The Way to a City's Heart is through Your Stomach

We left Chefchaouen in search of new adventures, which came in the form of very old ruins. Volubilis was a Roman city of about 20-25 thousand people at its peak and was the southernmost Roman city in what is now Morocco. 

See Volubilis in the bottom left corner of the red Roman empire?

The Romans settled in Volubilis because of its fertile land, where they grew wheat and olives for oil. The Roman city stood for centuries until finally being leveled by an earthquake in the 1700s, and only a fraction of the site has been excavated so far. That said, Volubilis is one of the most impressive Roman sites that I have ever visited, and my parents felt the same way. It's a combination of how much was actually there with how well things were preserved (particularly mosaics) and how nicely it has been restored. We wandered through enormous, partially rebuilt houses with exquisite mosaic floors depicting Hercules or other gods. 

The largest houses had fountains in the center and fish ponds off to the side, possibly with a natural hot spring jacuzzi tucked around the back. God, the Romans were into their bathing. They had large public baths as well as fancy private baths will little nooks carved out for each individual bather.

From the giant stone houses, which would have housed the patricians (the plebs lived further outside of the city in much smaller dwellings), we exited onto the Apian Way. 

This road, which enters the city through a large archway and continues directly to the Victory Arch, was an extension of the trade route from Rome… hence the phrase “all roads lead to Rome.” Below the Apian Way ran the deep sewer system (remember how the Romans figured out the importance of those centuries before most of our “modern” societies?), 

Checking out the deep, millenium-old sewer system

alongside it were the ruins of ancient storefronts, and up above on one edge was a brief stretch of aqueduct that used to bring sweet water from the mountains to the fertile lands below. Those lands remain fertile, with odd geometries of cash crops piecing together the valley below and riots of wild irises filling the gaps between rough-hewn stones.

After standing in awe of the Victory Arch, 

we wandered the former marketplace, which was decorated with mosaics of more everyday items, like fish. 

We also explored the Judiciary Basilica, now home to more storks than people, appreciating how the intricate carvings on columns had managed to survive a millenium.

Other fun Volubilis facts:

- the swastika shape was brought to the west by Alexander the Great, who first saw it in India. It was a symbol of piece and was often depicted going the other direction from the version the Germans used.

- the Romans buried their dead outside of their cities, creating a necropolis, or “city of the dead”

- the infinity knot, which appears in numerous mosaics at Volubilis, is also known as the love knot, which is the origin of the phrase “tie the knot”

- the god Bacchus is often depicted with some of the 9 muses. The word “muse” is a part of many modern words related to the arts, including music and amusement

- Roman storefronts are identifiable by the ridges that run in the vertical stones that lined the front of the store, as they had doors that slid up and down, much like modern day kiosks or garages.

From Volubilis, we traveled to Meknes, home to the palace built by Sultan Mulay Ismael, a cruel ruler who killed his architect to prevent him from building a grander palace for anyone else. The giant gates of his palace remain awe-inspiring centuries later, 

though the atmosphere is a bit more relaxed than it might have been in his day. Across the street from the palace gates, snake charmers play their flutes, monkeys dance around in brightly colored pajamas, and tiny horses bearing elaborately decorated saddles frolic and wrestle. 

The palace Sultan Mulay Ismael built is one of the 18-19 palaces used by the current king, who typically comes to town for an international agricultural conference held in Meknes.  While Sultan Mulay was known for his cruelty, he did have another important legacy. He learned of tea from some of his European prisoners, and it became the national drink during his rule. And boy, do Moroccans like their tea.

Our final stop for the day was Fez, a city multiple friends had told us was their favorite in all of Morocco. The name Fez means ax, after the tools they reportedly used to dig for the materials to build the city. One of the first groups to live in Fes was Andalusian refugees, who settled on one side of the river. On the other side of the river, Tunisian refugees settled, and the city was born. Fez boasts the oldest continuous center of higher education in the world, per their tourism materials, the Univeristy of Al Quaraouiyine. It also boasts master craftsmen of many disciplines, including carpenters, carvers, tile workers, weavers, tanners… you name it, they’ve got it. The old part of the city, the Medina, has 14 entrances leading to over 9,000 alleyways. Lifelong residents can find their way around, but pretty much nobody else can. The rabbit warren that is the Medina encloses tightly knit communities but also makes the transition to modern life difficult, with alleyways too narrow for modern appliances to be delivered, let alone for ambulances in an emergency. And yet, it’s an incredibly beautiful and fascinating place.

Our introduction to Fez was through food. A Fez native, Nabil, led us through the marketplace of the Medina to sample its delicacies. We started with rghaif (“rife”), a crepe covered with caramelized onions and other deliciousness that was one of the best things we have had in Morocco. 

We then tried its cousin baharir (note: almost all of these spellings are my attempt at phonetic spellings), a spongy coral-like bread covered in honey. Next were kebabs of kefta (spiced minced meat), bibi (turkey), and kebda (liver), 

followed by fresh dates still on the branch. We tried olives of all types, including with lemon, with spices, or black from being left on the tree, as well as preserved lemon and very salty pickles. 

We sampled honey with different tastes based on the bees territory, including lavender, fig (delicious!), rosemary, orange, carob, acacia, coriander (fantastic), cedar, and euphorbia (amazing and has an afterburn in the back of your throat). 

We ate maacouda, fried balls of mashed potato mixed with garlic, chives, and egg (another favorite). We then picked up a sugary Moroccan donut called a svinge, which tasted almost like a French cruller. Then, it was back to savory with a stop for harira, a soup that Moroccans eat daily during Ramadan. Finally, it was on to desserts, including shebekkia (honey-soaked fried dough swirls), gazelle horns (an almond paste-filled cookie), and sweet avocado shakes. 

Thinking we were finished, we headed for the exit, but when we passed a stand selling snails we couldn’t resist the challenge. They were fine, but certainly not something I’d seek out again.

We arrived at last at our next riad, which actually seems more like a palace. It’s certainly one of the nicest places I’ve ever stayed. And then to sleep, to prepare for the next adventure…

Spotted: A premade mix of spices in the marketplace, designed for rookie cooks. Add a teaspoon of the mix to a tagine, and you can't go wrong!

The Adventures of Love Flower and Door

We awoke on our second day in Chefchaouen to clear, crisp weather so inviting that I had to sneak out for a run, even though a sprinting woman is an odd sight probably seen only in emergencies in this mountain town. With a pin dropped for our riad on my trusty offline Google Maps, I set off on the winding streets, turning around only for dead end streets. I later learned that the dead-end streets are painted a darker shade of blue, knowledge that would have been very helpful to have had on my run. I headed in the general direction of the Spanish Mosque, where I found a few sweaty and heavy-breathing tourists and a beautiful sunrise. Finding my way home from the mosque was much trickier than getting there, and I was grateful that people on the streets spoke Spanish. Gosh, it felt good to stretch my legs.

In fact, we spent nearly the entire day on foot. After breakfast, we drove to a nearby national park and hiked through the mountains.

Our guide, a Chefchaouen local named Lutfi, was amazing and knew the names of nearly all the plants in Arabic, Spanish, Latin, and English.

He patiently guided us along the tight switchbacks, up steep inclines and around narrow parts of the path. He pointed out or picked a sampling of the flora: cyprus, heather, oleander, juniper, and cork.

Caroline holding cyprus and heather

It turns out that cork is in the oak family and has acorns with little hedgehog-prickled caps. These “corkcorns” are used to make toys for children. Lutfi also commented that Margaret, my mother’s name, was another name for a daisy, and that this flower was also called a love flower (think “He loves me, he loves me not” petal picking). In that moment, my mother’s nickname for the trip was born. We continued our hike, with incredible clear water below and birds chirping up above, until we reached the Bridge of God, which stretches over the river between the two mountainsides.

On the Bridge of God with Lutfi

With Ahmed on the Bridge of God in the background (on the right)

After fortifying ourselves with dates and fresh oranges, we headed back on a different route that wound through a small outpost of a village. Along the roadside, our guide pointed out a cannabis plant and told us that the chickens here are fed cannabis seed which apparently makes them more delicious. I’m not sure any of us knew what to think. The farms along these houses also had goats, donkeys and mules, cows, and chickens, as well as groves of gnarled, ancient olive trees, some of which were 500 years old.

Can you spot both Caroline and Lutfi in the olive tree?

On we trekked until a fork in the road, were our resilient mother and her trekking poles headed off one direction to the restaurant while the rest of us headed out on hike part two. This part headed out to a small waterfall; another big waterfall lay beyond it but was too far to add on to this hike if we hoped to make it back to Chefchaouen before dinner. Hike part two had gentler terrain, with rolling hills and a cool stream gurgling alongside.

The rock face on one side rose steeply and revealed an interesting, porous stone that looked almost pumice-like but which was brown and less sharp and scratchy. Lutfi told us it was from the mud packing down around tree and plant roots until it became stone. The negative space was from the roots that had eventually rotted away, leaving the stone looking so Swiss cheese-y.

It turned out these little holes weren’t the only ones in the rock. Per Lutfi, Morocco has numerous underground cave systems, with over 200 known caves, some enormous. His descriptions reminded me of the cave systems I explored (and the giant ones that I heard about) while in central Vietnam.

This hike was an out-and-back that ended at the smaller waterfall.

Stairs cut into the rock led down to a deck over the river that we could only imagine was perfection on a hot summer day. Heck, it was pretty darn perfect in the middle of winter. We relaxed to the soundtrack of waterfall white noise while peeling fresh oranges and sailing little orange peel boats down the river (after repeated assurances that we shouldn’t throw them out instead). Then, it was time to head back. Just before we made it back, Lutfi remembered he had brought us a present: henna! He wrote our names on our hands in Arabic and taught us that the name Bob sounds like the Arabic word for door (bab). We carefully guarded our hennaed hands on the rest of the walk back and washed them in a fountain just before the end of the hike. Even after only 10-20 minutes, our names were stained dark brown on our skin.

Our arrival at the restaurant to meet our fearless matriarch was not a moment too soon. We made it under the roof and to a table moments before the sky opened up and drenched the park. A few soaked stragglers arrived an hour or so later, after we had warmed ourselves with hot tea, soup, and grilled sardines (surprisingly good – and big!), and we counted our blessings once more.

We returned to Chefchaouen and my sister and I set out to find her a small painting by which to remember our trip. Of course it had to include the iconic blue buildings and blue doors that make Chefchaouen so unique. We wandered along the storefronts in the drizzle, stopping to admire an artist’s work or try on a bedazzled velvet robe (which we later learned is worn in weddings, rather than as the soft, velvety pajama-y robe I desired). At last, we found a small painting that captured the winding streets, shades of blue, and peaceful rhythm of Chefchaouen.

We ended the day with dinner. Exhausted from our day, we tried to stick to our favorites so far but had some unexpected surprises, not least of which was our “fruit salad” dessert. While most of our fruit salads have been cubed fresh fruit, sometimes with a little bit of orange juice, this fruit salad was served as a pool of light green pistachio cream with (we hoped) fruit underneath. Not one to pass up an adventure, we laughed our way through dessert. Not our favorite preparation, but certainly something new.

Spotted 1: peacocks! There were several of these in the Chefchaouen town square, where their owners hoped tourists would pay for photos with the birds. Then, we saw a couple wandering the countryside and learned that they are sometimes used as guard animals!

Spotted 2: chicken-skinned tourists – us. Here in Morocco, people with pale, easily-sunburned skin are said to have “chicken skin”.

Additional photos: 

A dead beetle we found with a shiny green belly and a gold back beneath its wings

My mother demonstrating the art of Trekking Pole Kwan Do, the martial art of hikers

Aggressive terracing to make the mountainside into farmland, reminiscent of Sapa in Vietnam

Where Mountains Meet

This morning marked the end of our time in Rabat, and we bid adieu following a long breakfast that meandered from donuts to vegetable sandwiches to puff pastries to crepes to yogurt with fresh strawberries. Every time we thought the meal was finally served, it seemed another course was coming in the door. I'm not sure if this is how all riads are in Morocco or if it's because we're American or because they were impressed how much fruit salad we devoured last night, but each meal could serve twice as many people as are in our group.

The rest of our morning was eaten up by the long drive to Chefchaouen, with a bracing tea break. It seems they gave us the weak mint tea yesterday. The stuff today had us wired after only a few sips.

Pre-tea

Post-tea

For the remainder of the ride, as the relatively flat, lush landscape transformed into rolling, arid hills, we commented on the similarities of high-altitude subsistence farming, crafts, and cultures we have encountered while waiting to be unleashed and burn off our caffeine high. Along the way, we saw large, mud-walled squares where salt water pools evaporated into salt crystals that could be harvested. Huts with mounds of olives outside churned out the crushed olive fruit, which was processed in the traditional way: mashing it into a paste, putting it in a palm leaf basket, and smooshing the oil out into a water basin, where the oil would separate from the water and any remaining olive solids. After passing a large building that once served as the customs office between French Morocco and Spanish Morocco, we saw the traditional dress change. Straw hats adorned with cheerful, colorful pom poms on the brim and top shaded faces from the sun, while red- and white-striped cloths were wrapped tightly around waists like a skirt to protect the other clothes from dust and grime.

The traditional straw hats. Per Ahmed, the ones with pom poms are typically worn by women, but I've seen them on people of both sexes.

Cork trees rose to frame the street, and I realized that I had never really known where corks came from... Did you?

At long last, Chefchaouen rose into sight.

Its name, which means "look at the horns", is based on the location of Chefchaouen at the nadir between two mountain peaks. According to Ahmed, Chefchaouen [or "Chaouen", pronounced "sh-OW-en" (rhymes with wow-en)] was founded in 1471 by Ali Bin Rasheed to prevent the Portuguese invasion from progressing further into Morocco. The casbah, or fortress, was built to defend the area, and a wall was built around the city. This looks like it was pretty hard to construct, since the wall rises up a mountain and it's unclear where they got the materials. In the modern day, the defining feature of Chefchaouen is its blue color. Every building is painted at least partially blue, and the shade ranges from royal blue to seafoam to teal. As we approached the town, my mother exclaimed, "It's the smurfs' town!" while my sister added, "a blue ninja would do well here". I'm glad my family has such cultured responses to historic landmarks.

Then again, my first thought on learning that this was in (formerly) Spanish Morocco was, "Thank God I won't have to pantomime everything anymore." If anyone has come up with a good charades act for the word "ginger", let me know.

We settled into our riad, which could certainly double as a smurf palace, before walking to lunch. We tried various local dishes, like harira and bissara (fava bean) soup, but I will admit that we weren't huge fans. However, the taste and texture of dishes varies greatly between restaurants (as in all countries), so maybe we'll have to give them another shot. Of course, with my medical school word associations deeply entrenched, I was just glad that nobody trying the fava bean soup later discovered they had G6PD deficiency.

After lunch, we wandered Chefchaouen, stopping at shops to look at local goods and meandering through the casbah, which offered beautiful views from its turrets and dark reminders of prisoners suffering in its prison.

As the sun fell lower in the sky, we changed course and headed up to the Spanish Mosque, a brilliantly white building that was built as a sort of olive branch by a Spanish military officer to the stubborn Chefchaouens. As with hardheaded people everywhere, the Chefchaouens rejected the gift and the Spanish Mosque has never actually been used as a mosque. (Of note, the name "Spanish Mosque" is the one used for tourists. The locals call it the "Big Moustache Mosque" - in Arabic - after the Spanish officer who donated it.) Still, it sees plenty of foot traffic, as its position high up on the mountain and its near-panoramic views make it the perfect place to watch the sunset... with hundreds of other people.

Local teenage boys played guitar and girls posed for "with the band" selfies. Tourists swung tired legs as they sat on the stone walls and waited for a rainbow sky. At long last, the sun fell behind the far mountains and the sky gradually gave up pinks, oranges, blues, and purples.

We headed back down the mountain before our path became dark and headed to dinner, where we had couscous and kefta (a minced meat/Moroccan meatball dish) and a vegetable cake (for our resident vegan). With fires blazing in the hearths and comfortable blankets and cushions on our bench seat, it was a place we could have easily had another 3-hour dinner. This time, though, we managed to restrain ourselves and head riad-ward before 10.

Spotted:
Names carved into cactus leaves/paddles, the way that names are carved into trees by lovestruck teenagers in the United States.

Additional photos from our day:

Grape vines wrap around electricity lines as they weave through the town

Our bread always comes in these large, flat wheels. According to Ahmed, the average Moroccan eats about 1000 loaves of bread per year, or about 3 loaves per day.

We saw even more people, particularly men, wearing djellabas. When we first saw tan or brown djellabas, particularly from the back, we were reminded of the attire of Tusken Raiders (aka Sand People) from Star Wars

Many small Moroccan communities still use communal bakeries. Each family will prepare their bread ,which looks a little bit different, and bring it to the baker. The baker has made bread for these families for years and can identify the proper home for each loaf.