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.
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| 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.
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| (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.
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| 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!
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| 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.
