Fes, Morocco 2017

Fes redux! The city that most captivated me in 2005. Although this time we stay in a regular hotel, we spend little time there. Musicians in the lobby were largely ignored by passing guests (why?).

Our local guide Wafi takes us first to the old Jewish quarter, the Mellah, and its remarkable cemetery ... greeted by trees blooming with fragrant orange blossoms (sold in the markets for adding to food dishes). A vendor with enormous strawberries stands outside; we see these giant berries everywhere we go.

 

Someone special is buried here: Solika/Solica. Most tombs are simple, rounded white cylinders unlike hers. A man was huddled at her tomb praying, blocking the little doorway so we couldn't see inside the tiny space. Historical accounts vary, but governing authorities seemed to believe this woman converted to Islam and then recanted, so she was arrested and judged by sharia law. Originally from Tangiers, she was beheaded and buried in 1834 in Fes for refusing to declare she was a Muslim. She is considered a Jewish saint. (More: http://hatchuel-hatchwell.net/solika/solikas-full-story/)

From there we ambled across the street to (one of) the royal palaces. Dear King, sorry we missed you. Fabulous brass work on the doors. Then drove up the hillside to get a panoramic view of the city including the medina and another nearby cemetery. Muslims do not do cremation, so a great deal of space is taken up everywhere by burial grounds. There are fourteen gates into the old medina and something like 9,500 streets within!

Next to the tile factory. A leisurely time here: the process being explained, workmen demonstrating various steps from shaping to painting to kiln. Absolutely gorgeous products, mostly large and weighing a ton. No pressure to buy. Sipped mint tea with Mohamed and Doug while those purchasing made arrangements to ship items home. Stab in the dark: I ask Wafi if he knew of a fellow guide called Raschid? He knew a couple of Raschids but we both doubt think our guy of twelve years ago is still around. I explained how thoughtful he had been to follow up and visit our sick tourist in Meknes hospital, that his kindness would always be remembered.

It's time to plunge into the medina, entering through their food/meat area. Wafi shows us the "river" that feeds and carries away; it is now being treated. Not much uphill on our route ― al-hamdullilah ― nevertheless it's not easy to catch all the details Wafi is dispensing as we hustle along. We see a LOT of the 9,500 streets. Nothing looks familiar from before. Wafi points out architectural decor, various mosques. I score some of the well-remembered and sweetest clementines on earth.

We get to look inside the widely-believed "oldest (working) library in the world," Quarawiyyin (I beg to differ that the St Catherines Monastery library is older but this is not the time to bring it up). Only newly renovated but established in the 9th century, it holds some 30,000 ancient manuscripts. A wealthy woman from Kairouan (Tunisia) founded/funded it as well as the Quarawiyyin mosque and university.

Then to the oldest madrasa where we could climb to the second floor, admiring the magnificent typical Moroccan mosaics and tile patterns everywhere. Along our wending way we pass working souks ― brass, leather, wood, textile workers. Entertainers. We visit a wonderful old building of many storeys with random staircases and showrooms for weaving and carpets. Heather gets right into the weaving process with a woman at a loom.

 

Lunch at 2 p.m. finds us all starving at Restaurant Asmae. Generous servings, no matter what you order. It's becoming my habit to share with Doug or Mark or Mohamed. Lovely man pours tea and cookies after.

 

Next stop is the Coura Tannery where I do not join them because I recall going up at least four floors of narrow twisting staircase and being greeted by the overpowering smell of the dye vats. So I hang in the entranceway having a smoke with the boys who want to practice English. Being in the alley outside the door makes me prey for creeping souvenir vendors whom the tannery boys do nothing to discourage.

 

We end up at a clothing emporium where Wafi says goodbye and leaves us at their mercy. A grand scarf demonstration begins. You have but to mention an item and quickly dozens upon dozens of goods materialize to choose from. Or climb stairway after stairway to a display room. Oops, I mention caftans and get shown a zillion things I don't want. The pressure is relentless, exhausting. Thankfully the others in my little group are buying! I buy an ornamental tassel for an outrageous price. But definitely you need to experience the full-bore treatment at least once!

When we set off this morning we had no idea it would be such a jam-packed day. It felt like we saw everything but of course it's endless and mesmerizing.

© 2017 Brenda Dougall Merriman

Fes, Morocco 2005

A visit to the Mahgreb ‒ North Africa ‒ was a last-minute decision into a rather whirlwind tour of Morocco, including the four royal cities of Fes, Meknes, Marrakesh, and Rabat. Starting in gorgeous Benalmadena near Malaga on Spain's Costa del Sol, we drove to the ferry that took us across the Strait of Gibraltar to passport control at Ceuta in Morocco. I've already mentioned my surprise companions, the wild tribe of loudmouth extroverted Brazilians.

Wikipedia Commons, by High Contrast

Destination Fes (not FeZ we are told); we ascend the picturesque, rolling mid-Atlas mountains. A few “comfort stops” along the way help to acclimatize, enhanced by offerings of customary mint tea in glasses. French is supposedly the country’s second language but Spanish seems more endemic. There's a distinction between north and south parts of the country because the north is arable and has many urban centres; the south is desert and the High Atlas mountains. In the passing rural fields, what first looks to me like many field crops of exotic, basketball-size blooming plants morphs into the sad spectacle of scores of abandoned white plastic bags littered by the wind.

No-one visits Fes without seeing the medina, the old walled city, a UNESCO World Heritage Site and the cultural heart of the country. Here was the most fascinating locale of the entire trip. Originally built for fortification, the sights, sounds, and smells have changed little in its thousand-year-old existence. We arrived at the gate early morning; few shop owners and residents were about. It was Ramadan, and people sleep late to help the daylight go by. When they eat in the evenings, they stay up late. As we progressed through the morning, the streets became more and more congested.

Tour leader Alami handed off to local guide Raschid for our smallish English-speaking group, being some Aussies and me. Raschid is an uncommon but proud mixture of “the best of Morocco” as he tells us right off the bat: Arab, Berber and Jew. He shows us the palace courtyard and several mosques; we trail long, pausing to study the intricate design details. The architecture is fascinating, some of it stunning, to western eyes. Probably the best part was simply strolling the hilly, twisting warren of streets — streets? actually, incredibly narrow alleys — gazing at everything with delight and enjoying our history lessons. By noon or so, people were crowding into the various mosques, all but hidden in the narrow dark doorways. Some of them did not appreciate tourists gawking and inadvertently impeding their entrance to worship.

Then the not-so-subtle shopping agenda kicked in, expected by some of us. Let's see, there was the Brass Merchant, the Carpet Merchant, the Leather Merchant, the Embroidery Merchant, and the Pharmacy Merchant selling soaps and precious oils. Initially the prices were quite outrageous. Here was my introduction to the skills of market bargaining, or haggling. No seller expects a customer to pay the first asking price. Raschid was as helpful as possible with negotiating.

(Postcard)

Of course the carpets were beautiful but I heard muttering from the merchant after no-one stepped up to buy ... their carefully unrolled displays apparently for naught. Nor were we particularly intrigued by the leather products, another reason not much buying was going on amongst us. However it was interesting to see and hear about the traditional tanning industry. Leather is Morocco's biggest export and it's still very much a hands-on process. The dyeing vats, viewed from the height of a scary, narrow, dizzying staircase, are a famous sight here.

Dye vats; photo by Derek White of 5¢ense

Our agenda was becoming a rush from one sales pitch to another. If we didn’t keep up in between the designated shops we’d be sunk. You’d never find your way out of the medina maze. A few low grumbles around the group: do they think we are all wealthy and only here to spend money? Irony — many of the goods we saw are available all over North America (right in my neighbourhood at home) and often cost less.

About 1:15 pm we arrived at the Caftan Merchant and then Raschid disappeared. For a full hour we languished without Raschid outside the clothing shop, waiting as instructed, clueless and hungry. Whenever a loaded donkey approached (the only way to transport goods up and down the medina streets), often with little warning because of the congestion, we learned to instantly flatten ourselves against the wall. I bought a caftan perhaps out of sheer boredom, practicing my new basic skills ... followed by intermediate skills of turning your back and walking away when you don't like his latest price. That's a tough one when you really want that certain something!

Most of them were trotting quickly despite the heavy burdens you didn't want to be crushed by!

Things picked up when the ubiquitous trinket/souvenir sellers found us as a captive audience; lots of cheerful banter in a mixture of languages and satisfactory purchases. Brenda also graciously declined a friendly youngish man’s invitation to enter his home across the street for refreshment and accept him as my Moroccan husband. Good thing the Brazilians weren't here; they'd smother the guy with attention. Meanwhile, all of us musing whether Raschid had gone to mid-day prayers or outright defected. Our empty stomachs were righteously complaining and not a cafe or bakery in sight! 

Later we learned that a husband and wife in our group had retroactively decided to purchase a carpet and needed his assistance in the (extensive) negotiating. That’s personal service, alright, but a few pissed-off Aussies held back at tipping time because we'd been more or less abandoned.

Despite the bit of downside, the day's experience was enthralling. There was a moment with a street musician. A moment in a small poultry market where live birds were offered, butchered on the spot if you wish. I spotted my favourite clementines at a grocer’s and bought a few. So sweet and fresh!! Not long off the tree, I'm sure, and infinitely superior to those that arrive at my supermarket. Ah, sometimes the little things make such a difference.

Before we left Fes, we had one of those lavish dinner shows in a very lovely venue. The entrance to the place was hidden in one of the dark medina alley ways. Inside, mile high ceilings and Moorish columns, belly dancers and lots of musicians. Who care if it's touristy? Delicious food and much fun with audience participation; the Brazilians shine tonight. Another of those little things: traditional marinated lemon chunks in the tagine ― many restaurants at home seem to omit them; instant seduction, forcing me to learn later how to do it.

Since then, I have been into a number of old Arab medinas, but Fes is still special, more than fulfilling a long time wish to see North Africa.

© 2014 Brenda Dougall Merriman. All rights reserved.

A Taste of Berbers

Moving right along, chronologically in this case ... few (decent) photos from this adventure. Obviously supplemented with postcard images. After this I became more conscious of using my camera. For better or worse.

Years later by chance I renewed my acquaintance with the species camelus dromedarius. I travelled with a group from Malaga, Spain, across the Strait of Gibraltar and southward through the mid-Atlas mountains. Exotic Marrakesh was the third royal city of Morocco we visited (but not the most memorable in my mind, I give that to Fes). Our tour leader Alami was necessarily proficient in several languages — the great majority of my companions were from South America. He didn’t totally satisfy the large contingent from Brazil who were awfully busy waving football (Canadian English: soccer) flags at any flimsy pretext and inappropriate moment.

Changing tense, one evening we are taken into the desert for a special “Berber Feast.” By this time a third of our company is absent due to stomach complaints ... obviously no red flags for them about eating fruit with skin on it. Only fruit you can peel yourself, like the exquisite tiny oranges picked up in the market for pennies, is sanctioned by all the travel websites that dispense touristica stomach advice. The belly dancing performance the other night was when whatshername ate grapes (skins on) and became so incredibly ill we left her in the hospital in Meknes and didn’t see her again until Casablanca.

For this festive outing two of my companions uncharacteristically appear to adopt me. D and D are a cheerful New York City couple: a beautiful coyote and her happy-go-lucky boy toy. Their newfound attention was missing during prior medina explorations where all single female tourists are constantly pestered with offers of “a Moroccan husband” ― age and infirmity being no barrier. Inexplicably, the male D habitually eats apples with skins on to no adverse effect. Go figure.

 

I bristle a little at the notion that D & D are being protective of me. Protection from what ... fruit? From tonight’s silently efficient waiters who wouldn’t dare lapse into flirtation mode? Or do these two need me as extra defense against the predominant, incomprehensible Brazilians? (... close to a breakthrough, I feel, with Renate the German-Brazilian; it must be my six or seven words of German that raised a flicker of comprehension.) Never mind, I tacitly accept my new hovering buddies.

 Chez Ali, our destination, is a series of rooms resembling Berber tents, open to the night air, surrounding an enormous sand arena. After all, we’re verging on the desert. Wandering minstrels and dancers give constant song and music. It may be touristy but it’s an impressive venue and fun. The meal is typical of what we eat most nights. Can’t beat those Arab appetizers. Then lentil soup, lamb stew with couscous and veg, wonderful sweets for dessert. The post-dinner “extravaganza” performance in the arena includes some son-et-lumière history, but the highlight is the show of Berber horsemanship. The riders are amazing, and those gorgeous Arabian horses ...!

It takes me a while to notice that camel rides are going on peripherally on the darkened edges of the arena. Of course I had to do THAT, propelled by some instinct. Fully expecting my companions to follow, lusty Brazilians and all. Nope, not one of them. The two Ds have been lugging a variety of expensive cameras around for days. Now they are slightly horrified at my boldness but chatter excitedly. Not to worry, my new BFFs are on it — assuring me of photographic captures from the viewing stands as they fumble with all their gadgets.

Oh well. Turns out only one of the Ds has a shaky grasp of zoom operation. An Italian with even more equipment fares better. Trust me, if I’d known in advance, I wouldn’t be wearing a skirt. 

The camel handler has a singularly surly disposition; his world view includes neither job satisfaction nor customer service. Paid in advance, he doesn’t care if his passenger goes ass over teakettle in the all-important mount and dismount. Fortunately, a stored memory of old ― you know, morphic resonance or something ― saves me from disgrace. The camel is terminally bored.

This is not a big deal, around the arena, but it’s an epiphany. 

It heralds more. I must have more.

© 2014 Brenda Dougall Merriman