Days 36 & 37.

"The limits of my language means the limits of my world" 

Ludwig Wittgenstein

The limits of our world were widened this weekend as we experienced Chefchaouen; a whimsical European village four hours north of Fez. Our various linguistic abilities allowed us an insight into the lives of the inhabitants of this blue gem.

The atmosphere in Chefchaouen was wonderfully relaxed. Unlike Fez, it's quiet. The essential hustle and bustle was hidden from our eyes and ears. This means that all travellers to Chefchaouen experience a refreshing lack of forced trade.

That isn’t to say that tourism isn’t rife as it is the main dependent for many of the inhabitants, who luckily are very good at their job.

These people, whose livelihood depends on the quality of their salesmen ship, have incredibly impressive linguistic abilities. The majority of these shop keepers and waiters will not have attended university, yet they are able to converse in Spanish, French, English, Daraja and Fusha. A feat even more impressive when you learn that their native tongue is Berber - the language of the desert. It’s upsetting to know that these vastly talented young men and women will never have their abilities recognised by more than the thousands of impatient tourists who flock to the town each year.

Our month's worth of Daraja was used almost excessively as we befriended Ali, who's restaurant we quickly adopted and Mohammad who sold us countless pieces of jewellery and outrageous trousers. Both new friends although from Berber decent spoke Daraja and insisted that we receive local prices and information simply because we spoke to them in stilted Arabic. Mandela's quote "...talk to a man in his language and it goes to his heart" could not be better applied to these situations. 

We impressed ourselves with how much we understood and how far we able to communicate. We learnt about Mohammad's mother from the Sahara, his father from the Rif, and his summer work in Australia. A parting gift to us was a leather friendship bracelet saying "It's nice to do nice things for your friends". Indeed...and it helped as we had just bought half his shop.

Communication was essential when we planned to climb one of the many majestic mountains surrounding Chefchaouen. Local goat herders, small girls and elderly men pointed us in the right direction after the appropriate 10 minute greeting. There is always time to enquire about yourself, your family, your children, your relatives, your animals, whilst thanking god for each thing in turn. Although this is a cultural evolution the language lends itself to these conversations. Arabic was not created to communicate through writing. It was created to express thoughts, greetings and feelings with an unlimited number of words. Time for people. Wonderful.

Saturday was spent hiking high up the gorge from the centre of the village. The view from the top of the mountain gave us a perfect panoramic view of the various villages nestled into the Rif Mountains. Breathtaking. Literally. 

Maybe it was the fresh air, or the scenery, or the un-mistakable aroma of weed that hung over the village, but everyone was enveloped by an overwhelming sense of calm. We spent the evenings on the roof of our hostel as astronomers, exploring the ever emerging stars. Our hostel resembled a bohemian refugee camp, particularly on the roof where it was possible to sleep in one of the makeshift bedrooms. Towels and scarves split up the rooms and various accents drifted out from behind the clashing curtain patterns. Another linguistic phenomenon in the middle of the Rif Mountains.

Our return journey, punctuated by a road side BBQ was all the more exciting as we realised that what we had previously just called Fez, was now home.

In other news, after losing my ring for 4 days it was found in the fridge, next to the aubergine.

الله يهنيك

Nay xxx