Always bring a camera!!

Chefchaouen is the city we've visited with the most consecutive vowels in its name. Located high in the Rif mountains, this little village gave us the break we were looking for from the intense heat we experienced in Fez and Marrakesh. The days were a perfect temperature and the nights were pleasantly breezy with the cool mountain air.

We spent the first night on the terrace of the hostal we were hoping to get a room in and the next two nights in a quaint double room. The cost of living is just right for our pocket book. Breakfast cost about 25 cents for two people and the night's stay in our friendly hostal was a whopping 12 dollars. So, we decided to stay a few days... We went for a very leisurely hike up the mountain and took in the views. This village is literally built on the mountain side so the vistas are awesome. Just click on any of the photos to see it enlarged.

It is a little known fact that the Rif mountains are where the word "reefer" came from. Most of the local farmers earn their living off of a special little herb that rhymes with Lariuana. "Kif" as it's known locally is sold and consumed readily and kind of makes Chefchaouen a very mellow place to be. There are lots of munchies available at just about every street corner. For instance if you had the craving for it, you could munch on a little raw chicken neck.

It was a relaxing place to spend some time in but as usual, we felt it was time to hit the road again after a few days. We took a bus and "grand taxi" to Asilah on the West coast of Morocco. This is your typical little beach town where everyone seems to live in flip flops 24/7. The beach has not been photographed for your veiwing pleasure as it looks much like every other beach you've seen. Also, there wouldn't have been enough room for the chicken photo... priorities.

Yesterday, for the first time on our trip, we had the opportunity to get a little vitamin D on the beach. Like the blinding light of a photographers camera, we unclothed out pasty white unquestionably Canadian bodies and blinded our fellow Moroccan beach goers. Most were polite enough not to stare but we knew the truth. Then last night, right as we had decided to call it a night, while crossing the street, we came face to face with a parade. There was a guy dressed in a long flashy robe looking curiously like Santa Clause, drummers, horn players, and dancers. Naturally, we thought, this parade needed a couple of clueless Canadians who didn't know what this was about or where it was going. So we got in, danced, and made a rucus with the best of them. So what if we were the only tourists in the lot. What good is a parade without tourists.

Next stop is Spain and the almighty euro.