I woke up this morning at five a.m. -- the wonderful glories of jet lag -- and got out of bed immediately, completely aware of the fact that my body would let me sleep no more. By six-thirty I was on the road, in a taxi to the train station. There, I bought a ticket, and at seven fifteen got on a train to Algericas, where I arrived at noon. I then boarded a ferry and crossed the Strait of Gibraltar. Arriving in Ceuta (also called Sebta--this a Spanish "colony" or outpost or territory, or whatever you like to call it, on the African continent), I took a bus to the Moroccan border, walked across by foot and took three taxis (collective taxi followed by solo taxi followed by collective taxi) to finally arrive in Chefchaoen.
As some may remember, I visited this town a little under a year ago (May 28th, 2006), and wrote about it on this blog.
Well, I have returned, and oddly enough (I am not sure if I am being facetious or not at the moment), nothing has changed. The fields still shimmer; the sun bouncing off the shining marijuana leaves that pack the landscape. The houses still glow, almost supernaturally, the light reflecting off of their strange blue-white paint. Scores of young men still offer me marijuana. I even recognize the damn guys at the cafes on the square. Unfortunately, this includes the little strange looking inbred type of fellow that always tries to get me to eat at his place.
Luckily, he does not seem to have recognized me, though two people have already used this familiar Moroccan trick as a means to get me to talk to them. One guy approached me on the street and said, "Hey friend, how are you? Do you remember me? From the square? Some time ago?"
Note the lovely use of ambiguity here--so nuanced, so refined...Some time ago....the square? Ahhh...The vagueness of the question honestly had me wondering for a minute if he was being serious..."Maybe he does remember me," I thought, and then I realized that he was full of shit.
Another guy approached me speaking Italian. "Ciao, tutto bene?" he asked me.
"Tutto," I responded, "grazie."
"Remember me?" he asked me, still in Italian.
"No," I told him, quite honestly.
"Maximiliano," he said, "you are Maximiliano."
"No, I am not Maximiliano," I told him.
For the rest of our conversation, which pretty much centered on him trying to sell me pot and me demurring, he called me Maximiliano.
An interesting side note: This region in which I find myself is known as the Rif, and is the biggest marijuana producer in the area. Apparently (I say this, because I can not remember the statistics), some huge portion of European marijuana comes from this very area. Anyway, some say that the once common, now totally passe, term "reefer", can be traced to these mountains and their title.
Back to now; as for future plans, I think that I will stay in this town for another night or two, spending my days walking through the fields of mild hallucinogens, before heading a bit south to Fez. From there, I plan to head West, through Meknes, Casablanca, and finally Rabat.
More to follow soon.
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