Unfortunately this morning greeted us with rain and wind. Cold, and very un-Africa. Who would have thought we'd be needing rain jackets, umbrellas and gloves in Africa?
Nevertheless we powered on and headed through shanty towns toward the look out point for Fes, a breathtaking view over and above everything. A stunning reminder where we were and what was actually surrounding us. The small, winding, crowded streets sometimes have you forgetting what you're in amongst and what stretches out around you for miles.
We then drove on to the palace (where the King and his family were currently staying! Hence the well positioned, attentive guards. As we saw in Rabat, where he normally resides, the guards tend to slack off when he's not around. Just like Buckingham...) We continued on to the souks, the market place where Fes really takes off.
One of the largest (if not the largest, apparently determining that fact can get confusing and complicated) and is impossibly easy to get lost in. I can honestly say the whole time I had no idea where I was, everything looked the same, and the groups general concern was not the flies, pickpockets or potentially rabie-filled animals but getting lost. Our guides advice? Stay where you are, he will be back next week with another tour group. Comforting.
The entire market was one giant stream of chaos. Remarkably, the locals are incredibly welcoming. We got tours of the pottery making, the tanneries (amazing to see, and less alarming than you would think. Who knew pigeon poop was used to get the leather so soft?) as well as the fabric making for scarves, chairs, bags etc. For a place easily overrun by tourists (because of its narrow and small areas, not the abundance of visitors) every local I met or ran into, literally, was only kind and considerate towards us. Sometimes this was despite having a mule loaded with supplies or pushing a giant cart with flailing poultry.
The buildings were falling apart and down, everywhere. The locals cannot afford to move out or drastically improve their homes, so there were wooden planks pushing against a building opposite to prop up their own home. This made walking around feel like being an Indian worker in a sweat shop. We admired the kaftans, scarves and even the Fes tourist key chains with one exclamation "oh, it's a Christmas one!" followed by an awkward, "ah, no, that's the colour of Morocco's flag".
Bartering is a necessity and expected with most items going for 1/3 of the original price and never more than 1/2. We had been told by our guide to ask him whether the price was good before we buy, his code for translating our deal was "it's good" meant 'it's not good' and "it's very good" meant it was good. Right.
When the calls to prayer occurred the winding streets turned to havoc as people rushed to commit one of their five daily prayers. Their passion towards religion still baffles me, their dedication is unlike anything we can really compare to in most first world countries. England's closest would probably be football.
We had another delicious (and again, large) lunch in the souks (which sounds a sure fire way to upset your stomach and bowels but was actually delicious! They do things with cauliflower here that I couldn't even attempt to recreate.)
We explored the souks for hours with our guide, who navigated the area like it was London, just minus space, street signs or any signs of civilisation. It is only because of him that I am now out, and alive.
A free afternoon took all of us and our tired legs for another walk along a main street to a giant supermarket where we walked the isles like we hadn't just eaten a giant lunch dish that day and accumulated strange products to turn into dinner. Amazingly, we made it home alive. A rarity given the traffic and pedestrian relationship here, where neither seems to pay much attention to the other. We were warned that "the zebras mean nothing. You might as well ignore them." Screaming and running seemed to be a much better plan of attack. Especially when some kind of what I assume to be a traffic warden seemed involved in an intense conversation with (probably) one of his many wives. (Polygamy is legal here, but not all too common. Ahmed, our tour guide, apparently dropped his third as she messed up the cous cous one night at dinner. He was joking, but the Moroccan sarcasm is sometimes hard to measure.)
A relaxing night (watching Harry Potter! In Morocco!) before a very, very early wake up call tomorrow morning before driving through the Atlas Mountains and on to Erfoud for jeep riding and camel trekking into the sunset on the Sahara!)
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