Chefchaouen has an almost mythical status among travellers given its remote location, its enduring charm and of course, its striking colour. At 2000m plus above sea level, getting there only adds to its mystique.
Necessarily for a cyclist, its a real brute, with the climb into cloud-shrouded Zinat and beyond to Ben Hassan lasting 4+ hours, each significant promontory (and next target) being marked by its own mosque where I silently pray that this mountain has peaked.
The climb was occassionally joined by local children who took time out from fruit selling to critique my efforts; like the Roman centurion mocking Ben Hur as he strains over his oar. To be fair to them, the sight of a puce, middle-aged man giving himself a hernia ‘for fun’ is probably worth a laugh. Zinat was a sight to behold, not simply as an intermediate peak but because the weak winter sun was right then illuminating the half-submerged, cloud-shrouded town, the top of the minarets peering through like periscopes in the wash. Unfortunately, I missed the optimum photo op and simply couldnt find the will to return. After the town of Ben Hassan, there was a restbite of 40km of so before the final ‘6km’ climb into Chef itself. Guess which part of the profile that is.
The view into the valley tells its own story, with the Chef-related red portion, ‘conveniently’ situated as the very end of a long, chilly day in saddle.
The houses/hotels themselves are largely constructed of adobe (brick-mud combination). Perfect for summer but in the absense of ‘any’ heating whatsoever, ice cold at this time of year. The shocking blue while stunning to look at, only emphasises the chill factor. Between occasional ‘power strolls’ around the town, most of the time was spent eating Tajine and tea drinking simply to stay warm. To that effect, I also had my first hammam of the tour. I hardly needed to ‘sweat out’ my system any further, but for a couple hours at least, I was able to loll about in the kinds of temperatures Id actually been expecting, whilst being rubbed-down and vigorously exfoliated by a pensioner. Or maybe he was a teenager who’d spent too much time in a sauna, haha. Either way, it was profoundly relaxing, so I tipped him heavily (at least 2 quid).
To date, conversation has been in notable short supply. Having ploughed through Europe in the 90 days permitted, there was precious little time for meet and greet (with the notable exception of friends in Valencia and Seville). So to be greeted in Chef by a local, speaking perfect English was a pleasant surprise. We shared a sweet tea, light conversation and made a late, casual dinner engagement (so casual in fact, that he stood me up). Of course, it soon became apparent that most of the shop-keepers spoke a degree of ‘business’ English and numerous other languages besides, and when I bumped into my ‘new aquaintance’ again, he brushed our supposed rendez-vous aside and tried to sell me a ‘Moroccan’ woollen coat instead. They’re cosy, if touristy and hardly practical for a cyclist. Besides, I kinda resent being seen as little more than a tea and sales opportunity.
Despite the general lack of sun and warmth, I stayed in Chef for 5 whole days which is some testament to its visual appeal and aura, not so dissimilar to roaming ancient towns in the mountains at Delphi or Termessos (look them up). A very real sense of culture combined with one’s own puniness in the midst of the Gods (no matter how much ‘make-up’ you use).
The next stage to Fes is long and would have to be consumed in two stages. The first stage to Ouezzane (pronounced ‘Wahzan’) is around 80km and straighforward enough, given the perfect impetus by the long downhill out of Chef, which looked even more striking in the sunrise. For once, much of the route was characterised by long drags and lazy inclines lined by something resembling nature. It still wasnt the reassurely deep forest you’d expect this far into the remote countryside, but it made for a very relaxing and enjoyable stage. Just the kind your legs need after a few days of relative inactivity.
I had a late lunch in the sun and happened to find the cheapest and grottiest hostel available (miscellaneous furniture, no sheets, ingrained dirt and football supporters) with a communal toilet and shower; though obviously one person at any one time. That night Morocco were playing the Arab Cup final against Jordan in advance of the AFCON tournament, it was itself hosting the following week. All the coffee bars were full, Morocco lifted the trophy and everyone finally went to bed very happy; bar the caffeine-fuelled fans driving around town honking horns till the early hours. Which whatever you think is infinitely better than meeting the drunken English equivalent looking to their expunge their disappointment after the latest, crushing exit from whatever tournament they’ve stunk-out this time.
I was up and out before dawn (8am) after an awkward night of fig-driven restlessness. I love ’em but still havent figured out the operating margins between optimum fibre intake and Oppenheimer. Its not just the uncomfortable excess of gas but the odd residual and notably bitter taste they leave when consumed to excess. Not then ideal prep for the 141km to the city of Fes, the biggest single-day of effort so far, and I was not a little anxious, which itself was consuming lots of nervous energy. With the exception of the town of Jorf El Melha, the route is sparse, treeless, cold, expansive and very remote, stirring some very strong existential feelings of isolation and loneliness (more about that in a future post). You wouldnt wanna get caught out here after dusk.
This only added to my lingering sense of urgency and a stubborn refusal to stop for lunch even at 100km, around Selfat. Having unwittingly spent the last of my change on a coffee, I only had 200MAD notes (20 pounds each) which shopkeepers wouldnt take for a bottle of water. By 14.00, I was functioning on little more than adrenaline, but still feeling strong all considered. That was until 30km out when the hills to Fes really started. They werent Chef-style severe, but neither were they welcome given my levels of fatigue, hunger and dehydration. It wasnt long before I was seriously ‘bonking’ (yes, thats a cycling term. Dont Google it) and struggling with each and every turn of the pedals. Indeed, in this state every sore and ache is ‘concentrated’ with a predictable and compounding effect on your will and your mood. This was as tough as anything I’d experienced to date and I was getting increasingly frustrated, and even confused. Having mistaken the village of Douyet for the outskirts of Fes, I got off the bike with my head swimming and sat in dirt for 30 mins eating what remained of the figs just to avoid passing-out, or bursting into tears. For a little while there, Id lost it. I couldnt see straight and was staggering like a drunk. Not at all what Id anticipated that morning. Once I recovered somewhat, I returned to the road and entered Fes, struggling through the final kilometres and rush hour traffic to the old Medina only to face one final obstacle.
I’d visited the city some 15 years ago and was thrilled and overwhelmed by the novelity of the rabbit warren that is the old Medina. It hasnt changed so much, even if my own sense of anticipation had long since evaporated this time around. Indeed, walking my bike up and down the main alley (Talaa Sghira) trying to find my hotel was not helping. Fortunately, my host Othman had spotted me, guided me in and couldnt have been a more accommodating host in a proper Riad. I literally cant recall anything else of the evening after that.
Of course, you never want to get into that state of exhaustion if you can possibly help it but likewise, you dont your limits until youre pushed towards them, and Ive certainly learned something about that! Fescinating Im sure, but it wont happen again…
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