I’ve got the blues as we drive away from the fairy-tale that is Chefchaouen; a picturesque citadel in North Morocco known for its beautiful
blue buildings that fill the old medina. In the 1930’s after escaping persecution
in Spain, Jewish refugees painted the walls of Chefchaouen blue as a symbol of the
sky and heaven. Entering the old medina truly feels like stumbling into a castle
in the sky, I have no doubt that it inspired many fairy tales.
Instead of trying to describe the magical sensation,
For which there is no appropriate explanation,
Let me rewind, into my childish mind
And tell you a story.
Behind a castle wall in a pocket in the sky, there lived an old man.
His house was at the top of a long, winding staircase inside a skinny blue
building that looked onto the surrounding streets of Chefchaouen. When he
stood on the cracked blue tile at the back of his terrace he could see the
mosque; every evening against the midnight blue the lights would come on and
he’d look upon it feeling it’s grandeur as it stood in the spotlight. Every
morning he’d shower, dress and walk to work through the Kasbah (town square)
passed each of the colourful flowerpots that were hung daintily against the faded
blue walls. As he reached the square the first of five calls to prayer would
sound; he’d dutifully join his fellow men in removing their leather slippers
and bowing their heads to enter the mosque, their sacred place of worship.
When he stepped out and slipped his foot back into his slippers, he’d
walk away leaving a trail of gold dust behind him; his heart expanding with
love for his fellow men and his magical town. He’d humbly bow his head with
gratefulness and with kind eyes, walk back along the windy street and under a
low archway. The shades of surrounding blue would wash over him, cleansing away the
last of the gold dust. As he looked up a young foreigner in a bright orange
dress caught his eye and he smiled, holding his right hand to his heart he
spoke softly “Murhaba” – he welcomed her to his home. He returned to his stall where
his silk scarves were strewn, shimmering against the sunlight that had escaped through
the crack of cobalt roof above him. The designs on the scarves made him think
of his father’s stories when he was young; they were Berber designs, made and
worn by the indigenous people of North Africa. They lived in different regions
all over the country from the Draa valley to the Atlas Mountains; as nomads they
would travel across mountains and deserts on camels, migrating around the
availability of food, water and shelter. The men often took care of the
livestock while the women looked after the family and made beautiful
handicrafts to be sold in the town souks (markets). His grandfather had
instilled pride into him through his stories that he could still recite word
for word.
A group of long haired travellers in baggie trousers were meandering
along the blue street now with wide, hungry eyes. They scanned the scarves on
his stall, adding colourful condiments to their visual feast – the mass of
geometric patterns made their heads spin. “20 Durham?” One of the girls held a
scarf towards him but her gaze had drifted towards the blue postcards on the
stall next door. He gently shook his head, straightening the scarves and
sighing with a smile; in broken English he explained that they were worth far
more than 20 Durham. She put down the scarf and began to walk away,“Shukran” a quiet thank you could be heard as her orange trousers disappeared down the alley. He sat down on his stool and picked
up his glass of sweet, mint tea that was almost cool enough to drink.It was almost lunchtime now so he pulled out his kiefe (a light mixture of marijuana, local tobacco and dried herbs) to pack into the small clay head of his wooden pipe. He stepped inside his friends neighbouring shop to light it, inhaled a long, deep breath and felt the tension at the back of his head evaporate. One more deep inhale and he blew out sharply into his pipe, watching the embers fall to the ground. A thought popped into his head, it was Friday! The day his sister made cous cous for the family – he had to remember to pick up the bread like he had promised…
Business had been slow today, there was no harm in going to lunch
earlier this way he would have time to greet his brother before the next call
to prayer. He had a last sip of mint tea, leaving the sediment at the bottom of
the glass and walked back under the archway. A group of ginger kittens ran
between his legs and he looked up at their mother who was sitting regally on
the indigo windowsill above them. Mahmoud was sat in his usual place surrounded
by bundles of dried herbs – it seemed business had also been slow. As they talked
a light breeze picked up and the sun was veiled by a large wisp of cloud that
transformed the indigos, aquas and pastel blues to nameless shades as the call to
prayer again, filled the alleys of Chefchaouen. The medina was filling up with
smells of harrira and tagine as the cloud blew over, unveiling the last of the
sun. The blue of Chefchaouen was expanding now to the
surrounding valleys and its blue lagoons, up the mountains, into the waterfalls and out into the
expanse of blue sky. And just like in any other fairytale the people of
Chefchaouen continued to live happily, ever after. 
