Lost Arts

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“OH MY GOD!”, Gina shouted frantically while pointing at the bloody camel head adorning the front of the butcher’s souq. We had been pushing through the crowded medina on the coattails of our guide for the better part of the morning by the time Gina made the astonishing discovery and gawked openly for a few seconds. She visibly squirmed before moving on, as I fumbled for a quick photo knowing it would make good blog material. The butcher caught on quickly and jumped from behind his counter to demand money, but I turned and lost myself in the crowd before he could catch me.

We had started our morning in a gingerly fashion, sleeping in and taking breakfast on the roof of our riad under the already oppressive sun. The voluminous spread was a daunting compilation of local specialties and familiar breakfast fare that Gina and I had a difficulty denting - though she made a special exception for the Moroccan pound cake. By the time we’d finished, it was nearing the 10 AM rendezvous with the guide who was to accompany us during our exploration of the Fez medina. Surprisingly, he was waiting in the courtyard to introduce himself, cloaked in a green and crème hooded outfit, with an awkward smile on his face. After brief introductions, the three of us set out to survey the souq-filled medina and the artisans practicing their traditional ways.

A maze of thousands of alleyways, the Fez medina could easily consume unsuspecting tourists in a single gulp. Guidebooks note that local children make handsome salaries guiding people to exits; had we not paid for someone to show us the way, I could have seen myself parting reluctantly with a few Dirham for the service. Thankfully, we followed closely behind our guide, listening to the history of Fez, the artisans and the medina. One facet that became apparent is that there are no cars in the medina. In fact, donkey-drawn carriages are the only thing transporting everything from water jugs and liquid gas canisters to raw materials and finished goods for the artisans. By the third time we were almost mowed down from behind, we realized that metal horseshoes were replaced long ago by nearly silent rubber shoes to aid the animals with the uneven pavement and inclines in the medina.

The first stop of the morning took us into the vast courtyard of an old Islamic school, jeweled with painstakingly handcrafted wood and ceramic art. As we halfheartedly listened to how hundreds of children lived onsite to study the Quran during the 17th and 18th centuries, Gina’s and my attention was distracted by the intricacies of the structure. Wooden puzzle doors, mosaics of Arabic passages and an ancient canal passing through the center of the structure only seemed to reiterate the importance of the school in Fez medina history. One factoid that did, however, grab our attention during our guide’s diatribe was the theory that Arabic Muslims invented the modern compass to aid them in locating the direction of Mecca for prayer. The guide further suggested that Columbus carried what at that time was deemed an Arabic compass on his journey to the Indies. As he carried on with other trivia, Gina and I grew curious of our surroundings and poked our heads into an adjacent prayer room, but were quickly reprimanded by the guide who informed us that non-Muslims were not allowed inside the area.

We exited back into the Medina after our photo shoot and continued along through the throng of tourists, locals, artisans and carriages moving in every direction. The guide stopped in front of an arbitrary looking building and pointed skyward at several wooden stakes poking through the side of a wall. “Do you have any idea what those were?” he quizzed.

Gina and I studied the too perfect wooden ensemble before conferring and surrendering answerless. To our astonishment, they were the remnants of one of the modern World’s first water clocks. Before we could finish admiring the ruin, however, our guide was already pushing his way into the crowd to carryon through the medina toward the Blue Gate. Passing stacks of nuts, spices and other consumables at dry goods souqs, Gina was naturally taken off guard when the medina scenery suddenly changed to butcher souqs and she came face-to-face with the bloody camel head. The debacle lasted less than a minute and we were again on our way.

Once we reached the Bab Bou Jeloud gate (Blue Gate), Gina and I desperately needed something to drink. While the average temperature inside the medina is about 10 degrees cooler due to the narrow, shaded alleys, the open space around the gate quickly drenched us in sweat. We sucked down a bottle of water while our guide hailed a taxi to drive us to an area on the opposite side of the medina where we were to visit the largest private riad in Fez. Minutes later, as we stood along a battered street in front of an unassuming door, Gina and I seriously questioned the value of the stop. A small sign in Arabic adorned the door with a phone number that the guide proceeded to dial on his cell phone - no answer. He looked just as puzzled as we did before making another attempt in vain.

Succumbing to the 40-plus degree heat, I joked with him, “No one home?”

A nearby man had been watching the frustrating exercise and suggested that our guide move away from the high wall and attempt his call again. Apparently, we were standing in the Bermuda Triangle of cell phone voids because the third attempt raised a voice on the other side. We stood patiently while a series of latches and bolts were undone from the inside and one of the heavy wood doors swung open to reveal a leathery looking man. An Arabic greeting ensued and the man turned toward the interior of the riad with us in tow. Our guide was given free reign of the property to explain to us how riads were traditionally lived in and give us a brief history on that particular property.

Our procession moved from room to room and courtyard to courtyard, each individually decorated and in a different state of disrepair. Apparently, once the home of a powerful politician in Morocco, the riad had been rundown by descendants over the years and in desperate need of renovation. The unassuming man from the door, the property’s caretaker, evidently spends most nights awake warding of antiquity thieves who have been looking to plunder the vast property. We politely offered him a few Dirham for allowing us to poke around before exchanging goodbyes.

Eager to continue our expedition, the guide asked whether we wanted to tour the tanneries or the local ceramics factory first. We opted for the former since they were closer and soon found ourselves climbing stairs, nearly overwhelmed by the putrid scent emanating from the bowels of the facility. Specializing in the processing and dyeing of live animal hides, the Fez tanneries handle a large portion of the World’s leather, exporting their goods to Asia, Europe and the Americas for finish work. Gina and I stood aghast at the piles of hides stacked in a large courtyard filled with pools of lye and natural dyes. A representative of the tannery kindly explained the processing procedures to us and claimed that the current steps mirror those used hundreds of years ago, including the use of natural ingredients such as saffron (red dye), mint (green dye), henna (blue dye), pigeon dung, cow urine, and animal brains and fats, as well as various salts and acids. If the explanation wasn’t enough to make our stomachs turn, then watching the men wrist and knee deep in pools of the concoctions, working the skins, surely should have.

Knowing that my father used to make various leather goods as a hobby, I thought it would be amusing to purchase a couple of camel skins to send him as a souvenir. My jaw almost hit the floor, however, when the man asked for the equivalent of $300 US for the paltry looking hides that he pulled from a stack of hundreds. Having our intelligence insulted dissuaded us from making any reasonable counteroffer and I shot back an equally insulting figure only to have him confer with his “manager.” Gina and I had had enough, grabbed our guide and made our way back toward the entrance only to have the factory representative counter with a figure closer to mine than his, one fourth of the original asking price. We never looked back.

Cramped in the back of a taxi once again, Gina and I listened as our guide directed the driver to the Jewish Quarter of Fez. Not overly impressed by the area’s offerings, we hustled down several streets, adhering to the shade while faintly listening to the guide’s history lesson. It was only 11AM and we had already been supersaturated with places and dates on our tour of Fez. The blank stares Gina and I returned when asked if we had questions were the only thing needed to keep the tour moving.

The cloud of black smoke rising from the ceramics kilns could be seen on the horizon nearly 2 kilometers away. As the cab drew closer to our destination, the sun was partially eclipsed, but the temperature was unrelenting. An English speaking representative of the factory greeted us like a used car salesman and proceeded to tour us around the facility while our medina guide was treated to a complimentary beverage for bringing us. Moving from room to room in the factory, we were introduced to the process of traditional tile making and bowl and jar spinning, as well as mosaic cutting - all done by hand and foot. We watched as men mixed grey clay with their feet, aimlessly walking in circles, while others pounded tiles and yet others hand painted memorized designs on pottery. The time consuming methods were evident in the finished pieces neatly displayed in an overcrowded showroom downstairs that was unsurprisingly the last stop on our visit. Gina and I picked over the tajines, hot pads and plates, carefully picking souvenirs to send home before reuniting with our guide to seek out lunch.

Expecting to dine in a small medina café or otherwise touristy establishment, we were surprised when our guide led us down a narrow, dimly lit alley to what appeared someone’s private home. Crawling up the stairs, we found several Moroccans intermixed with a Western couple dining on a traditional lunch of stews, flatbreads and vegetables. Our guide excused himself to go pray at a nearby mosque since he’d missed the noontime calling while we feasted on an array of local cuisine. When he returned an hour later, Gina and I could hardly move. Luckily, he convinced the proprietor to hold on to the pottery we’d purchased to lighten our load until the conclusion of the day.

Excited to continue our journey, we ducked into various souqs featuring henna, antiques, cooking apparatus and pharmaceuticals - of particular interest was the ground medicine oil of fruit pits partially digested by goats that was purportedly good for the skin. No thanks.

Nearing 4PM, our guide asked if there was anything else we desired to see in the Medina. Exhausted and overwhelmed by what we’d already experienced, we assured him we had seen enough and simply wanted to return to our riad to relax. We retrieved the souvenirs we’d left at the restaurant and closely followed him down several alleyways before emerging in front of Riad Laaroussa. Somewhere in the previous day’s explanation, we thought the private guide service would cost 300 Dirham ($30 US) per person but were dumbfounded when the guide simply asked for 300 Dirham total. Acknowledging the length and breadth of our tour, we nearly doubled the figure to his astonishment before parting ways.

Gina and I took a few hours to decompress and slowly prepared for dinner at the riad that evening. Surfacing sometime after 8PM, we decided to take an aperitif on the roof to enjoy what remained of the sunset. As our drinks arrived, so too did the riad’s owner, Fred, who was indulging himself with a glass of rosé. The conversation started with the typical superficial topics and quickly progressed into our respective backgrounds, Gina’s and my trip around-the-World and how our philosophy on life has been altered by our travels. Amused, Fred sat with us for the better part of an hour before excusing himself to entertain friends in the courtyard.

Dinner came and went, as did a bottle of wine before retiring to our room. Our slumber that night couldn’t have been woken by the loudest prayer caller.

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Photos

Puzzle Door
Literally hundreds of pieces form this door with a single piece acting as the key for disassembly

The Fez Tannery
Purportedly, the oldest in the World

Finished Products
Yes, we bought some

The Definition of Insanity
Walking in circles to mix pottery clay

Comments

[Lisa V.]

Morocco
Wow. This is definitely interesting reading. If I ever make it to Morocco, I know that I should be prepared to be scammed. :)