On our second day in the city of Fez, Morocco, our guide led us through the four MILES of mysterious, mesmerizing, and
overwhelming 8th-century alleyways in the Medina (market in the medieval
section of the city). Passing through one of the gates, we entered a time warp,
despite numerous satellite dishes on the roofs. During the four hours there, we
never retraced our steps! Shafts of sunlight streamed through thatched roofs of
covered stalls, donkey drivers shouted “Balek!” (“Watch out!”) while pushing
overloaded mules, coppersmiths hammered, and the muezzin CD called the Muslim city
to prayer.
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| Scene inside the Medina, Fez |
Each section of the Medina had its own specialty: fish, poultry,
meats, brass (with zinc and without), woodworking, watch repair, tailoring,
fruits, nuts, vegetables, spices, fresh bread, lamps, Oriental carpets, etc.,
etc. The strong odor of spices yielded to curing leather or fresh fish. The
shops resembled caves, with sewing machines whirring at the edge of the workshop
nearest pedestrians or jewelers and electricians huddling over work tables to reassemble
watches and toasters. Heads of cows, goats, and camels hung outside the shops,
advertising the specialties to the illiterate populace (yes, they do eat
camel). Animal brains glistened before our eyes, while chickens met their
demise on the pavement inside one establishment. Goat shins and hoofs lay in a
pile at our feet, forcing us to step over the blood that ran into a drain in the
street. Sausages rolled from a machine behind a counter, while the proprietor
tied them in loops. At a “restaurant” stall, sausages and kabobs grilled on
spits, choking the alley with smoke. “This is important for the customer,” said our guide, Rasheed, pointing to a goat’s hindquarters with intact testicles hanging alongside one of the stalls. “Male meat is more desirable than female meat, and
the vendor proves he’s reputable by displaying them. Shoppers can see the
testicles are not sewn on!”
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| Olives |
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| Butchers with sausage machine |
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| Salads |
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| Our guide, Rasheed, buying a snack. Yes, that's a camel's head! |
Rasheed kissed
the children he passed in the alleys and bought a pair of sunglasses for a
four-year-old girl he’d never seen before. “She reminds me of my granddaughter,”
he said. He could have been the mayor of the Medina, receiving shouts of
recognition, handshakes, and hugs all along our winding path.
“You wouldn’t
dare touch a child you didn’t know in the States,” I said. “You would be reported.”
We were introduced to a short, rotund, balding man in one of the alleys. “A very rich man,” Rasheed said after they embraced. “He dresses in old clothes like he lives in the Medina because he doesn’t want to be recognized. He owns two shops and a large hotel.”
“This man makes beautiful lamps,” Rasheed said, introducing us to a proprietor seated on a stool outside a storefront along one alley. The man jumped up, shook our hands, and led us to the interior of the building where thousands of glass teardrops in every configuration hung above our heads.
“Did you create
all these beautiful lamps?” I asked him. He nodded affirmatively.
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| Handmade lamps |
“May I take your photo?” I asked the baker, who shook his head affirmatively. Rasheed leaned over and gave the man a few coins, as he did whenever I asked permission for a photo. The baker’s helper, probably his son, placed a number of the hot loaves in a box and took off with the order on his bike. After thanking the baker for the photo, we followed outside and were almost run over by an elderly gentleman on a motorbike. The baker’s son juggled his box and tilted sideways against the wall of the bakery to avoid a collision. A shouting match ensued, with Charley and me in the middle.
“Calm down,”
Rasheed said in Arabic to both men, which did nothing to quell their tempers.
After yelling epithets at each other, they continued on their ways. We trotted
behind Rasheed like puppies on leashes.
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| Leather or fakes? |
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| Figs |
I mentioned to Rasheed we were hoping to find a small Oriental carpet to ship home. He led us into a two-story establishment. “If you see something you like, begin negotiations at 50%,” he said. “This is a reputable company so they won’t cheat you. The price will include shipping and tax and another carpet of lesser quality will not be substituted.” Rasheed would receive 10%, of course.
Charley and I
settled onto sofas in the large covered atrium of the store. Along the walls, beneath
our feet, thrown over furniture, and hanging from the two-story ceiling were
Berbers, Kilims, Kirmans, Tabrizes, You-Name-It. In a room in front of us, two
women wove knots onto the fringes of small carpets. In a room behind us, a
family of Americans negotiated a price for the carpet at their feet. Rasheed
introduced us to the owner’s son, Abdul, who offered mint tea or bottles of
water. “You speak English very well,” I said to him.
“I attended
university in the States,” he replied. I showed Abdul a photo on my phone of
the Bokhara pattern and coloration we were looking for. “Follow me into this
room, please,” he said. We went into another room that was bigger than any of
the others. More carpets hung from wooden frames along the walls and from the ceiling.
We settled into
another sofa. In front of us two men unrolled an 8x10’ Kirman in shades of
beige and blue. Not even close to what we were looking for! Next they unrolled
a 6x8’ Berber in vibrant reds. Even further off! The carpets continued to get
smaller and smaller the more we shook our heads. “Abdul, please look at my
photo again.” After thirty minutes of sipping water and shaking our heads, a
small rust, beige, and black carpet unrolled in front of us.
“This is the
finest quality silk from Uzbekistan,” Abdul said. “The weaver signed his name
in the corner.” We bent over and peered at the weaver's name. The size of the carpet was
perfect but the coloration a little too dark.
“Too dark,” I
said. Two men flipped the carpet over. The colors were perfect, though the
weave was much flatter. “Is this the price?” I asked, looking at the tag.
“What would you
like to pay?”
I named a price
one-quarter of the Euros on the tag. “No, I can’t do that,” Abdul said. “What
would you like to pay?” he repeated.
I named a price
with a 60% discount. “This is silk of the highest quality,” Abdul reasserted.
We agreed on a 50% discount. “Now I want you to put your initials on the wrong
side in the corner so you will know there are no substitutes from my father’s
store,” he said, handing me a magic marker with permanent black ink. We told Abdul
the date we would arrive home and signed the necessary paperwork. Our purchase
awaited us when we got home, with my initials on the corner. When I stood over the
carpet under the lights in our home, its
flaws jumped out at me. I should have been more diligent in the showroom!
“You’ll be the
only one to notice,” Charley said. “Besides, they give it character.”
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| Our purchase in the Medina of Fez. Lighting is distorting the evenness of the coloration. |
Having completed
our purchase, we continued behind Rasheed through the Medina. “Look up at that
apartment building,” he said, pointing at a four-story building the color
of sand. “There was an earthquake in Agadir, southwest of Fez, in 1960 that
killed 1500. UNESCO provided funds to rebuild the Medinas, but
look what they did with the money!” We stared at wooden struts that buttressed
the rear and underpinning of the building. “Another earthquake would be a
catastrophe!” he said.
Rasheed explained
that the Berbers in the country consist of Arabs, Moors, and Africans that are
direct descendants of the pre-Arabs of northern Africa. Berbers total 36
million, though the nomads of the country are not counted in the census. The
southern regions, where most nomads live, have been marginalized and nomad
communities can be found in their original state. “It’s a different country
where they exist,” Rasheed said.
Our final stop in
the Medina of Fez was the medieval tannery. Rasheed led us into a leather shop crammed
with jackets, purses, hats, gloves, and traditional slippers of every color. A
shopkeeper handed us a few sprigs of fresh mint to smother the smell of
decaying animal flesh from the sheep, goats, cows, and camels being processed
outside. We declined his suggestions for purchase, but manipulated the soft
skins that felt like butter. Giving up on a sale, he led us to wooden stairs in
the back of the showroom. At the top we stepped onto a terrace (Terrasse des
Tanneurs) with a spectacular view of the dyeing vats. The fresh mint beneath
our noses was hardly enough to deter the fetid smell.
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| Bleaching and tanning vats, Fez Medina |
The shopkeeper
explained that at the top right in our view the skins were piled with their furs. In succession they entered concrete vats of saline, quicklime, pigeon
droppings, and any of several natural dyes: poppies for red, turmeric for
yellow, saffron for orange, indigo for blue, and mint for green. Barefoot
workers in shorts picked up the skins from the bottoms of the vats with their
feet, and worked them manually. The job was VERY well-paid and in demand for a
strong export market.
Follow our journey in my next blog through Casablanca and Marrakesh, where I had my first camel ride.
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