“…I turned to an asian man on my right, who I had sat with for the entirety of the journey from Chef to Fes, not once taking any notice of him, and asked if he would like to share a cab to the Medina…” an excerpt from my travel journal describing the event that led to my meeting with Hugo, a quiet man from Korea travelling the world, who turned out to be my travel companion for the rest of my time in Morocco, making Morocco the great time that it was. I like the simplicity and randomness of this moment that led to a friendship I will have for the rest of my life. It perfectly identifies all the beauty and romanticism that travel is and what makes it so addictive.
With a planned taxi trip we set off from the bus to the doors to exit the bus station. Greeted by the “duckers and divers” who were looking to make a quick buck from some naive tourists, we were grouped with two Danish travellers who were also heading for the Medina. The taxi that greeted us was one of the shittiest and most unsafe looking little vans I have ever seen, but it felt rude to refuse, so we all jumped in and hoped for the best. He wasn’t the best of drivers, but I’m happy to report he only had three very near miss head-on collisions and not a single crash. Result. Dropped at the “Blue Gate”, the entrance to the medina, and having no previous accommodation booked, I put on my friendliest smile and asked Hugo if I could follow him and check out his accommodation. “Of course”, he replied, and we set out into the maze that is the Fes Medina. Treasures abundant but each turn making it more and more difficult to find your way back out, alone.
Our first taste of the Fes medina streets was different to say the least. The most striking was the sheer number of cats that fill the paths. All sorts, mostly thin and underfed lurking in the shadows hoping for some scraps to come their way from the street stalls. First there is the “fresh produce” section, with fruits, vegetables, anything you could want. Then comes the “meat section”; chickens sitting caged on the street waiting to be slaughtered along with the fresh cuts lying in the open air of the stalls bench, occasionally being slapped with a mini whip to keep the flys at bay. The smell of this area is what I remember most, death does not smell appetising. I really noticed how disconnected I am from the meat process back home and I didn’t eat any meat while I was here.
Getting lost in the medina is a very easy thing to do. Sometimes knowing if you’re lost or not is an easy thing to do. Being picked up by a couple of kids on the street telling you that the way you are going is wrong and that section is “closed” right now makes it very difficult to ignore and continue on your way. Out of fear of looking rude or crazy, we ignore the signs that something was wrong even even though we hadn’t met these people before. This was the situation Hugo and I found ourselves in when we were wondering the maze one day. It took little convincing from the two strangers, who had quite good english, that we should follow them and off further into the maze we went. Ramadan quickly became a topic of conversation and these boys wanted to have us over at their house to break the fast.
Later, after they had returned us to our hostel, we asked the owner of the hostel if this was a normal practice and she seemed okay with the idea and that it was quite normal. We met them at the set time and meeting place, to be picked up. We sat for a little while we waited, in silence, both deep in thought about where this might end up. They two just seemed to appear out of no where and told us to follow them as they walk passed us, no friendly hello. Again, never knowing where we going to end up, the maze twist and turned with each new corner bringing more and more of the same scenery. They told us along the way that the medina held more than 9000 different streets, I’m not sure if thats reliable information but it definitely made sure that we felt reliant on these two individuals.
We ended up at their house, rushed up the stairs without meeting the family to the roof top terrace. We sat and waited for the start of breakfast to be signalled by the explosive sound that came from a hill that looked over the Medina.
Whilst we waited these boys performed sets of pushups, just in our line of sight, which at the time seemed a little strange. The explosion sounded, making me jump for the 3rd night in a row, and we sat and ate a very nice spread of dates, bread, soup and fruit. And then the sales pitch of their hash started. As predicted, this was the best hash in all of Morocco, “smell it, smell it” he insisted, to which we could only reply, “mmmmmmm, yeaaaahhhhhhhh, reallllyyyy goooood”. We were told that the hash that we were offered in Chefchaouen was bad quality and that this was the only hash worth having and was good quality. When I asked what the difference was, what made this good quality and that bad, they aggressively answered, “Fes – good quality, Chefchaouen – bad quality. Understand?!” “…yep”.
All signs pointed to dodge, but we agreed to let them take us around the sights on the way home to the Hostel. More hash was pushed our way and we wondered if we would be able to get away without any purchasing. Stopped in a dark alley way, somewhere in the maze, the time came for them to earn their money. “Now you pay us”. We tried the no money line and apologised. They suggested we take a visit to the cash machine – alarm bells – but we insisted that we couldn’t pay them nor did we realise we had to, we thought Ramadan was a time for charity. They were getting antsy that they were going to be left with no money and started scraping the barrel.
The first threat was that they would beat us up there and then – the staged push ups suddenly made sense. Hugo and I looked at each other and thought we could give them the twenty dirham each we had if they were that desperate. We offered them this money, as it was all we had, to be received with disgusted faces. “You think we are Donkeys?” he asked us, “we are not donkeys, this is not enough! We come back and we beat you morning and we beat you night”. Threat number two. I didn’t know how this works on other people but we were out of there, put the money in his hands and walked away. Feeling lucky that they were all talk but a little sad that they felt the need to do this for money. They had in fact taken us back to our hostel as it was just around the corner, so they weren’t all bad.
Fes gave me lots of memories, too many to write about here. It is a different world with something new to see everyday. And it is the city where I met Hugo, a good friend to share the rest of Morocco’s memories with. A welcome change after travelling alone for so long and sharing time more than memories with strangers known for only a few days. I’m so glad I got to experience this crazy place.
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