We head to Chefchaouen in the hope of things getting easier. Our time in Morocco so far has been, well, trying. The effect of Ramadan greatly intensified the culture shock in Casablanca and Larache: we staggered around famished during the day eating whatever we could get our hands on, only to find at night that the dining-out culture in Moroccan society is very very male dominated. Cafes brim with men leisurely drinking tea throughout the evening; women are barely seen at all in the street after dark.
We’ve heard that Chefchaouen, despite being full of hash-peddlers, is a chilled out tourist-oriented town. We book a hotel run by Spaniards, which in itself puts us at ease: as red-neck as that sounds, it’s comforting to know we will likely share at least a basic cultural frame of reference after flailing about in deep and completely unfamiliar cultural waters so far.

The journey from Larache is long. We take a bus to the nearest “hub”, Tetouan, only to find that there are no seats available from there to Chefchaouen for about six hours. We while away the hours sitting on the cool floor of the new bus station (not really the done thing), reading and playing “slaps” (really not the done thing, but we’re delighted to see a young brother and sister picking up the game later on. Encouraging violence amongst the young, you may say, but at least there’s equality in that violence).
The bus to ‘Chaouen leaves as the sun is setting. It’s crowded, with people jumping on and off constantly without the bus even appearing to stop. Throughout the dark, windy trip my eyes keep resting on one of the figures standing in the aisle. In contrast to the shadows, this man radiates in the darkness, his traditional long white cloak with pointed hood forming an eerie figure that looks like it should belong in The Lord of the Rings.

Chefchaouen provides the atmosphere we were looking for. It’s small and pretty and very very touristy – something I once would have sneered at, preferring a true “cultural experience”. But so far the cultural experience has taken its toll: I’m sick of being stared at for being white and female and not covered from head to toe; sick of being the only woman out after dark when we eat dinner. ‘Chaouen is easy in comparison. Ramadan has also finished, eliminating the desperate daily search for something to eat, although I get the feeling that the month of fasting wouldn’t really have been much of a problem for the tourists here.
The town is brimming with restaurants, and we get to try a delicious assortment of sweet-savoury Moroccan food. We while away several days strolling through the town’s blue-washed streets, sipping mint tea and lingering over the newspaper in a restaurant or on the terrace of our hotel. We really relax for the first time on the trip, so much so that we almost forget we’re in the Muslim world. Almost.

We are reminded sharply one evening that there are things that are quite simply Not Done in this part of the world. Ambling leisurely through the main square, arms around each other, we stop and embrace, share a brief kiss and caress each other’s faces. It’s a good sight less explicit than what you can expect to see on the metro in Madrid at any given moment, and we’re so relaxed that we forget our surroundings.
But moments later a moustached man appears from nowhere. (What is it about moustaches and bigots?). He speaks angrily to Fernando:
“Hey, here, we don’t make love in the street!”
“Uh?” responds Fernando, confused.
The man puckers his lips and makes a kissing sound. “Kiss kiss. No!”
“Ah…”
“You are in the Muslim World. In the Muslim world it is forbidden to make love in the street. Here, someone comes quickly and kills you for doing that, no worries.”
Uh? I’m incensed and terrified at the same time. I want to tell this nutter exactly what I think of him, though I know it probably wouldn’t be the most productive approach. Not that my opinion counts, anyway, because the man hasn’t even looked at me, directing his tirade exclusively at Fernando. Thankfully, he handles the situation with composure, politely nodding and apologising, and we walk off home with heads spinning.

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