Skirting the Rif

Driving to Chefchauen (in a shared taxi, which is a beat up old Mercedes, driver + 2 in front, 4 in the back – I soon learned the trick to pay double and have the whole shotgun seat to myself) is very pretty, with rolling hills, mostly green, covered with pine and cedar near their tops, with occasional craggy rock above. It must be delicious in the spring, after the rains.

Chefchauen itself is a pretty Medina on a slope of a mountain, with a view of a broad valley before it, with white towns and villages here and there, and a huge, delicious spring at its base. It is painted pretty white and blue; and for this it is crawling with tourists both foreign and Moroccan. Moroccans are forgiven for thinking it great: it is still cheap and the people are still friendly; and Moroccans like the feeling of visiting an international resort, even if the Ghauris who make it so are badly dressed and vulgar European backpackers. (The backpacker is an international phenomenon, I have learned: one can’t tell the Spaniards or French from the Ozzies or the Americans by merely looking: same dress, same hairdos, same tattoos). Having said that, Chefchauen is still learning how to be a backpacker haven: they haven’t learned the Banana Lassi trick, yet. (Give them time).

From Chefchauen to Oued Laou the road is beautiful, it skirts the Rif, descends through some pretty magnificent rocks, tiny villages populated mostly by goats, and onto a broad, moon-shaped beach. The beach is not much: no trees anywhere, the village is rough and the sand is black, but the sea is clear and wonderfully cold. From here back to Tetuan one can drive along the coast, on a road which goes several hundred meters above the sea (since the Rif comes down to the sea here) and in places flies over cute little beaches hidden between the rocks, each with a huge apartment complex under construction. (Those worried about the absence of good cheap accommodation in Morocco need only wait: all of this will soon be available for a song).