We are staying in the New Town part of Fes, which was built by the French. It is fairly modern with lots of cafes. In the early evening we walked up the main street, a pretty thoroughfare with palm trees and fountains running down the middle. We noticed barricades, a large number of police, and some very cool drum and zurna music.



There were several music groups playing but the one we were attracted by had drummers who spun their drums and danced.







We watched for a bit then found a policeman who told us the king would be arriving for a visit soon. We continued down the street passing the palace whose restored gates shown gold and silver in the sun.




We didn't make it to the Old Old Town but rather got distracted by the Old New town, an are filled with sellers, good smelling food from street vendors, and lovely walls lit up gold against the deep blue dusk sky.




At one point, a wedding procession passed by with music played on drums, zurnas, and long horns.




We finally reached the main square where vendors were cleaning up their wares. At this point we turned back to get dinner in the new town. We passed up on dinner at a rather elegant (but vaguely familiar) restaurant




and chose a sandwich stand on the street which was packed with locals instead. 50 cent bowls of soup and a spicey potato puff and meat sandwich.

Chefchaouen rests on a ridge near the base of a mountain. The new city sprawls in tentacles away from the more compact old city. The hostel we wanted to stay in was in the old walled city (medina). We had no idea where. It is easy to get lost in the medina. All the buildings are painted white and pale blue, as if the residents had tried to make the city look like a cloud resting on the mountain side.




As a man we asked directions from called out the question to a friend, a young woman dressed in a long light blue jellaba, glided by saying simply, "Guernica?" and gesturing us to follow. We followed her along the road and then she gestured towards the hostel before disappearing into a different blue and white street.




It turns out we were very close to the Casbah, with a plaza with a row of restaurants in front of it.







We had a late lunch and people watched.







The light against the white washed walls and the contrasting golden walls of the Casbah finally seemed to help us relax. It is spring here and everything is green, with flowers beginning to bloom. The town evokes both feelings of calm and feelings of franticness when streets become full of stores and hustlers trying to sell hashish. Later, as we got lost in the identical looking streets on the way back to our hostel, I wondered how all the foreigners who took the hustlers up on their offers, managed to find their way around. Landmarks like "the blue stairway", "the blue door", or "the ornate wall fountain", or "row of souvenir shops", were practically useless since these seemingly unique items repeated themselves through the town.










Once again, we had to ask someone.

All in all, we ended up finding the town very relaxing. The main activity seemed to be hanging out in cafes on the main plaza and shopping.




There were also a large number of young men trying to sell hashish to Rowshan. He was getting quite irritated so we started speaking in Turkish since the hustlers didn't know that language. After having the hash question pop up in several casual conversations, we realized that when Rowshan politely said, "No, I don't smoke," the pusher would seem a little abashed and reply, "Very good." With time, word seemed to spread and Rowshan was left alone. It is a small town. We wandered into a courtyard with carpet and metal shops. Pigeons perched above and quietly cooed.







So far we have found Moroccan pastries to our liking, as well as the mint tea and fresh squeezed orange juice. this has made idling in outdoor cafes and pastry shops a frequent occupation. We did manage to go visit the town's tourist site, the Casbah, a small walled garden with a pretty Andalusian style house, a tower with views over the town and a prison (no longer in use but with metal chains and cuffs in the wall...just in case.)




From the tower we could watch people walking in the streets below.




Since the town is right in the mountains, we thought we'd take a hike. The Rural Information Center, turned out to be an organization that had guided programs to rural houses and villages. The programs sounded interesting: food, apiary, medicinal plants and henna, but were a bit over our budget. The woman there did suggest an easy day hike to the source of the towns water for which a guide wasn't necessary.

The next day, after a breakfast of fresh orange juice and pastries, we followed her directions out of town and up a hill to the ruins of a mosque.




We climbed the minaret and found a teenage boy sleeping at the top. He spoke a little Spanish and through that and sign language told us he slept there because all the children at home were too noisy. Rowshan asked him if he wasn't cold. He replied by counting the 6 layers of shirts and sweaters he was wearing.

We climbed down the tower and continued on the path which was nicely marked and led past green fields, goats hopping down the rocky mountains side and some very vocal donkeys. The town grew smaller as we rose higher. The sounds of roosters crowing and bleating sheep and goats echoed in the valley while crows flew overhead.




The sun was gentle as well as the breeze. From summer in South America, we've gone to the tail end of winter in Europe to full Spring in Morocco. As I was wondering if the trail would veer up into the mountains that rose steeply above us, we came to fields full of little white flowers as well as an opening in the rocks where a small spring flowed down the hill. A small rock wall and trough had been built in front of it and a couple hoses stuck out of it. It was fairly anti climatic but I guess it was the journey, not the destination that mattered.

On our way back, we speculated about what made donkeys bray (and the little guys are LOUD). I thought it was because they were lonely, since they were tied up by themselves and sometimes when one brayed, another one seemed to answer from another part of the valley. Rowshan thought it was a territorial thing. As we walked by one donkey in a field, he turned directly towards us and brayed. Later we came to 2 in a field. As Rowshan approached, once again, one turned and let out a loud "HEE HAWWWW". Maybe Rowshan was right on this one.

So far it seems like every Moroccan we talk to speaks four languages: Arabic, French, Spanish, and English. As we wandered into the medina, 2 touts attached themselves to us assuring us, "Moroccans are friendly people. We don't want to kill you." Well that was really a load off my mind!) For people who don't know me, I'm being sarcastic!) I did, however, believe that if they accompanied us into a hotel, we would end up paying a higher price to cover their commission. He eventually left us alone which was smart because we decided against staying in the Medina and found a hotel in the new town instead. As we left the Medina the we ran into one of our new friends who tried to steer us to a different hotel.

Tangiers is a port town. The medina and the new town are both uphill from the port. We walked up the hill to find a place to eat lunch and ran into our friend again. He asked Rowshan if he wanted to buy hash. Rowshan declined and told him, "I'm a good boy. I don't smoke." Our friend seemed to lose interest in us entirely. Within an hour of being in Tangier, Rowshan was offered drugs several times which caused me to tease him with my best South Park Towelie impression, "Wanna get high?"

As luck would have it, we stumbled upon an artisan center where people had workshops making mosaics, metal work, wood carvings, gesso work, and sewing which was much more our thing.




Today before catching our bus, we decided to take a quick wander through the medina. We walked by the casbah and following a group of men through an archway, ended up outside the walls, looking at the sea.







As we walked back into the walled part of the town, we came upon another archway revealing an ornate tile wall and seat area decorated with 2 stringed instruments and various hats decorated with shell beads.




Through the arch was a tiny courtyard with a little room off of it. There were photocopies of articles, fliers and festival posters adorning the walls outside it. Inside were more postings as well as drums, hats, cushions, and metal clappers hanging from the low ceiling. The room had cushioned benches and low tables. Its one occupant was a man who greeted us, a couple stringed instruments within arms reach. We cautiously approached, not sure what it was all about. He was quick to explain, pointing to the articles which were about his band, Gnawa Express. "This is where I make contracts for festivals. Come in! There is nothing for sale. Only for showing."

We went into his room and he played a snippet of a tune on his gimbri.




He let Rowshan try one of the drums. He then told us about some of his music projects. "I have many directions: jazz, heavy metal, trance..." He pulled out a German magazine and showed us an article on trance music. "For healing without pills." .

A Conde Nast Traveler magazine had a photo of him and a band mate on their ornate courtyard stage. He explained how they sometimes do programs for tourist groups. He also showed us a poster for workshops and concerts held in Belgium, a program for a world music festival in Germany and a flier for a documentary about Tangiers which included him.

We noticed a CD on the wall and asked him if he had any CDs for sale. He managed to find one in his cupboard of clippings. He wrote the names of the songs and signed it for us. Later we realized he had charged us a ridiculous (by Moroccan standards) price, though it was a regular price by European and American standards. Once we got our CD, we had to race through the confusing medina streets to catch our bus.