FEZ (22-23.11.23)

Even after such an eventful and tiring day, before making it to bed, I managed (don’t ask me in which state) to book a free walking tour for the following morning. Aware that it was more my kind of thing than Christoph’s, I switched the alarm off as soon as it rang and got on the Riad’s rooftop to get breakfast. The sun hadn’t set yet and the whole city was painted in a cold purple shade. From now, considering that we were slowly moving towards the northern part of the country, the temperature was getting colder.

I met our host, Mustafa, for the first time and mistook him for a lady. We could only communicate in broken French (mine at least) so we couldn’t go past some smalltalk about breakfast or how beautiful the view was. I wish I had found the way to ask him how it was to be queer in Morocco, but was discouraged by our cultural differences and the language issue, and thought I might have come across as extremely inappropriate. Sadly, in the two days we spent there, we never saw him leaving the Riad nor interacting with anyone apart from his guests. Honestly Morocco didn’t really feel like the place where being queer’s easy.

I enjoyed my pastries and omelette as the sun finally started to warm up the city. The view of the Medina from the riad was one of a kind, and I took a second to pat my shoulder for the successful booking.com hunt.

I rushed not to miss the start of the free walking tour (GuruWalk), whose meeting was luckily just a few streets away. The guide, Abderrahime, a very cultured man in his seventies with a quiet voice and a face that inspired both trust and respect, ran a beautiful four hours long tour. The pace was definitely slower than most other tours in Fez (as it became evident when everyone else had to overtake us) but his insights were so many and told with such a passion that me and my fellow tour mates couldn’t help but feeling incredibly thankful. The group was small which gave it a very familiar vibe and soon it felt like Abderrahime was everybody’s patient grandfather, making sure that we (especially Petra, an over-enthusiastic German-born, Philly-based, absolutely hilarious lady) didn’t get lost, scammed or left behind.

Fez was founded in the 9th century in a valley between two rivers. Which is quite a rare thing, since a hilltop or somewhere sheltered would make more of an appropriate choice. To make up for its lack of natural protections they created a maze of a city, with a net of tangled narrow alleys (especially the ones leading to the king’s palace), gated neighbourhoods, fake doors to confuse potential enemies… Which basically means that still nowadays it’s ever so easy to get lost. What can help, at least to prevent you from keep on taking cul-de-sacs, is paying attention to the street signs: square shaped? carry on. Pentagon shaped? dead-end.

Fez’s Medina is the city of records: it’s the world’s largest living medieval Islamic city and pedestrian zone, it hosts about 10K cobbled alleyways, 300 mosques and the oldest university on the planet.

After painting our tongue purple with a local variety of prickly pear, and losing Petra at least half a dozen of times, we took a coffee break in a sunny small square and talked about religion. According to Abderrahime, Islam is not so strict as the catholic world and the western media picture it and its devotes are not too judgemental towards each other. To support this statement he made the example of how completely accepted it is for women to choose not to wear a hijab. Allegedly, what Muslims care about is simply leading the purest of lives in order to be welcomed in heaven. As much as I wanted to believe to his words, it became clearer and clearer that it was a very religious man talking. Especially when he stated that every Muslim prays five times a day, which really didn’t match with what I heard from younger generations.

Eventually we made it to the largest, most famous and very likely most instagrammed tannery of the city: Chouara. After seeing pictures online, I somehow expected a view of harlequin coloured tanks. Which was quite far from reality since yes, the tanks hosted liquid of different colours, but all in the shades of brown or grey… Still, I can’t deny it looked impressive (especially when compared to the ones we saw in Marrakech) and I see why this tannery became one of the city’s landmarks. The smell though…

At this point we were already 40 minutes late on the schedule. I said goodbye to the group and rushed back to the Riad on the opposite side of the city, where Christoph was waiting for me. As I left in the morning, the brother of his friend Abel, a taxi driver, contacted him and arranged a quick and spontaneous tour of the attractions out of the Medina. He had to interrupt it to meet me and eventually had to wait for me for about one hour. No surprise he was rightfully pissed.

A delicious late lunch/early dinner on a rooftop of a family-run restaurant with a whole set of pickled appetisers and a main course of fish and vermicelli pastilla (a traditional pie), definitely had a positive impact on our mood.

Before we knew it, as we were eating our dessert and lazily sipping the umpteenth cup of sugary mint tea, the sun started to set. Which felt absurd since in our heads we just finished lunch! We rushed to the blue gate (again, on the opposite side of the Medina) and tried, unsuccessfully, to reach a scenic point. At that point, a bit discouraged from how fast the time went by throughout the whole day and still worn-out from the previous day’s long drive, we opted to call it an early night.

It was quite clear how me and Christoph had developed a complete different opinion in regards to the city: I was quite in love, pretty much since the moment we arrived. It felt cleaner than Marrakech, way less hectic and chaotic, more historical and less touristic. And I found myself daydreaming, as I very often do, about living there. Christoph, on the other hand, really didn’t seem to vibe with it. Still a bit too much going on probably for someone who joined the trip willing to prioritise nature rather than cities.

On one point I have to agree with him: the smell of cat piss in Fez is even worse than in Marrakech. Outdoors, indoors, it doesn’t matter, it’s literally ubiquitous. To make up for it we had to buy incense sticks in a bazaar nearby. There they tried to sell me some miraculous honey which, if applied on my phallus, according to them, was meant to gift me the best night of my life. To me it just looked like expensive honey and, true to my skeptical core, I turned the offer down. Can’t deny I had to think a couple of times if I had been mistaken.

The following day started with some drama: the hosts of the dar in Tinghir were hitting back sourly after Christoph left them a lukewarm review. Personally I couldn’t care less: they fucked up? Suck it up and take accountability.

We were aiming at an early stroll around the Medina with the purpose of finally buying a Berber carpet. What I didn’t. consider was that most bazaars and cooperatives would open only later in the morning. Was still a great occasion to see the city slowly starting to function before the streets got crowded. Not really satisfied with the quite underwhelming breakfast we had at the Riad, we opted to get another one at the Cafe Clock, a bit of an institution in the city and possibly one of the most famous cafes in Morocco. And our moods, with the help of some morning sun and a yummy feast (Berber eggs -a Moroccan version of shakshuka- and avocado on toast with Moroccan biscuits and a super gooey chocolate cheesecake) changed for the better.

Following Abderrahime’s advice to support a sustainable and fair cooperative, we picked one, Coin de l’Artisanat, where each single piece had a certificate of authenticity and the profits would go directly to those who actually made the carpets. It turned out that most of the carpets displayed in most Moroccan bazaars, including the one we had stopped by on the way there, are actually fake, which translates into industrially made. And we got told a few ways to recognise potential scammers: apparently most Berber carpets are white with black patterns because this material can’t be dyed so easily, colours are possible but they mostly fade away with time, the original have tassels only on one side and if the merchants are talking about camel wool they are surely bluffing because there is no thing as such. Guess how the carpet I previously bumped into and kinda fell for was? Bright yellow, warps on both side, allegedly made out of camel wool. This mean, being scammed and pay big amounts of money for so-called handmade carpets is actually very easy.

The dealer in the cooperative was actually a saint. Not only he wasn’t pushy at all, but he put up with my incapability to make simple decisions (which carpet out of two to choose) and showed the greatest level of patience. After one hour of doubts and a very confusing moment where i had to pee and was taken to a “bathroom” without sanitary ware, I finally made up my mind, chose a carpet and paid what was definitely not the bargain I had anticipated.

Somehow the whole concept of time doesn’t make sense in Fez: one moment is late morning, the following the sun starts setting. Funny enough I never had this feeling anywhere else in Morocco. We checked out and said goodbye to our host, queen Mustafa, between various dramatic “je t’aimes” and kisses being blown. Before heading out of town, I insisted to drive to a a view point where Christoph had been taken on the previous morning, the Marinid Tombs, a monumental necropolis on a hill on the North side of Fez. The view on the Medina from there was definitely something I was happy I didn’t miss out on. The same applies to the huge, and very much unexpected, Muslim cemetery spreading out all over the hills right behind our shoulders.

As the golden hour hit, we started making our way to Chefchaouen, our second to last destination, through fertile black hills on a horribly paved narrow street.

Canon EOS 300, Kodak Gold 200 (35)

Miranda Sensomat RE, Lomochrome Turquoise 100-400 (35)