Moroccan Gazetteer: Fes

This past weekend was the birthday of one of my fellow volunteers, and he wanted to go to Fes to celebrate. So, mindful of our five-person rule, that’s exactly what he, I, and three others did.

Now, for those of you who don’t know anything about Fes (also written as Fez, occasionally), it’s one of the oldest cities in Morocco, and, in fact, the world. At one time it was considered the third most important city in the Arab Empire, and referred to as the “Baghdad of the West.” It was at one of Fes’s universities that Pope Sylvester II learned the Arab mathematics that he introduced to Europe, and it was here that several of Morocco’s dynasties held court. Today, however, though Fes has lost most – if not all – of its international status, it remains one of the best preserved examples of medieval Arab life, and boasts the largest urban area in the world within which it is impossible to drive a car: the ancient medina.

Most of this, however, was secondary to our excitement at being able to see each other again (we all arrived here from Philadelphia together) and compare the adventures we’ve had since swearing in and moving to our respective communities. It would seem that we’ve all had completely different experiences so far in the Peace Corps, though some things are just universal, I guess. And we did do a handful of touristic sightseeing, the whole time, however, insisting that we weren’t tourists. I told every boutique owner I met that I was from Freedonia, and we shocked them all by speaking functional Darija whenever they implored us eat their delicious food, buy their beautiful souvenirs, or follow their expert guidance around the ancient medina. But we did manage to sneak in a trip to view the immaculate architecture of the Madrassa Bou Inania, the golden splendor of the Royal Palace gates, the monolithic stature of the crumbling Merinid Tombs, and the mysterious beauty of the ancient city walls by night.

I tended to be the tour guide of our group, mostly because I had had the tour book and the foresight to bring it with me. As a result, as we walked along in our wanderings (which is more or less what we did every day rather than having any set plan), I would offer my small wisdom and commentary on whatever it was I thought we were experiencing. However, you have the luxury of just hopping on to Wikipedia, where, after spending approximately five minutes, you’ll be about as knowledgeable about the history of Fes as I am, so if that’s what you’re looking for, go look somewhere else. I’m going to devote the rest of this to the particular adventures I had there, which you can only get here.

So we’ll start with the hotel. Called Erraha (meaning “relax”), it’s right next to the majestic Bab Boujloud, one of the major entrances into the ancient medina. Apparently it’s a favorite of Peace Corps volunteers, undoubtedly because it’s really easy to find and incredibly cheap (only 50 dirhams a night, the equivalent of about 8 dollars). And it's pretty much a youth hostel with just an S missing from its name, but it has a cute atmosphere, comfortable-enough rooms, and no visible signs of infestation. Not the place to take your in-laws, but once we found the good bathroom we had no complaints. Besides, on a cold night like that one, you want to have to share a bed with someone else, especially if that someone happens to be a man-bear like Tim, and you have his massive orangutan arms to keep you warm.

And because this was a birthday party we obviously had to go out to eat dinner, so, at the request of the birthday boy, we went for pizza in the Ville Nouvelle (the fancy “new” French section of town). The pizza was good, though not quite what you can get back in the states, but more important than the food itself was the experience it came with. First, although we couldn’t eat “authentic” pizza, they did have authentic hot sauce. I couldn’t believe it, but every table was equipped with Louisiana Hot Sauce (not just hot sauce from Louisiana, but specifically the brand Louisiana Hot Sauce). This is particularly incredible because my father requests only this brand, so, in many ways, this is the stuff I grew up on.

Almost as unexpected as the hot sauce was the surprise we had in the taxi. On the way to the Ville Nouvelle, we hailed two cabs and I ended up sitting in the front. I generally don’t like to be in the cab and speaking only English, though, so I chatted a little with the cabby. We mostly went through standard greetings and pleasantries, but then he asked me what we were doing in Morocco. I explained to him the Peace Corps and a little about our work in youth development, and he went to on tell me about an organization he has dedicated to helping homeless people get skills training. This was pretty cool, until he started to ask me about my thoughts on the current violence in Gaza. As Peace Corps volunteers, we’re not really supposed to get into discussions on politics, particularly when the policies of our country are contradictory to those of Morocco and the Arab world. Most ordinary people don’t really understand or respect an explanation to that effect, however, so I’ve taken to just explaining that I am against all war as a principle. The cabby agreed with me completely on this point, and went on to declare that Arabs (and Muslims in general) need to make peace with Israel, comparing that situation to the relationship between Arabs and Berbers here in Morocco and the peace that exists between them.

Obviously, we had completely parallel viewpoints, but this was interesting because of the way he expressed his: by yelling (which a lot of the people I’ve seen here do when they get excited about a topic, whether in a positive or negative way). Consequently, the guys in the back seat who hadn’t really been paying attention heard only shouting and the words “Gaza” and “Israel” and were convinced that this guy was condemning America and our relationship. In the end, though, we got out of the cab as brothers (I explained what he had really been saying), and ate the pizza. Unbelievably, he drove by again right as we were getting out of the restaurant, and we got to ride back with him. This time talking about English and listening to the cool sounds of Jermaine Jackson on the radio.

Which gets to the reason why I love Fes so much. Every time I’m there, I can get into these conversations like this and just go crazy with the Darija. For some reason I always feel several levels higher in my language in Fes than I do in Freedonia, most likely because I get to speak with the people in Darija rather than having to wade through the combination of Darija and Berber that I usually get here. And it’s so easy to get into a conversation. There are the taxis to start with, but the best are the people looking for you: the tour guides. All you have to do is stand at the entrance to any hotel or any of the main entrances into the ancient city and look foreign, and you’ll soon be swamped with guides. They appear out of nowhere and, in a flurry of broken English, profess to be the most trustworthy, to know the best touristic sites, and to know the fairest shops, and they’re all crooks. Most of them won’t take your wallet, but they’ll all take you to the shops of their friends and take a commission off the top of the already overpriced merchandise. What I like to do is to count how many will proposition me in a day. I suppose that at some point I can use it as a measure of integration if they stop, but I really don’t think they ever will.

But even better than the guides are the salesmen themselves. They jump out at you if you show even the slightest of passing interest in what they have in their shops, swearing upon the souls of their dead grandmothers that they sell only for the Moroccan price. The friend’s price. I love it. I don’t have any intention of buying anything, and I don’t have anything better to do than to argue with the salesman about why I don’t have any intention to buy anything, and you can usually learn a little while you’re at it. For example, eventually I went looking for something called “bilgha” for my hostmom, and, knowing only that they are some kind of footwear, decided to just ask a guy selling footwear which ones were the bilgha. Here’s a rough translation of our conversation:

(Salesman senses a tremor in the Force, determines it to be passing interest in what he has in his shop.) “Hello, friend, [in English] you want buying something for Morocco?” “Hello, friend, [in Darija] I’d like to know what bilgha are.” “Men’s or women’s?” “No. I don’t want to buy any. I want to know what they are.” “Come inside. What size do you want?” “I don’t want any. I’m learning to speak Darija and I want to understand the word ‘bilgha.’” “Yes, we have many bilgha. How much do you want to pay? We have only friend’s price.” “You don’t understand me. These [picking up footwear], are these bigha?” “Those are a very good choice. They look very good for you.” “But are they bilgha? What are bilgha? Are those bilgha? Are those others bilgha?” “Yes, all are bilgha. How many do you want?” “Thank you. Goodbye.” “Come back! I’m an honest salesman! I’ll give you the friend’s price!”

That’s how I learned that bilgha are just a style of shoe that Fes is known for making. I had experiences with other traditional crafts, all of them fantastically similar to this one. For some reason this seems to bother the other volunteers, but I think it’s as much a part of the ancient city as seeing the tanneries, which was another great story. Fes is famous for leather work, and it still maintains its original tanneries operating unchanged since medieval times. We accidentally found ourselves very close to the tanneries, and, since a photo of them is on the second page of the guidebook, reasoned that it would be completely unacceptable to not see them. And, while we contemplated this point, a woman came up to us and in perfect French that only I of the four of us understood bade us follow her to the optimal tannery viewing station. For free. Now, none of us believed her when she said free, but all of us knew we had the language skill to deal with undoubted betrayal, and besides, what could be more James Bond-like than following a strange woman down dark, twisting alleys in an ancient city for no reason better than the fact that she just walked up and told us to? And isn’t James Bond the real point of the Peace Corps?

When we arrived at our final destination, a three-story leather emporium, the lady vanished and we were left with a mob of leathergoods salesmen. Unfazed, however, we walked over and introduced ourselves and started speaking Darija with them. They were a little surprised and responded for some reason by asking if we knew any Berber. One of us gave him the Berber translation and we got to introducing our names. I went last, and it turned out that one of them was also named Amin. He immediately declared us brothers and insisted that I and my friends accompany him to the roof to view the tanneries. Up we went, and I must say that despite the smell (which will haunt my worst nightmares for the rest of my life), the tanneries are pretty cool. He gave us some short explanations about the tanning process and the animals used (they make camel leather!), misunderstood the majority of our questions, and mostly just stood there while we enjoyed the sun and view of the city. Well, eventually Amin got tired of standing there and dropped the bomb on us: “So, you want to buy something?” “No,” I replied. “We’re using today to just walk around and see the sights.” After a few more tries, we explained that it was time to go and everyone went back downstairs. We said our thank yous and goodbyes, and avowed that we had never seen a tannery more interesting than this one, and started to go. And, walking through the door, as expected, Amin requested 5 dirhams from me for each of us. I told him that Mystery Lady had said “free,” and I think he told me to get lost. Which we did.

Finally, Fes is a place where we can go to have a short return to something similar to the life we were used to back in the states, which is funny, since so many Americans go there to experience a different world. At the pizzeria, we ran into a handful of college students from LA who had just arrived in Fes to do a few weeks of studying Islam. After recognizing each other’s accents, we started chatting a bit about what we were doing there, which was awesome. First, they were so cute. They had questions about everything, and seemed like such children – just how we had been in our first weeks here. They wanted to know about everything from language to culture to safety to where to get the best food, and we got to feel supercool to answer all their questions with authority, despite the fact that we are only now in our fourth month of twenty-seven here in Morocco. But even better than their big-brother-ification of us was their validation of our work and choice to join the Peace Corps. Maybe because it’s just what we do that makes us not really think about it so much, but when you meet someone else and say you’re a Volunteer, they get this look that’s part awe, part envy, and all reverence. It’s like the light shines off us a little brighter (which, when you consider the relative frequency with which we take showers, is not entirely a poetic self-aggrandizement). And when I make the list of things that make me feel unnaturally good over here, it’s a three-way tie between packages from home, hot showers, and impressing the pants off of American tourists.

I like to tell people here in my town that I now have two cultures – American and Moroccan – and meeting tourists validates this as more than just a clever way to be able to clean the table (as a man) without protestations from my host family. Towards the end of our stay, we ran into a couple taking a month-long tour of the country, and, as with the kids at the pizzeria, we chatted about being in the Peace Corps, our work in youth development, and various little bits of culture that we knew how to explain to them. And they were incredibly cool. Although they were tourists, and going from Tangiers to Fes to Marrakesh like every other tourist, they didn’t want to stay in the tourist holes; they wanted the “real” Morocco. For example, they wanted to know about the hammam, and we had no shortage of exciting tales to tell them about. And when we talked about the places where we lived, they were so excited about the idea of meeting the Berbers and getting a slice of everyday life. So, since of all of us I live the closest to Fes, I invited them to Freedonia for lunch some day. First, it’s our job to educate Americans about Moroccan culture. For example, you would have to be an incredible anthropologist and lucky guesser to be able to tell the difference between a Berber and an Arab, but a lot of foreigners have this image of old world indigenous people when they hear the word “Berber.” And second, it’s just the Moroccan thing to do. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve just met someone and they invite me to their house. The taxi driver told me to come to his village some time, and a jelaba salesman we chatted with for only about 15 minutes said that the next time we’re in Fes we need to come over for lunch. And so I invited this couple to grab a taxi and come visit my mountain, and I did it without really thinking about how strange it would have been for me to say something like that back in America. In the end, they never came, which isn’t really surprising, but I gave them the address to this blog, so, if you guys are reading, I hope the rest of your trip was exciting.

The remainder of my trip consisted of only a hike over to the bus station and a short ride home. It was actually my first time riding in a bus in Morocco, and turned out to be as full of excitement as anything else. Like true Americans, the three remaining of us got on board about ten minutes before the scheduled loading time, about a half hour before the scheduled departure. There weren’t many others on board at that time, and I think I now know why. For the following hour we were assaulted by an endless stream of walking convenience stores: kids with stacks of cookies, guys with cigarettes and crappy bling necklaces, peanut and sunflower seed salesmen, beggars, and a guy who walked in and started blasting CDs of Qur’anic recitations from a boombox. And some of them came on board more than once. I’m positive that no one on the bus bought anything from any of them (though a few beggars did succeed in getting change). But the best thing was the realization that no one would have expected this bus to have any tourists on it, and the vendors treated us like everyone else there. The beggars made no bigger deal about us than anyone else, nor did the guys selling socks and bilgha (I could have just waited, I guess). Guidebooks will tend to give you the impression that you’ve got the word “foreigner” stamped on your forehead, and condition you to have a defensive, combative stance to everyone who approaches you, but the real truth is that street entrepreneurship and begging are just a part of life over here, and everyone (though there is some disproportionality thrown our direction) has to live with it.

It was comical in the seeming randomness (from an American perspective) of their products, it was enlightening in my journey of cultural understanding, it was empowering in giving me a sense of integration, and it was the perfect way to end a fantastic weekend.