Today is the day of the Green March in Morocco. It’s a national holiday here, so schools, banks, and just about every other institution are shuttered for the day. There’s a compelling history to this day too. In 1956, Morocco gained independence from France. The nation elected a king and assembled a national government. The Spanish did not leave with the French; even today, they have territory in Morocco (Ceuta). Spanish holdings were far more significant in the mid twentieth century, much to the frustration of the second Moroccan king, Hassan II. Of particular consternation were their holdings in the Saharan desert. So on this day, the king and thousands of his subjects marched through Spanish territory in the Saharan desert, Koran and palm leaves in hand. It was a powerful message, and one that spooked the Spanish government—they quickly packed up and retreated.
Much of my time in Morocco has been characterized by trips away from Rabat. This post is no exception. A week and a half ago, I embarked with members of my program on our final excursion, a week long trip through northern Morocco and Andalusian Spain. Our journey began on Saturday, and at midday we arrived at our first destination, Ouezzane. The town is nestled in the Rif Mountains, the northernmost mountain range in Morocco. Under the previous king, the region received little attention and even less federal investment. Local farmers adapted, and began growing cannabis. Today, the Rif region is one of the greatest producers of marijuana in the world, and consequently, its economic health is tied to the sale of hashish.
We lunched in Ouezzane at the home of the wife of one of our program leaders. She’s descended from local royalty, and has a home befitting her lineage. The property, at the top of a hill overlooking the city, has many buildings, lush gardens, and its own olive oil pressing facilities. We lunched there, delighting in the most succulent chicken, bread, and olive oil I’ve ever tasted. Afterwards, I stepped away and walked through Ouezzane, reveling in how untouched it was by tourism. Pastel blues washed the exterior walls of buildings, and two little Moroccan girls, fascinated by the presence of a foreigner, followed me with curiosity through the city’s winding alleyways.
That afternoon we moved on to Chefchouen by bus. Chefchouen bore many similarities to Ouezzane, with many of the same qualities, only intensified. The Rif Mountains rise up steeply from the base of the Chefchouen, and its bathed in a bluish palette ranging from pastel to deeply saturated blues. Tourism, behind hashish growing, is the lifeblood of the city. Spanish tourists flock to Chefchouen because of its beauty and the local language. Due to Spanish colonization in the northern part of Morocco, Spanish supplants French as the second language of locals (Arabic is the first).
We stayed three days and two nights in Chefchouen, touring its small medina, meeting with local NGO’s, and taking in the beauty of this mountainous, rain-soaked paradise. Visits to local NGO’s revealed that the region’s physical beauty did not correlate with the quality of life of its residents. Female illiteracy is near ninety percent in local villages, and access to basic supplies is often difficult. Like their counterparts in Ouezzane, farmers in the Chefchouen region are often forced to grow hashish to survive. They aren’t the one’s profiting from its sale, either. Monday morning we once again moved on, to Fnideq, a border town right on the edge of the Spanish held territory, Ceuta.
Our journey northward took us through Tetouan, another popular tourist destination. For the last hour of our drive we mirrored the Mediterreanean, winding between beach resorts hastily being constructed before the upcoming season and the teal waves of the sea. We dipped our toes briefly in the Mediterreanean at a seaside beach before reaching Fnideq.
Fnideq bears many of the qualities of other border towns I’ve visited. Most noticeably, it overflows with contraband from nearby Spanish Ceuta. Moroccans come from all over the country to acquire European goods that could otherwise only be obtained with a heavy customs duty attached to them. Makeshift bazaars dot the city, and street vendors block sidewalks with tarps littered with watches, purses, and other household goods. For us, Fnideq primarily served as a resting point before leaving Morocco and crossing the Mediterreanean. Even so, we met with one NGO doing very powerful work in empowering local women to complete their educations and work in environments typically the domains of men.
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Your observations of the land and the people as well as the commerce and agriculture are most interesting. What a wonderful experience, which you describe so well.