Blue world / Modri svet

Notes from Eva’s diary / Zapiski iz Evinega dnevnika

Chefchaouen. The blue city, city of hashish.

Children are playing on the streets, a blind old man is drumming by the tables, Salaam Alaykum!, purses and carpets are hanging from the walls, for lunch tajin. People are kind saying welcome very often. Finally we have goat cheese and black olives for breakfast. Instead of coffee we drink mint tea with at least five cubes of sugar in it.

Circus is represented by exotic animals on the streets, colorful aras and ostrich with a human eye. Just when we arrived we bumped into two stoned guys with a melodica in their hands. Groups of Asian tourists wearing Morrocan gowns and a westerner on a bony donky are the highlights of tourism. When a porcelainish Asian girl gets photographed with a kitty I feel like I want to puke. Locals are probably fighting for their existence. The waiter in the restaurant is a salesman of leather purses and Berber carpets at the same time.

We bargain for a lower price of a night parking at the foot of medina, an old part of the town, when the assistant of the parking owner offers us to see his cannabis farm. Hash is everywhere, hash is a whisper on your ear when you take an evening stroll.

There is so much going on everywhere that it is fun to only sit and watch. Watch people. The best is to observe old men in traditional Morrocan mantles with hoods who sit on the benches and chat. We talked to a local, a nostalgist, who would rather move to Chefchaouen like it was in the 60s, when streets were full of hippies with guitars, taking photos only with their memory. In the meantime I think about the difference between a tourist and a traveler.

It’s lovely to get lost among blue streets, nibble a pomegranate or ascend Jabel El-Kelaa (1616 m) to breathe the mountain air. A beautiful first meeting with our Morroco.

Chefchouen. Modro mesto, mesto hašiša. Otroci se igrajo na ulicah, slepi starec bobna ob mizah, salam alejkum!, s sten visijo torbice in preproge, za kosilo tajin. Ljudje so prijazni in večkrat izrečejo dobrodošlico. Končno zajtrkujeva kozji sir in črne olive, namesto kave pijeva metin čaj z vsaj petimi kockami sladkorja.

Cirkus predstavljajo eksotične živali na ulicah, pisane are in noj s človeškim očesom. Takoj ob prihodu sva naletela na nasmejano zadeta fanta z melodiko v roki. Azijski turisti v maroških haljah in zahodnjak na koščenem oslu so višek turizma. Ko se porcelanasto azijsko dekle fotografira z mladim muckom na pisani ulici, me sili na bruhanje. Domačini se verjetno borijo za preživetje. Natakar v restavraciji je istočasno prodajalec usnjenih torbic in berberskih preprog.

Barantava za ceno nočnega parkiranja ob vznožju medine, starega dela mesta, ko nama pomočnik lastnika parkirišča ponuja ogled svoje farme s konopljo. Hašiš je povsod, hašiš je šepet na uho med sprehodom po večernem mestu.

Povsod je toliko dogajanja, da se je zabavno samo usesti in opazovati. Opazovati ljudi. Najbolje je gledati starejše moške v značilnih dolgih haljah s kapucami, ko sedijo na klopeh in kramljajo. Pogovarjava se z domačinom, nostalgikom, ki bi se najraje preselil nazaj v Chefchouen iz 60-ih, ko so po ulicah vandrali hipiji s kitarami in fotografirali zgolj s spominom. Pri tem razmišljam o razliki med turistom in popotnikom.

Lepo se je samo izgubljati po modrih ulicah, zobati granatno jabolko ali povzpeti se na Jabel El-Kelaa (1616 m), v pravi gorski zrak. Lepo prvo srečanje z najinim Marokom.

Note from Uroš’s diary / Zapis iz Uroševega dnevnika

Ladies said: ‘Let’s color the city in blue.’ The sea continues in the waves of stairs and whirlpools of squares. Terraces above the blue city are an archipelago from where I watch the underwater world. Fish swim silently to do shopping, one with a bag of cement on the shoulders, other inviting to their houses, smoke coming out of their mouth, sitting in shoals and chating. Europe remained in the distance, a dark silhuete with a weight of a sinking tanker. Bustle of Africa is floating few meters above the sea level. Greetings to cats on sunny roofs, loaded donkeys, sharp mantles of bearded dwarfs. An old mythological door is opening with a blue key, let’s keep it ajar.

Gospe so rekle: ‘Pobarvajmo mesto v modro.’ Morje se nadaljuje v valove stopnic in vrtince trgov. Terase nad modrim mestom so otočje, s katerega opazujem podvodni svet. Tiho plovejo ribe po nakupih, z vrečo cementa na ramah, vabijo v svoje hrame, iz ust spuščajo dim, v jatah posedajo in kramljajo. Evropa je ostala v daljavi, temna silhueta s težo potapljajočega se tankerja. Vrvež Afrike lebdi nekaj metrov nad morsko gladino. Pozdravljene mačke na sončnih strehah, otovorjeni osli, ostra ogrinjala bradatih škratov. Stara mitološka vrata se odpirajo z modrim ključem, pustimo jih priprta.