Nestled in the kif growing regions of the Atlas Mountains is Chefchouan, a small secret village painted baby blue, long known by hippies as a place to chill out and get away from the stresses of Morocco's bigger touristy cities. While this was mostly true, signs of this changing were already present. As I've come to learn, anything in Lonely Planet that's advertised as 'out of the way', or 'off the main track' means that you've got about year to see it before they begin open 4 star hotels and a pizza hut. Also, you shouldn't pay more than 2 dollars for a gram of hash, not matter what the man is yelling at you in his living room while his wives are cooking dinner and his children are feeding you peanuts.
The "I'm Having a Bad Hair Day" cat, stinking rich from the revenues of his poster monopoly, told me he'd moved to Chefchouan years ago to 'get away from it all.' I'm not sure that getting away from it all means smoking hash from a sisha all night and then paying two Moroccan prostitutes to dress like cheerleaders and dryfucking them to "November Rain", but it was still great to meet him and spend some quality time together.
I once read that the longer a couple are together, the more they begin to look alike. Bullshit.
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