Exploring Morocco’s Rif Region

posted on: Apr 18, 2018

By Habeeb Salloum/Arab America Contributing Writer

“I’m anxious and excited!  We’re going to explore a part of Morocco that I have never seen!”  My friend Ahmed mused as we began our journey, driving northward from Rabat, Morocco’s capital.  A feeling of anticipation was in the air as Ahmed, driving our small rented Fiat, talked about the Rif and its historic mountains – the area we were going to explore in the next few days.

I had met Ahmed, a Lebanese ophthalmologist and his wife Christine, also an eye doctor living in France, at a mutual friend’s place in Rabat and had decided to go on the northern Moroccan journey of exploration together.  Now we were on our way to the region where the famous Moroccan nationalist Abd El-Karim El-Khattabi had, in the 1920s, with only a few men, battled the Spanish and French armies to a standstill.

At Kenitra we turned eastward and stopped at Souk Al Arba for lunch.  The mouth-watering smell of barbecuing meat filled the air as walked into what appeared to be the best restaurant on the main street of town.  However as soon as we sat down, flies joined us by the dozens. The tough lamb meat and the annoying insects that swarmed around us made for an unappetizing lunch – not worth the $22. the three of us paid for the meal.

On the other hand, my memories about Moroccan wayside food has not always been so aggravating. A few years back when taking a bus from Casablanca to Marrakesh, I sat next to a Moroccan who was very sociable and we became travelling friends.  When the bus stopped for half an hour for breakfast, I invited him to share the morning meal with me. He grabbed my hand saying, “Come with me to the back of the restaurant and have some real Moroccan food!” Soon we were enjoying a lamb tajine – as the saying goes, ‘finger-licking good’.  The tajine in small and large tajine dishes had been allowed to cook over low heat overnight and now around me a dozen Moroccans were relishing the succulent results.  It was a meal to remember!

Beyond Souk El Arba, when Ahmed asked a traffic officer in Arabic, “What is the way to the town of Ouezzane? he received the response in French, “à gouche!”  “Strange!” I thought to myself, “In an Arab country a man of authority who is asked a question in Arabic answers in French.” Yet, for one who is knowledgeable in modern Moroccan history it comes as no surprise.  Morocco since its independence from France in the mid-20th century, instead of being Arabized has been Frenchified by its own ruling class.

The winding road traversed prosperous looking farmlands then green hills until we reached Ouezzane – a town nestled on a hillside.   We toured the town by auto then strolled through its old section. To us it did not seem to offer much to travellers – only an ancient looking tiled Zawiya, a Muslim religious structure.

At the foot of the old town, I asked a roadside merchant if the town had been under French or Spanish rule.  He looked puzzled, “Oh! I don’t know but I think it was in the French part of Morocco.” For more than a half century the colonial past had been forgotten.  Yet, in the peoples’ language the colonial language remains a thriving element.

Beyond Ouezzane, it was the same winding road and tree-covered hillsides.  Only the hills began to increase in height and the cork, olive and the variety of other trees, many newly planted, became more numerous.  Climbing upwards we turned on top of a hill and behold, before us on the opposite hillside stood Chefchaouen, shinning like a sparkling jewel in the twilight hours.

Soon we had settled in the Hotel Parador at the foot of the old city.  We were all excited, hardly being able to wait to explore its narrow climbing streets and eye-catching blue-trimmed white structures, reminding travellers of the town’s connection to Andalusia.

When the Arab Muslims in Spain were defeated they were forced into exile in large groups, mostly to the North African lands.  One of these groups of refugees settled in northern Morocco and established Chefchaouen – a town whose some 50,000 inhabitants today are virtually all descendants of these bitter exiles.  To these fugitives, Chefchaouen became a sacred town that no European could enter – so angry were the people at the cruel fate of their ancestors. This only changed when the French/Spanish forces in 1926 defeated the Rif rebellion led by Abd El-Karim El-Khattabi.

Walking around exploring the old town and reminiscing about its history, I stopped by a white-haired distinguished looking merchant and asked: “Do the people here still speak the Andalusian Arabic dialect once spoken in Moorish Spain?”  “Of course!” He hesitated for a moment as one of his customers broke in, “It isn’t true! Only a few of us know the Andalusian dialect. We speak Moroccan!” I walked out puzzled. “Perhaps some still live in the world of nostalgia!” I thought to myself.

However, Chefchaouen’s connection to Andalusia is still vividly alive in other ways.  The white-washed homes, the names of the shops, visitors’ abodes and the general appearance of the town all remind travelers of Andalusian towns.

The next morning after again exploring the old town with its many attractive designed doors – in fact an ancient door stands at the entrance to the city as an emblem of the town – we drove eastward through forested mountains.  Here and there were villages located on mountainsides, valleys and at times, even peaks. The Rif Mountains, through which we were driving, have no settlements much larger than extended villages. It is said this countryside is ideal for guerrilla warfare.  It is no wonder then that Abd El-Karim El-Khattabi’s men were able to often ambush the Spanish and French armies in these hills.

Abd El-Karim El-Khattabi led a wide-scale armed resistance movement against Spanish and French rule in North Africa and established the short-lived Republic of the Rif (1921–26).  A skilled tactician and a skilful organizer, he led a liberation movement that made him the hero not only in Morocco but also among the oppressed in the world. His guerilla tactics are known to have inspired, among others, Che Guevara, Ho Chi Minh and Mao Zedong.

We drove on and on along a busy winding highway through at times bare but at other times wooded mountains.  All this time Christine, Ahmed and myself kept up a lively conversation in Arabic, French and English, translating back and forth and time passed quickly.  We were belaboring a point when I pointed to women walking on the side of the road with wide-rimmed straw hats. “See there! Do you know that the Mexican sombrero had its origin in this part of Morocco?”

According to a Moroccan friend, the Spanish, after converting in Spain a tribe that had its origins in the Rif region of Morocco and who were known for their wide-brimmed straw hats to Christianity, mistrusted their conversion.  To rid the country of this converted group, the Spanish settled them in what is now Mexico, hence, the similar Mexican straw hats. I have no proof but his suggestion appears to be quite popular in Morocco.

The still winding narrow highway, at times, snaking along the valleys, at other times climbing the mountain sides then hugging the mountain tops went on and on.  Stopping on top of a peak surrounded by breathtaking scenery, I took out my camera to take a picture of the valley below. As I snapped the camera, I heard a voice beside me asking in French, Spanish and English, “Do you need anything?”  His sudden appearance reminded me that some Moroccans call the road that we were traveling on the ‘Kif Road’.  “No wonder!  Why the question!”  I thought. Marijuana cultivation in the Rif Mountains makes Morocco the world’s leading producer of kif (a variety of hashish).

A few moments later as we drove through a crowded town, Christine called out, “Look!!  Look! It’s a Bolivian women’s dress!” Christine had a point. We were passing women clad in the same type of dress as to be found in Bolivia and Peru.  Like the sombrero, the blanket-dress could have had its origin in these mountains. People suggest but no one has offered proof

Past Bab El Barret, the largest town since we left Chefchaouen we passed through a large forest of towering cedar trees.  A short distance further on, about 120 km (75 mi) from Chefchaouen and just past Ketama, we turned, driving northward toward the coast.  Fog encompassed us and the road was saturated with potholes and broken surfaces and we could barely creep along. I cursed Michelin and their maps, which indicated the route was a scenic drive.  It was a nerve-wracking 65 km (40 mi) road. Yet, Ahmed’s great driving ability had gotten us through safe and sound.

At El Jibha, we turned, driving back along the coast toward Tetouan.  The highway wound back and forth around mountains with cliffs that fall into the Mediterranean, making the coastline very rugged with few harbours.   There was never a straight stretch in the road. It curved around every mountainside and it was apparent that the distance as the crow flies between El Jibha and Tetouan more than doubled when driving on the highway.

Close to Tetouan, at the town of Amata, we stopped at the Café Arraha.  We were all happy and relaxed as we sipped on our Moroccan tea. The Café had what must have been the cleanest toilets in Morocco.  Public toilets in that country are not noted for their cleanliness and finding this spic and span toilet was truly a treasured find.

Leaving this house of cleanliness behind we continued to wind our way around the mountainsides.  As dusk fell and I was thinking of what must have been the thousand mountains we had semi-circled, we entered Tetouan, formally the capital of Spanish Morocco.

Situated in the midst of orange, almond, pomegranate and cypress trees that surround dazzling white houses, Tetouan is a strangely enchanting city.  It has a dramatic setting between the sombre Rif Mountains and the colourful Martil Valley. The white homes with their green tile roofs represent a fine mixture of Spanish and Moorish architecture and give the city an inviting character.

The next day we toured the old city built by Spanish Arab exiles, then drove through the side streets of the new town before continuing our journey, but that’s another story.  Tetouan was the end of our Rif exploration. We had lived in the aura of the Spanish Arab exiles as well as Abd El-Karim El-Khattabi’s exploits while at the same time glorying in the landscape that they called home – of course, not thinking of the route associated with kif.