaragua, Ecuador, Spain, Morocco; this has been a long trip.

A good travel day begins with a good breakfast. We squeezed into a local cubby-hole on our way out of the Medina. Braced with good café au lait and the usual Moroccan morning gluten feast, we were ready for the bus ride back to Tangier. From there, the ferry would carry us to Tarifa. 

Broken Bus, Rif Mountains, Tétouan

We dropped out of the Medina, carrying our faithful backpacks. The modern city was awake and busy. The main bus station lies at the foot of the city, along the muddy river that runs to the Mediterranean Sea. Across the river, the Rif Mountains were bathed in morning sun. There was the usual shouting of the shills, the frantic energy of a busy bus station in a far-flung town. Without too much ado, we were on the bus and rolling north and west.

The Bus, the Rif

The countryside rolled by, green with recent rains. The same donkeys bore burdens, the same goats grazed the verge of the highway. Eventually we passed back into Tangier, the route familiar now. Past the train station and rolling into the city, the bus slowed to a crawl on the clogged boulevards. And then we were there, back at the Tangier bus station.

The Egg Van Taxi

Good travelers learn from prior experience. We were hoping to make the noon ferry to Tarifa. Based on our last trip across the Straits of Gibraltar, a one-hour ferry ride could easily turn into a four-hour ordeal. There was plenty of cushion in our schedule, just in case.

Regardless of our concerns, the Travel Gods smiled on us. We seldom take taxis, preferring to walk. But before we could take ten steps from our parked bus, a small man appeared. "Monsieur, Madame, taxi?" We inquired about the fare to the ferry, got a fair (sorry, really, accident, couldn't be helped) price of forty dirham, and were told to "wait, please." The man jogged off and, within moments, returned with the Egg Van. I could not believe our luck. These tiny Suzuki vans are a standard vehicle across Southeast Asia. The little vans were made somewhat famous in The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency, a series of novels by Alexander McCall Smith. Now we were going to get to ride in one!

It was as silly a vehicle as it looks, more rattle than substance, but we whisked along the waterfront to the ferry terminal. As we passed one of the Tangier locations for Jim Jarmusch's Only Lovers left Alive, I said a smiling Au Revoir to this great city. I will certainly be back.

 

 The Tangier-Tarifa Ferry, Sans Maniacal Crowd 

And then everything went like clockwork. There were no huge crowds at the ferry, there was no long customs line. All was well. We made the noon ferry without issue, chopping across the rough seas, back to the European continent. One hour later, we were in Tarifa, Spain, far ahead of schedule. Spanish passport and customs was a breeze, and we found ourselves back on the cobbled streets of Tarifa. Some days it's easy, some days it's not.

Strange Man, Tarifa

We are come to Tarifa at the Easter weekend, the culmination of the Semana Santos. This was our one night of dropping some fairly serious dough on a hotel room. When we had left Tarifa, rooms were going for fifty euro and up. Booking ahead from Tétouan the best we could do was seventy euro. But for that, we had a charming little room and a great sun terrace. To our great wonder, Tarifa actually showed us the sun. The clouds broke, and the white-washed city was bathed in a Mediterranean glow. Even the normally howling winds subsided. 

The narrow lanes of the old city were thronged with the pious and the not-so-pious. The pious, in their Easter best, were crowded around the churches for this holiest of weekends. The not-so-pious were enjoying the spectacle from one of the many crowded bars and cafés. The joint was jumping, and we decided to jump with it. Thee were snacks to be eaten, coffee to be drunk, and people to watch. Tarifa was showing us its gentle side, and life was good.

Carpaccio Atún 

Since we were paying the big euro prices for a hotel, we splurged on dinner. Finding an open table in the old city proved to be a futile endeavor. Just across from the ferry terminal, we found a sweet Italian joint. Not only were the staff Italian, but most of the diners seemed to be as well. It was busy, noisy, and smelled amazing. Bingo! Dinner found. 

Another travel day spent, albeit with a minimum of stress. Tomorrow would find us on another bus, bound for Cádiz, and then a train to Dos Hermanas. For the nonce, we were enjoying the unexpected fruits of a warm Tarifa on a festive night.

From Tarifa, Spain, and homeward bound, it is time to say "Ciao for Now!"

Far from the Madding Crowd

The Rif Mountains

Tétouan falls into that strange category know as a Transfer City. These are places that travelers transfer through, bound for other destinations. In the case of Tétouan, that somewhere else is the tourist route between Tangier and Chechaouen. Folks arrive in Tangier, spend one night, then board the bus for the trip over the Rif Mountains to the blue-tinted town of Chechaouen. Nestled at the foot of the Rif, Tétouan is overlooked by most travelers. Their loss is my gain.

Thanks to publications like Lonely Planet and Rough Guides, there are now clearly established tourist routes where once there were little-known regions. Once upon a time, these routes were actually lonely and rough, the off-beat paths of backpack-toting sojourners. But times have changed. If a place is listed in the Lonely Planet guide, it is not going to be lonely. This is true across the globe, in South American, Southeast Asia, and even in North Africa. Stray but a little, however, off this well-documented pathway, and there remain quiet enclaves. By way of example, I remember one provincial town in Thailand, a town that will here go unnamed. Lonely Planet gave it a pass, excluding it from the tourist path. The two days I spent there were fabulous. There were very few Farrang, a fabulous market, and a great window on Thai culture. The same was true in the Mekong Delta region of Vietnam. Straying even twenty kilometers to either side of the well-worn route brought great rewards in the form of quiet villages, easy accommodations, and authentic markets not geared toward the tourist trade.  

Tétouan sits in a river valley at the base of the Rif Mountains. From a rooftop in the Medina, one can see the Mediterranean to the north. The valley is dotted with small whitewashed villages, as are the foothills of the Rif. The town seems prosperous, with a busy modern center. Modern by Moroccan standards at any rate. There is an ancient fortress on the hill above the Medina, and the King of Morocco's summer palace at the foot of the hill. The modern town is a mix of colonial architecture, shop buildings, and blocky apartments. 

 French Colonial buildings in the Modern City 

This is a busy, bustling city. It is busy by day, and it is busy by night. As in Tangier, folks love to walk about in the evening, gathering in the shopping district, the cafés, or the public squares. Kids chase balls, parents push strollers, couples try to steal a bit of private time out of sight of their elders. Evenings in Tétouan are altogether enjoyable, whether strolling with the crowds in the modern city, or getting lost in the eerie tangle of the darkened Medina.

One of the Many Gates to the Medina

While the modern city has its charms, particularly the great cafés and restaurants, the star of the show is the Medina. The entire labyrinth is walled. One enters the maze through one of many arched gates. It is a very good idea to remember the location of at least some of the gates. This will come in handy when you get lost, and get lost you will. The Medina of Tétouan is one of the best preserved in all of Morocco. While one will see a few tourists, the Medina does not exist for them. This is a living, breathing space,  inhabited and used by the local folk. To be sure, there are a few markets in the Medina that cater to the tourist trade. But the majority of the tiny stalls and shops are dedicated the needs of Moroccans. 

 

 Night in the Medina 

To wander the Median at night is to enter an entirely new world, or a very old world. Some of the passageways are busy with folks running their evening errands. Bakeries the size of small closets are crowded with folks buying their breads and treats for dinner and tomorrow's breakfast. Half-hidden cafés give off the smell of mint tea and the voices of the men inside. There is the click of die, as unseen hands move tiles across traditional Parcheesi boards.

The landmarks that one established in the daytime Medina have all changed. Shops that were closed are open, those that were open closed. Light and shadow play across the intersections of narrow walkways. Covered passages are eerie, echoing with footsteps. We became completely lost, twice turned around, and thrice befuddled. It was wonderful. Evening in the Medina is eerie, and a bit spooky at times, but it is not scary. I do not mean to give the wrong impression. I never felt afraid, or hesitated to turn up this or that passageway. Otherworldly, yes. Scary, no. 

Busy Shoppers in the Medina

 

 Nightfall Looking Toward the Sea

The Whitewashed Medina Behind a Public Square

Back in the modern town, thoughts turn to food. The traditional food of Morocco does not disappoint. In the north, there is a strong fusion of Moroccan, Spanish, and French cuisine. Paella is as common as couscous. Tangine, the Moroccan stew served in clay-ware, is always on the menu, and olives accompany every meal.

The Bane of the Gluten-Free Folks

Breakfast is all about baked goods. Roti, corn cakes, and savory rolls make up a traditional breakfast. There is butter, marmalade, and soft cheese to smear on ones yummy breadstuff. And, or course, olives. Coffee is good here in Morocco.The thick, black espresso is delivered to your table, while the waiter stands by to pour the hot Au Lait from his silver pitcher.

Stewed Chicken, paella, chopped salad, and fried fish make up a traditional meal in the north. There is always a basket of bread, as well as a saucer of some hot stew to dip into. Order all of the food you want. Diner for two rarely cost more than 120 dirham, or about thirteen dollars. We often ate for much less. 

 Tangine, the Traditional Moroccan Stew

I love this town. Whether wandering in the heat of the day, or exploring at night, there is always some new thing to discover. If you are taken with hiking, there are trails in the Rif. The seaside is a short daytrip away. The modern city is a shoppers paradise, especially if one has small feet. My big feet prevented any great shoe bargains. The Medina is a maze of delight, a place that invites slow and thoughtful strolling. People smile and nod as you pass. Folks here are friendly and warm. 

 Color in the Medina

An Open market Space at the Gloaming

 

The Rif

Three nights passed quickly, and we did not begrudge a single one of them. This Transfer Town, this place that people pass by, it suited me perfectly. Not everything was perfect, to be sure. Sleeping in any old city can be a challenge, whether Napoli or Tétouan. Stone walls and narrow passages magnify every sound. The Call to Prayer echos through the early morning before the sun rises. But that is why they invented earplugs. Don't leave home without them. 

Stray off the path. Take a chance on a town that others pass by. Of course, it does not always go this way. Sometimes people have good reason not to stop. But Tétouan is not one of those places. It is charming, vibrant, beautiful, and very fun. I am still not going to tell you the name of the town in Thailand, but I suppose I have let the cat out of the bag on Tétouan. My bad.

So here is to over-looked towns, paths less traveled, and a tip o' the Rev Lid to Lonely Planet for steering folks in another direction. From Northern Morocco, it is time to say "Ciao for Now!"

The Call of Tétouan and Touts

An old room in the old city

The days begin early in Tétouan, Morocco. The building may be built of stone, but the call to prayer permeates everything. There are a great many mosques in and around the Medina, the old city. There are mosques scattered through all of the villages that dot the valley, stretching away to the Mediterranean coast. The faithful must pray before and after sunrise. At 5:30 AM, the Call to Prayer begins to echo from the loudspeakers, first from this mosque, then from the next. It rises to a crescendo of chanting, then fades away. You, good traveler, are now awake, and very aware that you are not in Kansas anymore.

Here is video link to the Call to prayer, recorded from our terrace in Tétouan.

The Call to Prayer

 Shadows in the Medina

To wander in the Medina is to wander in shadow and light. There are passageways that rarely see the sun, and then only for the briefest time. Tétouan is even more tangled, even more of a maze, than the Kasbah in Tangier. I feel as if this trip has been a sliding scale, growing closer and more maze-like with each town. Sevilla has its quaint lanes and narrow roads, but not as narrow as Tarifa. Tarifa, with all of the tourist boutiques, is a Disneyland version of a Moroccan town. The Kasbah in Tangier defies compass or direction, but the Medina of Tétouan makes even Bangkok look simply and well laid out.

There are far fewer foreigners here than in Chechaouen or Tangier. Fewer tourists mean less meat for the shills and touts. Ah, yes, the joys of the touts. I do not mean to pick on Tétouan, for I love this town.  But the time has come, said the Walrus to the Carpenter, to speak of many things. Many things being Shills and Touts. They are one in the same, more or less, at least in this context. Shills and touts are part of traveling, but when the meat gets thin, the hunters pounce.

You, Dear Traveler, are walking down a narrow lane. You are at peace, soaking up the ambience, enjoying the wonders of the day, this tiny stall, that amazing pile of dates and figs. From nowhere comes a voice, a polygot voice. "Español Señor, Parlez-Vous Francais, English?" He will ask where you are from. "Ah, America! Welcome to Morocco! I used to live in the USA, in Boise, Idaho."  The oddity of imagining this man living in Boise (That's Boy-Cee) Idaho, and pronouncing it correctly, is enough for him to set the hook. This has happened to me all over the world. In Sri Lanka, the shill had lived in Vienna. In Bangkok, the tout had a brother in Seattle. If you said you were from Namibia, the guy would have an uncle that lived in Windhoek. Then comes the pitch, either for his services as a guide, or for some unmissable attraction that is just around the corner. And you cannot win. To stay and talk leads to an endless barrage of how imperative it is to have a guide, or the tragedy of missing the Berber House, which just happens to be owned by his cousin. This is, of course, the cousin who lived, positively, in the same town where you went to school as a child. 

I love the shills and touts. I love to listen to their crazy come-ons. But I love it more the first five times of any given day. After that, it starts to wear thin. For My One, it wears even thinner, and quickly at that. She is my out, my safety valve. While the tout is trying to get his verbal hooks into me, she grabs my sleeve with a gentle tug, steering me away, and cheating me of the wonders I was sure to see in the Berber House. "Ah, so sorry my friend, I have to go. My wife is impatient to flee your sweet blandishments."

 

Not a Shill

Then there are the Fergusons, the self-appointed guides that are sometimes a vexation, and sometimes a blessing. On this day, climbing to the castle above the Medina, my Ferguson was just a sweet kid who wanted to show me his house. That was all he wanted, just to lead me up a few passages so I could see where he lived. Highlight of my day, that.

Climbing through the Medina

 My One and the Passageway

Blue, White, the Medina

We climbed to the castle just to climb. There is no admittance to the fortress, just a fine view at the end of a steep walk. From here, one can see the immense graveyard that stretches down into the town, just outside the walls of the Medina. On the other side is the modern part of town, complete with the King's summer palace. 

Sun, Castle, Palms

Standing above modern Tétouan

The fortress must have been a sight when it was in good repair. There are fragments of tile mosaic scattered about the walls, on hidden pillars, in shadowed corners. We walked the thing, sweating in the noon sun. From the castle hill, the logical choice was a jaunt through the city of the dead, the vast cemetery just below us. My Heart knows I love a good graveyard.

The dead stayed dead as we hiked amongst them, small narrow graves cascading down the hill. But there was life in the cemetery as well. Goatherds watched their flocks, nimble goats grazing amongst the white stones. There were goats doing acrobatics, goats on the hoods of parked cars, none of them the least bit concerned with what lay under their hooves.

Sandwiches, Moraccan-Style

Walking is hungry work, and the modern city beckoned. Outside the tangle of the Medina, we settled in for Moroccan sandwiches. A long baguette is sliced, and the chosen ingredients are mushed into the soft, doughy inside. Through some sort of magic, the meat, vege, and sauce are rolled tightly, transforming the baguette. The result is a sort of baguette crust tube with a delicious filling. One of these fine treats, the Gran Deluxe version, will set a hungry wanderer back 26 dirham, or about three dollars. 

There will be more from Tétouan, because I love this town. But for now, and before the evening Call to Prayer, it's time to say "Ciao for Now!"

Tangier to Tétouan

 My One amongst the Street Market

Sometimes getting lost is its own reward. Sometimes it just leads to sore feet. Not far from our hotel in Tangier, the map showed a tangle of small lanes. The neighborhood is sandwiched between the Boulevard de Fés and Avenue Sidi Mohamed Ben Abdellah. From the map, it looked like the Kasbah without the walled fortifications. 

We walked three long city blocks, crossed Boulevard de Fés, and disappeared into a maze. The place was devoid of even the few tourists one sees in the Kasbah. This neighborhood was the real deal. Two quick twists and we found ourselves immersed in a local street market, a noisy shopping street crammed into a lane not twelve feet wide. The place was seething with folks out for an evening of shopping. From tables of bras and underwear to bootleg CDs, piles of dates to piles of shoes, there was very little that wasn't on offer.

Fruit and vegetables were piled high on every side. The entire neighborhood seemed to be out for the evening, slowly threading their way through the stalls. There were rickety tables set up down the center of the lane, with stalls and cramped storefronts on either side. Two people could squeeze through the narrow aisles that remained, but only if they liked each other a lot. It was a case of abandoning ones personal-space bubble and plunging in. 

Shopping Tangier-Style

The local folks seemed surprised to see foreigners in this part of town. A smile and a nod were all that was required to receive a warm welcome in return. Trapped in one of the market scrums, I ended up squished against a table full of goods. The stall-keeper held out an arm to steady me. He prevented me from toppling onto his dates and figs, while at the same time giving me a shoulder squeeze and me a big smile. 

We strolled the entire market street, moving with the fits and starts of the crowd. I felt that Tangier had yielded up yet another wonderful surprise. This city is a walking city. There is simply no other way to explore the place. With every walkabout and every wrong turn, we found more gems, more hidden treasures. This last evening in Tangier, we were treated to this amazing market in an amazing neighborhood.

Walking is hungry work. We retired to our food street for some local fare. We started out the meal was Harira, our new favorite soup. The other dish is Zaalouk, an eggplant dish. I love foods that start with a 'Z.'

Paella and Calamari to round things out.

Our last night in Tangier found us lounging on the terrace at the Hotel Chellah. Sipping sweet mint tea over the dark garden, we savored the last of another fine day in this crazy city. As much as we love Tangier, it was time to move on.

Breakfast time is Café time in Tangier. Our adopted sidewalk spot was just behind our hotel, a great place to have brekkie and watch the city go to work.

Breakfast in Morocco is a bread feast. Gluten-free folks, abandon all hope. The standard fare is a heavy crepe-like roti, round corn bread, a savory roll, and some flat bread. Add butter, honey,  nut paste, and voilá. To drink there is fruit juice and, of course, café au lait. Olives are always there, as they are at every meal.

The cacophony of the Tangier Bus Station.

Shouldering the backpacks, we walked down the hill from Hotel Chellah. Threading our way past the press of shills and touts, we got out luggage tags and found the platform for our bus. The shouts of the touts rang through the station. A stray kitten took refuge behind our bags. Folks milled about as myriad buses came and went. It was the usual frenetic third-world bus station vibe. 

On the travel chat boards, much is made of how difficult or confusing it is to get from Tangier to Tétouan or Chechaouen. In actuality, nothing could be simpler. Walk down to the bus station the day before you want to leave. There will be ten shills there, all trying to pull you to one of the various bus company windows. Avoid the shills (easier said than done) and read the schedule boards. When you find something that works, buy the tickets. The next day, show up thirty minutes before your bus leaves. Piece of cake. This is a good Standard Operating Procedure across the world. Reliable online schedules disappear pretty quickly as one gets further away from Europe or North America. 

 

On to Tétouan!

The bus wound its way out of Tangier, heading for the open country east of the city. This has been the wettest (and coldest) spring that folks around here can remember. The hills and fields were a lush green. Herdsmen (and women) were grazing their sheep, goats, cows and horses on the thick grass along the highway. Donkeys bearing laden cargo frames pulled obstinately at their lead ropes.  

The Foothills of the Rif Mountains

Our bus climbed the foothills of the Rif Mountains, dropped into valleys, then twisted back up into the mountains. After an hour and a half, the full height of the Rif swam into view. The bus eased into the white-washed town of Tétouan.

Here is where it all went wrong

We were out of the bus station and into the sun-washed streets of Tétouan. The rest of the foriegners had stayed on the bus, bound for the tourist-darling town of Chechaouen. We were going to hide out here, but first we had to find our hotel.

When traveling as a team, it is best to trust the instincts of the entire team, not just one maniac. The maniac (that would be me) was sure that he knew the way to the hotel, a hotel hidden deep in one of the most tangled Medinas of North Africa. So... I screwed the pooch. Big-Time.

Two kilometers later, and far off course, I finally listened to the instincts of My One. She proved to be right, of course. I have an unusually good sense of direction, but when I go wrong, I go spectacularly wrong. Such was the case this day. Then, of course, I had to have a good sulk whilst ceremoniously kicking myself in the ass. I admit that this is childish behavior, and I also admit that I take a perverse pleasure in the process. It is not a great participatory sport, however. My Love tolerated as much as she could, then she found us a good café.

Islamic Cemetery, Tétouan

One of the great things about getting lost, besides the childish fits, is seeing stuff that you would have missed. Granted, it was two kilometers out of the way, and another two back, but we got to see an amazing graveyard.

 

Goats and Graves!

The main street on which our hotel was located.

Finally, after wandering into the Medina, getting lost, and paying a shill five dirham, we were at the hotel. Another lesson learned. Even with a screen shot of Google Maps, a normally good sense of direction, and an over-supply of good luck, things can go very, very wrong. If your Baby says "I think it's the other way..." at least be open to the possibility.

Looking over the Medina to the Mediterranean Sea

With the room secured and the bags stowed, all was well. We plopped ourselves on the roof-top terrace and enjoyed the afternoon. There will be more from Tétouan, including a brief dissertation on the Touts and Shills. For now, it is time to wait for the Call to Prayer. From Tétouan, Morocco, it is "Ciao for Now!'