Fes Medina

Labyrinth, in a word. There are 14 entrances. (At least, I think there are.) If you don’t get lost, you took a wrong turn. Walking its twisted alleys, I can’t help but remember Borges’ “Garden of Forking Paths”:

“A]n infinite series of times, in a dizzily growing, ever spreading network of diverging, converging and parallel times. The web of time—the strands of which approach one another, bifurcate, intersect or ignore each other through the centuries—embrace every possibility.”

I’ve never experienced any place so old, saturated by history and worn with time, yet persisting, vibrant and alive. Towering sandstone-colored walls, cobblestone streets, huge wooden doors, narrow corridors. Brown painted iron double doors line the streets and open throughout the morning as the medina comes to life.

Behind each set of doors waits an assortment of goods (of varying quality). Stores gleam with polished silver tea sets. Scarves topple off tabletops. Rugs hang from the ceiling, line the walls, and can still be found stacked in the corner. Tailors work alongside vendors selling jars of animal fat (which I first mistook for honey at a distance). Bright colored yarn is sold by the kilo. Every jewelry store boasts the popular hand of Fatima design—earrings, necklaces, and bracelets.

So begins the bargaining dance—a pleasant salutation, an invitation inside, a nonchalant inquiry, the exaggerated astonishment at the cost, a plea for a better price, an ignored entreaty, the feigned disinterest, the fake exit, perhaps a compromise with a happy ending or else just keep walking.

And walk onto Moulay Idriss, the beautiful mosque, now swallowed by the medina. You stumble upon the front door where women sell candles for a couple dirhams and beggars wait on the doorstep. A pile of shoes spill across the threshold, three arched entryways. Keep walking, though—non-Muslims are denied entry. The same rule applies to Karouaine University, another landmark. These two buildings are closely knit into the fabric of the medina, but are identifiable from a distance by their tall spires, the minarets stretching high into the sky.            

An element of organization does exist in the medina. There’s the honey quarter with its massive plastic blue barrels that stand as high as my waist, each full of honey—eucalyptus, lavender, or orange blossom, to name a few. The metal quarter is an aural sensation more than anything—you hear the cacophony of beats made by the smiths before you even see them clustered outside the shops selling the finished products. The smell of the spice quarter—cinnamon, ginger, cumin—is a pleasant relief after passing by a block of shops that exclusively sell leather.

Leather purses, wallets, shoes—Fes is the city to buy quality leather. The tanneries are within the medina walls. In the same city, you can see the dyed yellow leather at the tannery, the shoe being crafted at one store and the pair sold in another. I have yet to see the famous tannery in Fes; according to Lonely Planet, you’re supposed to go in the morning because that’s when the pools of dye are brightest. I did receive a tour of a smaller one in the late afternoon. The smell was revolting, not the sweet, rotting smell of a fresh animal carcass, but a stale, stifling stench that stuck in your throat. Hides that retained their animal shape could be found draped over walls or laid out on the floor. A little fresh mint clutched to your face goes a long way. There was little beauty in the space—the pools were a milky white or tired gray, a slick layer of slimy water coated many of the stairs and the narrow ledges between the pools. Few workers remained at the point in the day. One was still scraping away at hides of leather, smoothing out any rough patches; another stood knee deep in dye, stamping a hide beneath the waters (it is always worked with the feet not the hands); and a lone woman sat upstairs sorting the seeds used to make a dye.

Drafted May 8, 2012 after my second visit to the medina.