Spanish Days, African Nights

Crossing over recently from Morocco into Spain, I was struck by how lively the days seemed compared to Morocco, where now during Ramadan most people do not eat, drink, or smoke from sunrise to sunset. Conversely, in Melilla anyway (located in North Africa but an enclave of Spain), things die down early, as if around 9 pm everyone goes home to bed. During the month of Ramadan in Morocco things do not even start to get going until at least 10 pm, with many still out on the streets at sunrise.

Morocco Blues

I arrived in the town of Chefchaouen, in Morocco's Rif Mountains, from Tetouan earlier today, two strikingly different towns only 90 minutes apart by bus. Tetouan, not far from Tangier, doesn't attract many tourists and is thus a more traditional kind of town. Now during Ramadan, for example, at the break of fast after sunset it is practically impossible to get even a cup of coffee or tea at a cafe until the locals are finished eating. Here in the tourist town of Chefchaouen on the other hand, not only can you get dinner and drinks at sunset, the tourists eat and drink out in the open throughout the day, as if unaware of the fact that practically 100 percent of the local population is fasting. Chefchaouen is a well-known place for tourists to come to buy hash. While walking around town it is on offer about everywhere. But today not only hashish smokers are attracted to Chefchaouen; the town is evolving into a more gentrified, mainstream tourist destination for families and kids as well. Chefchaouen is also known for the lovely pale-blue wash on many of the buildings, first used here in the 1930s by Jewish refugees. In fact the color is so prevalent, on buildings, clothes, souvenirs, etc, that after spending a few days here you can't help wondering whether some of the residents don't eventually tire of all this blue everywhere.

Our Lady of Africa in Spain

When traveling, timing is everything. By chance I ended up in Ceuta at the start of a festival weekend. Ceuta is an odd city, owned by Spain but located in northern Morocco, not far from Tangier. After some bureaucratic hassles getting across the grim, disorganized border on foot (following a British couple with empty roll-along luggage who were crossing over from Morocco for an afternoon alcohol run made the going somewhat easier), I entered an entirely different world from Morocco, where Spanish is by far the predominant language, where drivers actually yield at the pedestrian crossings, where the McDonald's building is a part of the ancient city wall (and a Big Mac costs 10 dollars), and where, strangely enough, as soon as you step over the border you automatically lose 2 hours. The weekend festivities were in honor of Ceuta's patron saint, "Our Lady of Africa in Spain," and the town was packed. All downtown hotels were full, but fortunately I found a room outside of town back near the Moroccan border where, not surprisingly, many Moroccans live (as evidenced by the small mosque located in that part of town).

Beatific Tanja

Today marks the beginning of Ramadan in Morocco, the monthlong holiday where Muslims around the world fast from sunrise to sunset. As if to signal the start of the holiday, I was abruptly woken at 6 am by an insistent, loud metallic clanging just outside my hotel room's window. When I got out of bed and went over to the window I saw a man on the sidewalk below talking to himself while repeatedly slamming onto the front wall of the hotel an old piece of sheet metal with a wire handle attached. From my vantage point above I could see no reason why the man might be doing this, other than maybe pure madness. When I arrived here in Tangier (Tanja in Arabic) I'd considered checking into the Hotel Muniria (above photo), where Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac stayed when visiting Tangier, and where William Burroughs wrote his seminal work, Naked Lunch. When I went to have a look, though, the hotel had a sort of forlorn, desolate air about it, so I opted instead for the Hotel de Paris on a major boulevard here in the middle of the city.

Horse Madness

When I was checking into a hotel an hour south of Casablanca the other day, an employee of the hotel suggested I take a bus about 10 miles outside of town to attend a festival there. As it turned out, it wasn't so easy getting out there because there were hordes of others also trying to get a bus or taxi. After an hour or so I managed to get a ride on a motorcyle cart, along with a dozen others. The festival, an annual event to show solidarity among local tribes, was huge. Here are some statistics from last year's event:

-- Over 20,000 camping tents
-- About 400,000 visitors
-- 1,300 horses

Safi

Safi, a large port (and pottery) town about 150 miles south of Casablanca, is another place not recommended by my Lonely Planet guidebook. In many ways I like visiting these nonrecommended towns better than the recommended ones. Obviously one aspect will inevitably be the absence of many tourists because they are steered clear by their guidebooks, which, in the case of Safi anyway, gives the few tourists who do visit a chance to see a bustling working-class town without all the frills and glitter put in place to attract foreign visitors. I have noticed in the markets here that there are less handcrafted items and more Chinese made goods like clothes, toys, household appliances. Probably this is partly due to the lack of tourists, who often buy the more expensive handcrafted items, and partly because Safi is a port town and thus a lot of the cheap manufactured goods arrive by ship. In Safi there seems to be an extrordinarily high number of destitute people begging on the streets, and one thing I've noticed that I haven't seen before is people approaching customers at streetside cafes and asking if they can drink their complimentary glass of water that is served with the coffee or tea. Also, the other night I was at a cafe having tea when an old guy walked by my table and grabbed up the sugar cubes from my saucer before quickly moving on. Another first for me.

Africa's Windy City

Essaouira, about 300 miles south of Casablanca on the Atlantic coast, is supposedly the windiest city in Africa, and during my stay here it certainly seems that way. It was very windy the past two days, is very windy now, and likely it will be the same again tomorrow. The wind is relentless, and is said to have driven people mad. Other than being one of Morocco's premier tourist spots and a haven for artists, one claim to fame of Essaouira is that Jimi Hendrix spent some time here back in the 1960s. Some say that his Essaouira visit was the inspiration for the song, "Castles Made of Sand," but as it turns out that song was written in 1967 and Hendrix didn't visit Morocco until 1969. My hotel room here is pleasant enough, but due to budget constraints I chose the one with the "mini view," meaning that I get a sea view while standing in the middle of the room, or if I sit straight up on my bed, on top of two firm pillows, I can just manage to see the Atlantic beyond the 20-foot wall of the old city. Twenty dollars more would get me Room 12, the exact same as my current one, save that it is two flights up and thus has an unobstructed "panoramic view" of the sea.