In strict terms, I could state that I'm spending my days in Fes. However, it's more honest to say that I'm experiencing them primarily within the confines defined by the wall that encloses the city's 'medina'. Uttering this might seem redundant since 'medina' means 'city' in Arabic, but for North African cities, it's the term used for the old town. Thus, being in Fes-el-Bali is akin to being in a city within a city. Having traversed the other part of Fes that lies beyond the wall, the one with wide avenues, McDonald's, and shopping centres, it becomes evident that this is a parallel universe.
I'm not going to lie, Fes-el-Bali is a place as fascinating as it is bewildering. On the one hand, it is in every way an authentic place. On the other, it is also an entertainment circus for tourists.Within the labyrinth of alleys composing this maze, genuine Moroccan life coexists with the modern world. Tourist hordes from around the globe disembark like cattle from buses at the main parking lot, passing through the gate in pursuit of photographs and souvenirs. A legion of hungry pushers eagerly awaits them to relieve them of everything they bring in their pockets. These two realities thread through the passageways side by side, with business owners and merchants bridging the gap and catering to both realms - the local and the touristic. It’s within this context that I spend my days, always striving to go beyond the limited spaces frequented by tourists, attempting to extract something authentic from my time here.
As is often the case with tourist traps, this isn't a daunting endeavour. The medina's vastness and myriad alleyways can obliterate all sense of direction. Losing oneself for hours or even days in a row is effortless. It's one of those places where relinquishing any semblance of control, allowing oneself to wander aimlessly, is the best approach. Each day I venture out from my modest hotel is a day I know I'll devote most it to find my way back. Armed with no maps (not that there are any available anyway), eschewing inquiries, and abandoning the futile endeavour of memorising landmarks, I set forth to explore every lane. I am captivated by the human energy that emanates from people trading, negotiating, haggling in one stall after another.
In the markets, the fragrance of spices takes me by the nostrils and expands them until taking turmeric, pepper, cumin and coriander deep into my lungs. Alongside the mountains of these coloured powders, the pyramids of dates are undoubtedly where I lose my sanity. I don't remember such a variety of dates since the Egyptian oases, already two and a half years ago. I must exercise restraint to avoid indulging excessively. This self-control becomes slightly easier as I transition to the butcher's area, where camel heads dangle,, indicating the sale of meat from this animal. It doesn't last long though. As soon as I step out into fruits and vegetables, my senses expand once again, allowing me to delve into my bags of dates like a famished rodent seeking immediate gratification. A circus of flavours bursts in my mouth every time my tongue crushes one against the palate. It is an act that dispenses with the rigour of the teeth, sufficing only with the smooth articulation of my jaw. The fragile outer structure of the date fractures, letting its thick pulp loaded with sweetness overflow onto my taste buds. The sugar overdose electrifies my nervous system by sending signals to my brain, which rewards me by releasing a flood of dopamine.
Later on, as I exit the market, I'm no longer guided by the delightful aroma of the spice, but rather by the stench of dyes mixed with pigeon shit. Amid this olfactory shift and the resurgence the herds of tourists, it's undeniable that I'm drawing closer to the source of Fes' international renown: its traditional tanneries. Part circus for tourists, part genuine portal to the past, these tanneries persist in dyeing leather using methods unchanged for millennia. To get there, all you have to do is follow the smell of shit, which invariably leads to the tourist traps that serve as entry points. The only way to glimpse the famous dyeing vats is by going through one of the hundreds of businesses where a horde of vendors awaits you to relieve you of the weight of your money. The good news is that you are not forced to buy anything. Simply feigning a friendly interest for a few minutes in the dozens of leather goods on display will suffice. Once they realise that you are not a tourist with a fat wallet, it is they who lose interest and finally let you access one of the balconies.
Beyond this infusion of scents, sounds, colours, and ancestral traditions, it is within the stillness of the passageways where the true enchantment of Fes captures me. In these residential corners still inhabited to this day, I catch glimpses of the most traditional lifestyles and the intricate facets of vernacular architecture. The locals navigate this maze with a familiarity cultivated throughout a lifetime that enables them to distinguish every corner, every building, and every door. When two neighbours cross paths, they must turn sideways to pass through, as these passageways accommodate no more than a single person. Their silhouettes vanish and reemerge, creating a sort of holographic display born from the irregular geometries and the interplay of light and shadow. Playing the role of the curious explorer, I move with outstretched arms, feeling the roughness of the stone surfaces that flank me. This uniformity shatters upon reaching the doors of the residences. Here, the meticulous work of artisans becomes apparent, who seem to have invested more time in their intricate designs than in the design of the architectural space.
There’s an unusual feeling that overwhelms me these days is that despite hours upon hours of aimless wandering, I unfailingly find my way back without the need of any assistance. It is as though all the entanglement of streets and alleys of this labyrinth, akin to a Gruyère cheese, lead sooner or later to the same place. I could stay here for weeks. doing little else than what I've done each day since my arrival: strolling, relishing tagine and fruit, succumbing to one date overdose after another, and sitting back to observe life passing by while sipping on mint tea. I wouldn't need much more to be happy.
Days later, when I leave the confinement of the limits of the wall, I meet again with the streets of Fes that I met on the way here. Days later, when I leave the confinement of the limits of the wall, I meet again with the streets of the modern-day Fes that I encountered on my way here. The return to modernity leaves me with the sensation that I've been locked within some sort of theme park all these days. The parallel worlds that I perceived from the beginning have never become as evident as today when I resume my journey towards the Mediterranean. Departing with a sense of contentment for having experienced Fes, I reflect on how I've allowed myself the essential time to overcome my nearly instinctive aversion to touristy spots. This decision has granted me the opportunity to uncover the lesser-known corners within a city that is often thought of as well-charted territory.
