Fes, Morocco, Friday January 2nd

I was determined to make some inroads into the blog hole around the tenth of December, and the only way to do that was actually to allocated a bit of blogging time. I can do a day in a day at the end of everything, but more than that when I am tired is just not possible. So I sat typing away and Keith studied the guide book and found us a gorge to walk in, a long way south of here. We ate breakfast at the same time and when I had completed a day, we were ready to go out.

Being Friday, and the holy day when most people go to the mosque and the leader gives a talk, the Medina shopping areas would mostly be closed. Our plan was to visit the museum and then to climb the hill outside the city walls. The Museum is in a palace behind enormous walls. By the time we had circumnavigated the walls to find the entry, it was late in the morning and the thoughtful attendant there suggested that we come back in the afternoon when there would be more time.

Wandering back around the streets we came to an enormous open area with four little girls playing kicking a ball around on it. We had seen lots of children with their mothers but very few on their own, which had prompted Keith to ask Mouhcine yesterday where the children play. Those who can afford computers and televisions, and the number of satellite dishes suggests that many can, play at home and only poorer children are sent into the streets to play. Study is important and so teenagers are much occupied doing it. Languages taken at school are learnt to a very high standard, so would require a lot of work. On the other side of the road lots of young boys were kicking a ball around too, and adults were sitting about at the sides having a rest. Some men in gum boots was a strange sight. Footwear here is beautifully made and ranges from traditional slip on pointed shoes in bright yellow leather to more modern styles. Shoes have been, and still are a signifier of wealth and status. I read that when the Jewish refugees came with the Muslim refugees from Spain at the time of the Christian re-conquest, the Jews were made to live in an area where they were under the Sultan’s protection and control but not quite regular citizens. They lived in a ghetto called the Mellah, with their own laws and governors, but were called upon to assist the Sultan in defence and finance. Despite this, no Jew in Fes before the French colonisation was allowed to ride on an animal or to wear shoes outside the ghetto. Travel was restricted too but of all those restrictions, the no shoes rule would have been the most insulting and obvious to others. When Morocco became independent many poorer Jews left to live in Israel.

Since we were passing the bus station we called in to inquire about bus times to Midelt, where we would be going on Sunday to stay with a couch surfing host who likes history. The State run bus has only one service, in the evening, but another bus company has many buses, so we can go anytime. It looks like we will be in for another four or five hours of interesting travel with the locals.

We were not sure which of the forts and ruins up ahead were the ones we were looking for, so we zig zagged across the road and looked at them all. Eventually we came to a newish set of steps leading up to the ruins of the Merenid Tombs. On the way we paused to look back at the city, and so did a man carrying the large stripy bag that we have seen in just about every country. Inside he had beautiful blankets that his wife had woven using the wool from their ten sheep. The price was reasonable and negotiable, but if we bought everything that fell into this category that we liked, we would never fit it all on the plane. A French couple passed and the lady said that she had a blanket just like those and it had lasted and lasted. Still, we were not buying so we bid the man farewell. So far we have not felt hassled, with people offering their goods being polite and accepting a polite ‘Non, merci’. The only hassling we have seen has been done by restaurant waiters, who are on the street trying to snare customers, although even they are good humoured as long as they are not completely ignored. It is such a boon to be able to speak French, although English is always used if there is no response to the initial try. One man has an amazing New York accent when he speaks English, which sounds really funny.

The tombs are very dilapidated and no-one knows who they were built for. Once they were covered in white marble and decorations. All along the grass edges of the path and the cliff tops, and even on the tombs themselves, black dyed skins were stretched out drying.

The holes in the walls of the city and in the walls of buildings had intrigued us, with our guide telling us yesterday that they were for decorations. Since they are not regular, nor are they randomly placed, that does not seem to be quite right. I asked the couple we had seen earlier if they knew what the holes were for, and they were intrigued as well. The lady had taken a sabbatical year off and returned to work in August. It was very difficult for her, after her year of freedom, and ultimately she has decided to give up work. She has only twelve days work left and then she and her husband will have a greater quality of life, which they value more than money. In their fifties with a grown family, they wanted to spend more time together, which was impossible while they both worked.

The view over Fes was just what I imagined an old city to be like – various colours of creams and yellows, buildings with flat rooves of different heights and no lines to delineate streets. It was not exactly pretty in the way that Chefchaueon is, but like the back of an amazing textured creature resting in the valley, compact and mysterious. We could not see the bustling human element nor hear the continuous sounds of hammering on tin, hooves on stone and voices, nor see the colours of the carpets, fabrics, pottery and myriad of items for sale. Suddenly the voice of the Imam resonated around the city, echoing up to the tiny group on the hill and to others in the surrounding cemeteries. It was beautiful, haunting and exotic.

We took a short cut down a step path through a cemetery where people were visiting graves. We decided to try our luck taking the more difficult way back through the medina, entering through a different gate and hoping for the best. A few times people helpfully told us that the medina was not open today, but once we explained that we were only going back to our hotel, they were no longer concerned that we might be disappointed. On one street a man was making strange noises and waving his hands about, talking to Keith and grabbing his arm. Immediately others around in the street called to him to stop, which he did, and someone told us not to worry about him because he is crazy.

The narrow road we had taken was undergoing repairs, with deep holes for pipes leaving only about half a metre for us to thread our way along. Two kittens snuggled into each other on a sack in a doorway. The streets were virtually deserted until we reached the main thoroughfare where we had been walking yesterday. Some people were gathered around a poor cat with its back ripped off, and one man had put plastic bags on his hands to pick it up. The cats we have seen here have all been well fed, and looked well treated so we did not know what could have happened here. It was a very sad sight.

We bought lunch supplies, and my wish to have some fried eggplant and peppers from a street vendor I had seen yesterday was thwarted by it being Friday and the vendor not there.

After lunch we went to the museum. The Dar Batha Palace was built in 1913 as a place to receive foreign ambassadors but the style is traditional and looks much older. The doorways are beautifully decorated, but the painted woodwork is fading and on the pillars around the gardens has virtually been weathered away. It is like a courtyard with a terrace split in two by an enormous public garden with a glorious oak growing in it. I speculated that the garden and the oak were there and the rest was built around it, especially since the terrace has the shade of the oak over most of it.

Inside there were examples of calligraphy, illumination and miniature paintings with borders done in traditional style, with some being not all that old. It was a surprise really to be looking at items from the twentieth century and realising that the ancient skills and craftsmanship had been kept alive here. The displays of costumes included many belts in a variety of styles from richly embroidered wide bands to a narrower and surely uncomfortable metal belt in many small sections. Guns, swords, linen, clothing – everything was beautifully decorated. Carpets from different regions hung in a gallery, with some looking as if they would take a year to make. We had been told by our carpet salesman in Chefchaouen that in summer here carpets are placed in the floor upside down, with the walking dislodging dirt caught in the fibres and softening up the pile ready for turning over in winter. One of the carpets on display was hung in what we would call ‘the wrong way’ and there was a design on the back that would have made an attractive summer mat.

We enjoyed all the daily items and the display of musical instruments, but the winner for most intriguing went to a roller made of hedgehog skin, with the prickles sticking out, which I think might be a meat tenderiser.

After a walk in the gardens, we were inspired to try some of the patisseries that Morocco is famous for. Despite seeing a million and one cakes and pastries yesterday, I couldn’t see any today. At last we asked at the café over from our hotel and they produced a three layer chocolate and vanilla sponge cake with cream and syrup swirls on top. With a cup of mint tea for me and some coffee for Keith, it was perfect as a ‘pick me upper’. We met an English couple while in the café, who were driving around Morocco in their new white Land Rover. They had passed through many check points and commented on how polite and friendly all the police were. We told them of our friends’ bad experiences with Moroccan police while touring in their car and they were surprised. They actually made the comment that it was great here because the Moroccans were so trustworthy, not like some of the experiences that they had had in Spain, where people were more out for what they could get.

Back at the hotel I put a colour in my hair. This is difficult to do in a bedroom without a basin and in a hotel with a shared bathroom and only one shower on our floor. Nevertheless I have it down to a fine art, and with Keith there to act as assistant, all went well. Not that we could really tell in the end since the lighting was not good enough for us to notice the full effect. My main worry was that someone else would be in the shower at the crucial washing off moment and that my head would fry from overexposure to the chemicals in the dye. One of the jobs of the assistant is to suss out shower availability and non presence of other residents during my dash to the bathroom.

Keith went off to the internet café and I showered in water that was hot and plentiful, with a shower head that stayed up where it should.

It was pouring when we dashed across the street to the only enclosed café that we knew of. After dinner we chatted for a while with some New Zealanders who are now living and working in Scotland and England. Everyone we meet is doing exciting things and it is always interesting to hear of other travels for ideas for our own.

At our hotel, one of the managers was cooking up some tea on a kerosene stove beside the wash basins in the bathroom. He is always at the hotel and seems to be on duty twenty-four hours of every day. At night he sleeps under a pile of blankets at the end of the corridor, stashing them in a cubicle in the bathroom during the day. He has a little prayer mat that he uses at the end of the corridor as well. He is friendly and courteous, and although I would love to ask him about his life, we are always coming or going and he is busy.