Blue-tiful

For the past week and a half, I seem to have developed the most horrendous cough. It’s a dry hack and almost feels like there’s sand in the back of my throat. Anyway, it’s been crippling… and finally I just couldn’t take it anymore. I walked myself right into a pharmacy. There was no lost in translation issue, as I just pointed at my throat… and coughed.

The pharmacist sold me a large bottle of cough syrup and instructed me to take a spoonful three times a day, after each meal.

I tried to stick to that regime, but mostly I just took a big swig every time I began to cough so much it felt like I might either vomit or parish.

For a couple days, I carried this bottle around like it was my own personal flask, guzzling medication like it was water.

My cough is improving.

The day came for me to leave Tangier and head to Chefchaouen. I had to rebook the bus, as I had deliberately missed mine the day before. Getting to the bus station proved to be slightly more difficult than I’d intended.

The first taxi I’d hailed insisted on turning on his meter. That was fine… and under regular circumstances, I’m a firm believer in meters. They usually eliminate the likelihood of being cheated. It was when the driver started heading in the opposite direction… and started picking up & dropping off other passengers (on my dime) that I started to develop a problem with the meter.

He kept insisting it was my fault he was heading in the wrong direction. Apparently I had pulled him over on the wrong side of the road… and now he had to travel all this way before he could legally turn around.

Ya… ok…

I got out.

Of course, I didn’t choose the most ideal of locations to get out… and it took me quite a while before I found another taxi to take me back across the city. I was beginning to sweat, worried I might have to book a third bus.

But miraculously a taxi came along, I made it to the station in time and boarded my bus about ten minutes before departure. Phewf…

It wasn’t the best bus ride.

The actual ride was fine… but there were two men seated behind me that reeked of BO so badly, it was almost impossible to breathe. It’s tough enough to naturally breathe in an overwhelming stench of pungent, sour body odour… let alone with an agonizing dry cough.

The bus rolled into the Chefchaouen station around 3 hours later. The word, Chefchaouen, literally translates to “see” and “the horns” ~ which refers to the two peaks rising above the mountainous village.

I’d been here before… back when I’d visited Morocco, 25 years ago. I remember it specifically because of the harassment we experienced while being here. My friend, Rebecca, and I had traveled here, both enthusiastic about seeing this legendary and much-talked-about blue village.

Yes, it was a beautiful and a very blue town, abnormally cute, stunningly picturesque and full of culture and history… but the terrorizing children ruined it all. I remember hordes of children following us through the narrow streets and alleyways, grabbing at our clothes and our bags, begging for money. Of course, being young & poor backpackers, we were in absolutely no position to be handing out money… nor did we have any anyway. It didn’t matter what we said or where we went or what we did, we couldn’t lose them. Every turn seemed to attract more kids… and eventually we were entirely surrounded.

“MONEY!” “GIVE US MONEY!” “MONEY!!!”

They were very aggressive, grabbing at anything they could get their hands on.

They wouldn’t stop begging.

Ordering.

Threatening.

Rebecca and I ended up taking refuge in our hotel for the duration of our stay in Chefchaouen, unwilling to venture out again to give the town another chance.

That day left a lasting impression on me, like a bad taste in my mouth. A truly frightening experience.

That beautiful, blue village lost its magic… but 25 years later, the magic came back.

Our bus pulled in to Chefchaouen after about three hours. I half expected to encounter begging children as soon as I got off the bus.

It didn’t happen.

Thank goodness.

It was really quite a hilly town and I, always confident that I can just walk, ended up clambering uphill for the better part of 20 minutes before I reached my riad, in the centre of the historical medina. The climb wasn’t too bad, and as heavy as my pack was, I think I was in too much of a state of blue-induced enchantment to complain.

To say Chefchaouen is picturesque or pretty or quaint or charming just doesn’t do it justice. It’s blue, to be sure. Vibrant blue and stark white cloak the entire village, making every corner, alleyway, stairway, door, window, etc etc, another perfect photo opportunity.

Why blue?

They say that the blue was started by the Jewish refuges, fleeing the Spanish Inquisition. Blue is significant in Judaism as it symbolizes the sky and heaven.

Another theory… and my personal favourite… is ~ it’s an insect (mosquito) deterrent. Blue is the colour of water… and bugs avoid water… soooo…

Canada is behind on this.

We need to start painting more towns blue.

In order to not only capture the charm and unique character of this Blue Pearl of Morocco, but to also learn a little bit of its culture and history, I decided to book a walking tour for my second day.

Seemed like a good idea. Right?

I thought so.

Well… as per the norm, things don’t always go according to plan when I’ve got my finger in the pie. My tour was meant to start at 10am. At around 8:30am, I received a WhatsApp text from the guide, confirming our meeting time.

Perfect.

Everything was on track. He was going to meet me at the door of my riad at 10am on the dot.

As 10am was approaching, he started sending me a series of voice messages, which I found fairly indecipherable. To the best of my ability, I could make out that he was at the hospital… with his wife?

I didn’t really know.

He changed our tour to 10:30.

Then to 11:00.

Then to 11:30.

I wasn’t really too bothered. It wasn’t as though I had anything else to do that day… besides walk, eat, rest, take lots of pictures and post on social media.

My schedule was fairly open.

Considering his excuse for being late seemed to be a medical situation that appeared to need his immediate attention, I suggested we either cancel the tour or push it back even further.

“How about 1pm?” I suggested.

I figured that would probably provide ample time for him to deal with whatever the emergency was, no? He refused my 1pm offer and assured me he would be at my riad to pick me up at 11:30.

Ok…

11:30 it was.

So now, with a little time to kill, I wandered off into the blue to do a bit more exploring and have a little breakfast.

I was back at my riad, ready to go by 11:15.

11:30 came and went.

11:35… 11:40… 11:45… 11:50… 11:55… 11:56… 11:57… 11:58… 11:59… 12:00…

no tour guide…

Wtf?

I understand the need to have an open mind and a flexible approach to time, but this was getting to be a little silly.  I texted the guide a few times and got nothing in return. Not only was he over 30 minutes late, technically he was over 2 hours late.

At 12:10, I sent a message to Viator letting them know my guide had not shown up and asked them to cancel my booking and refund my money.

They were on it.

As soon as my cancellation was confirmed, guess who showed up?

Ya…

He was hardly even apologetic. He just kept staring at me and asking me if I was ready to go… ??

Ready to go? I was.

But…

Had I already cancelled the tour? I had.

There was a major communication barrier, so he really had no idea what I was saying, nor did I understand him at all. He was completely oblivious to the fact that I was slightly inconvenienced by his tardiness. Well… I wasn’t very inconvenienced… as I really had nothing else to do… but…

Come on…

All he’d had to do was text me. I was an accommodating person.

Why couldn’t he have just texted?

Whatever.

It was baffling how acceptable Moroccan time allowed one to go from 10:00 - 10:30 - 11:00 - 11:30 - 12:30… but I eventually gave into this fluid schedule and agreed to go on the tour. Because I had cancelled, I was now required to just pay him cash.

It was all very strange…

I don’t know if anyone has watched that new show on Netflix, “Nobody wants this.”

If you have, you’ll understand the episode about the ‘ick.’ Once you’ve got the ick, it’s tough to get rid of it. Almost impossible. I didn’t necessarily have the ick, but I immediately was struck by the irritation… and I think that can be worse.

It hasn’t started off on the right foot…

He didn’t speak a lick of English, so the tour was done completely in Spanish. I understand most of it, but when I didn’t, I just smiled & nodded… giving the impression that I knew exactly what he was talking about.

He wasn’t the greatest guide. There was no ‘pep in his step’ or ‘bouyant personality’… it was all very humdrum.

He kept offering to take photos of me, but he had a bad habit of elongating the lens so that every picture of me was an exaggerated distortion of my legs and arms. Like I was some kind of Gumby. Each time, I would look at the photo… smile… then switch the lens seeing back to normal… and ask him to take it again.

There were some doozies…

He hardly even said goodbye when we parted. He just took his money and basically took off. Of course, he did inundate me with review requests for the rest of the afternoon.

Cheeky.

I did a little bit of research into the effects of the colour blue. I would’ve thought it would be a bit of an irritant or stress-invoking, but on the contrary. I think I was thinking of that blinding blue light or police sirens. Apparently blue evokes feelings of calmness and spirituality, as well as security and trust.

I’d read once that eating off blue dishes can help one lose weight, as blue has been found to be an appetite suppressant.

Interesting… perhaps Chefchaouen was going to work some weight loss miracles. I could only hope it would act rapidly, as I was only there for a limited time.

💙