Symphony No. 1: Moulay Yacoub

My room is on the first floor of a three-story apartment in Moulay Yacoub. With the exception of my bed and a small table, my little abode is vacant. The ceilings are twelve, maybe fourteen, feet high, so the slightest sound echoes; it feels as if I were at an indoor swimming pool.*

Moulay Yacoub is built into the side of a mountain—there are no streets, only stairs. My window is actually level with the passing walkway. I catch gravely footsteps and bits of conversation I cannot understand. In the morning, I wake up to children charging through the narrow alleys on their way to school—their chatter louder than any birdsong. Sometimes my alarm is the clopping of donkeys, carrying supplies to a lower level; they’re accompanied by the repeated clicking of their master’s tongue, a cry of “Err” (with a long, rolled r, meaning “keep moving”), and the sharp thwack of a plastic rod to steer them onward. On other occasions, it’s an unidentifiable cacophony of noise that seems present in any bustling town or city. My friend in Fes described these unknown aural experiences best: “And every morning some guy drags what sounds like a wheel-less cart full of china cups and hammers down my alley.” I later discovered that in Moulay Yacoub my wheel-less cart is actually long pieces of rebar scraping and rattling against the stairs and walkways—I’ve seen young men race through town with it on numerous occasions.

When I enter my living room, the TV is always on, usually a Turkish soap opera. The language is lost on me, but the dramatic music and anguished, exaggerated acting make for an entertaining evening with my host mom and sister.

I hear little traffic. At the top of town, there is a stop for taxis and buses that bring tourists to town or take local students to Fes for school. The one road into town extends past the main drag of cafes and hanuts (stores), but any car moves at a snail’s pace, navigating both pedestrians and donkeys.

Walking through town, there are numerous encounters. If I’m alone (which is rare), bolder men try to capture my attention by hissing or speaking at me in French; they assume I’m a European tourist. Sitting at a café with my CBT group, a roving band of musicians overtake the patio and impose upon us a brief performance, after which they demand money. I’m surprised when storekeepers do not usher us toward their hanuts to admire (and hopefully purchase) their goods, but instead wait quietly until we reach a decision. TVs are a fixture at most hanuts, offering a diversion while the owner waits for a customer.

At the bottom of the mountain, goats pick their way among the cascading piles of trash, bleating to each other. A small stream, clogged with garbage, gurgles. My CBT mates and I cross the small bridge to begin our trek up the mountain opposite Moulay Yacoub. When we reach the top, it’s still—the commotion of town is blessedly distant.

And then my favorite motif: Adan. Every sunset, around 7 p.m., the call to prayer can be heard down the mountainside.

*My host family resides on the third floor, all four in one large room, with the apartment’s stock of furniture and appliances all in attendance. They are currently remodeling the first two floors, which explains the arrangement. I can’t help but feel at home in a house that’s being refinished. Yesterday, they painted the hallway and installed new windows, so I’m optimistic that I’ll see the place finished before I leave.