Chefchaouen

It is already dark when we get off the bus and immediately Abdul approaches me. He speaks pretty good English and starts taking us to a hotel, even though we try to stop him. He takes us to a place I’m cool with, but the Japanese want heat. No problem, he has something else for us. We like the place, but its 400 dh per person. We soon get this down to 500 total between the 3 of us. Then Abdul, not to be confused with Abdul-Rahim, who owns our hotel, demands for us to buy some hash. We don’t want any. Then he tries to sell us a rug, finally demanding commission for finding this place. He keeps asking for 200 dh; ridiculous. After much aggravation he leaves with 40 of our dirham. That’s the way it goes here.

The next morning we see the beauty of the place. In the middle of a mountain range, there lays a little village that has been painted blue and stark white. The effect is quite breathtaking. Apparently, the hippies found it too and it is now the hash capital of Morocco. Still, compared to Tangier, there are only small annoyances here.

After the Japanese leave, I hang out with his burnt 60 year old Canadian flower power survivor. He has some interested stories but starts to repeat himself. I take pains to leave him and I long to be alone.

At night, I bring my book (The Sheltering Sky) to a terrace above the plaza to have some tea. I think I like tea now, but only with fresh mint and sugar. I get to talking with the owner of the café, Mohammed. He speaks English well and we chat till midnight. He is a proud Arab and we have a great conversation. At the end of the night when I finally give him my name as David, he says, “That’s a Jewish name, are you Jewish?” I, of course, say “No, Catholic.” I’ve been telling everyone here that I’m Cuban. Between the cold and the culture, I’m just having a hard time getting comfortable.