The Merry Old Land of Fez

After wandering the streets of Chefchaouen for a few more  days, I was ready to be in a real city again.  After one of the worse bus rides of my career (lots of sick children and no operable windows in the heat of summer), I arrived in the old imperial capitol.

Fez reminds me a bit of Damascus but on a much larger scale.  It's big and dirty and alive. Life continues amidst the remains of a milennium of history.  Caravanserais erected over several hundred years still serve as shops.   The city's history is not placed under glass like in Rome or Venice, monuments to the past civilization.  As I snapped a of a lane in the medina, a teenager started laughing.

"Why are you taking a picture of this little street?"

"It's beautiful."

He then ran over to his friends to tell them that the silly American said the street was beautiful.

---

After visiting the Jewish cemetery, I went searching for the synagogue.  A sign pointed to a large 19th century building at the end of an alley.  I knocked on the door.  After making a very large woman very angry with me with my persistent ignorance of the French language and her refusal to speak Arabic, her daughter arrived and diffused the situation.  For a twenty dirham "donation," I was ushered into their house, which turned out to be the synagogue. (Note to self: get a job as the caretaker for a historical monument whose community has emigrated).  The daughter showed me the gallery, the basement mikvah, and then she opened the tabernacle to show me the battered Torah.  All I could muster was, "I think we're supposed to say something before we do that."

---

I followed my nose to the tanneries on the river.  River might be an exaggeration, though, as it was mostly a brown stream of chemicals and discarded fur.  In what looked like roofless, abandoned buildings, workers shaved, cleaned, and dyed the skins in a steady stream of smoke.  

With my eyes and nose reacting to the chemicals, I crossed a bridge and walked up the hill towards the mosque of one of Fez's local saints.  This particular Wali was important in the Islam's spread through Niger, Senegal, and the rest of West Africa.  Pious Muslims from those countries come to Fez to get baraka (blessings) at his tomb before performing the hajj to Mecca.  Streets around the mosque are filled with West Africans buying bright colored jalabas, the maghrebi version of dishdashes and galabiyyas.  (Arabs can't pull off orange or deep blue, but fat African men look awesome in those colors) 

I can only see the place through my own particular lens, but the diversity of nations, languages, and ethnic groups crossing paths in Fez makes it still seem like the imperial capital it once was, even if its best days were five hundred to a thousand years ago.

---

None of this really explains why I've started thinking of Fez as the Emerald City.  Well, to get here from the North, you pass through Morocco's equivalent of the poppy fields of Oz, fields of flowers and "cash crops" bound for Europe.  When you get here, huge walls surround and cut through the city, protecting the royal palace and gardens from the plebes across the street.  When you get up to a rooftop, you can look across the city and see the green-tiled roofs of hundreds of mosques and madrassahs.  Most of all, it's in the attitude of the people.  Watching the U.S. play Algeria in the World Cup, I talked to a guy in the cafe, trying to get a sense of how Moroccans view their neighbor.

Breaking down the maghreb, he explained:
"Tunisians are women.  Algerians are men.  Moroccans are kings."

While that's mostly meant as a cheap shot at the other two, it offers a hint at Morocco's national pride and the magic of the place.


[I still maintain that Cairo's work ethic and operating hours are closest to Oz.  Get up at twelve and start to work at one.  Take an hour for lunch and then at two we're done.  Jolly good fun, indeed.]

Episode sixty-something, in which I draw a crowd

As I sat at the eastern gate of Chefchaouen, sketching some buildings, a Moroccan man and his wife approached me.  In French, they complimented my poor drawing abilities.  I switched the conversation to Arabic so I could understand.

"Please, will you do a portrait of my wife?," he asked.

[In addition to not really being able to draw, drawing also takes me an excruciatingly long time, which is kind of why I like it.  It also makes live portraiture not really an option.]

"Oh," I replied, "I wish I could, but I only draw buildings."

"You are a believer, a good Muslim, so you won't draw people," he answered.

[In Islam, allegedly, on Yom al-Deen, the Day of Judgement, God will ask anyone who drew or otherwise "created" a human being to bring it to life.  Not being able to make the drawing live, you get condemned for your false creation.  The point of the story is that only God creates things.]

"No, I'm not a Muslim.  I'm just a bad artist."

"But she is beautiful, yes?  It is easy to draw a beautiful woman."

"Oh, my friend, she is too beautiful for me to draw."

And with that, I escaped without having to hastily do a portrait of this man's wife.

------

Later a group of Frenchmen approached.  They looked at my drawing with condescension.

One of them noticed I wasn't wearing shoes.  Chefchaouen is a bit of a hippie hotspot in Morocco, so he assumed I fell into that crowd.

"You are bitnick?" he said, then walked away.

"Bitnick?"  I was puzzled.  Oh, I realized.  BEATNIK.  I'm not that either.

------

Having moved to a more secluded street to draw a few doors, a group of girls, aged 5-25 approached.  After asking the usual giggly questions of where I'm from, whether I'm married, and whether I'm a Muslim who's looking for a nice Muslima to settle down with, the conversation moved to a much more fun direction.

"Do you know Shakira?"  They asked.  Being part Arab, Shakira is a big deal in North Africa and the Middle East.

"Do you know Beyonce?"

"Do you know Lady GaGa?"

And with that, Dear Readers, I joined a ten year old Moroccan child in doing the Thriller-meets-Twist dance from "Bad Romance."

Across the Strait of Gibralter

Well, after a tremendous visit to Andalucia, I turned twenty three on a boat traveling to Tangier, satisfying the namesake of my blog.  Maghreb reached.  Tangier is fun, but it's not really my scene so I'm headed to Chefchaouen in the Rif Mountains tomorrow.  My to-do list includes finding a small musical instrument and eating lots of avocados.  These seem eminently achievable.

I'm surprisingly getting caught up in this World Cup business, though I maintain soccer is just a slow, sissy version of hockey.  I would like it a lot better if it weren't a third play-acting for the refs.  Anyway, I've been meeting Moroccans in the cafes watching the games.  My rooting strategy follow:

1. USA
2. Do I know someone from this country?
     a. Do I like this person? If yes, root for this country.
3. Have I been treated poorly by this country's public transit system?  If yes, root against this country (Greece).
4. Was this country ever occupied or colonized by their opponent?  If yes, root for this country.
5. Otherwise, West Africa over Latin America over Europe.