Word Of Mouse

Fes bus station was strangely calm. As we walked out we realised this was due to heavy policing of entry and exit points. Fes has a notoreity for the so called ´faux guides´and in Mohammed VI´s attempts to reach his ambitious goal of 10 million tourists by 2010 such activity is being clamped down on hard.

By this time anyway we had come to realise that our few words of Arabic could save us a lot of bother if used judiciously. In respone to any unwelcome address in whatever language we would reply cheerfully in Arabic 'no thank you' or when appropriate with a (probably very ill pronounced) ´good´morning. How are you? I´m fine thanks be to Allah´ etc. etc. (well actually not that many etceteras as that was about the limit of things!). That and a purposeful walk in almost any direction deterred all but the most persistant.

Thus we made it to the gates of the medina unscathed and undeterred. We collapsed gratefully into the nearest cous cous joint to find breathing space as much as anything, though we were also hungry enough thet even another tagine was tempting too. Here we ate in relative peace and managed to decide upon where we wanted to stay inspite of fairly regular interruptions from a young man who wanted to set our agenda for us. I noted with some amusement that he was sporting a fine piece of acrylic knitwear with the word ´rottweiler´ emblazoned across the chest. I couldn´t help wondering if this had been a gift, offered with a hint of irony, from another long-suffering tourist.

We checked into our hotel and found it simple but clean (contrary to cockroach warnings in our guidebook). This made us think once agin of what power the authors of these books have - the value of a good review, the potential damage of a negative one or of a non-mention. One of the best thinsg about the hotel, apart from a spectacular roof-terrace view across the medina, was its washing line. We gratefully washed our clothes as best we could in the cold water and undersized sinks available. It turned out that this wasn´t actually very well, but still it was better than nothing.

We rested for a couple of hours by which time the long sleeved shirts we bought in Marrakesh had already dried. Inspite of the fact that in the cities some Moroccan women adopt a fairly western style and attitude to dress, we were both careful to wear long sleeves and trousers when out and about. I think this saved a lot of hassle and may have gained some respect, at least we hoped it saved causing offence. I got quite frustrated by the number of western women wandering round in tight, midriff-revealing vests and shorts. One such young woman I saw flicking her long blond hear at the person she was addressing on the bus with a complaint that Moroccan men just gave her sooo much hassle. Ok I´m not veering towards the view that the woman in the miniskirt ´deserved to be raped´but come on girls let´s have some sense and sensitivity!

Fes medina is a wonderful, loud, chaotic, colourful maze of 9400 streets, passages and alleyways. We had attempted unsuccessfully to buy a compass to assist in its navigation, so decided we would just go for it. We set out not long before five for a quick wander round, having carefully noted a few key landmarks on the surrounding hills. There were 350 mosques so it wasn´t much use remembering that our room was looking directly out onto one (or more to the point at 3.30 am the next morning, that the minaret´s loud speaker was almost poking through our window).

We set off and quickly got completely entangled in the twisting streets. It was fun and exciting and we just walked on purposefully in whatever direction took our fancy. We arrived at the dyers´souk and thought it would be fun to explore. It was strangely quiet however. There was nobody around, just one man running in the opposite direction to us. As he rushed past our gaze followed him far enough to see that he was making for a closing wooden door at the end of the street. We rushed after him and heaved a sigh of relief and we stepped through the door. As it turned out this part of the Medina got shut off at dusk!

We wandered on and soon the Muezzin could be heard calling to prayer. As this also meant the end of fasting the streets soon cleared. We stood in the narrow streets (narrow enough that we couldn´t see any of our landmarks) and wondered how to get back. The only thing we had to go on was to head uphill. After a few twists and turns and as the sky got darker and the sreets didn´t get lit we started to feel less comfortable. I felt a bit claustrophobic and would have liked to heave myself up to see above the houses and find a way through. We acknowledged a shared idscomfort but couldn´t afford to dwell on it or let it take hold of ourselves. We kept on walking. After some considerable time (which may only have been minutes in fact) we reached somewhere a little more open with cars and what looked like a way out. We sat down and consulted our guidebook and found a reference point in a taxi stand. Once again a sigh of relief. We hadn´t even done badly - home was an easy five-minute walk.

We didn´t venture much further that evening, and enjoyed a relaxing meal on the terrace of a restaurant oppostite our hotel.

We decided that Fes deserved at least another day and I was keen that we should visit the ´new town´too (by new read not quite as ancient). We began in the medina again. Before coming to Morocco we had thought we might like to buy a souvenir of our adventures, maybe even a carpet. That morning however we looked at each other and agreed that we didn´t want to / couldn´t face buying anything. This I hasten to add was no reflection on the fabulous quality of what was on offer. We just couldn´t hack the haggling or the fact that you couldn´t look at or discuss anything before the haggling began. So we set off on a wander. It was fabulous, we watched numerous craftsmen and women at work and people cooking and donkeys and handcarts weaving in and out of people in the narrow streets and enjoyed a few interactions with people as we walked on.

We reached a particularly crowded bottleneck and Malc had walked on ahead. I was fighting a little to keep up whan I noticed his arm twist round in an unusual manner and then heard him exclaim óne of these guys has got my wallet´. It was one of those slow motion moments when the lack of speed doesn´t actually make anything any clearer. A second later both of us had our hands on the shoulders of the two suspected men, though what we thought we might do I am not sure. Then the wallet magically appeared at malc´s feet unopened. He picked it up we thanked the man who pointed it out (the one who took it?) and waled on a little shaken.

For our trip we have been operating with one wallet only, both of us carrying money belts for back up and for important documents. In Morocco we had also taken the precaution of carrying nothing but a little cash and a few phone cards in the wallet. So, the worst that might have happened was the loss of 300 Dirham or 20 quid. We reasoned too tha the same kind of thing goes on in every crowded market the world over. Still, we felt a bit bruised and were glad to find oureselves on the edge of the Medina.

We walked out along the wide boulevard leading a couple of miles up to the Ville Nouvelle. In spite of the heat it felt like welcome respite. Again, we had more time to reflect on things. My reflections were heavily influenced by our walking past the ´bidon ville´ that flanked the side of the road behind a rickety bamboo fence.

Once in the new town we trailed around to find a cafe open and with a mixture of guilt (for eating on the street in public) and gratitude we joined our fellow non-believers in light lunch on a street corner. Having found nothing on at the cionema that we both wanted to see and was in a language we could understand, we took another route back to the Medina this time through the Mellah or former Jewish quarter. We joined a few tourists in taking photos of interesting buildings, and fended off a few people keen to give us guided tours the found ourselves at a fairground on the edge of the medina.

After a bit of watching we relented and paid a young man a small amount to get us a couple of tickets for the dodgems. We had a lot of fun for screetching round slamming into everybody who took a friendly delight in playing bash the tourists´car (we were the only ones). We all did a lot of laughing! Our new friend was delighted at his success but a little disappointed when we didn´t want to engage him in leading a medina tour.

That evening we enjoyed a lovely meal in a small cafe just outside the medina. For once Malc´s meal was both truly vegetarian and delicious. Mine was truly delicious and not at all vegetarian - it was my mission to support teh business of the shepherds of the Atlas.

The things that will stick with me as a fond memory of Fes is our bread buying experience. I had spotted on day one from the roof terrace a small bakery that was selling its produce as fast as it could be produced. It hadn´t opened again in the evening so on day two I knew that was the spot to buy something for the next day´s breakfast. We queued up with half an hour to go till the end of fast. I started to despair at the chance of getting anything as nothing stood still for long enough to be pointed at and I didn´t know the right words for any of it. However, the shopping high of having bought tomatoes, avocado and cucumber from three small market stalls a few minutes earlier, using only Arabic, encouraged me to persist.

After a while a man in the queue (which was rapidly descending into a scrum as the light started to fade) took pity on us. he spoke some French and gave me the name of the huge (1 kg) crumpet like things that were being whipped up. I put in my order only to be told six other people were waiting for the same thing. No problem! so I waited while Malc stashed our things upstairs.

I had been smiling at a young woman who had been watching with interest as Malc and I interacted. I guessed we had no common language and this was confirmed by a young man with good English who caught my attention and said she wanted to talk to me. He said we were very alike. I must have looked a little disbelieving as I smiled again at the woman who stood well over a foot shorter than me and had lovely long brown curly hair and gorgeous brown eyes."I mean your eyes", he said´"she is Berber and you have a face like a Berber". I was flattered, so teh flattery continued. " you are very beautiful" quickly followed with "these are her words not mine" and then as if this might also be the wrong thing, "but if you ask my opinion I think the same". I was more concerned about whether my new friend had been able to place her order or even see the counter she needed to order from, but I was assured I need not worry she had it all in hand. ´

"where has your husband gone?". "you don´t need him here, Morocco is very safe we don´t have anything like theft or any violence. You will be safe." I didn´t want to disabuse him of this idea, but for once I did feel very relaxed and safe in the knowledge that teh people I was talking too were just being friendly for no other reason than that they were friendly people. Malc, perhaps having seen me blush from the roof terrace, soon reappeared anyway and we spent a pleasant 15 minutes in discussion. As the Muezzin called our mega-crumpet arrived and we bade farewell.

The thing we bought was warm and delicious, but no more so than the experience of buying it.

We had thought about staying on In Fes for Eid (now confirmed as being on Tuesday), but decided to continue on to somewhere quieter. Here we come Chefchaouen.