Instead of taking the CMT bus, as we had planned, Habib--the driver of the previous day's cab--talked us into purchasing his services for the trip from Tangier to Chechaouen when he picked us up for the drive to the bus station. He said we'd stop in Tetouan. We could look around the place a bit, pull up for photos whenever I wanted on the way, and not just go straight to Chechaouen as I would do if I took the bus. What he didn't mention was that he'd drive like a maniac on the narrow mountain roads.
I kept telling the Clingon to tell the old bastard, in Spanish, to slow down. Habib seemed to believe that he was addressing me in English, but what I heard was French; I understand "baguette", and "oo la la" and a few other useful French phrases, but most of the lexis and grammar is a mystery to me, as I've never had a French lesson. Eventually, I think Habib got my message succinctly from my tone, even if English was not one of his best languages; for example, when he started to overtake a truck on a blind curve, I said: "No! No! No!"
Thereafter, for the next hour or so he kept up a private conversation under his breath. We didn't know whether he was cursing us, or praying to Allah for patience with the Madam in the back seat. Maybe it was a combination of the two.
When we finally touched down in Chechaouen, I was grateful that I'd arrived without having to vomit from the back window.
There are no photos in the entry today because I did not take any. It's the first day since I left home that I haven't taken any photos. I could not bear to delay our arrival at the destination. That was the first reason I didn't take any photos. The other reason was that when H. left us to wander into the medina in Tetouan, I felt spooked.
Tetouan had changed greatly in the forty years since I last set eyes on it; and I guess I must have changed as well. Not so brave (foolhardy, perhaps?) as I was at 21. Or was it disappointment that I did not recognise any of the quiet alleyways and covered spaces I walked around so many years ago. They were crowded, dark, dirty and menacing somehow. I have only pleasant memories of Tetouan. Also Chechaouen, when we finally arrived, did not resemble at all the quiet, blue village in the mountains, that I'd secreted in my memory bank.
The mountains are still here, of course, and the blue houses, but not the serenity that I experienced then. We were followed and hassled almost from the time we set foot out of the cab in this town. The Clingon was approached twice by gaunt characters trying to sell him marijuana. (They slipped past me and whispered in his pearl-like out of my hearing.)
Last time I was here, I remember seeing two women totally in white. (Think burqa but pure white.) I remember eating a fantastic salad of carrots in orange juice. I remember a tranquil beauty. Today it was noisy; there was a real tourist scene, with hawkers and buskers wandering around the outdoor restaurant tables. People not taking "no" for an answer. Daunting. And no women in white floating past the blue walls.
As I hear the wind howling and wait for the rain to start beating against the windows, I try to recreate the little bit of paradise. In my mind, I'm going to Chechaouen.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
Location:Avenue Hassan II,Chechaouen,Morocco
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