Fes Medina

We live deep in the medina of the old city of Fes.

 

Vehicles bring people and goods to carparks around the city edges and donkeys, trolleys, motorbikes and men carry the necessities of life into the labyrinth of ten thousand narrow lanes.

“Balak! balak!” cries the donkey handler as he warns us to step aside or risk a nuzzle nudge from a wet snout.

A man collects rubbish and deposits it onto the rubbish donkey.

We are encouraged and drawn by our curiosity into workshops making leather cushions and co-operatives weaving cloth made from agave silk and are instructed on all manner of the workings of the medina. 

Fresh food stalls compete with space with butchers of all kind. Their cuts lie on marble benches or hang from hooks and if the buyer is unsure of what meat is sold there, a camel head on a hook leaves no doubt that somewhere in that shop is the prized hump.

Live chickens in cages and tethered by cords await their fate and free range ducks peck innocently at scraps below their refrigerated relatives.

It is a fascinating place.

We are beginning to find our way in the derbs, these narrow high walled lanes, that are surprisingly cool in the 38 degree heat. At the old man selling olives, we turn right then continue past the world’s oldest university.

We say, “Bonjour,” to the man stretching and winding agave silk onto bobbins and stop into the stationers to buy postcards.

We wave to Dakdaki Mohamed, the herboriste who assured us his 40 spice speciality we bought would not only flavour our dishes but cure all ills.

My visit to the herboriste cost a visit to the happy jeweller across the derb.

I ask the man who sits deep in his shoe shop if I can photograph his shop and he nods without expression.

We continue up the steep hill past the young men sitting on door steps. They ask us where we are from and point down narrow side derbs telling us,

“This is the way. Don’t go ahead. There is nothing there.”

Earlier, we naively followed their advice, losing our way in the maze only to be rescued by the same youth who had followed at a discreet distance to kindly offer to lead us to safety, once we visited his brother who runs the leather shop, his uncle who owns the tannery and to slip him a Moroccan note that has a big number but fortunately, little foreign exchange value.

Now, we daily pass them in the medina at their regular haunt on the step and they smile and greet us.

“Do you remember me?” says the youth who has Google maps of Fes in his head. He remembers us. “You are Australian,” he smiles as we pass.

We drink sweet mint tea and order beef tagine in favour of the meat tagine alternative which immediately fires the imagination. Coffee is ordered and the waiter races around the corner to fetch it from another shop. We sip while we watch the crowds and the donkeys carrying loads of gas bottles. The coffee is good.

 

 

In the evening, we visit the botanical gardens to listen to music from the Fes Festival of Scared Music.

After listening to American blues legend, Eric Bibb, I grabbed his autograph on the ticket and when I told him we saw him at Byron Bay Bluesfest in 2001, he said he hoped to be back soon.

Fes is a fascinating place.